Poetic Rosary (4)
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"NOT an acre—not a tree—not a blade of grass can I call my own!  All my little patrimony gone!—gone through my own folly; and Morley Grange, my father's pride, must pass into stranger hands!  Cursed be the day, Mr. Blandford, that led me to London!"

    "Do not blaspheme, Philip Morley; it was the man, and not the hour, that was at fault.  I hoped better for my friend's son,—you who promised so well.  I foresaw the consequences of the reckless course you were pursuing, and warned you—in vain, as the results have proved.  I do not utterly condemn you,—I can make allowances for youthful impetuosity and inexperience.  I doubt not you have had evil advisers, who have fattened on your imprudence, and now seek other victims."

    "It is true, most true; and upon one who began and accelerated my ruin, I will be amply revenged!"

    "Leave him to his Maker and to his conscience, Philip; revenge is unworthy of a brave man."

    "I will be revenged, Mr. Blandford; but not in a way that shall call call forth your disapproval, even if you know it."

    "That's right, my boy.  Now let us talk of the future.  Let me advise you to go some distance hence, and endeavour to retrieve your fallen fortunes.  You have some talent, and with resolution will succeed.  You may not win back your patrimony, but you may yet be happy in another sphere.  Permit me to say, however, in duty to myself and my daughter, that your relations with her must cease, or at all events be suspended for a time.  I should have been glad to have had you for a son-in-law, and shall be when you can become so with honour to yourself and us.  Have I spoken justly?"

    "I should be a scoundrel to think otherwise.  No, my best of friends; I will release Alice from her engagements to me; but if she remain unmarried for a year or two, I will make myself worthy of her, if endeavour and purity of purpose can do it."

    "Why, that is nobly said.  Now, what do you intend to do?  Where shall be the first scene of action, Philip?"

    "A long way off, Mr. Blandford; but where, must depend upon circumstances."

    "I will not oppose you; but you will require some means.  Can my poor purse——"

    "Not a fraction, my generous friend, will I accept at your hands.  I should be a mean coward to take it.  No!  I have the wreck of a few pounds, and that must serve me till I earn more, either by head or hands.  I am grateful for your goodness.  You will let me see Alice?  I go away to-night."

    "Well, my boy, you have my earnest prayers for your success.  Be resolute—be watchful—be upright.  God bless you, and farewell!  I will send Alice to you."

    With a trembling voice Mr. Blandford wrung the young man's hand, and left the room.  In a few moments Alice entered, and silently seating herself at Philip's side, took his hand, and looking in his face, said mournfully, "Philip, this is very sad!"

    "It is sad!" her lover as mournfully replied.  And they sat gazing into each other's face for a long time.

    Alice was a beautiful creature of nineteen—tender, but generally calm and firm,—one of those women whose superiority you feel rather than understand,—one of those who are quick in their instincts, slow to divulge their impressions, but who, when their confidence and love are gained, are to be trusted for ever.  Philip and she were betrothed, and had it not been for the circumstances above alluded to, would ere long have been united.

    Soon after the death of his father, who had left him the little estate of Morley Grange, Philip had some money matters to transact in London, and he went thither for the first time.  By one of those thousand-and-one chances which are ever ready in London to deceive the unwary, he slided into error.  He fell into the hands of some well-dressed scamps, professed gamblers, who to the unsophisticated eyes of Philip seemed gentlemen.  He was, with apparent indifference on their part, introduced to the gaming table, and he soon became imprudently, recklessly infatuated with play.  One of his new associates, named Brand, with most consummate tact and apparent disinterestedness, led him on, step by step, towards ruin.  He was poor Philip's Mephistopheles,—ever at his elbow, ever prompting him to evil, allowing him no time for reflection, till his money and his acres melted away from his grasp like a ball of snow.  It was only when he discovered himself to be a beggar that the villainy of his tempter became fully disclosed, and in the heat of his passionate despair he vowed to take terrible revenge.  How he took it, the course of our story will show.

    Return we to the lovers.  After their painful silence, Alice was the first who spoke.

    "Philip, I know all; do not hesitate to talk with me.  Surely our happiness is not utterly wrecked—utterly beyond redemption?"

    "I trust not, Alice—my Alice I would have said; but I may not say so now.  Can you forgive me, Alice?"

    "Can you doubt that, Philip?  I not only forgive you, but I promise to be faithful to you till all hope is lost.  Can I say more?"

    "That is more than I deserve; but the remembrance of your love and forgiveness will nerve me to virtuous action.  I am going a long way off I know not where; but you shall hear of my whereabouts ere long.  We will exact no promises from each other, only let me say this, I will not deceive you—I will not tamper with your affections.  I will write to you, and perhaps you will write to me in return, as long as it may be proper and agreeable; but if any unforeseen circumstance should completely sunder us, let us sometimes indulge in the sweet but mournful memory of the past.  May I not take, as a talisman, one tress of this silken hair?  Thanks!  Now, Alice, we must part.  'Tis sunset, and ere midnight I shall be many long miles away."

    Philip rose to his feet, as did Alice, who throwing herself upon his bosom, uttered in broken sobs—"Philip, my own Philip! this is a bitter hour! "

    "A bitterness," said Philip, "which shall enhance the sweetness of that hour when I shall return to thee, my beloved, and when thou shalt receive me with pride and joy."

    "I will pray to God for the speedy coming of that day," said Alice.  "Bless thee, Philip!"

    "Bless thee, my beloved!" was the earnest and sincere response; and after a long embrace, Philip placed the weeping maiden gently in a chair, and abruptly quitted the house.

    It was the close of autumn.  A chilling wind swept to the ground and along the footways the many-coloured leaves, adding to the sadness of the parting hour.  Philip cast a long, lingering look behind, then hurried on till he was overtaken by a stage-coach, which carried him far, away from the place of his birth.

    The foregoing scene took place at the house of the Rev. Mr. Blandford, Vicar of Elmsley, a beautiful village in one of our southern counties.  To this village we must confine the chief attention of the reader.

    Alice Blandford somewhat miscalculated her strength.  Some hours after the departure of Philip her grief was excessive, and for weeks she wandered about the house like one lost.  Gradually, however, she regained her tranquillity, and she found a sad yet hopeful pleasure in talking with her father about the wanderer.  Father and daughter were mutually confiding.  Both were alike interested in Philip's welfare, and as they conversed of him in their little parlour, at twilight,

"The leaves of memory seemed to make
 A mournful rustling in the dark." *

    In about four months they received a letter, and knowing the superscription, oh! how joyfully they opened it!  It contained very few words, and ran thus—

"Dearest Friends,—
"I have just this moment set foot in New York. I am healthy, hopeful, and buoyed up by a pure and determined purpose.  Send a kind wish for me across the Atlantic.  Adieu!"

    "Thank God!" said Alice, yet adding, sadly, "I did not think he would have gone so far away."

