parrots, young spoonbills, scarlet ibis, and white egrets; also large numbers of ducks and chickens.
The population of Jungcal was not less, nor more, than thirty persons; of this number about one half were blacks, the remainder half-breeds and Indians. Totally ignorant of all the arts and accomplishments of civilized life, they were alike sheltered from its many vicissitudes and sorrows. Indeed, they were as joyous and contented as if creation itself had stopped at the borders of their own luxuriant isle.
At sunset we regaled ourselves with a bowl of delicious mingow. This is an Indian luxury, made by boiling tapioca in milk, and sweetening it with either molasses, honey, or sugar, as best suits one's taste and convenience. It was our principal and favourite dish on Marajo.
The day had passed, and a most beautiful starlight evening succeeded. Swinging in our hammocks under the humble verandah of Anzevedo's palmetto-thatched cottage, we whiled away the hours in chatting with our friendly host-in curling wreaths of smoke from our long Indian pipes-in listening to the tinkling of rude guitars in the neighbouring dwellings-and in gazing on a landscape of tropical beauty, unparalleled and sublime.
THE AUTHORSHIP OF
"AND YE SHALL WALK IN SILK ATTIRE."
THE July number of your "Miscellany" contains an amusing review of the various Exhibitions of the season, in which the writer, while describing Miss Satchell's beautiful picture by the name of "And ye shall walk in silk attire,"
adds, "a well-known song, unfortunately by an unknown author."
The melody of the ballad in question is mine. When first printed, in the year 1822, many, many years before I became a writer of novels, the publisher required a second stanza to complete the song, at that time rendered popular by the exquisite singing of Miss M. A. Tree. Ignorant of the authorship of the words, (which I had accidentally heard quoted,) I myself supplied the second verse, usually sung at concerts. Soon afterwards, I found the whole ballad in the collected works of Robert Burns; whose second stanza is so superior to the one hastily supplied, that I subjoin it for the benefit of those with whom the ballad is a favourite.
"The mind whose every wish is pure,
And ere I'm forced to break my faith,
I'll lay me down and dee."
Believe me, dear Mr. Bentley,
Yours faithfully,
"It is the ambition of France to be the world's guide,—it is her destiny to be its WARNING."-The Times.
THROUGH the scared city rings the sound of strife,
Tumult terrific, and confusion wild,
The rapid rush of feet, the sudden shout,
The charging column, and resisting crowd-
Clam'rous encounter, rescue, and retreat-
The trumpet's signal note, the stern command,
The sharp, quick volley, and the swift reply;
And, loud amid its own destructive crash,
The whirlwind uproar of the cannonade.
Man against man, fierce, truculent, untired,
Unwav'ring stands or falls; when ranks are thinned,
New victims fill the void, the rampart hold,
And lend fresh fuel to the frightful feud.
While from the struggle, on their painful way,
The wounded write their sufferings as they pass,
And the red pavement owns the fatal scroll.
And when, with harassed feature and soiled dress
The hurried soldier tells his duty done,
The battle o'er, the stubborn foe subdued,
And scattered from each fastness of revolt,
Slight cause for triumph his, such deed achieved.
Her children slain, the capital bewails,
All of one lineage, prisoner and guard,
One common race, victor and vanquished.
Paris, such toils are thine! and thou wert deemed
The world's resplendent crown of pleasantness;
Thyself a world of pleasure. At thy shrine
Men sought and found all that was bright and fair,
Gorgeous and graceful, mirthful and refined.
Entrancing syren! well didst thou commend
Thy beauties to our gaze. Who loved thee not?
Thy terraced palaces, thy sprightly streets,
Thy leaping fountains, thy gay theatres.
Thy pictured porticoes, thy rich museums,
Thy days of sunshine, and thy nights of dance,
Where youth bewildered, measured not its joys,
Successive as the minutes, and where age,
With tripping air meandered on its path,
Amused, enlivened, merry and content.
