THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE LETTER

H TO THE INHABITANTS OF LONDON
AND ITS ENVIRONS.

The memorial of your unfortunate petitioner humbly showeth, that although conspicuous in heraldry, entitled to the first place in honour, and remarkable in holiness, yet he has been, by many of you, most injuriously treated; spoiled in health, driven from home, and refused a place not only in your houses, but in every house, hut, or hamlet within your control. You refuse your petitioner help, and cut him off also from hope, the last resource of the unfortunate both here and hereafter. Your petitioner is one moment scorched in an H-oven, or, the next, frozen to death in an H-ice-house; and is tortured from one H-extremity to H-another. From the highest hill you precipitate him to the vale; you suspend him in the H-air, and plunge him in the H-ocean. You relieve him from hunger only by the food which the doctors have forbidden him to approach, such as H-oysters, H-eels, H-oranges, H-apples, &c., while you refuse that which they esteem proper, as hares, ham, herrings, &c. Your petitioner deeply feels these H-outrages, and the H-ignominy, and H-irony to which he is subject; prays you will take him from H-exile, and restore him to himself; discard him from your H-eyes, and restore him to your hearts; and your petitioner, as in duty bound, will ever feel most grateful.

WEIGHT OF SMOKE.

Queen Elizabeth was one day so rash as to enter into a wager with the subtle Raleigh, against the possibility of his ascertaining the weight of the smoke exuding from any given quantity of tobacco. Her Majesty regarding the impracticability of the perfumed vapour being confined within a scale, was confident of her point, and surmised that Raleigh took a traveller's privilege in affirming to the contrary. Raleigh, however, outwitted her by weighing the ashes, and Elizabeth was obliged to confess that the difference between them and the original settled the disputed point. Upon which she consoled herself with a witticism; telling Sir Walter that she had heard of those who turned their gold into smoke, but had never before seen the man who could turn smoke into gold.

LABOUR HONOURABLE.

Let luxury, sickening in profusion's chair,
Unwisely pamper his unworthy heir;
And while he feeds him, blush and tremble too,
But, love and labour, blush not, fear not you.
Your children (splinters from the mountain's

side),

With rugged hands, shall for themselves provide.
Parent of valour, cast away thy fear;
Mother of men, be proud without a tear!
While round your hearth the wo-nursed virtues

move,

All, all that manliness can ask of love; Remember Hogarth, and abjure despair, Remember Arkwright, and the peasant Clare. Ebenezer Elliott.

WHERE IS THE BRITON'S HOME?

Where is the Briton's home?
Where the free step can roam,
Where the free sun can glow,
Where a free air can blow,
Where a free ship can bear
Hope and strength: everywhere
Wave upon wave can roll-
East and west-pole to pole-
Where a free step can roam-
There is the Briton's home!
Where is the Briton's home?
Where the brave heart can come,
Where labour wins a soil,
Where a stout heart can toil-
Any fair seed is sown-
Where gold or fame is won,
Where never sets the sun,
Where a brave heart can come-
There is the Briton's home!
Where is the Briton's home?
Where the mind's light can come,
Where our God's holy Word
Breaks on the savage herd-
Where a new flock is won
To the bright Shepherd-One,
Where the church-bell can toll,
Where soul can comfort soul,
Where holy Faith can come-
There is the Briton's home!
Where is the Briton's home?
Where man's great law can come,
Where the great truth can speak,
Where the slaves' chain can break,
Where the white's scourge can cease,
Where the black dwells in peace,
Where, from his angel-hall,
God sees us brothers all-
Where light and freedom come,
There is the Briton's home!

Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton.

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

I remember, on one occasion, travelling in Morocco with a companion who possessed some knowledge of medicine. We had arrived at a dooar, near which we were about to pitch our tents, when a crowd of Arabs surrounded us, cursing and swearing at the 'rebellers against God.' My friend, who spoke a little Arabic, turning round to an elderly person, whose garb bespoke him a priest, said, 'Who taught you that we are disbelievers? Hear my daily prayer, and judge for yourselves.' He then repeated the Lord's Prayer.' All stood amazed and silent, till the priest exclaimed, May God curse me if ever I curse again those who hold such belief; nay, more, that prayer shall be my prayer till my hour be come. I pray thee, O Nazarene, repeat the prayer, that it may be remembered and written among us in letters of gold.'

