Chapter 3

On England's shore I saw a pensive hand, With sails unfurl'd for earth's remotest strand, Like children parting from a mother, shed Tears for the home that could not yield them bread; Grief mark'd each face receding from the view, 'Twas grief to nature honourably true. And long, poor wand'rers o'er th' ecliptic deep, The song that names but home shall bid you weep; Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above In that far world, and miss the stars ye love; Oft, when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn, Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn. And, giving England's names to distant scenes, Lament that earth's extension intervenes.

But cloud not yet too long, industrious train, Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain: For has the heart no interest yet as bland As that which binds us to our native land? The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth, To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth. Undamp'd by dread that want may e'er unhouse, Or servile misery knit those smiling brows: The pride to rear an independent shed, And give the lips we love unborrow'd bread; To see a world, from shadowy forests won, In youthful beauty wedded to the sun; To skirt our home with harvests widely sown, And call the blooming landscape all our own, Our children's heritage, in prospect long. These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong. That beckon England's wanderers o'er the brine, To realms where foreign constellations shine; Where streams from undiscovered fountains roll, And winds shall fan them from th' Antarctic pole. And what though doom'd to shores so far apart From England's home, that ev'n the home-sick heart Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recross'd, How large a space of fleeting life is lost: Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, But jocund in the year's long sunshine roam, That yields their sickle twice its harvest home.

There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring. The grey-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round, Shall walk at eve his little empire's bound, Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn, And verdant rampart of Acacian thorn, While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales, The orange-grove's and fig-tree's breath prevails; Survey with pride beyond a monarch's spoil, His honest arm's own subjugated soil; And summing all the blessings God has given, Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven, That when his bones shall here repose in peace, The scions of his love may still increase, And o'er a land where life has ample room, In health and plenty innocently bloom.

Delightful land, in wildness ev'n benign, The glorious past is ours, the future thine! As in a cradled Hercules, we trace The lines of empire in thine infant face. What nations in thy wide horizon's span Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man! What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam. Where now the panther laps a lonely stream. And all but brute or reptile life is dumb! Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come, Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, And creeds by charter'd priesthood's unaccurst; Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd flags, Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags; Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares, Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs, For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire. And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire; Our very speech, methinks, in after time. Shall catch th' Ionian blandness of thy clime; And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes, } The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. }

Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine, Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine; Unborn the hands--but born they are to be-- Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee Proud temple domes, with galleries winding high, } So vast in space, so just in symmetry, } They widen to the contemplating eye, } With colonnaded aisles in lone array, And windows that enrich the flood of day O'er tesselated pavements, pictures fair, And niched statues breathing golden air, Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy swell, Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell; But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, And organs blow their tempests of sweet sound.

Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal, How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll Ev'n should some wayward hour the settler's mind Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind, Yet not a pang that England's name imparts, Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts; Bound to that native world by nature's bond, Full little shall their wishes rove beyond Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams. Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams. How many a name, to us uncouthly wild, Shall thrill that region's patriotic child, And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's chords, As aught that's named in song to us affords! Dear shall that river's margin be to him, Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb. Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers, Or twin'd his tame young kangaroo with flowers. But mere magnetic yet to memory Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, The bower of love, where first his bosom burn'd, And smiling passion saw its smile return'd.

Go forth and prosper then, emprizing band; May He, who in the hollow of his hand The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind's sweep, Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep!

_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

SMALL TALK AND SMALL ACCOMPLISHMENTS, OR HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF AGREEABLE.