    This missive, brief as it was, was a great treasure to Alice; it kept the flowers of her soul, hope and love, in full bloom and freshness.  Another six months brought another letter, saying—

"I am working hard, have nothing to complain of, and fairish prospects before me.  Hope on, dearest Alice; and if your father will permit you, give me a few words of cheer, by way of reply."

    This was permitted, and immediately done.  The next letter informed them that he had improved his situation; the following one that he was a junior partner in a thriving concern.  Thus every six months brought, for upwards of four years, its written sign of encouragement and success.  Then no letter came for a whole year; a circumstance that threw the good Vicar and his daughter into gloomy doubt and perplexity.  One came at last.  Philip had been travelling in remote regions, and had been ill, very ill, in the wilderness.  He added,—

"Please God, I shall be at home in a few months.  Prepare to receive the Prodigal, and kill for him the "fatted calf."

    Alice wept with mingled commiseration and joy.

    Six years had elapsed since Philip went away.  Autumn had come round again; the corn had been cut and garnered; the woods were casting their beautiful but withered garlands to the ground; the stubble fields were tinged with the subdued and mellow radiance of the evening sun, when a stranger, cloaked and muffled, knocked at the door of the vicarage of Elmsley, and begged to see Mr. Blandford in private.  The old man was busy among his books in the library, but ordered the stranger to be admitted.

    The stranger entered abruptly, and seizing Mr. Blandford's hand, said, "My friend—my father! receive your son, who comes to you unscaithed, uncontaminated, regenerated, and comparatively rich!  Give me your blessing."

    "God bless thee, my boy!  I embrace thee with all my soul!  This is a happy day for all of us!"

    Seizing the bell, the old man rang.

    "Tell Alice to come hither."

   She came.

    "Alice, receive thy husband, who I am assured is worthy of thee!  God bless you both!" and in a tremor of emotion, the old man quitted the room.

    "Dear Philip!"—"Beloved Alice."

    'Twas all; but how much!  Let us not intrude upon the sanctity of that moment, hallowed as it was by the hopes, fears, sorrows, and affections of years.

    What a pleasant little supper was that of which the reunited three partook, that night! What hurried questionings—what ejaculations—what looks of love and satisfaction—what tears dissipated by bright smiles!  Oh, it was delightful!  Philip thought Alice more lovely than ever; she thought Philip wonderfully improved both in mind and person.  She was sure he had a loftier bearing and a more refined manner, and she felt a corresponding degree of pride and pleasure in the discovery.

    With some trepidation Philip inquired concerning Morley Grange.

    "Oh," said Mr. Blandford, "it has changed hands more than once since you left us, and I believe even now waits for a purchaser."

    "I will have it!" said Philip, starting up with enthusiasm; and you, Alice, shall make it a little nest of comfort and pure enjoyment for us.  I will have it, if it is to be had; we will see about it to-morrow."

    "I think there will be little difficulty," added the Vicar; "and you cannot conceive the satisfaction I feel, Philip, that you are able to redeem your patrimony.  You see what strength of will and uprightness of endeavour can accomplish."

    "Sweet are the uses of adversity," said Philip; "I shall never forget the lesson I have received, nor cease to profit by the discipline to which it has subjected me.  I thank God for this hour!"

    Philip begged for a day or two's rest before he related his adventures in America.  On the day following his return he was all impatience about Morley Grange.  In company with Alice, each loved and well-remembered spot was visited; every tree, stile, and field-path hailed with delight.  Satisfactory arrangements were made respecting the re-purchase of the Grange, and once more Philip became the owner of his native home and paternal acres.

    At tea, that afternoon, Mr. Blandford said suddenly, "Alice, do you remember we were to hear the famous lecturer this evening?  Philip's arrival had almost made me forget it.  We can all go together; a ride of five miles to the next town can do us no harm."

    "I was about to make the same proposition," said Philip, "for I heard somewhat of him as I was travelling hither."

    "Yes," rejoined the Vicar, "I should not like to miss him.  His name has reached us often, within the last few months; and the Press has been unanimous in its praise of his enlightened views, commanding eloquence, and benevolence of character."

    "How beautiful is intellect!" exclaimed Alice how beautiful is intellect! but especially beautiful when linked with usefulness and virtue!"

    "Ah! you will make me jealous," said Philip, playfully.  "We cannot all be philosophers and poets, dearest; but I wish I were intellectual, for your sake, Alice."

    Alice put her hand upon his shoulder, and with a look whose calm, bright sincerity could not be doubted, said, "Philip, you know that I am satisfied."

    They set out, and, having reached the lecture-hall, took front seats, when Philip Morley left Mr. Blandford and his daughter for a few minutes.  The audience was numerous, and seemed orderly and intelligent.  By and by, a gentleman in the capacity of chairman begged to introduce Mr. Vivian, the lecturer, who, stepping from the back of the platform with papers in his hand, came forward to the reading desk in front.  Could it be?—yes! it was no other than Philip Morley!

    Alice started to her feet with astonishment; but a slight waving of the hand and a meaning look from her betrothed, and she sat down, silent and bewildered.  The audience also seemed mystified, for many therein appeared to recognise Philip; but they held their peace.

    The subject of the lecture was Social and Domestic Reform.  The lecture was masterly.  A great variety of knowledge was brought to bear on the subject, and the illustrations were striking.  By turns the lecturer was earnest, humorous, and pathetic; and when he concluded, which he did with a lofty burst of glowing and convincing eloquence, the applause that followed was hearty and prolonged.

    Alice Blandford was ready to faint with pleasure and wonder. Philip soon joined her; and their conveyance being at the door, they at once departed homeward.  As they went, beneath the quiet, clear stars, and a young moon, Alice felt supremely happy; and, too full of thought for conversation, could only return the pressure of her lover's hand, and look what she could not utter.

    After supper they sat together an hour beyond "the acid waste and middle of the night," while Philip gave a summary of his six years' absence.  We must epitomise his narrative.  He said,—

    "When I arrived in New York, I immediately set about looking for a situation.  I soon found one, as a clerk in a store.  In a short time I exchanged that for a better.  By the strictest attention and probity, and by improving my aptitude for business, I became necessary to my employers, was taken into partnership, and also speculated a little on my own account.

    "Feeling now somewhat settled, but lonely and thoughtful after business hours, I formed a resolution to improve my mind by books, and the most intelligent society I could find.  I was successful: a new world, of which I had no previous conception, seemed to open to me.  I grew in love with knowledge, and loving it, made rapid progress in every branch of it I undertook to acquire.  In order to practise myself in speaking, I began to give brief lectures on popular subjects.  I thought that in case of a reverse of fortune I might avail myself of this as a means of living.  I stored my mind with new and important facts relative to education, social and sanitary questions, imprisonment, &c.  I saw a useful career before me, did I choose to take advantage of it; and I saw more and more what an utter waste I had made of my earliest years.  Feeling at length an unconquerable desire to see more of that wonderful country, I closed my connexion with my partners, and received a goodly sum as my share.  I then visited the principal cities, and penetrated into the 'far West.'  In the solitude I fell ill of a fever, and in the dwelling of a German emigrant passed many, many weeks of pain and melancholy.  When completely convalescent, I determined to come home, and here, thank God! I am.