Then the brisk artizan and cit polite
Plied a good trade and prospered in their craft,
Proffered their gaudy heaps of glittering toys
Which science and invention, grace and skill,
Combined to fashion, and adorned to please;
Fresh modelled on the field of fertile thought,
And perfected in handiwork as none
Save Paris might, the world's emporium then
For all that elegance and art could mould.
And how the stranger marked with rapt amaze
Thy marvels of surpassing excellence!
How lingered he thy trophies to recount,
And multiplied thy praises when at home!
Now, all thy guests are gone,-for who would dwell
With doubt and dread and dark disquietude?
Who could repose when rest and peace are flown?
Who trust where confidence is banishéd?
Who trade where traffic droops and wealth decays?
Are thy streets tranquil? Is there calm abroad?
Such peace as armed battalions must provide;
Such calm as banded warriors need defend.
Commerce shall sleep while sentried citizens
Secure each post and watch against surprise.
All duties merged in one, the state to serve
And the civilian gird in martial garb.
Still sullen wrath outspreads her murky wings,
Broods grimly o'er her discontented horde,
So late discomfited but not destroyed;
Fosters remembrance, bitter and morose,
Of losses past, bids vengeance bide the time,
And start to action at the fitting hour.
Woe to thee, Paris! City of anarchy !
Woe, woe to thee, metropolis of blood!
A woe yet present tinged with sorrows past,
Thick deepening shadows of a darker day.
Oh! tossed with tempests frequent and severe,
Storms revolutionary nor yet appeased;
None but thyself this anguish hath provoked.
No hated foe thy strongholds has possessed,
Thy streets invaded, and thy warriors slain.
'Tis thine own work. Thou hast thyself undone.-
This fruit hath borne the tree of evil seed,
False doctrine of licentious literature,
False sentiment and sensual imagery,
High wrought excitement, aimless of aught good,
(Void ill supplied by passion's heartless gust,)
And fostered by details of loathsome vice,
Unhallowed plot, and criminal misdeed.
This festering source of crime at length hath grown
Into the moral ulcer of the state,
Corroding innocence, and poisoning youth,
Firing the blood, and flushing the hot brain,
Till, sated with its own pernicious food,
Mad with the impotency of nothingness
Developed in such futile sophistries,
The mind's firm balance looses from its hold,
Sees nought to love, esteem, or venerate;
Deems chastity and temperance deceit,
Virtue hypocrisy, and law th' invention
Of tyranny unblest, a shameless fraud
To chain the impulses of dauntless man.
And poverty the while, with fulsome phrase,
Flattered into a faith of better times;
Deluded with Utopian nullities,
Promise impossible, and sham pretence
Of easier life, short work, and ample wage,
That never yet could human power supply,
Or wisdom scheme, beyond all human scan,-
Awakes to disappointment and revenge.
In frenzied haste she piles the barricade,
And meets her disciplined and valiant foes
With all the furious recklessness of death,
Which from the hope, if triumph be her hap,
Of indiscriminate sack and pillage flows.
'Tis thou wouldst guide the world! oh, hapless land,
Thee in thy falling fortunes who shall guide?
Who rule, who govern? whom wilt thou obey?
In thine own council, murmurs and distrust
Portend suspicion which they dare not own,
In place of one harmonious accord,
By which alone the state might gather strength.
And when in fierce debate a factious throng
Shall strive for mastery, what further tide
Of unexplored contention shall relume
The suburbs' rage, and light the flames of war?
What pilot then shall stem th' advancing surge,
Expose the hidden quicksands of revolt,
Ride bravely o'er the rocks of turbulence,
And safely in the haven of repose,
Harbour the vessel struck with many a wave?
Vain hope! deceptive vision! Thou art now,
And still shalt be (and who shall say how long?)