Conversation, like a shuttlecock, should not be suffered to remain with one person, but ought to pass in turn to all. But as few people think for themselves, so few people talk for themselves, and a colloquial monopoly is as common and as disagreeable as any other. Yet when we observe how much these rattles are caressed, 'tis wonderful there are so few. Talent is by no means indispensable, and is the more valuable in proportion as it is flimsy or superficial. The great art lies in the choice of a subject. Let it be some _liaison_ in the _beau monde_--the appearance of a new singer or actress--the detail of a recent duel, with particulars and embellishments, and your fortune is made at once. Do not affect any thing like a literary character, for scholars are reckoned _bores_. The only matters of this sort with which you can safely meddle are the fashionable novels--satirical poems--the magazines, and newspapers (eschewing the political articles as vulgar). It is absolutely necessary to be familiar with the names of all the editors in town, and these can easily be picked up from any of the tatterdemalions who prowl about police offices for the purpose of reporting the trials at a penny per line, which is, in most cases, exactly a penny per line too much. You must drop the complimentary _Mr._, and say, "A. of the Chronicle and I--the last time I saw B. of the Globe--C. of the Spectator told me t'other day," and so on. Of course it is not of the slightest consequence whether you ever saw one of the parties. You must also affect to be intimate with the theatrical _lions_, and be aware of the true state of all managerial squabbles for the season. Swear you have dined a dozen times with Sontag. _En passant_, the idea of a singer's patronizing a nation _wholesale_, as she has done in the case of the Silesians, is rather too good. Be indignant with Price for forfeiting Ellen Tree three several times in the sum of thirty pounds, and suppress the fact of his having remitted the penalty in the two first instances. Assume a mysterious air of "I could if I would," when Miss Love's elopement is mentioned, and state with heroic confidence that the Vesuvius scene in "Masaniello" at Astley's beat Drury by thirteen bricks and two ounces of Greek fire. You must pretend to know the salaries of all the _employés_ in every establishment, and be able to describe the plot of every new piece the moment it is underlined. You can obtain sufficient information to enable you to pass muster on this subject any evening at the Garrick's Head. It would be of great service if you could contrive to be seen in conversation with a respectable actor now and then. You must have seen every sight and exhibited at every exhibition in town, and be able to discuss their several merits or demerits with a "learned spirit." A knowledge of the principal nobility--by person at least--is a _sine qua non_, for how else should you be able to recount the names of those you saw in the Park on Sunday last? Keep a list of the ages and portions of as many young ladies as possible, and be cautious how you dispose of your information on this score. These, I think, are the principal topics; and the best advice I can give is, "Never be quiet: speak on _ad infinitum_."

The man who inwardly digests these rules will be a treasure at any dinner party. The awful silence which prevails on the removal of the tablecloth--and an awful silence it surely is--will be dispelled. No ordinary man thinks of speaking, except in monosyllables, till he gets a little "elevated," and then he speaks nonsense as a matter of course. _You_ must keep sober--for people will occasionally get "mellow," even in good society--and this you will easily manage to do by thinking of the immense superiority you will thus secure on joining the ladies in the drawing-room. You will be able to hand some blushing fair her coffee without pitching cup and contents into her lap, and stoop to pick up her fan or handkerchief without incurring the risk of breaking your nose. Should quadrilles be proposed, you will also be able to avoid those little _dos-à-dos_ accidents which are by no means agreeable, and be qualified to pronounce, with tolerable certainty, which is your own partner.

_Sharpe's Magazine._

* * * * *

THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.

* * * * *

VIDOCQ.

Some very pleasant blunderer is said to have declared Moore's Life of Sheridan to be the best piece of _Autobiography_ he had ever read; and with little more propriety can the concluding volume of _Vidocq's Memoirs_ be said to belong to that species of literature styled Autobiography. The early volumes, however, possessed this feature, but the present is little more than a criminal supplement to the Memoirs. Of this defect, the translator seems to be aware; for in his "Sequel," he says, instead of the important disclosures promised by the Police Agent, in vol. ii., "he has given us a nomenclature of the assassins, thieves, and swindlers of France, and no more." He has merely brought down his Memoirs to the year 1816, and eked out his fourth volume with anecdotes and counsels, which have in most cases, more interest than novelty to recommend them. Still they are worth reading, although of a different character to the scenes, or as a wag would say, the "concerted pieces" which we have quoted from the three previous volumes. Our present quotations will not therefore possess the interest of complicated schemes.

At page 34, Vidocq awards to our metropolis, no very desirable distinction--

_Town and Country Thieves._

"No capital in the world, London excepted, has within it so many thieves as Paris. The pavement of the modern Lutetia is incessantly trodden by rogues. It is not surprising; for the facility of hiding them in the crowd makes all that are badly disposed resort thither, whether French or foreign. The greater number are fixed constantly in this vast city; some only come like birds of passage, at the approach of great occasions, or during the summer season. Besides these exotics, there are indigenous plants, which make a fraction in the population, of which the denominator is tolerably high. I leave to the great calculator, M. Charles Dupin, the task of enumerating them in decimals, and telling us if the sum that it amounts to should not be taken into consideration in the application of the black list."