    "When I landed at Liverpool, an idea struck me—sensible enough in one sense, but romantic in another—that I would for a few months deliver lectures in the different provinces.  I found that England was beginning to take great interest in those very questions which I had made my study.  I intended, my dear friends, to take you by surprise.  I knew how much my new acquirements, so unexpected, would gratify my dearest Alice.  I lectured under the name of Vivian; succeeded, and received invitations from a dozen quarters at once.  I went to London, and there I determined, if possible, to take my full measure of revenge upon that individual—that Brand—who first led me to the gaming table, and effected my ruin.  I had my revenge!"

    Here the good Vicar and his daughter gazed upon Philip Morley with inquiring and sorrowful looks.  He went on:—

    "I sought him in his old haunts, in vain.  His old associates had for some time lost sight of him.  I looked for him again and again.  I traced him at last to a low music saloon, and found him singing a silly and grotesque comic song.  I knew him at once, through his broken down dandyism, by his shabby, self-assured, jaunty air.  I accosted him, but he did not seem wishful to recognise me.  He found it would not do, however; I was not to be baffled.  I took him into a private room, and learned his latter career.  He had gone with accelerated steps downwards—if lower he could go—and was now singing comic songs at ten shillings a-week.  I talked seriously with him—found him possessed of capabilities which might be turned to account—and apparently he was willing to take an honest course, if he could get a start.  I lent him some immediate help; recommended him to a subordinate situation in connexion with an Institution in London, and left him with a warning to be careful.  The fellow promised well, and seemed in earnest.  I shall keep my eye upon him, and if he does not relapse, I will help him further, in order that one may be reclaimed from that vice which I have reason to abhor.  Such was my revenge!

    "My account, all save the details, is done.  More, much more shall you hear, when I am settled with my wife in my old new home.  In the meantime other matters will engage my attention."

    "Bless thee, my boy!" said Mr. Blandford; "thy revenge, as thou callest it, was noble.  I hope the man will profit by it."

    Alice, stooping down and whispering in her lover's ear, said, "And I bless thee, too, my Philip.  Thou hast doubly won me!"

    Our tale now draws to a close.  Philip was reinstated in his possessions; old servants who were scattered were brought back; every thing was put into order, in anticipation of an important event.  Grounds were retrimmed—rooms were re-furnished, and a thorough renovation made in all that had fallen into neglect and decay.  On the following Christmas-day morning a merry peal rang from the grey square tower of the church at Elmsley, and a gay wedding-party stood at the altar, where the venerable Vicar officiated in the most solemn and impressive manner.  The festivities of the season were redoubled in the village on that occasion, and "Quips, and cracks, and wreathed smiles," were the order of the day.

    "For many, many years, when the villager and passer-by wished to illustrate by example the blessings of connubial life, and the beauty of means and days well spent, they pointed with respect and exultation to the tranquil nest, the love-encircled domain of MORLEY GRANGE.

* Longfellow.




IN the month of July, 1830, impelled by an accumulation of depressing circumstances, I resolved upon going to France, in the full and confident hope of bettering my worldly condition.  Accordingly, I took a place on the top of the Peveril of the Peak stage coach, bound for London.  I was full of spirits, and indulged in a thousand pleasing anticipations of success.  The novelty of the journey, too—for I had not before been thirty miles from home—added to my satisfaction; and though my resources were barely sufficient to carry me to the North of France, my intended destination, I felt little anxiety, but, buoyed up by a hopeful temperament, scarcely dreamed of reverses in my wild speculation.

    Possessing a poetic turn of mind, and a passionate love of external nature, I was delighted as we passed into Derbyshire.  I became absorbed in the ever-changing panorama of mountain, vale, and river, which characterises that romantic county.  The bare and breezy heights of Buxton, the rude and rocky passes beyond, and above, that paradise of valleys—Matlock, wound me up to a pitch of silent enthusiasm; and it was not till we got into the flat country that my mind came down to the level of every-day things.

    About noon next day we entered the crowded wilderness of London, which astonished me with its vastness and multitudinous life.  Shortly afterwards I was seated in a small, dim back parlour of a chop-house near the Thames.  Scarcely had I partaken of refreshment, when mine host entered with the horrifying intelligence that a revolution had broken out in Paris, and that Charles the Tenth had fled to England.  I was paralysed at the news, and for some time I could not resolve upon what course to pursue.  I had left poverty behind, and there was a dreadful alternative before me; but, flattering myself that the affairs of France were exaggerated, or at all events, that the disturbances would be of short duration, I determined to proceed, rather than return to the miseries I had escaped.

    At an early hour next morning I embarked for Calais, and as we floated down the noble river, with its thousand objects of interest, every apprehension of danger and distress vanished from my mind.  After we had passed the mouth of the river, and got fairly out upon the expanse of waters, my delight and admiration were indescribable.  A bustle on the deck roused me from a reverie, and I observed that our captain was preparing to hail a packet returning from Calais.

    "Ahoy! what news from France?" he demanded.

    "All communication between Paris and the provinces is stopped, and the people are in a state of great uncertainty and alarm," was the disagreeable and ominous reply.

    At this moment a piercing shriek from one of the female passengers, who had caught the appalling words, broke wildly on our ears.  She was in a violent hysteric fit; but the kind exertions of the passengers at length restored her to consciousness; when, gazing around her with a bewildered air, she exclaimed, "My God! what will become of my poor husband!"

    This exclamation aroused our curiosity, and in answer to our inquiries she informed us that her husband was in Paris,—that she was apprehensive, from the impetuosity of his temper, and the opinions he entertained, that he would take part with the revolutionists, and she trembled at the danger to which he would be exposed.  Every one sympathised with and pitied her, endeavouring to inspire her with the assurance that her fears were groundless; but she settled into a silent melancholy for the remainder of the day, as if her thoughts were wandering to the beloved object upon whom her happiness depended.

    She appeared to be about four-and-twenty years of age; graceful in form, with a face of great softness and sweetness.  She seemed a being formed to inspire and feel the most passionate and devoted love.  A beautiful boy, some four years old, stood prattling by his mother's knee, looking up into her face, and asking a crowd of artless but puzzling questions.  It was evident that some of these questions pained her.  To relieve her, I beckoned the child to me, and taking him on my knee, we soon became intimate friends.  The mother rewarded me with a smile of grateful acknowledgement, but the tears starting into her eyes, she turned aside to conceal her emotion.