A HAPPY RETORT.

Dr Lathorp was a man of generous piety, but much opposed to the noisy zeal that seeketh the praise of men. A young divine, who was much given to enthusiastic cant, one day said to him, 'Do you suppose you have any real religion?''None to speak of,' was the excellent reply.

THE MADNESS OF THE MELDERS.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

Olof Anker was burgomaster of Fahlun, called the miner's capital, and believed to be the oldest-fashioned town in Sweden. Moreover, he was the best blacksmith in his province, and the rarest story-teller, not in the sense which that term obtains in England, for Olof's word was reckoned as good as most people's oath; but nobody in Dalecarlia had such a store of tales, or was so ready to tell them. In his time great discontent arose throughout the Norland provinces because their French King Bernadotte would set up schools in all the villages, and required people to send their children, which the steady old peasants regarded as an innovation calculated to undermine the ancient manners and morals of the North. The general dissatisfaction reached its height among the timber houses and thatched roofs of Fahlun. The copper miners, who formed the great body of its citizens, did nothing for three summer days but smoke together on the mischief that threatened their family circles; the women wished them all at work again, for the consumption of barley bread and hot beer was something beyond their experience; and the wives of the two innkeepers got scarlet petticoats and silverlaced caps out of the profits which corn brandy brought on that occasion. Nobody approved of the schools but Holsteier, the German trader, and Hamerfast the Lap; some thought they might not do the province so much harm, and all were anxious to know the opinion of the burgomaster. Olof Anker said nothing for some time; he had a particular waggonwheel to shoe for a Norland baron, so he heated his iron and wielded his hammer as if there had been nothing wrong in all Sweden, till the work was done, and the wheel ready for running; then he took off his leather apron, left his forge to cool, and seated himself among his neighbours in the shade of the overhanging firstfloor of the Gustavus Wasa. The excitement was high and the tobacco smoke thick in the four narrow streets which compose the town of his authority, but all sat silently puffing, as became true Swedes, till Olof's pipe was in full blast, when old Torkel inquired, 'What was his mind on the schools?'-'It is not made up, neighbour,' said the burgomaster; 'but I'll tell you a tale.

B

'My grandfather told me that there was once a time when the people of Sweden ate nothing but turnips by way of bread, and they were as wise in their own conceits then as they are now. In the baron's hall and the miner's hut, turnips were set down daily, roasted and boiled, mashed and whole; nobody had ever heard of anything else; though travellers, who had been in Germany and such outlandish places, brought stories of yellow fields, wind-mills, and ovens, they got no credit. "Turnips their valiant forefathers the seakings had eaten with the hams of bear and bison; turnips their honest grandmothers had cooked into many wholesome and savoury dishes; turnips alone were the natural food of man, and turnips they would eat with all the world, and be thankful."

་

The people of the south, indeed, particularly those in the neighbourhood of Stockholm, had learned to indulge in broad beans and parsnips which were introduced by traders from Riga and Dantzic, and the fallings-off from old Swedish honesty and prudence, observed among them by preachers and moralists, were justly ascribed to the depraving influence of those foreign luxuries. The Norland provinces, however, held fast by the virtuous fashions of their forefathers, disdaining to learn from strangers as they do this day. Turnips they sowed, and turnips they ate, from sire to son, as duly as their houses and fields descended; a sack per man was reckoned a fair weekly allowance; and the strength and courage for which Norlanders are yet notable was believed to be the product of their own simple and hardy fare.

