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But the song for August is more sentimental, and as such, more suited for the month, when every thing melts but the hearts of overseers, Old Bailey Counsel, bronze statues, and Poor-law Commissioners. The story is a sailor's love scene, or ship romance.

"Guy Davit was a sailor bold,

As ever hated France;

And tho' he never cared for gold,
He stuck to the main chance.

Susanna Sly was what they call

A servant of all work,

Made beds, baked pies, cleaned shoes, hemmed shirts,

Blacked grates, and pickled pork.

Young Guy was born upon the Thames, Off the Adelphi strand;

And so the water, do you see,

Became his father land.

'Twas there he served his time; and none On vessel, boat, or raft,

More honest was, altho' 'twas known
He loved a little craft.

At last he weathered twenty-one,
Youth's cable then let slip;
He stept out of his master's boat,

And his apprentice-ship.

Next year, the first of August came,

He trimmed so well his boat, And plied so well his oars, he won Old Dogget's badge and coat.

'Twas then Susanna saw him first,
Then first felt Cupid's dart;
The young toxophilite had hit
The bull's eye of her heart.

So Sue set up her best mob-cap
At Guy, to win his heart;
For some folks Love makes slatternly,
And some folks he makes smart.

But Guy was a Conservative

(At Whitehall stairs his station), And so, he did not choose to yield Το any mob's dictation.

Then Sue a true-love letter wrote, But Guy seemed not to heed it, For not a line in answer came;

For why?-he could not read it.

Then Susan tendered him her hand,

Love made her blush and falter; Thankee, says Guy, but I prefers

A cable to a haltar.

For he of foreign shores had heard, And wonders there that be,

So cutting short his love with Sue, He sailed away to sea.

Sad Susan saw her sailor start
On board a ship of war,
Which raised her love to such a pitch,
She vowed she'd be a tar.

So, taking to a sailor's life,

She joined the merry crew,

And round the world, thro' storm and strife,

She did her Guy pursue.

And she and he became sworn friends,
The question she half-popping,
Till one day Guy confessed he liked
A pretty maid at Wapping.

Then Susan home like lightning flew,
And played so well her part,
In likeness of a captain bold,

Sue won that fair maid's heart;

And following her advantage up
(So dazzling is ambition),
Our captain soon on her prevailed
To altar her condition.

The wedding o'er, away she went, To Guy the tidings carried, And gave to him the newspaper, That told his love was married.

Then Guy a loaded pistol took; I'll kill myself, he cried; Before I'll ever side with Sue, I'll be a sui-cide.

When Susan heard him say these words,
She at her brains let fly;

And down he sank, a corse, by Jove!
And down she sank-by Guy."

In sketches which profess to give the features of the man, we must not omit that most remarkable of them all," the extraordinary change of the public spirit from depression to exaltation ; from submissiveness, under the dictation of Whiggism, to fearlessness under the inspiration of English good sense; from Radicalism to Conservatism. The great public meetings, all Conservative, which have already distinguished England, have had no rival in the most memorable eras of public feeling. While all seemed verging on the ruin of the Constitution, it has suddenly sprung up with renovated vigour. The Radical, a few months ago so defying and so insolent, is now the man who hangs the head. The Republican, for we have madmen among us who agitate for a Republic, dares no longer utter a word;

and the Revolutionist, who, uniting the infidel with the robber, openly proclaimed the coming of the day of overthrow, now will not venture to stand forth and be seen, even in the most rabble gathering of the suburbs while Conservatism comes forward with her thousands and tens of thousands, the virtuous, the known, the honoured, the intelligent of the land, followed too by the loyal multitudes of those humbler classes who were once regarded as the sure allies of subversion.

In that timely and important publication, the "CONSERVATIVE," put forth by the great Conservative Association of London, we find the remark made on those meetings, that they have exhibited not merely manliness and British spirit, but also unexpected ability and constitutional knowledge.

"Among the speeches on those occasions," says The Conservative, "we . find individuals whose names were hitherto unheard of in public life or literature, coming forward with strong evidence of their fitness for the achievements of both. But England has never fallen short of the necessities of the day of trial. When the hour comes for the struggle, she will always be seen casing her limbs in the armour hung up in her halls since the last triumphs of the Constitution; and those limbs, too, will be able to bear it. Even those trials may be permitted for the express purpose of urging this most favoured of all kingdoms to the periodic exercise of her strength. The foundation may be suffered to sweep the land, only to teach us to build the rampart, and thus reclaim a broader shore for posterity. The tempest may hurry away the surface of the soil, only to awake us to the exhaustless depths of treasure which lie below. We have seen, in the most heated and ambitious assemblages of Europe, the Chambers, the Cortes, the Clubs, no specimens of general ability equalling the spontaneous eloquence and knowledge displayed by even the humbler ranks in the Conservative meetings. This then is the time to save ourselves. There must be no relaxation, no security, no surrender. We speak it solemnly, as in the presence of the nation, and of a higher power than the nation, that we regard the empire as exposed to perils which nothing but an exertion of all its virtues, guided by all its wisdom,

under God, can avert. We are in the hands of a Government which is itself in the hands of a faction, and that faction is Popery! It is no longer a choice of party, but a struggle for existence. The Lords have hitherto stood between us and ruin. But what is to stand between the Lords themselves and ruin? Let faction once triumph, and we are undone, rich and poor alike; Churchman and Presbyterian alike; landowner and merchant alike;-hopelessly undone; Protestantism stricken to the heart, and Popery avenging its long exile on the people, the religion, and the Constitution of the empire."