    A little before sunset we neared Calais, which, floating like a picture on the waters, its white towers and chimneys gleaming in the softened light, seemed to welcome me to a land of antiquity and romance.  We reached the pier, which was crowded, and after I had struggled my way through a host of commissionnaires, who were clamorous in extolling the merits of their respective hotels, I looked round for my interesting fellow-passenger, and on meeting with her, we bade each other a hasty but friendly farewell.

    I was forced to remain in Calais three days, for want of a conveyance.  At length the diligences came in from the capital, bringing the agreeable tidings that the "three glorious days" were over, and that Louis-Philippe had been elected King of the French.  The people were in raptures; the cafes became suddenly crowded; and nothing was heard in or out of doors but "Les Braves Français!" "La Belle France!" and the Marseillaise Hymn, and various other vociferations indicative of excessive vanity and exultation.

    By the first conveyance into Picardy I set off, my coat bedecked with a national rosette, while the tricolor, planted on the top of the diligence, floated gaily in the breeze.  On we went through Dunkirk, St. Omer, Douai, and Cambrai, all of which towns were in a state of great commotion, till we halted in the Grand Place of St. Quentin, where I intended to try my fortune as a British artisan.  I was doomed, however, to be disappointed, for recent events had deadened and depressed commercial spirit and enterprise.  In consequence, my applications for employment were almost in every case unsuccessful.  Nevertheless, I contrived with great difficulty to sojourn in the town two months, till, finding my prospects becoming daily more gloomy, I hesitated whether to return to England or proceed to some other manufacturing town of France.  I decided on the latter course, and prepared to go to Mulhausen, in Alsace.

    Packing up a scanty wardrobe, I made my way to Paris, where I staid eight days.  Though Louis Philippe had scarcely taken his seat on the throne, and though the blood of her citizens was barely dry upon her streets, Paris appeared to have resumed all her life and splendour, all her fashion and frivolity.  The thoroughfares were thronged with people as gay, as talkative, and as vain as ever.  The theatres were crowded with spectators of the indelicate and horrible; the public walks were brilliant with female beauty; the gambling houses were still haunted by the infatuated votaries of gain; and every hotel, cafe, and cabaret rung with its usual sounds of unrestrained enjoyment.  That noble city, over which but a few weeks before the Angel of Death hovered, making many a heart sick and many a home desolate, now seemed filled with laughter, music, and festivity; as if revolution and slaughter were things of common occurrence, and as if the crushing of crowns and overturning of thrones were but occasional pastime.

    Sauntering through the streets one day, in a mood of despondency, I stepped, almost unconsciously, into the august cathedral of Notre Dame.  Wrapt in thought, I paced the silent aisles with feelings of veneration for that Being to whose praise and glory such a pile had been raised.  There were very few persons in the cathedral at the time; but I was struck with the graceful figure of a female in deep mourning, kneeling on a low chair before a picture of "The Virgin."  Motionless as a statue, her hands clasped in prayer, her veil thrown aside, this fair petitioner to heaven riveted me to the spot.  The coloured light, streaming down from a gorgeous window, fell on the upper part of her person, giving her almost the semblance of an angel.  Disturbed by a slight movement which I made, she turned her face towards me, and I instantly recognized her who had so interested me on my passage from London to Calais.  She arose, adjusted her veil, and without noticing me, quitted the church.  I followed, and overtaking her in the street, accosted her, and politely made myself known.  She remembered me, was seized with a paroxysm of grief, and wept convulsively.  After the first burst of grief had subsided, I ventured to express my fears that her forebodings had been too lamentably realized.  She invited me to accompany her home, where I should hear all, and with the more confidence, because I was the countryman of her husband.

    We reached her mother's dwelling, which stood in the faubourgs of Paris.  There was an air and neatness and order in the internal arrangements of the abode, which to an English eye was as agreeable as it was unexpected.  Pauline, for so she was named, introduced me to her mother, who received me very graciously, and after we had seated ourselves to partake of coffee, I learned the following simple, but to me exceedingly affecting, history:—

    Pauline Peronne was the only child of a lace manufacturer, who, by dint of economy and industry, realized a moderate competency, and retired outside the barriers of the city, quietly to enjoy his well-earned gains.  Scarcely, however, had he begun to taste the fruits of his thrift, than he was seized with a sudden and dangerous malady, which carried him off in a few days.  Some care had been taken of the orphan Pauline's education, and those graceful accomplishments which give a charm to woman had not been denied her.  She possessed marked good sense, an equable sweetness of temper, and tender and deep affections.  She appeared generally less volatile and vivacious than her countrywomen, but she could throw aside her almost habitual thoughtfulness, and be as merry, as sparkling, and as fascinating as the gayest of them all.

    In the year 1825, Henry Rushbrooke, the son of an opulent tradesman in the South of England, visited Paris on his way to Switzerland and Italy.  The gay metropolis of France had an unexpected charm for him, and week after week found him still lingering in its haunts of pleasure and fashion.  At the house of one of his Parisian friends he met with Pauline, and was struck with her charms.  He strove to make himself agreeable to her, and after an evening passed in the happiest manner, he craved permission to renew their acquaintance, which was modestly acceded to, and Henry sought his lodgings with a buoyant heart.  Henry kept up his visits to Pauline at her mother's house, till he was received on the footing of an accepted lover.  He harboured no unworthy passion, for his nature was incapable of a dishonourable thought or deed.  Except in one particular, he was all that a fond, confiding woman could desire.  He was handsome, constitutionally brave, and generous almost to a fault; frank and full of warm and tender feelings; but withal, he possessed a fiery and impetuous soul, which at times set restraint at defiance.  He entertained strong, but perhaps erroneous opinions respecting liberty and the rights of man, and whatever were his views, he took little pains to conceal them.

    Henry urged Pauline to a speedy marriage.  By the force of entreaty, and the language of endearment and persuasion, he beguiled her of her consent that he should communicate with his family on the subject, and in the event of a refusal, she promised to share, and endeavour to soothe, the pain of his fallen fortunes. Henry wrote to England that night.

    In a few days he received a stern denial of his request, coupled with orders to return home immediately.  Henry had been a wayward, but clever and favourite child, and his father entertained higher views for him than those of marrying a comparatively poor, but worthy Parisian damsel.  But Henry Rushbrooke's mind was made up.  He had a small property in his own right, which, with the little that would revert to Pauline, would enable them to defy absolute poverty; and in a short period of time he had chosen for himself a new country and a faithful wife.

    For four years Henry held no connexion with his family in England, save by an occasional letter inquiring after their health, to which, when they deigned to write, they replied in the coldest terms.  In the meantime Pauline gave birth to a son, and the society of his wife and child kept Henry almost secluded from the world.  His little household was a scene of peace, love, and intellectual enjoyment, and save a wish to be reconciled to his parents, he had not a desire that remained ungratified.

