318 infant son, who died in the same hour on the same day, aged twelve months." The dark tragedy connected with the death of L. E. L., at Cape Coast Castle, a settlement similar to Sierra Leone, at a point of the coast further south, will not soon be forgotten. There was a history of African licentiousness mixed up with that affair, which has only been darkly hinted at, but has never yet been cleared up,-perhaps never will be. But the state of society at Sierra Leone affords some melancholy illustration of the probable cause of the frightful immolation of that unhappy genius on the deadly African shore. Let us add that at Sierra Leone, in 1844, there were only thirty-nine white women, and very few of these ladies; that there were at the same time 136 white men, and about 45,000 blacks, coloured people, and resident strangers,-the blacks consisting almost entirely of liberated slaves of all tribes, landed from captured slavers at Sierra Leone, and the mixed character of the population may be imagined. Here are a host of blacks landed at one place, from all quarters, in a perfectly savage state, and thrown at once upon their own resources. True, we cannot expect a very refined state of society from such an admixture. But how does the plan work, of thus checking and ameliorating the horrible slavetrade? The evidence of Dr. Poole, as of all other competent witnesses, is to the effect that our attempts to crush it by force, have only served to render it more hideous, and inflicted an increased amount of suffering on the slaves. A few thousands are emancipated and sent to Sierra Leone to enjoy liberty, misery, and licentiousness; but thousands more have their sufferings frightfully increased, and the slave-trade is not in the slightest degree checked. It goes on at Free Town itself, under the very nose of the governor and the guns of the British ships. One of the slaver's richest harvests is Sierra Leone. The Mandingoes carry off large numbers openly, in exchange for rice and other commodities, and sell them to the exporters, who are always hovering about the coast. Dr. Poole mentions it as a curious fact, that a black woman called Trinorman, who was exhibited a practical at anti-slavery meetings in London as friend of emancipation, and reaped no small gains from her reputation, was discovered on her return to the colony, to be a regular practised slave-dealer. Dr. Poole insists that the true way of dealing with the slave-trade, is to make it Piracy. But we question whether even this would cut at the roots of the evil. There would be an increase of pirates, and no want of Africans to sell each other as before. Dr. Poole thus describes a landed cargo of liberated slaves : "The living cargo is disposed of in the Liberated African Yard, where they are comfortably cared for and looked after. The females are placed in a ward In the yard is a separated from that of the men. large open shed, under which is the cooking-apparatus, where the negroes prepare their food. In my visits to the gaol, I have often watched these wild men, for most of them are no better when they first enter the yard, from the window which overlooks that department; and a complete picture of savages they present. The whole scene, in fact, is striking, and calculated to awaken many painful reflections. Uncivilized, uneducated, and ignorant of the great purposes of their creation, these untutored barbarians teach a mortifying lesson to man, and serve humble him who is so ready to exalt himself in his superiority of intellect and knowledge. To look at these creatures, almost unclad, exhibiting as they do such frightful models of the human figure, so irrational in their talk and gestures, so apish in their to laughter, so fierce in their expressions of anger and ing from the interior, the scenery is of the most The best view of the bay of Sierra Leone and of town, stand out in relief on these different localities. One of the fine sights of Sierra Leone, is bushburning among the hills. Bush-fires are very frequent, and in the night, it is very grand to see how they illumine the sides and tops of the mountains with their fitful and lurid flames. As the night steals on, masses of flame roll along their spiral heads of fire, in one continuous line. One while they disappear as if extinguished, the next moment they burst out again with increased brilliancy and power, making the ocean before them look like a broad sheet of transparent light. These fires soon destroy immense quantities of trees and bush; but such is the luxuriancy of the vegetation, that in the course of another season or two, the bush and the forest are as dense as before. Dr. Poole, while on the African coast, got leave of absence to visit the Gambia, up which river he made a short expedition in the government steamer Albert, one of the ill-fated three vessels engaged in the Niger expedition. This steamer is a worthless article, its boilers in such a state, that they were constantly bursting, sometimes oftener than once in the twentyfour hours. And yet Dr. Poole states that though "an annual allowance of two thousand pounds is granted, to keep this wretched memorial of a still more