In an article in the same paper, on the late Glasgow election of the Lord Rector, as an evidence of the loyal feeling of the College, it observes, that nothing could be a stronger test of the change of public opinion, from the circumstances of the individuals proposed.

"There is not a Scotsman, Minister, or Radical alive, who could come forward with more advantages for favouritism than Sir John Campbell in a canvass in Glasgow. In two of his qualities he had a measureless superiority over Sir Robert Peel. As a native of the country, and rising to the highest station of the English Bar, all national prejudice must be on his side. As a member of Government, and possessing the patronage that necessarily belongs to a Minister, the reflection, that a son of Scotland was a man of great English influence, could at least do him no harm, nor indeed ought to do him any. Sir John, too, had not suffered the public recollections of himself or his office to die away; for within the month he had been promenading Scotland, attending public dinners, and making long harangues; the whole operation probably having this election in view as much as Ministerial apology. But Sir John was a Whig-Radical-one of that Cabinet which had bound itself neck and heels to the footstool of faction. This settled the question at once. Though Sir Robert Peel's name was not proposed until the last moment, and though he appeared neither in person, nor by substitute, the Englishman and the Ex-Minister swept before him all the influence of the Scotsman and the master of patronage, and Sir Robert Peel was elected by a majority of 100 321 to 221.

"It is true that this was but an affair

of students; yet many of those students, equally from knowledge and years, are to be regarded as men, and all capable of forming a much clearer judgment of public men and things than nine out of ten of the general constituency. The especial point of view in which we quote the transaction, is for its evidence, and most satisfactory evidence, of the recovered state of national feeling. The Radical journals will talk, of course, of the results as a matter among boys. If it had turned out otherwise, we should have heard nothing but panegyrics on the public spirit of the Glasgow College, and triumphs in the Radicalism of the rising and educated generation. But the students have shown that their studies have been wisely directed, that their principles are those of honest men, and that they will not sacrifice truth to nationality, honour to patronage, nor religion to faction.

The

mere election may be a thing of the hour; but the mind which it has exhibited deserves to be a solid source of congratulation to every well-wisher of the Empire."

In all this we fully agree. The election of Sir Robert Peel for the

Lord Rectorship has done honour to
the College. Scotland has among her
sons many a gallant, many a learned,
and many a noble name, worthy of
that honour or any other. But the
choice of the Ex-Minister on this oc-
casion must show in its strongest light
the sincerity of the rising youth of the
country in the cause for which Scot-
land struggled so long, so bravely, and
so triumphantly. She will not be a
slave, whatever hand may attempt to
fix the manacle; she will not be a
hireling, though the bribe should come
from a son of her own; nor will she
stoop to degrade the purity of her re-
ligious faith, by suffering it to follow,
even in gilded chains, the car where
Popery and Superstition move in tri-
umph over the civil and religious li-
berties of mankind. We regard the
whole transaction as not merely, in the
words of the "Conservative,'
"giv-
ing evidence of the renovated state of
national feeling," but, as what we next
value, doing honour to Scotland. We.
shall soon have Sir Robert Peel among
us, and then we shall see how the
genuine spirit of our country can
sympathize with his eloquent cham-
pionship of the Constitution.

SKETCHES AMONG THE POOR.

No. I.

IN childhood's days, I do remember me
Of one dark house behind an old elm-tree,
By gloomy streets surrounded, where the flower
Brought from the fresher air, scarce for an hour
Retained its fragrant scent, yet men lived there,
Yea, and in happiness; the mind doth clear
In most dense airs its own bright atmosphere.
But in the house of which I spake there dwelt
One by whom all the weight of smoke was felt.
She had o'erstepped the bound 'twixt youth and age,
A single, not a lonely woman, sage

And thoughtful ever, yet most truly kind :
Without the natural ties, she sought to bind
Hearts unto hers, with gentle, useful love,
Prompt at each change in sympathy to move.
And so she gained the affection, which she prized
From every living thing, howe'er despised-

A call upon her tenderness whene'er

The friends around her had a grief to share ;
And if in joy the kind one they forgot,

She still rejoiced, and more was wanted not.
Said I not truly, she was not alone,

Though none at evening shared her clean hearth-stone?

but me

To some she might prosaic seem,
She always charmed with daily poesy,
Felt in her every action, never heard,

E'en as the mate of some sweet singing-bird,
That mute and still broods on her treasure-nest,
Her heart's fond hope hid deep within her breast.
In all her quiet duties, one dear thought
Kept ever true and constant sway, not brought
Before the world, but garnered all the more
For being to herself a secret store.