    Such was the state of things in the summer of 1830, when Henry received a letter from his mother,—a letter such as mothers only write, breathing love, forgiveness, and a wish to embrace her son.  The epistle proceeded to announce that she had prevailed upon his father to send his unqualified pardon.  It concluded by beseeching him to come to England as soon as possible, and to bring his wife as a participator in the joy of the expected meeting.

    With alacrity Henry prepared to obey his mother's affectionate commands, and within forty-eight hours, accompanied by Pauline and his boy, he was on his way to Boulogne.  In three days he was locked in the arms of his parents and sisters, all of whom were charmed with Pauline, and enraptured with the artless prattle of little Victor.  Henry passed a week of unalloyed enjoyment with his family, but having some urgent business to transact in Paris, he bade them farewell, with a promise to visit them in the ensuing Spring, and left his wife and child to follow in a month.

    A month soon passed in the interchange of affection, and Pauline set out for France, laden with presents, and followed by the blessings of her kindred.  This was during the "three glorious days" of July, when I first beheld her on her way to Calais,—a journey which she began in joy, but ended in inconsolable misery.

    When she reached Paris she found the people in a state of uncontrollable excitement, but it was the excitement of triumphant success—a rejoicing over a victory, to attain which much human blood had been spilt, and by which thousands were reduced to beggary and starvation.  Poor Pauline trembled every step she took, and hurried towards home as fast as her anxiety would permit her.  As she came in sight of the spot, she felt that some heavy calamity awaited her, and she almost sank to the ground as she knocked faintly at the door.  It was opened by the accustomed servant, whose sudden start and gloom of countenance, as she beheld her mistress, confirmed her fears.  "Good God!" exclaimed Pauline, "what has happened?" and she fell back exhausted on a chair.  Her mother, who was above, and who heard the well-known voice, rushed down, wringing her hands in agony, and, falling on her child's neck, sobbed out that Henry was dying.  With difficulty Pauline was led to her husband's bed-side, but the scene that ensued may be better imagined than described.

    On the first outbreak of the revolution, fired at what he considered the tyranny and injustice of the Government, Henry placed himself at the head of a formidable band of citizens, took a prominent part in every assault, and ended by falling, covered with wounds, in the front of his followers.  As he was known to many, a small party of his friends succeeded in conveying him home.  A surgeon was with some difficulty procured, his wounds were examined, and the sad and unfortunate man was told the worst.  Henry bore the pain of body with fortitude, but his mental agony was beyond conception.  His rashness and folly in joining the insurgents—the absence of his wife and child—his fear that he should die before they arrived—the misery which would be inflicted on his parents, and the prospect of an approaching end—all combined, well nigh deprived him of reason.  When he had embraced Pauline and his child he felt more resigned.  His drooping wife hovered over his pillow like a ministering angel, and while her own heart was a prey to the bitterest sorrow, she soothed and supported him to the close.  In less than a week he died, and his family, who had been apprised of the melancholy circumstance, arrived just in time to see him consigned to a foreign grave.

    This simple and affecting narrative was often interrupted by the convulsive sobs of the bereaved Pauline, and when it was finished, none of us seemed disposed to speak.  I felt I could not then offer a word of consolation to the sufferer.  As I parted with her, however, she must have read in my countenance how much I sympathised with her.  Gazing on her face, I found written thereon a settled and deep-rooted sorrow, which had dimmed her eye and paled her cheek, and seemed to be eating up her life day by day.  With mutual good wishes and farewells we parted, and, walking hurriedly down the street, I inwardly prayed for her peace.

    I went down to Mulhausen, but from the depression of commerce, I met with the same disheartening results as before.  With great struggling, much mortification, and some starving, I remained five months, when, being fairly beaten out by the inexorable foe, Necessity, I put a knapsack on my back, ten sous (all I had) in my pocket, and in the middle of the severe winter of 1831, set out on foot to return to England.  By a long, circuitous route I reached Paris, as patient and as pennyless as man could be, and in the possession of a little more experience, if not prudence, than when I landed on the shores of France.

    My first thought was of Pauline, and my first business to seek her abode.  I knocked at the well-known door, was admitted, and warmly welcomed by the matron.  I ventured to inquire after her daughter, with an expression of hope that a few months had restored her to cheerfulness and tranquillity.  I saw by the cloud that gathered over the poor mother's brow that all was not well.  Without uttering a word she led me to her daughter's chamber, and there she lay, pale, but lovely as a statue of alabaster, gazing with intense affection in the face of little Victor, who was carelessly playing with the dark ringlets of her hair.

    When her ear caught the sound of a strange footstep, she turned her head on the pillow languidly, recognized me, and with a very faint blush of pleasure on her cheek, gave me her thin, transparent hand.  I started as I touched it,—it was cold as ice.  She saw what passed through my mind, for with a smile tender as that of an autumn evening, she said—"Yes, I am much changed, am I not?"

    "You are indeed," I said, thoughtfully.

    "Yes," she continued, "but it is a change for the better!  I am much happier than when I saw you last; I shall soon be completely so.  I go to be reunited to my Henry, in that temple which is not built with hands, through the compassion and by the power of Him whose symbol I wear."

    So saying, she raised a small golden crucifix, suspended by a ribbon round her neck, and kissed it devoutly.

    "If anything could bind me to earth," she resumed, calmly, "it would be that aged woman, and this boy, the image of his departed father; but my mother will follow soon, and my child I can entrust to the protection of Providence.  His will be done!"

    After a pause of some minutes, during which the aged mother strove to stifle her sobs, and the boy looked from one to another with serious and bewildered looks, Pauline turned her head suddenly, while her eyes shone with almost unnatural light, and said quickly—

    "Will you come and see me to-morrow evening?  I want to talk with you; but you must leave me now—I am oppressed with sleep ;—good night!"

    I promised I would come, and left the room overcome with my feelings.

    Next evening I went early.  Pauline, who lay in a state of stupor, had not spoken for some time.  Her mother, with the boy on her knee, and some friends, sat round the bed, awaiting solemnly the hour of dissolution.  A long-drawn sigh, or a smothered sob, were the only sounds which broke a silence almost unearthly.  At length, a voice in the street, immediately below the death-room, startled the mournful group.  It proceeded from one of those itinerant minstrels so common on the Continent.  He was singing, with much skill and power, the celebrated patriotic song "La Parisienne," and after be had finished the first stanza, and begun with fresh vigour the second, Pauline awoke suddenly from her lethargy, and seemed to listen with great attention.  The last stanza of this song changes both in time and tone, becoming exceedingly plaintive and pathetic.  It speaks of the coffin and the bier,—the funeral cavalcade,—the roll of the muffled drum,—the renown and glory of those who have won a grave in the cause of liberty, and concludes by calling upon the citizens to pay the last honours to the remains of their departed brethren.  Scarcely had the last words escaped the lips of the singer, than Pauline said faintly, but suddenly—

    "Mother, bring me my child, bring me Victor!"  The child was given to her.  She took him round the neck, and gazed long and earnestly in his face, the boy weeping and asking her when she would get up again.  She kissed him passionately, and beckoning her mother, kissed her also; then, extending her hands to her friends, with a smile that irradiated her countenance, she closed her eyes,—clasped the crucifix to her bosom, moved her lips for a moment, as if in prayer,—drew a deep sigh, and the dim, mysterious shadow of Death quenched the last lingering rays of her mortal life!