'In all the north there was no district more faithful to ancient customs than the village of Holdenholm. It was not to be found in my grandfather's time, and of its situation he could get no certainty. Some said it stood on the banks of the Dal, some that it lay beside the lake of Weenel, some that it rose on the ridge of the Dofrefield, but all agreed that a strict adherence to old-world ways had been its chief distinction. It was said they did not peel their turnips there, but ate them rind and all in the most primitive manner. Strangers or traders introduced no new fashions, there was neither welcome nor encouragement for such gentry: the only foreigner who had been known to settle in Holdenholm, for a hundred years, was an unlucky Norwegian

who strayed so far to find refuge, some said from his stepmother, some from his scolding wife, but he could get nothing to do, and went southward at the end of the summer.

'Travelling was in such bad repute, as a sign of unsteady habits, that nobody cared to confess he had ever been a league from home, and the pastor, though a native, was comparatively little regarded, because he had gone to study at Upsal. There was no disagreement between the generations in that village. Son did like father, daughter exactly as her mother had done. Old people, who happened to live longer than common, never missed the neighbours of their youth, nor thought the world had grown wicked or foolish since they were young.

The Melders had been one of the chief families in Holdenholm, ever since its street was cleared of the yet more ancient pines. Eighteen Erics had duly succeeded each other in the cottage, the field, and the churchyard, and their neighbours esteemed them all patterns of steadiness, till in an evil hour Eric the nineteenth went to fell firewood in the forest, where a band of Jew pedlars had camped the night before.

'What he found there his neighbours could not certify, but the general opinion was, that it must have been something strong in a bottle-they had such goods, even in the turnip times; and Eric took to doings the like of which had never been known in Holdenholm. In the best corner of his best field, he was to be seen in the grey of the morning, and after sundown, delving away with his wooden spade, as if he hoped to find some hidden treasure, and instead of sowing turnips in it as usual, that corner was left to yield nothing but grass all the summer. The neighbours, of course, concluded that Eric Melder was mad. That was the only explanation for anything particular then known in the Norlands, and lest the village should be infected with such a grievous malady, the burgomaster ordered his immediate removal to the mad-house. Eric left three sons to manage his affairs; but scarce was he disposed of to the burgomaster's mind, when the eldest began to dig and delve in the very same corner, and no persuasion could induce him to sow turnips there. The neighbours knew what ought to be done, and they did it, but in the spring his next brother was in the corner hoeing with all his might in

open day. In short, this strange infection spread through every branch of the Melders. Eric's three sons, his five brothers, his seven nephews, his sons-in-law, and even his daughters, all took to cultivating nothing but grass in the best corners of their fields, and were, one after another, sent to the same quarters.

'In those good old times there was but one mad-house in all the Norlands, and it was now so full of Melders, that the question was, what must be done with the next whose judgment might happen to forsake him. The barons and burgomasters of the country could not settle it, and by a solemn deputation they laid the matter before the king. My grandfather, being no historian, never could be sure which of our ancient monarchs then filled the throne of Sweden. It was probably the blithe King Woldo, who issued no coinage but pieces of leather, on which his name was written, and made no wars except against the bear and wolf. When he heard the wonderful story from Holdenholm, the wise monarch, without the advice of his privy council, determined to hunt that way. The villagers, charmed with his condescension, and in great fear of his hounds, which, tradition says, were as large as the mountain bear, deputed the burgomaster to show him the misused corners, and explain to his majesty how many Melders were in the Norland mad-house. If loyalty had not forbidden, the steady dwellers of Holdenholm would have doubted the soundness

of the royal brain; for King Woldo commanded the grass, which the Melders had cultivated at so large a cost to be taken special care of, and proceeded, it is said, with his whole hunting-train to release them all from durance. Back they came with Eric at their head, and every man fell to work in the corners. Under their management the grass grew taller than ever grass was seen in Sweden, and at midsummer it began to shoot forth long green ears. In short, neighbours, it was barley, and my grandfather could not say how long after turnips remained in fashion. Doubtless the steadfast people of Holdenholm despised the newfangled grass for many a year, and stuck to the honest fare of their forefathers, but mills and ovens, stills and brew - houses, came gradually into use throughout Sweden, and were venerable institutions in my grandfather's youth. The old man could not confirm his story by the evidence of chronicle or

charter, but I have heard him say, that whosoever will plant among men any good thing, whether of use or of learning, must reckon on much miscalling in his day, and some trouble like the madness of the Melders."