wretched expedition in a serviceable state for public use, it is only a specimen of abominable dirt and neglect." As it was, the party managed to ascend the Gambia, to hold several interviews with the kings and royal families along the banks of that fine river; the princes of the land sharing its dominion with the monkeys, who in some places are sufficiently powerful to drive the natives from their homes. Near Nabunting, Dr. Poole met with the remarkable vegetable phenomenon of "the Burning-Bush, which produces a fruit somewhat similar to a pineapple in appearance, and, when ripe, bursts and consumes itself, producing a strange effect on the bush, which is not consumed." The scenery all up the river Gambia, as far as it has been penetrated, is most lovely, and the land is rich and fertile in the extreme, covered with vegetation down to the edge of the stream, over which lofty trees shake their blossoms. Mahogany, palmettoes, cocoanut, and dwarf palm-trees, extend across the country toward distant risings, and here and there extensive rice-fields, bounded by impenetrable groves, lay spread before the eye in beauty. The waste of wealth is wondrous, the profusion of vegetation luxurious, and all to little purpose. The savages along the banks of this noble river are inveterate slave-dealers, and the kings would not scruple to sell any one of their subjects for a string of beads or a bottle of rum. With all its natural beauties, Central Africa is indeed a dismal region. The state of the slave-coasts is horrible. There are few or no signs of health about them, and the aspect of society there is apt to induce a feeling of hopeless despair. Yet carnest work has already produced some fruits, and earnest work continued may produce still more. No one can withhold the meed of high approbation, in beholding the devotion of that band of zealous religious men who have thrown themselves into Africa-such men as Campbell, Moffat, and Poole,-with the one object of bringing these poor benighted heathens to light and life. Three several dangerous attacks of illness had nearly brought Dr. Poole to the grave. But after recruiting his health for a short time in England, he heroically set forward again on his path of duty. There is something peculiarly touching, to our minds, in the following words, which conclude his recent work on Sierra Leone : "Twelve months breathing in England," he writes, "have made me comparatively a new man. Old scenes will shortly be revived, former labours renewed, fresh hazards run, and the vast Atlantic crossed by me for the eleventh time. To-morrow, I shall be steaming it up Channel towards that land proverbial for its unhealthiness, and dreaded for its fever. My book and my country,-my home and all its tender endearments, will have been left behind. I shall not have the satisfaction of knowing the fate of these volumes which I now send forth to the world. But, who can control his fate?' Submission is our duty as well as wisdom. I must therefore square accounts with my reader, and only hope, that should he derive amusement or instruction from the perusal of these papers, he will deal gently with their imperfections, and bestow a kindly wish and prayer on their absent author." NEVER STRIKE YOUR CHILD. This may seem to be rather ultra in principle, but it is the only proper ground of treatment. Let us first examine and ascertain the desired result. Suppose your child does wrong,-your first wish is to learn him that the act is wrong. Now, having become aware that a certain act is wrong, he again commits it; you demand obedience; obedience to what? to the wishes of a parent, not obedience to a mere blow. The obedience desired is from a knowledge of right, not from a mere slavish fear; for, if the child's obedience be founded upon fear alone, then, in the absence of the cause of that fear, he will have no incentive to the obedience; but, on the other hand, if the child's obedience be founded upon a knowledge of what is right, then the incentive is always present, for knowledge once attained will always remain, and the child will obey because he wants to. But a blow never created a desire to do right; it may operate to the prevention of the overt act, but the same feelings which prompted to disobedience are still there, and rather made more turbulent than otherwise. Those feelings in the child's bosom which the parent aims to bring into requisition, or, at least, which should be brought into requisition,-feelings of love and filial duty, are at once submerged by the baser passions upon the infliction of a blow, and the spirit of resentment is the only result. DON'T STAND STILL. If you do you will be run over. Motion, action, progress, these are the words which now fill the vaults of heaven with their stirring demands, and make humanity's heart pulsate with a stronger bound. Advance, or stand aside; do not block up the way and hinder the career of others: there is too much to do now to allow of inaction anywhere, or in any one. There is something for all to do; the world is becoming more and more known;-wider in magnitude, closer in interest, more loving and more eventful than of old,-not in deeds