Whene'er she heard of country homes, a smile
Came brightening o'er her serious face the while;
She knew not that it came, yet in her heart

A hope leaped up, of which that smile was part.
She thought the time might come, ere yet the bowl
Were broken at the fountain, when her soul
Might listen to its yearnings, unreproved
By thought of failure to the cause she loved;
When she might leave the close and noisy street,
And once again her childhood's home might greet.
It was a pleasant place that early home!
The brook went singing by, leaving its foam
Among the flags and blue forget-me-not;
And in a nook, above that shelter'd spot,
For ages stood a gnarled hawthorn-tree,

And if you pass'd in spring-time, you might see
The knotted trunk all coronal'd with flowers,

That every breeze shook down in fragrant showers;
The earnest bees in odorous cells did lie,

Hymning their thanks with murmuring melody;
The evening sun shone brightly on the green,
And seem'd to linger on the lonely scene;
And if to others Mary's early nest

Show'd poor and homely, to her loving breast

A charm lay hidden in the very stains

Which time and weather left; the old dim panes,

The grey rough moss, the house-leek, you might see
Were chronicled in childhood's memory;

And in her dreams she wander'd far and wide
Among the hills, her sister at her side-

That sister slept beneath a grassy tomb

Ere time had robb'd her of her first sweet bloom.
O Sleep! thou bringest back our childhood's heart,
Ere yet the dew exhale, the hope depart;

Thou callest up the lost ones, sorrow'd o'er
Till sorrow's self hath lost her tearful power;
Thine is the fairy-land, where shadows dwell,
Evoked in dreams by some strange hidden spell.
But Day and Waking have their dreams, O Sleep,
When Hope and Memory their fond watches keep;
And such o'er Mary held supremest sway,
When kindly labours task'd her hands all day.
Employ'd her hands, her thoughts roam'd far and free,
Till sense call'd down to calm reality.

A few short weeks, and then, unbound the chains

Which held her to another's woes or pains,

Farewell to dusky streets and shrouded skies,

Her treasur'd home should bless her yearning eyes,
And fair as in the days of childish glee

Each grassy nook and wooded haunt should be.
Yet ever as one sorrow pass'd away,
Another call'd the tender one to stay,

VOL. XLI. NO. CCLV.

D

And where so late she shared the bright glad mirth,
The phantom Grief sat cowering at the hearth.
So days and weeks pass'd on, and grew to years,
Unwept by Mary, save for others' tears.

As a fond nurse, that from the mother's breast
Lulls the tired infant to its quiet rest,

First stills each sound, then lets the curtain fall
To cast a dim and sleepy light o'er all,

So age drew gently o'er each wearied sense
A deepening shade to smooth the parting hence.
Each cherish'd accent, each familiar tone
Fell from her daily music, one by one;
Still her attentive looks could rightly guess
What moving lips by sound could not express.
O'er each loved face next came a filmy veil,
And shine and shadow from her sight did fail.
And, last of all, the solemn change they saw
Depriving Death of half his regal awe ;
The mind sank down to childishness, and they,
Relying on her counsel day by day

(As some lone wanderer, from his home afar,
Takes for his guide some fix'd and well-known star,
Till clouds come wafting o'er its trembling light,
And leave him wilder'd in the pathless night),

Sought her changed face with strange uncertain gaze,
Still praying her to lead them through the maze.
They pitied her lone fate, and deemed it sad,
Yet as in early childhood was she glad;
No sense had she of change, or loss of thought,
With those around her no communion sought;
Scarce knew she of their being. Fancy wild
Had placed her in her father's house a child;
It was her mother sang her to her rest;
The lark awoke her springing from his nest;
The bees sang cheerily the livelong day,
Lurking 'mid flowers wherever she did play;
The Sabbath bells rang as in years gone by,
Swelling and falling on the soft wind's sigh;
Her little sisters knelt with her in prayer,
And nightly did her father's blessing share;
So, wrapt in glad imaginings, her life

Stole on with all her sweet young memories rife.
I often think (if by this mortal light
We e'er can read another's lot aright),
That for her loving heart a blessing came,
Unseen by many, clouded by a name;

And all the outward fading from the world

Was like the flower at night, when it has furled
Its golden leaves, and lapped them round its heart,
To nestle closer in its sweetest part.

Yes! angel voices called her childhood back,
Blotting out life with its dim sorrowy track;
Her secret wish was ever known in heaven,
And so in mystery was the answer given.
In sadness many mourned her latter years,
But blessing shone behind that mist of tears,
And as the child she deemed herself, she lies
In gentle slumber, till the dead shall rise.

C

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