to make age venerable or attractive, for age without wisdom and without knowledge is the winter's cold without the winter's fire.-The Dangers and Duties of the Mercantile Profession; an Address, by George A. Sardilli, of Boston, U. S. UNDERSTANDING AND AFFECTION. Though you may look to your understanding for amusement, it is to the affections that we must trust for happiness; these imply a spirit of self-sacrifice, and, often, our virtues, like our children, are endeared to us by what we suffer for them. Remember, too, that conscience, even when it fails to govern our conduct, can disturb our peace of mind. Yes, it is neither paradoxical, nor merely poetical, to say— That seeking others' good we find our own. This solid yet romantic maxim is found in no less a writer than Plato; but this truth does not stand in need of support from authority; the days and nights of every tender mother abound with instances of this encouraging fact; she will not only endure any toil, but brave any danger, for the sake of her helpless child. It requires some talent, and some generosity, to find out talent and generosity in others, though nothing but self-conceit and malice are needed to discover or to imagine faults; and it is much easier for an ill-natured than for a good-natured man to be smart and witty. The most gifted men that I have known have been the least addicted to depreciate either friends or foes. Dr. Johnson, Mr. Burke, and Mr. Fox were always more inclined to overrate them. Your shrewd, sly, evil-speaking fellow is generally a shallow personage, and frequently he is as venomous and as false when he flatters as when he reviles. He seldom praises John but to vex Thomas. Do not, pray do not sit in the seat of the scorner," whose nature it is to sneer at everything but impudent vice and successful crime; by these he is generally awed and silenced. Are these poor heartless creatures to be envied? Can you think that the Duc de Richelieu was a happier man than Fenelon, or Dean Swift than Bishop Berkeley? You know better; you are not accustomed to turn the tapestry that you may look at the wrong side.-Sharpe's Letters. THE RAVEN. BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.* WE subjoin the remarkable poem of "The Raven," by Edgar A. Poe. It is the finest single poem of its kind that the poets of America have yet produced. Longfellow's Evangeline is the most thoroughly American in its characteristics, its pictures of scenery, and of prairie life. Indeed, that may be regarded as the one genuine native product of American poetic influences. But Poe's "Raven" is more radiant of genius; it is a dark drama of passion compressed into the compass of a song; it is a reflection of the illstarred life of the poet himself,-a brief record of blasted hopes and unfulfilled longings-full of wild pathos and gloom. The treatment of the subject is highly original, and yet it is most simple. Take the elements of the poem-a raven, with his one, taught, monotonous phrase, perched in the poet's chamber, and responding with it to all the deep questionings and impatient feelings of his master, that is all. Yet we have a human heart read by it, and though nothing definite is told, we have the sense of a tragedy before and after-Love and Life, Love and Loss. Does it not shadow, too, the hopeless Despair For a biographic sketch of Edgar A. Poe, see No. 159 of this Journal. which settled over the poet's life, and the Remorse induced by his own unhappy career? The sunny past had fled, the memory of happy innocence rankled in deep wounds; the joy and hope of life's spring-time had departed to return "Nevermore." We cannot but feel that the author projected himself into the poem: there is a mystic deep melancholy in it, which fills the reader's mind with awe and gloom. It should be read by the twilight, in the deep embrasure of a window, or by the firelight, alone in the still evening hours. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tap. ping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. "Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamberdoor Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow,- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door,Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door; This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore, But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door ; Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more, Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery exploreLet my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ;'Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he,-not a moment stopped or stayed he, But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber- Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamberdoor Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamberdoor, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before; On the morrow He will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters, is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing core; This, and more, I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch!" I cried, " thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchantedOn this Home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I imploreIs there