of daring,-not in the ensanguined field,-not in chains and terrors,-not in blood, and tears, and gloom,--but in the leaping, vivifying, exhilarating impulses of a better birth of the soul. Reader, are you doing your part in this work? WOMAN. There is nothing, says Sir Samuel Romilly, by which I have through life more profited than by the just observations, the good opinion, and the sincere and gentle encouragement of amiable and sensible women. BE IN TIME. Think in time! perhaps The power may be denied When Sorrow's at your door, Or Danger by your side. A thoughtless youth will run Its course before the prime; How to provide for Age Is wisdom :-THINK IN TIME! Speak in time! don't linger, Pausing on the brink; Be your purpose worthy, Utter what you think. Sometimes a word will save, Then silence is a crime ;The best thoughts lack a use Kept secret :-SPEAK IN TIME ! Act in time! reflect, None can the past renew; To think and speak are vain, Unless you mean to do. We cannot count our days; Perhaps the next slow chime Prepare, then :-ACT IN TIME! O, THE HEATHER! O, the heather! hey, the heather! Where first I wooed my darling Ann, Bright and golden were the heavens, Brighter still the golden threads Wherewith love had bound us. She was kind, and sweet, and willing,I was fond and loving, So I pressed her lips to mine As we went a roving. "Fie!" she said, but did not mean it,O, the bonny heather! Amongst the purple flowers we sat, Fonder, fonder, as became us, With a thousand kisses; Then I said, "My darling Annie, "Yes," she answered, "I am thine; O, the heather! hey, the heather! JANUARY SEARLE. WISDOM is a palace of which only the vestibule has yet been entered. MOONLIGHT is a great beautifier, and especially of all that has been touched by the finger of decay, from a palace to a woman. It softens what is harsh, renders fairer what is fair, and disposes the mind to a tender melancholy in harmony with all around. DEFERENCE is the most complicate, the most indirect, and the most elegant of all compliments. PERSONS of weak minds and a strong will seldom | suspect the mischief they continually occasion to originate with themselves. MANY of the empty pots in an apothecary's shop are as gaudily decorated, and neatly marked, as those that are full. THE vulgar trace faults in others which they them selves possess, but have no idea of excellences to which they have no pretensions. THERE are no friendships among men of talent more likely to be sincere than those between painters and poets. Possessed of the same qualities of mind, governed by the same principles of taste and natural laws of grace and beauty, but applying them to different yet mutually-illustrative arts, they are constantly in sympathy, and never in collision, with each other. THE only gratification a covetous man gives his neighbours is to let them see that he himself is as little better for what he has as they are. MARRYING for a home is a most tiresome way of getting a living. A PERSON can scarcely be put into a more dangerous position than when external circumstances have produced some striking change in his condition without his manner of feeling and of thinking having undergone any preparation for it. POETRY and Consumption are the most flattering of diseases. To raise esteem, we must benefit others; to procure love, we must please them. AN honest man lives not to the world, but to his own conscience. AN honest man is bolder in the opposition of ill things than tyranny itself can be in the imposing of them. WHEN we have diligently laboured for any purpose, we are willing to believe that we have attained it; and, because we have already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more is to be done. SUPERFICIAL Writers and talkers, like the mole, may think themselves deep when they are exceedingly near the surface. WE should answer the accusations even of the most contemptible: the yelping cur at a horse's heels is a pitiful brute, but he may cause an overthrow. HISTORY is the essence of innumerable biographies. IN every human condition foes lie in wait for us, invincible except by cheerfulness and equanimity. Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street. A BACK STREET. BY ELIZA COOK. CERTAIN it is that we ever experience a very sombre shade of moral and mental reflection while walking along a "back street," and taking our close survey of the general depots that minister to the daily wants of the world's lowly denizens. We are afraid sometimes that all "conventional" propriety is forsaken by us as we stand staring into a penny-pie shop, or linger about an old woman's apple-stall, where two or three urchins are debating as to the largest property that can be had in exchange for a small coin. We think it was that amiable and gifted man Charles Lamb, who advised us to occasionally give a guinea to a beggar, that we might perceive the full emotion of pleasurable surprise; but not being rich enough to allow our practical benevolence the advantage of such a "golden rule," we content ourselves with expending an odd sixpence now and then among the longing juvenile gazers on raspberry tarts and oranges, and never yet did we