    There was a brief pause amongst us, as if we questioned the unwelcome truth, but the quick change which passed over the face removed all doubt; and one who sat near the bed put her hand on the lips of Pauline, and said in a whisper which startled us—"She is gone!"

    Then, the wail of the aged mother,—the cry of the orphan child, and the tears of surrounding friends, bewildered me; but recollecting myself, I went on my way, sorrowfully pondering on the scene.

    Pauline lies beside her husband, in a solitary and secluded corner of Pere-la-Chaise.  Her child was conveyed to his father's relations in England.  Pauline's mother followed her to the grave in a few months.

    The simple facts I have attempted to present in the form of a narrative, I shall never forget; and should chance or inclination ever again lead my steps to Paris, my first ramble shall be to the resting-place of the faithful and unfortunate PAULINE PERONNE.




LET us look at the sunny side of the picture.  Have we not progressed?—are we not progressing?  We need not go back to the Feudal ages, contrasting them with our own days, to prove this.  What living man would exchange for those times, characterised as they were by lawless adventure, mistaken and misapplied heroism,—by earnest but cruel piety, and gross and wild superstitions,—by refined ruffianism, rude and sensual enjoyments, and barbaric splendours,—by strong-handed baronial dominancy, and ignorant, degrading serfdom, over which cowered but the shadow of freedom;—what living man would exchange for those times, and these their discordant features, clothed though they be in the hues of romance and poetical association,—the peaceful power, the widely-diffused intellect, the civilized advantages and liberties, and the ever-growing, ever-purifying institutions of our own country in our own days?  We believe not one—not even those few generous members of the aristocracy who, led away by a falsely-poetic enthusiasm, would fain cheat us into the belief that we have suffered by the change.  No, no; we must on; and if we have faith in the good tendencies of the spirit that prevails, we must improve as we proceed; gain an ampler horizon at every step, and look, with a proud consciousness of our position, on the wilderness of Error we have left far behind.

    Have we not improved upon that unhappy state of society when a difference of faith, or creed, or form of worship, met with the most unjust and unchristian persecution?—when the dungeon was peopled with those who, daring to assert liberty of conscience, dared more than death?—when the bloody rack groaned beneath its load of human agony?—when the fire-stake, with a final cruelty, but which was often deemed a blessing, consumed its martyrs to ashes?  At no very distant period of the past, hundreds of inoffensive beings, charged by ignorant people with that absurdity of absurdities—Witchcraft, were put to death in different ways, and, it is scarcely to be believed, with the sanction of men of high standing in the law,—men of large intellectual endowments, and great benevolence of soul.  Even Sir Matthew Hale, in 1665, either from an unaccountable credulity, or from a fear of the popular voice, convicted, and caused to be executed, several unhappy individuals accused of witch craft.  It was not till near the close of the seventeenth century that men arose superior to the ridiculous prejudices of the time.  This foolish belief and its lamentable effects then began rapidly to decline.

    Let us be thankful for the utter annihilation of these two evils.  No religious persecution now, or if there be, it is not permitted to offer violence either to the person, property, or privileges of any member of the British community.  Whatever be our opinions or convictions touching the all-important subject of religion, we can do as we like.  Are we devotionally disposed, we can choose or build our temple how or where our reason or fancy may dictate: in the ancient and time-honoured church of our fathers,—in the plain and prim conventicle,—on the mountains,—in the fields,—anywhere, and observing any form, we may render homage to the Deity.  We may be encouraged, nay, oft entreated to adopt some definite mode of religious observance, but none can coerce us to it, or in the slightest degree restrain our freedom of thought and action.  This is a privilege our forefathers little dreamed of—a privilege which, instead of retarding our progress, and deteriorating our social condition, has advanced and improved them.  We dare venture to say that there is more practical piety, a wider humanity at work within and about us, than at any former period of our country's history; and we confidently believe that Infidelity gains few proselytes among the British people.  Witchcraft, and a host of other dissipated delusions, now only excite a smile of derision, or a word of wonder at the preposterous superstitions of the past.

    Not five hundred, but fifty years will suffice to show the many and mighty advances we have made towards the perfect liberty and happiness it is Man's nature to yearn after.  The Press has grown into a giant, whose arm of power, and whose voice of thunder or persuasion, nothing can restrain.  Daily, hourly it is pouring forth terror to the evil-doer—peace and promise to the lowly and sad of heart—knowledge to the multitudes, and with that knowledge imparting social harmony and moral strength.  It hath rooted up error after error, thrown down wrong after wrong, and its hallowed crusade, its bloodless warfare of tongue and pen, against old and new abominations, will achieve yet greater victories, and arrive at more humanizing and enduring results than the most poetical imagination ever pictured, or the most prophetic voice ever foretold.  By its aid Science has taken to itself more vigorous wings, soaring higher, and taking a more discursive range than the prejudices of the past permitted.  Nothing is too elevated, nothing too humble for its assiduous search.  No obstruction, however formidable, can bar its way,—no principle, however abstruse, which it does not attempt to elucidate,—no point of grandeur and utility towards which it does not direct its energies.  From the measurement of a star to the cultivation of a plant,—from the hewing of a mountain to the inspection of a fossil,—from the crossing of valleys with a span to the minutiæ of microscopic search, from the mysteries of the human mind to the instinct of the brute,—from the illimitable vastness and magnificence of the universe to the tiny beauty of a dew-drop;—nothing escapes its scrutinizing glance,—nothing but yields something to its devotion and its power.

    The inventive mind of a WATT, musing over the rude and insignificant plaything of a predecessor, suggested, and all but made perfect, the steam-engine; and what a stupendous revolution it has brought about!  ARK-WRIGHT, artfully appropriating, and improving upon, the invention of a poor reed-maker, introduced the Spinning Jenny, and this spinning jenny, with its subsequent ally—the power-loom, has peopled Manchester, and other towns of Lancashire and Yorkshire, with merchant-princes, whose wealth and influence threaten to overthrow the old hereditary aristocracy of the land.  A STEPHENSON laid down the first iron road, yoked his steam-winged steeds, and sent us travelling at four times our accustomed speed.  Similarly organized minds, stimulated by the gigantic achievement, entered the arena of Practical Science, and shared his triumphs.  Nature and her physical obstructions succumbed to the will and power of Genius and Enterprise.  Rivers were leaped over at a bound,—valleys were spanned by enormous yet graceful structures,—the bowels of the hills were invaded and rent,—the broad light of day, and the strange sounds of self-moving caravans, laden with thousands of eager, active, human passengers, pierced the most ancient solitudes, and woke them from their slumbers immemorial.  Our country is now veined and intersected in every direction by these wondrous lines of national and social intercommunication.  Cities the most distant from each other in the kingdom, the space of a few hours can link together; people of the most different pursuits, characters, tastes, dialects, begin to see and understand each other, and find that they possess common interests in all the improvements going on around them—common capacities for physical and intellectual enjoyment—and a common desire and endeavour to keep pace with the spirit of progress that leads to better things.  Nor must we forget a WHEATSTONE, who, seizing the electric fluid, and laying down a path for it, sent it winged with the speed of solar light, to carry intelligence to any point of its direction.  The saying of Ariel in "the Tempest," who promised his master, Prospero, to "put a belt about the earth in forty minutes," does not seem impossible to be realized.  From such mighty promises what mightier performances may we not expect!  And are not these changes for the better?