is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us,-by that God we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting "Get thee back into the tempest, and the Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-Nevermore ! DIAMOND DUST. THE adage of "Charity begins at home" is often nothing but a handsome mask worn by deformed Selfishness. EVERY man thinks that Cæsar's "wife" ought to be above suspicion, but he is far less particular as to what Cæsar ought to be. IT is wise and well to look on the cloud of sorrow as though we expected it to turn into a rainbow. BEWARE of the recoil of sinful indulgences; we may break our necks over the orange-peel of our own throwing down. SOME writers think they are expounding mysteries while they are only mystifying. NEVER despise humble services; when large ships run aground, little boats may pull them off. POETRY seems to know most of God's world, History of the devil's world. AMBITION often plays the wrestler's trick of raising a man up merely to fling him down. WHEN man writes of woman, it is curious to observe how much more frequently he mentions her weakness than his own vice. To despair is to sulk with God. THE softest pillow is a good conscience. THEY who have true light in themselves seldom become satellites. PHILOSOPHY is often a good horse in a stable, but an errant jade on a journey. SOME critics are like the valiant flies mentioned by Shakspere, who dare to eat their breakfast on the lip of a lion. MEASURE not men by Sundays, without regarding what they do all the week after. IF thou hast a loitering servant, send him on thine errand just before his dinner. DESPAIR gives the same fatal ease to the mind that mortification does to the body. A CRIPPLE in the right way will beat a racer in the wrong. BEWARE of too much wine,-one of its chief offspring is vinegar. SELF-ESTEEM is a high-bred steed, that bounds over the asperities of life: Self-conceit a blind hack, which knocks its head against every impediment. THE best dispute, though one most rarely met with, is that which leads to reconciliation. MANY hope that the tree will be felled who hope to gather chips by the fall. DIGNITY is often a veil between us and the real truth of things. Wit pierces this veil with its glittering shafts, and lets in the "insolent light." JEALOUSY is the vice of narrow minds: Confidence the virtue of enlarged ones. Two sorts of persons are to be alike avoided,- those who offer you explanation of everything, and those who care not for full explanation of anything. FANATICISMS are the sudden blazings-up of loosetextured minds. STRONG minds are like firm-grained wood, which kindles slowly, but burns long. 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, Flect Street. EXAGGERATION. BY ELIZA COOK. WE wonder what would be thought of a person who deliberately loaded and fired a forty-pounder to kill a bluebottle, or who begged the loan of a sack to carry home a pottle of strawberries in. What would be our opinion of any one who employed a sledge hammer to drive a tack, or who purchased a quarter of oats to fill a nose-bag; why we should undoubtedly believe him to be in no state to make a will, and question the propriety of his going at large. Yet we find greater innovations of consistency committed every day as regards the purpose and meaning of language, without our conceiving any direct notion that the parties indulging in such are fitting candidates for election at St. Luke's. The habit of exaggeration in language is a characteristic in many people, which appears to us to afford a truer index of their general qualities than is ordinarily observed. A great depth in any faculty, or acute intensity of any feeling, is seldom possessed by those who invariably use the most imposing words they can find to express their opinions and sentiments. The stereotyped grandiloquence and florid warmth of tone used by them in discussing simple matters, or relating simple incidents, are, to our matterof fact organization, little beyond the flourishing of drum and trumpet, which upon close investigation is found to be the issue of sheepskin, brass, and common atmosphere. Some people's tongues are eternally emulating the frog in the old fable, and always straining into an ox-a state of verbal inflation alike ridiculous and false. There are those who never experience a moderate and occasional degree of pain, but they speak of it as a "splitting" headache, an "awful" spasm, or "dreadful" torture. If they meet with a slight incision of the skin, they have "cut their finger to the bone;" the application of a mustard poultice for five minutes, never fails to "flay them alive;" a common cold is mentioned seriously as a "most violent influenza ;" and a week or two of fever is recorded as a severe and frightful illness." The "superlative" is the reigning mood with them; skim milk becomes Devonshire cream, and small beer Guinness's stout; "superb," "exquisite," "wonderful," "glorious," "horrible," "tremen [PRICE 14d. dous," ," "delicious," 99 66 charming," ," "beautiful," "terrific," "astonishing," and such extreme adjectives, hang on their lips as plentifully as conjunctions, and we often wonder, while gauging the narrow calibre of brain whence the big torrent issues, how such large furniture could be