THE SABBATH.

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain,

Thy strength the slave of want may be;
The seventh thy limbs escape the chain-
A God hath made thee free!
Ah, tender was the law that gave

This holy respite to the breast,
To breathe the gale, to watch the wave,
And know-the wheel may rest.
But where the waves the gentlest glide,
What image charms to lift thine eyes?
The spire reflected on the tide

Invites thee to the skies.

To teach the soul its nobler worth,

This rest from mortal toils is given;
Go, snatch the brief reprieve from earth,
And pass-a guest to heaven.
They tell thee, in their dreaming school,
Of power from old dominion hurl'd,
When rich and poor, with juster rule,
Shall share the alter'd world.
Alas, since time itself began,

That fable hath but fool'd the hour;
Each age that ripens power in man,
But subjects man to power.

Yet every day in seven, at least,

One bright republic shall be known; Man's world awhile hath surely ceased,

When God proclaims his own.

Six days may rank divide the poor,
O Dives, from thy banquet hall;
The seventh the Father opes the door,
And holds his feast for all!

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.

STREET MUSIC.

Out upon the auricular fastidiousness which despises and would annihilate street music! Peradventure, a rickety, asthmatic barrel-organ, under the staggering tug and unscientific grinding of a halfstarved and half-drunk, superannuated sailor, may not discourse such excellent music as Signor Paganini's violin. It may chance to happen that the spooniest of all melodies, 'Home, Sweet Home,' screeched through the gin-seared throat of a husky, parchment-coloured balladsinger from St Giles's ever-vociferous regions, may not come upon the ear so deliciously as the sweet south breathing o'er a bed of violets. Ears there may be

in this many-eared, keen-eared, and, with reverence be it spoken, long-eared generation, which delight not in the drone of a bagpipe, or in the blundering thumpings of a burly drum, or in the shrill shriekings of Pandean minstrelsy, or in the fidgety buzz of the abortive hurdygurdy. But there are souls that can be delighted with these sounds. Souls! ay, souls: the little ragged urchins with bleached hair and tanned skins, that strew the streets 'as thick as leaves in Vallambrosa,' have souls as well as the nicest man that was ever made by the joint ministration of the tailor and the perfumer. Look at that poor Swiss boy, with his untuneable mockery of music under his arm, grinding, grinning, buzzing, singing, and ever and anon at some mysterious intervals suddenly shrieking like a scalded cat, and twirling himself round like a fanatic dervise at his mad devotions. The hurdy-gurdy is not a violin, and the nameless wanderer is not Signor Paganini; but there are ears that listen to his muddled melodies, there are eyes which gaze with wonderment at his odd gesticulations-eyes many, bright, tearful, and delighted; while he, poor boy, with the glassy look of foreign dumbness, gazes on the 'vulgi stante corona,' and speechless begs a penny-more money, perhaps, than all his audience put together are worth. There is something in that sight and in those sounds worth a passenger's penny, or a housekeeper's toleration. There is a manifestation of one of the many modifications of humanity. There is ennui for awhile dispersed from the breasts of his audience, mischief suspended, and malice neutralised, and there is hope for a time excited in the bosom of the performer, that he may get a meal, or a bed, and a dream of his native valley. The English are not grievously addicted to music; it would be well, perhaps, if it were more cultivated. What a hideous world of sounds would the thronged parts of the metropolis thrust on the ears of a stranger, were it not for the occasional relief of the street musicians! How melancholy the everlasting roll of carts and coaches, and the ceaseless smacking of whips! Street music is the poetry of the multitude, the itineration of the fine arts, the vanguard of the march of civilisation and of intellect, the breaker-up of the stagnation of man's moral being; it acts upon the atmosphere of sounds like perfumes on