A WARNING to the world thou fain wouldst guide,
A warning of dire import, placed on high,
To mark the perils of self-rule and will,
Among the nations a bright beacon flame,
Shewn far and wide that all may read their doom,
Who, on that crimson meteor as they gaze,
Would emulate thy sensitive unrest,
Impatient of control, and prone to change.
And shall not all the wondering nations own,
With wholesome awe, the warning memorable,
This gory page of history unfolds?
Conspiracy uncaged, and flung abroad,
Caressed, encouraged, and in pæans hymned,
To stride unfettered on its mad career.
At first, all honest aid to entertain,
The cause of order revolution feigned,
But disappointment of the real end,
Community of means and property,
Dispersed the sickly jargon to the winds,
And woke the last rebellion from its lair.
And what reward befits those orators
Who first aroused the din, and meant to be
The leaders in a "moral force" display?
The master-spirits of a mere reform ?
Their's was the vein of faction unrestrained,
Which prompts each frantic dreamer to impose
His senseless and unsolid reveries
Upon the multitude, for ever led
By words that speak benevolence and zeal,
But end, as they began, in empty sound.
Such patriots hath the world for ages known;
Noisy declaimers, promisers of help
And restoration to a better state
Of social grade and fellowship, themselves
Thriving and fattening on the fruitful theme.
Such patriots hath the world for ages known.—
But never yet such full experience,
So sudden, prompt, and undeniable,
Of misery and havoc that ensue
Upon th' interpretation of their words,
To certain issue brought and worked upon
By their well-tutored, ripe subordinates.
And what remains, this recent outrage quelled ?
Upon unfed, unquiet crowds to force
The irksome curb of order; to reduce
Into restraint those who must eat and live,
But know not how nor whence the means to gain. Stern task! unwelcome effort! doubtful end!
Mark it, ye nations! Britain, mark it thou!
This social conflict at thy neighbour's hearth;
Look to thyself, for strangers love thee not,
Envying thy former prosperous industry,
Thy laurels gained! thy zeal for enterprize!
Thy generous ardour to redress the wrong,
Chastise the oppressor, and restore the fallen,
High-souled enthusiasm and patient toil.
Hence strangers love thee not, as none are loved
Less than the true nobility of earth
Who sin by excellence above the rest.
And thus, among the human family
Thou payest penalty for high desert,
Thou mighty heart of vast dependencies,
From every clime apportion'd to thy rule,
By courage won, by just dominion kept;
Regions of untold myriads at thy nod
Contributing their strength to thy increase,
And swelling with their fame thy wide renown.
But if this fabric we more closely search-
This wondrous centre of circumference,
Upon whose span the sun doth never set,—
What see we here at home!-no ground for boast;
-To few, and few, indeed, that envied lot.
Whatever tells of lavish luxury,
Exuberant wealth, and free expenditure-
To many scanty means and rare employ,
To multitudes-distress and penury-
Unhealthy contrast of deplored extremes,
Sore pressure of domestic incubus,
When pining industry shall vainly ask
For fitting occupation, and be met
With forced denial of its just demand,
That to the willing artisan and labourer
A fair employ and recompense may fall.
Instinctive cry for toil and sustenance,
That universal claim-to work and live!
Let us not shun but face the growing ill,
In mutual counsel remedies contrive,
And to their use bestow our earnest aid
For mitigation of our country's grief.
Duty and interest both our service claim,
Benevolence to safety points the way,
Let holy principle the call enforce,
And love fraternal stimulate the act.
And oh! fair Arbitress of many lands,
Integral portion of our three-fold state,
Time-honour'd in itself, and graced in thee,
Gladly we hail that placid sovereignty,
Whose rule bespeaks thy sex's attribute,
Cheerful compassion, and prompt tenderness,
The wretched in their adverse hour to soothe.
Thyself in feminine supremacy,
(Sweet mercy's handmaid, robed with regal pomp.)
Presiding genius! augury for good,
Where pity sues and charity commends,
Guide thou the work and be the deed thrice bless'd.
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