found in such a small house. Let these people repeat a story or circumstance, and you can hardly detect the original, they see everything through a magnifying glass and kaleidoscope blended. Talk of painting in veritable colours, the foreground and outlines, often given in mere words, beat the pre-Raphaelites by notches; a Dutch garden all tulips and peacocks, or a summer sunset all purple and gold, are soft and unimposing compared to the limning power of one of these fluent sign-painters. We once kept account for a lady, during a threemiles' walk through rather sandy lanes, who declared herself "half dead" with fatigue every few minutes; and we found that she had died exactly eleven times and a half at the end of the journey, when she swallowed cider and sandwiches in a most vital fashion, considering her multiplied state of demise. We met a cottager's child, which she rushed up to and pronounced to be an "angelic little cherub ; " but our near-sighted eyes could only perceive about as average a bread-and-butter-devouring little biped as ever plagued a mother: then she informed us that the view to the left was "grandly sublime," though there was nothing to elicit rapture beyond a broad common fringed with a plantation, barely relieved in the foreground with a very yellow pond, and still yellower goslings. We chanced to tell this lady of a visit we had paid to the Porcelain Works at Worcester, and mentioned among other things, that a part of the materials used was ground animal bones; shortly afterwards we were told that we must have made a mistake in our recital, for Mrs. H. had repeated our account, and impugned our veracity by declaring, that cups and saucers were made of ground human bones, and saying that we had assured her of the fact. We informed her one day that a marble figure just put up in a friend's hall was three hundred weight, and were laughed at soon after for having told Mrs. H. that it was three tons. We have never talked much to Mrs. H. since these florid mistakes. An elderly gentleman amuses us very often, by his description of his only son. The young man, accord ing to his papa's portraying, is an "immense genius,"—indeed his "mind is too much for his body;" his abilities are in fact so great, that they do not know what he is fit for; he "plays divinely," "sings exquisitely," and "possesses the poet's inspiration in a wonderful degree;" if he lives long enough he will "do something very grand ;" and withal, he is "so delicate in constitution, that he can hardly bear the wind to blow on him." These are the doting sire's own words, but we should, in giving a candid opinion of the youth, use less elevated language, and say that he is nothing more than a spruce fir, entered and labelled in his pa's grand conservatory as a cedar of Lebanon; and as for his "delicate constitution," it seems to stand pretty well under an unlimited amount of large dissipations and "small hours." Now these people are but types of a class. We meet with these inflated exaggerations in manifold shapes,-from the Prime Minister to the pot boy, from the political leader writer to the last-dyingspeech-and-confession inditer, from the continentallyeducated duchess to the A-B-C-less scullery-maid; there seems a natural tendency in many to verbal apoplexy, and we wonder some imaginations are not found dead in their beds. Our public press teems with this exaggeration as much as our private parties. We should like to know how many national crises," how many "awful and eventful epochs," how many vergings on "desperate revolutions," and how many "most serious and fatal consequences to the country," have occurred in the newspaper columns during our recollection? Yet St. Paul's stands where it always did, and exiled royal foxes seek old England as the safest cover they can run into. great We should like to know how many reviewers have held up the "coming genius of the age," and pointed attention to the "most distinguished writer in English literature;" how many volumes have been pronounced as "the finest work that has appeared for many years;" and yet we often come across some of these sterling productions in partnership with the trunk - maker's paste. We should like to have the sum total of domestic hyperboles, such as being "as hot as fire," "as black as a coal," being "delighted and charmed" to see a tenth-rate acquaintance, and being "deeply distressed" to hear that Mrs. Robinson's seventh child has fallen sick of too much pudding. What a census of illuminated figures" we should have to wade through, and what outrageous fibs. We have no great objection to a respectable "white lie now and then, such a judicious bit of colouring often gives valuable relief to a bit of domestic "Rembrandt," and dispels the gloom of a household "Salvator Rosa;" but we do not admire the silly and superfluous indulgence in lies that bear all the tints of the rainbow. Not that we are advocates for drab coloured sermons or pale grey philosophy solely. We can enjoy the true-blue love-letter, and participate in the deep scarlet burst of enthusiasm, as much as any Par nassus-climbing idiot; but we certainly quarrel with the general mode of speech adopted by those who deal so widely in the big "words" of the dictionary, without attaching to those words the