_False Keys._

"Cambrioleurs are plunderers of rooms, either by force or with false keys. There are of this class thieves of incredible effrontery; that of one Beaumont almost surpasses belief. Escaped from the Bagne at Rochefort, where he was sentenced to pass twelve years of his life, he came to Paris, and scarcely had he arrived there, where he had already practised, when, by way of getting his hand in, he committed several trifling robberies, and when by these preliminary steps he had proceeded to exploits more worthy of his ancient renown, he conceived the project of stealing a treasure. No one will imagine that this treasure was that of the _Bureau Central_ (Central Office), now the Prefecture of Police! It was already pretty difficult to procure impressions of the keys, but he achieved this first difficulty, and soon had in his possession all the means of effecting an opening; but to open was nothing, it was necessary to open without being perceived, to introduce himself without fear of being disturbed, to work without witnesses, and go out again freely. Beaumont, who had calculated all the difficulties that opposed him, was not dismayed. He had remarked that the private room of the chief officer, M. Henri, was nigh to the spot where he proposed to effect his entrance; he espied the propitious moment, and wished sincerely that some circumstance would call away so dangerous a neighbour for some time, and chance was subservient to his wishes."

"One morning, M. Henri was obliged to go out. Beaumont, sure that he would not return that day, ran to his house, put on a black coat, and in that costume, which, in those days, always announced a magistrate, or public functionary, presents himself at the entrance of the _Bureau Central_. The officer to whom he addressed himself supposed, of course, that he was at least a commissary. On the invitation of Beaumont, he gave him a soldier, whom he placed as sentinel at the entrance to the narrow passage which leads to the depôt, and commanded not to allow any person to pass. No better expedient could be found for preventing surprise. Thus Beaumont, in the midst of a crowd of valuable objects, could, at his leisure, and in perfect security, choose what best pleased him; watches, jewels, diamonds, precious stones, &c. He chose those which he deemed most valuable, most portable, and as soon as he had made his selection, he dismissed the sentinel, and disappeared."

"This robbery could not be long concealed, and the following day was discovered. Had thunder fallen on the police, they would have been less astonished than at this event. To penetrate to the very sanctuary!--the holy of holies! The fact appeared so very extraordinary, that it was doubted. Yet it was evident that a robbery had taken place, and to whom was it to be attributed? All the suspicions fell on the clerks; sometimes on one, sometimes on another; when Beaumont, betrayed by a friend, was apprehended, and sentenced a second time."

"The robbery he had committed might be estimated at some hundred thousand francs, the greater part of which were found on him."

"'There was wherewithal,' he said, 'to become an honest man; I should have become so; it is so easy when rich! yet how many rich men are only scoundrels!'"

"These words were the only ones he uttered, when he was apprehended. This surprising thief was conducted to Brest; where, after half a dozen escapes, which only served to make his subsequent confinement more rigorous, he died in a frightful state of exhaustion."

"Beaumont enjoyed amongst his confraternity a colossal reputation; and even now, when a rogue boasts of his lofty exploits--'Hold your tongue,' they say, 'you are not worthy to untie the shoe-strings of Beaumont!'"

"In effect, to have robbed the police was the height of address. Is not a robbery of this nature the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of its kind, and can it do otherwise than, make its perpetrator a hero in the eyes of his admirers? Who should dare to compare with him? Beaumont had robbed the police! Hang yourself, brave Crillon! hang yourself, Coignard! hang yourself, Pertruisard! hang yourself, Callet!--to him, you are but of Saint-Jean. What is it to have robbed states of service? To have carried off the treasure of the army of the Rhine? To have carried off the military chest?--Beaumont had robbed the police! Hang yourselves!--or go to England, they will hang you there."

_The Misanthropic Swindler._

At page 71, Vidocq tells us a strange story of a fellow named Capdeville, who affecting misanthropy and disgust of the world, hired an apartment at a lone house near Paris, and employed his solitude in obtaining false keys of all the other rooms. Not quite settled here, "Capdeville published his intention of going out to discover an hermitage where he could pass his latter days in peace. He inquired of all the country proprietors who had places for sale within a circuit of six leagues, and it was soon known through the country that he was on the look-out for a place of the kind. Every body knew, of course, something that would suit him, but he would have only a patrimonial estate. 'Well, well,' said they, 'since he is so scrupulous, let him look out for himself.' This, in fact, he did."