regret the outlay. We have just made five duodecimo editions of humanity as happy as aldermen, by the distribution of as many slices of hot plum-pudding; but such was the haste with which the burning condiment was swallowed, that we apprehend a case of choking, and shall take especial care not to go back that way. We have wended our steps into a somewhat desolate thoroughfare, and now let us look about us: the first point of notice is a beer-shop,-a distressing focus of observations for eyes that would fain witness the onward march of their kind; but something of justified disgust is allied to sensitive regret, as we see the swarthy artizan or ragged idler issuing thence, with the hectic flush of unhealthy excitement in his face, and the thick words of brainless folly on his lips; we shudder as we mark the helpless infant shrinking from its forced participation in the feverish draught of a reckless mother; we sigh to watch the poor man's child, as he cautiously and feloniously appropriates a few mouthfuls from the broken jug he has been sent with to get filled at the Infernal Fountain; we stand and mourn over the frightful bane of millions of noble natures, but yet, we repeat, there is a vagabond air of self-indulgence, and a tone of wilful depravity about most of the " customers," PRICE 1d. that blunts the keen edge of our sorrow, and raises an incipient sense of indignation, to think that "man in apprehension so like a god," in habit should be so closely connected with something that we know not of; for no animal recognized in natural history, save of the genus Homo, has ever been known to voluntarily distort and frequently destroy the endowments bestowed on it by a wise Creator. We always get slightly angered in our sadness, when we cast our reflective orbs on "The Carpenter's Arms," or "The King's Head," and though we could preach a long homily on the subject, we suspect it would have a smack of the Philippic style. We grieve over the petty pawnbrokers; it is painful to see the every-day tool and holiday dress carried in desperate despair or sullen depravity to the hecatomb of Poverty. There is a heart-wringing story in the wife's wedding-ring, and the widow's black garment; that smart china tea-service could tell a tale of "better days," when decent friends met on a birth-night, when the plum-cake garnished the blue and gold plate, and the extra strong Hyson smoked in the treasured cups. We can picture the family party, full of hope and health, draining the leaves in sober cheerfulness and telling fortunes in the "grounds ; " we can see the thick bread and butter prepared for the hungry "boys and girls," and we help ourselves to shrimps and water-cresses while we admire the fairy birds and Eden flowers of Staffordshire production, peeping at us through the comestibles. And then we trace the coming paleness on the husband's face; he is weak, and cannot walk as many miles as he did, his employers cannot have a labourer unworthy of his hire, and he loses his respectable situation. Now we can see a small spot of red on his cheeks, and his eyes are very bright; he is worse, but yet little is the matter with him,-a slight cough, that is all, and his legs ache very badly. They have saved something, but it is all going, and he must have a doctor; the wife eats little that he may have more, but the last sixpence has been spent, and he must have his medicine and his arrow-root. We see the wife stealing out in the dusk with a large basket,--she hangs her head as she stops at a far-distant pawnbroker's; but it must be done, and a bold step or two carries the tea-service to the counter, and she has in her hand the few shillings so liberally trusted by Faith, Hope, and Charity. She is often seen now at that same counter; but at last we stop to let a long coffin pass, and we recognize the same anxious face close behind it, that we have noted at the pawnbroker's door,-we wonder whether that shining ring and that sable gown belonged to her, we fear they did; we will not inquire further, gentle reader;--but see that small bible in the corner, with a black silk handkerchief beside it, what do they whisper? Let us look inside the book, and read on the fly-page, in a plain, though inelegant handwriting, "To my dear son, George Martin, from his Affectionate Mother;" and now unfold that handkerchief, G. M. is worked on it with hair; they both belonged to the same fair boy,-he took them with him on his first voyage, and when he returned, the mother and the home were lost for ever; his heart went astray poor lad, he became a dissolute idler, and step by step declined into the abyss of vice. We see him shedding the last tear that ever graced his eye; he has yet been honest, but the last relic of his own prosperity is about to be sacrificed; he is looking at the fly-page of the bible, his lips are compressed and his throat seems tighter, something drops on the leaf, and the word "mother" glistens through his tear; he hastily closes the volume, hides his eyes with the handkerchief, and the next hour finds the mother's last gifts on the counter of the pawnbroker. And see! there is a flute and a violin,-both common crazy-looking