    Moreover, our Literature is changed for the better.  The horrible and unnatural school, in Fiction, of RADCLIFFE and MONK LEWIS, is "barred out" for ever.  We are going back to the truthfulness and simplicity of nature.  The BULWERS, with their spiritualized philosophy and keen insight into the motives of human actions,—the DICKENSES, with their large benevolence, good-humoured satire, humanizing pathos, and graphic delineations of humble life, the JERROLDS, with their bitter yet wholesome strictures on the evils of society, the HOWITTS, with their unsophisticated, kindly, and eloquent spirits,—the MARTINEAUS, who in their prose tales have so ardently vindicated the rights of the lowly-born, the producers of the earth, and the sustainers of our country's wealth and greatness:—these have acquired a pure and lasting fame;—pure, because they have worshipped at the shrine of Truth and Nature;—lasting, because the principles upon which their writings are based are those that come home to every human being.  They have appealed to our common humanity, and our inmost hearts have answered to them.  Eschewing party feeling, the cant of sects, and the prejudices of the few, they have written for the millions, and the voice of the millions shall utter their names with reverence and honour.

    Have not our Poets imbibed a spirit for the better?  They have overcome the heartless and artificial frippery, the cumbrous pomp and dry emptiness of the last century.  Examine, and behold the contrast.  COWPER and BURNS were the first reformers in this later commonwealth of Poetry;—one, with his calm English pictures of domestic felicity, and forcible denunciations of Negro slavery; the other, the noblest peasant that God ever gifted with the fire of inspiration, with his impetuous and often pathetic harp, created a revolution in the world of Poësy at which we have abundant reason to rejoice.  COLERIDGE of the Dreamy, and SHELLEY of the Mystic lay, have done more in the cause of freedom and humanity than a superficial reader would give them credit for.  WORDSWORTH has found

"    *    *    *    *    *   books in the running brooks,
"Sermons in stones, and good in everything;"


Eliza Cook (1812–1889),
poet and journalist.

and interpreted them to the world, musically and eloquently, with a full regard to the mental wants and aspirations of the multitude.  LEIGH HUNT has done his share towards the elevation of the people.  HOOD, pained at the privations of some of the working classes, has written nobly for them, and thrown into his "Song of the Shirt" the full feelings of a large and benevolent heart.  CHARLES MACKAY has devoted himself wholly to the work of peace, progress, and humanity.  ELLIOTT, in strains strong and ringing as his own steel, has denounced the doings of oppression, and rebuked the vices of the poor, while he has pleaded for their distresses.  Miss ELIZA COOK and Miss TOULMIN have lent their talents to the same cause, and to the delicate and quick sympathies of their sex have added a masculine spirit,—masculine because of its earnestness and sincerity.  Mrs. BARRETT BROWNING has brought down her fine mind from the pure realms of imagination to the stern realities of life, and pleaded for the poor juvenile workers in the factory and the mine, with the force of uncommon genius and compassion.  A crowd of lofty souls might be enumerated who turn the endowments of intellect to the high and proper purpose of rousing us to a just sense of our natural rights, and our capabilities of becoming wiser, better, and happier.  It is sufficient to know that the Pen is wielded, the Press worked, the Tongue made eloquent—not for a class merely, as heretofore, but for the community, and especially for those portions of it which stand most in need of their sublime energies.

    Again, look at the thousand, yea ten thousand easily accessible sources from which the labouring man may derive healthy and elevating knowledge,—refined and moral recreation.  A crowd of liberal institutions, without regard to sect or party, Athenæums, Mechanics' Institutes, Lyceums, Libraries, Reading Rooms, wait on every hand to receive and instruct him.  Lecturers, highly endowed in mind, eloquent in speech, and bent on benevolent toils, minister to his mental, and often to his physical wants, by teaching him how best to enjoy his little leisure, and economise his scanty means.  It is almost a reproach in these days to be without a smattering of general intelligence.  Men's opportunities, temperaments, capacities, it is true, are very different.  All cannot become learned, eminent, and objects of the world's admiration.  The laws of God and nature are against it; but it does appear to me that the multitudinous means that lie about us of calm and pure enjoyment, books, music, the Arts, the revelations of Science, ought to be sought after and appreciated by all.  "There is a good time coming," however; the ice of apathy is breaking up, and drifting away before genial breezes, and a fair open sea is looming up, radiant with the mind's sunshine, and studded with beautiful isles, where the adventurous voyager may rest, and contemplate the ever-expanding, the ever-brightening world of intellect around him.  God speed the coming!

    And then War!  What a tremendous and deplorable burden!  What a reckless waste of money; and how vast and incalculable must have been that of human life!  Who may tell the amount of physical suffering and moral deprivation consequent on this terrible system!  It is fearful to contemplate.  Let us rejoice that a different spirit is beginning to pervade the public mind.  We are fast relinquishing our taste for, and our admiration of the gorgeous devilry of war.  The "Society of Friends," who have been ever foremost in rational reforms, commenced their hallowed crusade against it.  How far they have been successful, the state of public opinion will testify.  Nearly every member of the Public Press is leagued against it.  Well organized societies exist expressly to restrain, by all available means, the gigantic evil.  ELIHU BURRITT'S "Olive Leaves" and "Bond of Brotherhood" are doing things heretofore deemed impracticable.  May the nations profit by the glorious example, and give us permanent Peace, without which the progress of the human mind, though it cannot be arrested, may be retarded!  Let our neighbours and brothers, the French, restrain their military vanity, and cooperate with us in the endeavour to lessen, if not annihilate, this unchristian system.  There are nobler battles to fight—those against social crime and misery; nobler trophies to win—those of intellect and virtue; let us arm ourselves for the hallowed struggle, and accomplish other Changes for the Better!