"Determined to make a tour, to examine what was most likely to suit him, he employed himself ostensibly in preparations for his departure; he was only to be absent three or four days, but before he departed, he was anxious to know if there was no danger in leaving a secretary, in which were ten thousand francs, which he did not wish to take with him. Being assured on this point, and full of security, he did not hesitate to set out on his proposed journey."

"Capdeville did not go to a very great distance. During his sojourn in the house he had just left, he had had time to take impressions of all the keys which were requisite for his entrance into the dwelling of the landlord, who he knew was in the habit of dining in Paris, and did not return very early in the evening. By being there at dusk, Capdeville was certain of having before him all the time necessary for carrying on his operations. The sun had set, and, favoured by the darkness, he passed unperceived through Belleville, and having entered the house by the help of false keys, he entered the abode of the landlord, which he cleared out even to the linen."

"Towards the end of the fifth day they began to be uneasy at the non-appearance of the misanthrope; the next day a suspicion arose. Twenty-four hours later, and there was but one opinion respecting him; he was the thief. After such a trick mistrust all misanthropes. To whom then shall we trust, in whom place confidence? In philanthropists? By no means."

The misanthropy in this case must have been infectious, and the disgust of the lodger transferred to the landlord.

Other novelties oblige us to break off here for the present, so that another spice or two of the frauds of Paris stand over for our next.

* * * * *

THE ANECDOTE GALLERY

* * * * *

RECOLLECTIONS OF PALEY.

_From Best's Personal Memorials._

Some one came up to Paley and made an excuse for a friend, who was obliged to defer an intended visit to the subdeanery, because a man who had promised to pay him some money in April, could not pay it till May. "A common case," said Paley. We all laughed. Paley, by way of rewarding us for our complaisance in being pleased with what was recommended chiefly by the quaintness of his manner, went on:--"A man should never _paay mooney_ till he can't help it; _soomething maay_ happen."

At another time he said, "I always desire my wife and daughters to pay ready money. It is of no use to desire them to buy only what they want; they will always imagine they want what they wish to buy; but that paying ready _mooney_ is such a check upon their imagin_aa_tion."

Paley's education had been sufficiently hardy. "My father rode to Peterborough, and I rode after him, on a horse that I could not manage. I tumbled off. My father, without looking back, cried out, 'Get up again, Will.' When I set up a carriage, it was thought right that my armorial bearings should appear on the panels. Now, we had none of us ever heard of the Paley arms; none of us had ever dreamed that such things existed, or had ever been. All the old folks of the family were consulted; they knew nothing about it. Great search was made, however, and at last we found a silver tankard, on which was engraved a coat of arms. It was carried by common consent that these _must_ be the Paley arms; they were painted on the carriage, and looked very handsome. The carriage went on very well with them; and it was not till six months afterwards that we found out that the tankard had been _bought at a sale_!"

He told me, "when I wanted to write any thing particularly well,--to do better than ordinary,--I used to order a post-chaise and go to Longtown; it is the first stage from Carlisle towards the north; there is a comfortable, quiet inn there. I asked for a room to myself; there then I was, safe from the bustle and trouble of a family; and there I remained as long as I liked, or till I had finished what I was about." I said, "That is a very curious anecdote;" and I said it in a tone which, from a certain change in his countenance, I believe to have set him on musing how this anecdote would appear in the history of his life. Paley took his rides on horseback occasionally, but always alone, without the attendance even of a servant. "I am so bad a horseman, that if any man on horseback was to come near me when I am riding, I should certainly have a fall; company would take off my attention, and I have need of all I can command to manage my horse and keep my seat; I have got a horse, the quietest creature that ever lived, one that at Carlisle used to be covered with children from the ears to the tail." Understanding all this, and seeing him gambadoing on the race-course, I turned my horse's head another way. "I saw what you meant this morning; it was very considerate of you; I am much obliged to you." Paley was too careful of petty expenses, as is frequently the case with those who have had but narrow incomes in early life. He kept a sufficiently handsome establishment as subdean, but he was stingy. A plentiful fall of snow took place during an evening party at the precentors's; two of Mr. Subdean's daughters were there; he showed great anxiety on account of the necessity that seemed to have arisen of sending them home in a sedan-chair; taking the advice of several of the company, whether such necessity really and inevitably existed, he said to me, "It is only next door." "The houses touch," said I, "but it is a long round to your door; the length of both houses and then through the garden in front of your house." He consulted the precentor, who, to put the matter in a right point of view, cried out, "Let the girls have a chair; it is only three-pence a piece."