"Any order this morning!" Confound the fellow! that is his knock. I will go out, and offer him half-a-crown to change his phrase! When at school, Order is heaven's first law used to be our standing round-text copy; but were I doomed to transcribe the sentiment in these my days of adolescence, I should take the liberty of suggesting the new reading of— Order is hell's first law for I feel satisfied that Satan himself is a "particular gentleman." THE SUMMONS. DAUGHTER of the dark-blue eye, And the mild and sylph-like air, Thy bridegroom Death from his gloomy hall Maiden fair, those crimson'd cheeks The warning was short, and the last hour came, See the round chilly drops on her temples hang, Death took his veil and covered her eyes, He beckon'd away, and the lovely shade A smile all cherubic still was seen On her beauteous face to play: Oh! saddening the thought that those features bland She is gone to the hall where silence deep Over Death's dark-shaded domains. She is gone to the hall-and the massy gates Have closed on the daughter of love; There sleeps till Death shall be hurled from his throne, THE IDIOT.-AN ANECDOTE. THE heart, in many instances, is a better judge even of propriety in manners than the judgment. The judgment, in cases touching the conduct of individuals, is perhaps often too severe; for example, we are apt to regard with equal contempt the behaviour of the weak and the silly, without considering, that under the zero of reason there are many degrees before the human intelligence sinks to that of the animal instincts. At least it is charitable to believe so, and it cherishes amiable sentiments to inculcate that doctrine. Every reader of dramatic history has heard of Garrick's contest with Madam Clairon, and the triumph which the English Roscius achieved over the Siddons of the French stage, by his representation of the father struck with fatuity on beholding his only infant child dashed to pieces by leaping in its joy from his arms: perhaps the sole remaining conquest for histrionic tragedy is somewhere in the unexplored regions of the mind, below the ordinary understanding amidst the gradations of idiocy. The various shades and degrees of sense and sensibility which lie there unknown, Genius, in some gifted moment, may discover. In the meantime, as a small specimen of its undivulged dramatic treasures, we submit to our readers the following little anecdote. A poor widow, in a small town in the north of England, kept a booth or stall of apples and sweetmeats. She had an idiot child, so utterly helpless and dependent, that he did not appear to be ever alive to anger or self-defence. He sat all day at her feet, and seemed to be possessed of no other sentiment of the human kind than confidence in his mother's love, and a dread of the schoolboys, by whom he was often annoyed. His whole occupation, as he sat on the ground, was in swinging backwards and forwards, singing "pal-lal" in a low pathetic voice, only interrupted at intervals on the appearance of any of his tormentors, when he clung to his mother in alarm. From morning to evening he sung his plaintive and aimless ditty; at night, when his poor mother gathered up her little wares to return home, so deplorable did his defects appear, that while she carried her table on her head, her stock of little merchandise in her lap, and her stool in one hand, she was obliged to lead him by the other. Ever and anon as any of the schoolboys appeared in view, the harmless thing clung close to her, and hid his face in her bosom for protection. A human creature so far below the standard of humanity was nowhere ever seen; he had not even the shallow cunning which is often found among these unfinished beings; and his simplicity could not even be measured by the standard we would apply to the capacity of a lamb. Yet it had a feeling rarely manifested even in the affectionate dog, and a knowledge never shown by any mere animal. He was sensible of his mother's kindness, and how much he owed to her care. At night, when she spread his humble pallet, though he knew not prayer, nor could comprehend the solemnities of worship, he prostrated himself at her feet, and as he kissed them, mumbled a kind of mental orison, as if in fond and holy devotion. In the morning, before she went abroad to resume her station in the market-place, he peeped anxiously out to reconnoitre the street, and as often as he saw any of the schoolboys in the way, he held her firmly back, and sang his sorowful “ "pal-lal." One day the poor woman and her idiot boy were missed from the market-place, and the charity of some of the neighbours induced them to visit her hovel. They found her dead on her sorry couch, and the boy sitting beside her, holding her hand, swinging and singing his pitiful lay more sorrowful than he had ever done before. He could not speak, but only utter a brutish gabble; sometimes, however, he looked as if he comprehended something of what was said. On this occasion, when the neighbours spoke to him, he looked up with the tear in his eye, and clasping the cold hand more tenderly, sunk the strain of his mournful "pal-lal" into a softer and sadder key. The spectators, deeply affected, raised him from the body, and he surrendered his hold of the earthly hand without resistance, retiring in silence to an obscure corner of the room. One of them, looking towards the others, said to them, "Poor wretch! what shall we do with him?" At that moment he resumed his chant, and lifting two handfuls of dust from the floor, sprinkled it on his head, and sung with a wild and clear heart-piercing pathos, "pallal--pal-lal." Blackwood's Mag. LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR BY T. CAMPBELL. ON England's shore I saw a pensive band, Like children parting from a mother, shed Tears for the home that could not yield them bread; Grief mark'd each face receding from the view, And long, poor wand'rers o'er th' ecliptic deep, But cloud not yet too long, industrious train, The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth, In youthful beauty wedded to the sun; There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring The grey-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round, And verdant rampart of Acacian thorn, While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales, And summing all the blessings God has given, LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS. That when his bones shall here repose in peace, The scions of his love may still increase, Delightful land, in wildness ev'n benign, The lines of empire in thine infant face. Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes, The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine, Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine; Unborn the hands-but born they are to be Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee Proud temple-domes, with galleries winding high, Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal, 199 |