    Mr. Prince is one of those men, so rare, yet so welcome when they come, who, born and educated amid poverty, and invested with a quick intellect, have, amid the gloom of their world, such an expansion of heart, that when they condemn, they condemn without bitterness.  In the entire range of literary history we have read of no poet with a mind more elastic than that possessed by Prince.  His mind rebounds from the passions and the degradation with which he has been unavoidably associated, and the rebound has been both signal and lofty.  Apart from birth and education, and in the completeness and individuality of the word, J. C. Prince is a poet.  He has an intuitive perception of the finest beauties of life, and a quick comprehension of the beauties of nature.  We need not say more.  We have written only what is generally admitted; but our desire is that Mr. Prince's works should be the companions of every poor man, because they will increase his social tendencies; and further, we wish them to be in the possession of every rich man, because they will teach him that a Poet of the People is not necessarily antagonistic to the wealthy.—The Critic.

    One of the chief merits of his productions lies in their being so faithful a transcript of the feelings and sentiments cherished by the class of men to which he belongs.  His poems are one and all the products of a sound and healthy mind, equally free from moody misanthropy or pining discontent.  His ill success in life has soured neither his temper nor his verses.  While pleading the rights of the poor, he does not forget the respect due to those of the rich, and, accordingly, no harsh hatred of those superior to him in station is to be found in his pages.  The regeneration for which he longs is perfectly compatible with the permanence of existing institutions; and no man anathematises more strongly than himself, the popular demagogues who, for the attainment of their own lawless ends, would disturb the peace of society, and remorselessly involve the nation in ruin and bloodshed.—Monthly Magazine.

    Here we have a volume of verses which, considering the condition and opportunities of the poet, may be pronounced wonderful.  But, wherever or howsoever composed, his poems possess very considerable merit, merely as poems, and laying aside altogether the circumstances under which they have been produced.  If the Muse "found him poor at first, and kept him so," the measure of the divine gift he possesses has brought its own delights and rewards; and, in the midst of poverty, he can still wisely and piously bless God for "having made him susceptible of feelings so elevating, so humanising, so divine."—Tait's Magazine.

    Had such a volume of poetry as the one before us been produced twenty years ago by a poor cotton weaver, its author would have been accounted a prodigy.  Mr. Prince's merits are enthusiasm, earnestness, freshness of feeling, and a quiet power of painting bits of scenery and nature.  His command over language is remarkable, and he sometimes evinces great felicity of expression.  It will be seen from our extracts that he has caught a real spark from the great meteor of Poësy, and we trust he will still solace his leisure hours with the Muses, gaining his meed of tribute and applause from his fellow men.— Westminster Review.

    It is greatly to the credit of Mr. Prince's heart, and the divine art which he pursued with such enthusiasm, that poverty has had no power to sour or corrupt
his nature.  His poems show an innate refinement of mind, and a sweet healthy tone of sensibility, together with a pure and ennobling morality, which speak volumes in favour of the author's head and heart.—Sun.

    Having closed our extracts, we may express our estimation of the author.  If poetry may be defined as an intense love of the beautiful, the right, and the true, then is Prince a poet in "lie noblest sense of the word.  All his thoughts, sentiments, and aspirations are in the right direction.  His poetry has a healthy, fresh tone, which must reach the unsophisticated heart.—Manchester Guardian, (,Second Notice.)

    In taking leave of this volume, we may say that, as an appropriate gift to youth of either sex, we know few that can compare with it in genuine poetry, blended with the highest moral feeling, and the purest taste and sentiment.  It is full of earnestness and sincerity, and has many other good qualities which must make for it a path to favour, wherever truth is valued, the best affections prized, and the moral advancement of man desired.—Manchester Guardian, (third notice.)

    Considering the many grave disadvantages with which the author of this volume has had to contend, he must be accounted a poetic genius of the highest order.  There are an elasticity of thought, a fruitfulness of imagination, and a high-toned generosity about everything he writes, which must of necessity gain him troops of friends. Manchester Courier.

    We are happy to say that these poems require no tenderness on the score of circumstances, from the hand of a critic.  They abound with images of beauty and themes of rejoicing; and except when a pensive thought breaks in upon him for a moment, there is scarcely a solitary evidence of the pangs out of which all this sweet music is extracted.  We have sufficient cause to wonder that these poems possess so much intrinsic beauty, and so much real weight of unadulterated truth. Atlas.

    It is wonderful that this man, after what he has suffered, should still have the heart to write poetry—poetry gentle and beautiful in sentiment, and graceful in composition.  He is a man of originality and genius.  "Hours with the Muses," all things considered, is a wonderful production.  We see in it the evidence of a great power, which, we hope and trust, will be worthily developed.—Sheffield Independent.

    Of all those whose names have risen as a bright star from the low horizon of society, the author of "Hours with the Muses," is, in our our opinion, almost unequalled.  We hate half praise when we have felt whole pleasures; and certainly, our minds have never kindled with more true fervour than while reading the poems of J, C. Prince.  Most warmly do we recommend this volume to the notice of our readers; we are indeed in error if any one can read it without being better and wiser.  We hesitate not to predicate that the name of J. C. Prince can never die.—Midland Counties' Herald.

    Mr. Prince is no ordinary man, and no ordinary poet.  His poetry is a marvel; its high finish, melodious rhythm, purity of sentiment, and elegant diction, would do honour to any living poet.  We regard it as an honour to our age and country to have produced such a man, arid heartily recommend his volume to all lovers of true poetry.—Sheffleld Iris.

    Mr. Prince's poetry is the natural expression of a mind observing and thoughtful, and his mind has been prompted by his heart in all its remarkable enterprises.  His intellect has never left his feelings in the background.  There is always a drop of benevolence at the bottom that sweetens the whole draught.—Leeds Times.

    The poetry of J. C. Prince is of a free and flowing melody and graceful expression.  The "Poet's Sabbath" offers proof that the writer has both a painter's hand and a poet's heart.  All his sentiments, as represented by his poetry, do him great credit. —Athenæum.

    Mr. Prince's poetry is of a high and sterling class.  It is full of imaginative beauty, and of a delicate and pure; diction.  But what is even more admirable than the poetry itself, are the sound sense and the true philosophy which distinguish it.  All his unmerited sufferings have not embittered his nature, nor distorted his reason; he calls upon his fellows to liberate themselves, but warns them against the destructive delusions of physical force.  He points out in peaceful language the real enemies of the working man; he advocates at once both political and domestic reform.  Mr. Prince has only to hold on, to be a prince amongst poets, and a blessing to the meritorious but suffering masses of this country.—WILLIAM HOWITT.

*.* Favourable notices have also appeared in The Spectator, The Metropolitan, The Church of England Magazine, The Christian Teacher, The Manchester Times, The Manchester Advertiser, The Leeds Intelligencer, The Liverpool Albion, The Liverpool Mercury, Chambers' Journal, Bradshaw's Journal, The New York Herald, The New York Tribune, Channing's American Magazine, and others.

Care and Sever, Printers, 18, St. Ann's-street, Manchester.


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