instruments; but who cannot imagine the joyous notes they have afforded in happier days to some unfortunate lover of sweet sounds? Who cannot in fancy hear "God Save the King," blown in very uncertain tune and still more uncertain time, to the performer's immense self-satisfaction? -who cannot distinguish the grumbling scrape of the highly-rosined strings that has echoed in some poorly furnished Whitechapel room, with the romantic theme of "In my Cottage near a Wood?" Many a sad "minor key," we fear, has been sounded on the owner's heart-chords, before these precious possessions were parted with. But come, we will move on from the petty pawnbroker's, and take our stand before this miserable chandler's shop. It is night, and the glimmering couple of candles in their tin sockets hardly serve to publish its character of commerce; the whole street is squalid and gloomy, with little to tell of animated existence but the cry of a peevish and most likely hungry child here and there. Let us look at the "show in the window, and note what a sickening display of varied poverty exists in every. thing there exhibited. What a strange mixture of goods and chattels we behold, with an air of desolation and an atmosphere of dirt surrounding all. A thin scattering of split peas, and a pound or two of shrivelled plums, manage to struggle through the dust of a year's gathering; a few red herrings are flanked by a packet of "Epsom Salts " and a paper of "Embden Groats," which are immediately connected with a stick of brimstone and a couple of bunches of Waterloo crackers, whose date of manufacture may be contemporaneous with that of the battle. A pot of blacking jostles against divers balls of cotton and worsted; a paper or two of tarnished pins repose beside a cadaverous cake of whitening, beneath the arch of two dingy tobacco pipes, the geometrical arrangement of which affords a melancholy attempt at the ornamental. An indefinite glass receptacle, repaired and puttyed to a disfiguring extent, holds a small quantity of "bull's eyes," whose compound appears to be of mud and molasses; and these articles, with the addition of a dozen marbles, a halfpenny kite, and a few balls and peg-tops, constitute the "window show." Now let us peep into the interior; there we see some bundles of hard, sulky looking wood, and a solitary birch-broom. On the counter we perceive a pair of battered scales in close conjunction with an old knife and numerous diminutive weights. At a little distance is a quarter of a firkin of Irish butter, a piece of deathlylooking "single Gloucester," and a lump of bacon, -the fat of which is yellow and the lean brown. On an isolated shelf stand three or four canisters, containing those mysterious vegetable matters surreptitiously passing as tea and coffee. On the same shelf are a few half-quartern loaves, and certain quantities of coarse sugar "done up" in still coarser paper. The miserable child who has just entered for the usual pittance of bread, and the meagre woman who issues forth to serve, complete the picture. Gaze on the form and features of the girl. Where is the rosy skin of well-fed health? where is the round plumpness of chubby childhood? Alas! the lines of thought are already graven on the pallid forehead, the cheeks are sallow, pinched, and smileless, the eyes sunken and calculating,-the shoulders are drawn forward with the stoop of old age, and the hands that stretch to grasp the bread are hard, colourless, and bony. "How is your mother?" inquires the woman of the shop. "Very bad-can't move out of bed; but father's got a job of better work, and says he'll pay sixpence off the old debt next week;" and away she goes with the dry, small loaf, picking its corners with assiduous application. Another customer has entered,-a shoeless, hatless, boy, with matted hair and unwashed flesh he flings down some coppers, exclaiming-" There! give us half a loaf and a slice of cheese. I've had nothing to eat since morning, and couldn't get a horse to hold nor nothing to do till just now." He clutches the untempting fare, and leaves the threshold as busily employed as a hungry dog. "And this is the life and language of the children of the poor," say we, as we turn away and seek the comforts of our own quiet snuggery. We walk a short mile and here we are ;-but how is this? we were promised a savoury dish and some choice preserves for supper, we find nothing but cold meat and sweet home-baked bread! A murmur is rising to our lips, and we mean to question closely as to the non-appearance of the delicacies; but suddenly we see the lean, half-starved girl and the ragged, hungry boy, the beggarly chandler's-shop is before us, and a voice whispers in our ear "Think of the foodless and the fireless;-eat and be thankful." Come, we have learnt something from our evening stroll; and whenever we find in future a tendency to " quarrel with our bread and butter," and detect ourselves looking with epicurean eyes on the "fat of the land," we will endeavour to call up the philosophy that we acquired in a back street, and repeat the echo that arose from it, "Think of the foodless and the fireless; -eat and be thankful." |