THE SHOEBLACK.

BY DELTA.

Ah little kent thy mother,
That day she cradled thee,

The lands that thou shouldst travel in,
Or the death that thou shouldst dee.

Old Song.

"THERE is no such thing as standing still in human life: the wheel of fortune is continually revolving; and we must either rise with it or fall."

66

66

Very true," said my friend, as he emptied his glass, and turned a little more round to me; "I will give you a case in point, of which I happened to know myself.

"Some years ago-say fifteen or eighteen-as I was returning from London by the mail-coach, I made halt for a night at one of the York inns. The room into which I was ushered was full of bagmen and travellers of various cuts and kinds, and from the confused Babel of sound I could occasionally hear a detached sentence on politics-on the theatres-on agriculture-on the late rainy weather-the price of stocks-soft goods-and the petitions of the Roman Catholics. A knot in one corner were discussing supper; others, lounging beside the hearth, toasted their toes; while a third, and more numerous party, half concealed amid puffy exhalations, washed down the flavour of their Havannahs with steaming savoury rum-punch. Being somewhat fatigued, and the assemblage not exactly quite to my taste, I tossed off a sneaker, and rang for Boots, -that indispensable actor of all drudgery work at your public establishments for board and lodging.

"In bustled a tall, thin, squalid, miserable-looking creature, his curly black hair seemingly long unkempt, hanging about his ears 'in most admired disorder.' His dress corresponded with his looks; his jacket and waistcoat were of dark fustian, and his trowsers, shabby and shrivelled, bore some traces of having been originally nankeen. Around his neck was twisted a blue cotton handkerchief, and the little of his linen seen, was not only ragged, but dirty. In one hand he carried a boot-jack, and in the other a pair of slippers, while from under his arm depended a dingy towel, perhaps as a badge of office. I could not help thinking, as he crossed the room at my summons, 'here is a most lugubrious specimen of mortality; one of those night-hawks of society, whom it would

scarcely be comfortable to meet with, unarmed, on a solitary road, towards the twilight.'

"With down-looking face, the fellow made a hurried approach to me, as if he had the feeling of his task being a disagreeable one, and the sconer got over the better. As he laid the slippers on the carpet, placed the boot-jack at my foot, and was stooping his shoulder as a fulcrum for assistance in my operations, I caught a distinct glimpse of his faded features. I could not be mistaken. "Good Heavens !' said I to myself half aloud, can it possibly be Harry Melville!'

"After the poor creature had shuffled out of the room in an agitation which did not wholly escape the remark, and provoke the idle laugh of some of the loungers, I hastily rang the bell, and was shown to my sleeping-room by the waiter, whom I requested to bid the person come up who had brought me my slippers.

"I was allowed to pace about for some time in a perplexed and downcast mood, haunted by many a recollection of departed pleasures-by many delightful associations of other years, which contrasted themselves with present dejection, when at length I heard a step timidly approaching the door, and a slight tap was given. I opened it eagerly, and there stood before me the same doleful apparition. I took hold of the poor fellow's hand, and led him to a chair; but no sooner was he seated, and the door shut upon us, than he put his hands over his face, and burst into a flood of tears. When he had become a little more tranquil, I soothed him in the best way I could, and ventured to open my mind to him.

"Oh! let me alone-let me alone,' he said, sobbing bitterly. 'I have deserved my fate. My own imprudence, more than misfortune, has reduced me to the state you see. Be not sorry for me; I am beneath your regard. I have deserved it all.'

"Having consoled him in the best manner I could, he voluntarily gave me the particulars of his history, which, as far as memory serves me, were nearly to the following effect :

Shortly after having been taken into the counting-house of his father, at that time a considerable West India merchant,-he had married, contrary to the will of his friends, in the hope that the affections of a parent could not long remain estranged to an only son, even though conscious that that son had injured him: Perhaps in this his calculations were not altogether wrong; but at this point foreknowledge failed, and unforeseen circumstances blasted his prospects. The affairs of old Mr Melville were shortly after thrown into disorder by unsuccessful speculation; and matters at length grew so bad as to involve bankruptcy and ruin. The old man was received into the country residence of a relation; but, brought up

in habits of activity and business, his mind could not withstand the dread reverse; and, after a few listless months, one shock of palsy following another, hurried him off to a not unwelcome grave.

"The penniless and imprudent Henry soon found that he had wedded not only himself, but another, to misery, as the dark night of ruin closed around them. They were both young, and capable of exertion, but, living on the faith of future prospects, and a speedy reconcilement, they had contracted debts, from which they saw no possible way of extricating themselves. Matters grew worse and worse, and at length the poor fellow was afraid to leave his home from fear of bailiffs.