slightest portion of their meanings. The "flowers of rhetoric" are only acceptable when backed by the evergreens of Truth and Sense. The habit of exaggeration in language should be guarded against; it misleads the credulous and offends the perceptive; it imposes on us the society of a balloon, when a moderately-sized skull would fill the place much better; it begets much evil in promising what it cannot perform, and we have often found the most glowing declarations of intended good service end in mere Irish Vows. Those who, when we ask a favour, affirm they will do it, "cost what it may," and though they may have to "move heaven and earth," are never found by us to be so likely to confer it as a certain steady person we could name, who says he will "do it if he can." Strong exaggeration in everyday language should be avoided, we think, as being mentally unhealthy, and conversationally wearying. A straightforward intention in speech is as grateful to associates as well ordered dress, and we feel as much doubt and dislike in talking to one who, with very inferior intellect, flings all sorts of loquacious yeast in our ears, as we should in grasping an unwashed, coarse hand, covered with paste rings. Now, kind reader, we have filled up the "hour before morn" with our pen-andink dreaming, and if we express an earnest hope that it is for your amusement, pray don't accuse us of Exaggeration, MR. HELPS'S ESSAYS. THE Essay promises to recover its wonted prominency in our literature. It had for a long time been regarded as a rusted effete form; and of all dull things, Essays were looked upon as the dullest. No publisher would look at them. They were out of date. This fast age must have something sparkling, brilliant, rhetorical, eloquent. And yet some of the finest literature in our language has appeared in the form of Essays. Addison's and Steele's delightful papers in the Spectator; Johnson's in the Rambler; Goldsmith's in the Bee; will live as long as English literature endures. But since Goldsmith, certainly the Essay has drooped, until within the last few years. Henry Taylor, in his admirable Notes on Life; Ralph Waldo Emerson in his Essays on Transcendentalism; and Arthur Helps, in his series of Essays on various practical subjects; have restored the Essay to its former high position in our litera. ture. We know of few books more charming than the series which Mr. Helps has put forth during the last ten years. They have diffused pleasure in many homes, and been read with profit round many hearths, The fine domestic sense of the writer, his thoroughly English sympathies and feelings, and his genuine sound-heartedness on all questions, have endeared him to many thoughtful minds; though his name may not appear on the title-pages of his books. What the most characterises the Essays of Mr. Helps, is, the strong common sense which pervades them. In all things he is shrewd and practical. He ever writes with a purpose. You never mistake his meaning. He is clear, emphatic, and forcible, though often quaint and thoughtful. His words may be quiet enough, but his thoughts are always strong. As some one of his college friends once said of him, he is a man who can say the most audacious things with the least offence:" that is, because you see at a glance the writer is honest and in earnest; and that impression once made, you are divested of all cause of offence. Mr. Helps has had one advantage as an Essayist which not many literary men possess. He has mixed largely with the world, -not merely the literary world, which is a very narrow and cliquish corner of society, but with the world of men actively engaged in the affairs of every-day life. For many years he was occupied as private secretary to Lord Morpeth, (now Earl of Carlisle), when that nobleman held the office of Chief Secretary for Ireland. Coming into contact with men of all shades of opinion, and of various professions and pursuits, he could not but acquire a large experience of real life. Indeed, this is evident enough from his first book, entitled Essays written in the Intervals of Business,-written while he was still occupied in the official capacity we have named. Those Essays have more of the business element in them than his recent works, -as for instance, his Companions of my Solitude, which was written in the shade of country life, whither he has retired. This large experience of life explains many of the characteristics of Mr. Helps' Essays. Though an earnest reformer of abuses, yet he propounds no infallible remedies. Your nostrum-mongers are invariably shallow. Show me a man who proposes to elevate the world by Act of Parliament at one grand stroke, and I will show you in the same person a green-headed enthusiast, warm at heart, it may be, and true in instinct, but utterly ignorant of the practical bearings of things, and altogether incompetent to deal with the intricate and complex conditions of human society. As men grow old, they become more and more dubious about nostrums. They give up dogmas, and if they are wise, they take up with more ideas than one. The one-idea'd man (and there are many who are dominated over by only one idea) sees only one side of a question. The man of many ideas looks at all sides: he weighs, considers, and judges. He takes the world as he finds it, not as it might, could, or should be, but as it is,and proceeds to act upon it by the methods which men will accept. This it is to be practical, businesslike, and successful. The Essays on Practical Wisdom, Self-Discipline, Aids to Contentment, Benevolence, and Domestic Rule, are truly admirable,-full of lofty moral tone, sound healthy feeling, and true manly principle. Take, for instance, his opening remark on Practical Wisdom : "Practical Wisdom acts in the mind as gravitation does in the material world,-combining, keeping things in their places, and maintaining a mutual dependence amongst the various parts of our system. It is for ever reminding us where we are, and what we can do, not in fancy, but in real life. It does not permit us to wait for dainty duties, pleasant to the imagination, but insists upon our doing those which are before us. It does not suffer us to waste our energies in regret. In journeying with it, we go towards the sun, and the shadow of our burden falls behind us." Nor is imagination inconsistent with the best practical wisdom. "On the contrary," he says, “I believe that there have been few men who have done great things in the world, who have not had a large power of the imagination. For imagination, if it be subject to reason, is its slave of the lamp." And then, as to the influence of active practical wisdom, guided by benevolence, he observes, "A man of real information becomes a centre of opinion, and therefore of action." To those who are perplexed about where they are to begin, he says, "Is no work of benevolence brought near to you by the peculiar circumstances of your life? If there is, follow it at once. Take up any subject relating to the welfare of mankind, the first that comes to hand; read about it; think about it; trace it in the world, and see if it will not come to your heart. Think earnestly upon any subject; investigate it sincerely, and you are sure to love it. You will not complain again of not knowing whither to direct your attention. There have been enthusiasts about heraldry. Many have devoted themselves to chess. Is the welfare of living, thinking, suffering, eternal creatures, less interesting than "argent" and "azure," or than the knight's move and the progress of a pawn?" The advice here tendered by Mr. Helps, seems to have been forthwith acted upon by himself, for the next Essay published by him was entitled The Claims of Labour. Here the great question of the day-how to elevate the moral and social condition of the labouring classes was taken up and discussed in a benevolent, wise, and practical manner. In this book the Essayist passed in review the claims of factory workers, labourers, domestic servants, and others, upon their employers; and set forth, in a very forcible manner, the duties of masters and capitalists. In his first Essays, Mr. Helps had delicately touched on the important question of Domestic Service,-and here he recurred to it again, depicting in a striking light the galling tyranny which many, perhaps, merely thoughtless ladies and gentlemen, daily inflict upon serving women who are so unfortunate as to be under the necessity of living under the same roof with them : "Only think," he says in one place, "what it must be to share one's home with one's oppressor; to have no recurring time when one is certain to be free from those harsh words and unjust censures which are almost worse than blows, ay, even to those natures we are apt to fancy so hardened to rebuke. Imagine the deadness of heart that must prevail in that poor wretch who never hears the sweet words of praise or of encouragement. Many masters of families, men living in the rapid current of the world, who are subject to a variety of impressions, which, on their busy minds, are made and effaced even in the course of a single day, can with difficulty estimate the force of unkind words upon those whose monotonous life leaves few opportunities of effacing any unwelcome impressions." The whole Essay is characterized by the same fine feeling, and we might extract numerous passages from it of great pith and moment, but that the book is already so well known as to render any lengthened extracts unnecessary. There was another Essay of a similar character to the above, published by Pickering, in 1849,-one of the excellent series of "Small Books on Great Subjects,"--which is generally attributed to Mr. Helps. It is entitled On the Responsibilities of Employers, and here again he earnestly pleads on behalf of the class of domestic servants. The following passages, we think, sufficiently indicate the paternity of the book :-- "What a plague servants are!' is a common cry. But few masters and mistresses consider how much of the evil is to be laid to their own account. * * "Our domestic servants are taken chiefly from amongst the children of our agricultural labourers; they have known in their childhood, hardship of every kind; an abundance of food, sufficient clothing, and a good fire, have seemed to them to be the chief objects of their lives; in other words, the wants of the animal nature have been but too severely felt, and the culture of the intellectual too much neglected to allow them to rise above a very low grade of mental life. Transport, all at once, one of these |