"At length he fell into their hands, and was dragged to jail; and, on the news being incautiously carried to his young wife, she was seized with convulsions, and perished in giving birth to a child, not unfortunately dead. The heart of the miserable man was rent asunder on learning his domestic calamities; scorned and despised, friendless and unpitied, he beheld from the iron-bound windows of his prison, the coffin that contained the remains of his wife and child, carried through the streets by strangers to the place of interment, while, yearning with the feelings of the husband and father, he was denied the mournful solace of shedding a tear into their grave. "Condemned to the social contamination of the base and vile, he endured the wretchedness and the disgrace of confinement for two months, when he was set at liberty by the benefit of the act which so provides, on making oath of surrendering up every thing. Into the world, therefore, was he cast forth, branded and stigmatized, destitute, and beggared in every thing but the generous pride which withheld him from soliciting charity. Bred to no profession, he knew not whereunto to turn his hand; and misery pressed so hardly upon him, that unhallowed thoughts of suicide began to suggest themselves to his troubled mind. From town to town he wandered, soliciting the situation of clerk in any countinghouse; but, alas! he had no references to make as to character, no certificates of former engagements faithfully fulfilled. For days and days together, he had not even a morsel of bread to satisfy the pangs of hunger. To add to his wretchedness, his clothes had become so shabby, from exposure to wind and rain, and sunshine, that he was ashamed to be seen in public, or during daylight,—so lay about the fields and wastes till sunset, when he ventured nearer to human dwellings.

"To have offered himself for any situation in such a squalid condition, would have been certain exposure to contumely, refusal, and suspicion; and at length the lingering rays of pride which had hitherto sustained him, sank amid the darkness of his destiny.

"Necessity is a stern teacher. Even the face of man, which he had sought to shun in his misfortunes, became to him at length a sufferance necessary to be borne; so, as he was at first thrust from, so was he at length drawn back to the dominion of society. From the moorland wastes, where he could pick a few wild berries, and from the seashore, which afforded some shellfish, he came, by degrees imperceptible but sure, to be a spectator at the corner of streets, and a hanger-on about stableyards, where he casually earned a few pence by assisting the grooms to carry water, or lead gentlemen's horses. Low is the lowest situation which admits not of promotion, and through course of time, my old school fellow came to be promoted to the office in which I found him."

"Poor fellow! did you ever hear what became of him afterwards?"

"Yes I did, and a miserable end he had, though redeemed by the spirit of humanity which prompted it. He was killed in rescuing a child, which had fallen before the wheels of the mail-coach; and the grateful parents not only gave him a decent funeral, but erected a simple tablet over him, recording his fate, and their gratitude."

"It is dreadful to think on the abyss into which a single erring step from the paths of prudence may precipitate us," said I. "Yes," answered my friend; " and there are a thousand ways of going wrong; while I defy you to go right save by one."

FOUR SONNETS.-BY BARRY CORNWALL.

SPRING.

It is not that sweet herbs and flowers alone

Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep
In their great mother's iced bosom deep
For months; or that the birds, more joyous grown,
Catch once again their silver summer tone,

And they who late from bough to bough did creep,
Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep,
And seem to sing of Winter overthrown:
No-with an equal march the immortal mind,
As though it never could be left behind,

Keeps pace with every movement of the year,
And (for high truths are born in happiness)
As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear,
And sees beyond the slave's or bigot's guess.

SUMMER.

Now have young April and the blue-eyed May
Vanished awhile, and lo! the glorious June
(While nature ripens in his burning noon,)
Comes like a young inheritor; and gay,
Although his parent months have passed away:
But his green crown shall wither, and the tule
That ushered in his birth be silent soon,
And in the strength of youth shall he decay.
What matters this-so long as in the past

And in the days to come we live, and feel
The present nothing worth, until it steal
Away, and, like a disappointment, die?
For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory,
Flies ever on before or follows fast.

AUTUMN.

THERE is a fearful spirit busy now;

Already have the elements unfurled

Their banners: the great sea-wave is upcurled: The cloud comes: the fierce winds begin to blow About, and blindly on their errands go;

And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled From their dry boughs, and all the forest world, Stripped of its pride, be like a desert show.

I love that moaning music which I hear

In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul Seems gathering tidings from another sphere, And, in sublime mysterious sympathy,

Man's bounding spirit ebbs, and swells more high, Accordant to the billow's loftier roll.

WINTER.

THIS is the eldest of the seasons: he

Moves not like Spring with gradual step, nor grows

From bud to beauty, but with all his snows

Comes down at once in hoar antiquity.
No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee
Before him, nor unto his time belong

The suns of summer, nor the charms of song,
That with May's gentle smiles so well agree.
But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud,
Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound,
And with a tender footstep prints the ground,

As though to cheat man's ear: yet while he stays He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days, And bid the dance and joke be long and loud.