The above observations are peculiarly applicable to the case of men engaging in arctic expeditions. I do not know what dress they usually wear, but it is quite clear that a white woollen one would be the most appropriate; and if it had a gloss upon it, it would be so much the better. This they might have learned from observing the animals in those regions.



DIBDIN'S SAILOR-SONGS.

In a recent article in this Journal,[4] we gave our opinion of practical sea-life, and incidentally alluded to the songs of Dibdin. The paper excited some interest; and we may, therefore, venture to say a little more about these celebrated songs, concerning which the public in general has always had, and still has, a very erroneous impression.

We commence with an assertion which will startle many—namely, that Dibdin's songs never were, are not, and never can be, popular with sailors. About six years ago—if we recollect rightly as to date—the Lords of the Admiralty, considering that Dibdin's songs had always been 'worth a dozen pressgangs,' as the common saying is, ordered that twenty of the best songs should be printed on strong paper, and presented to every man and boy in the royal navy. This act, however, is not so much to be regarded as a strong evidence of the private opinion of the nautical magnates in question—but the chief of them is invariably a landsman—as of their deference to the force of public estimation on the subject of the songs. Let it not be thought, from the tenor of our subsequent remarks, that we ourselves are at all prejudiced against Dibdin. So far is it the reverse, that we were brought up from childhood 'in belief' of that gifted lyrist: our father repeated to us in early life his finest songs, and we have never ceased to regard him with sincere admiration. He was a man of true genius in his peculiar walk, and it has been well and truly said of him, that, 'had he written merely to amuse, his reputation would have been great; but it stands the higher, because his writings always advocate the cause of virtue: charity, humanity, constancy, love of country, and courage, are the subjects of his song and of his praise.'

Dibdin himself was not a sailor, and his knowledge of sea-life, of seamen, and of sea-slang, is generally attributed to the instructions of his brother, the master of a ship. This brother was subsequently lost at sea, and Dibdin is said to have written Poor Tom Bowling as his elegy. Dibdin's sea-lore was, therefore, altogether second-hand and theoretical; and his songs, on the whole, present an idealised and exaggerated embodiment of the characteristics, life, and habits of seamen; but it is wonderful how accurately and skilfully he introduces allusions to sea-man[oe]uvres, and how very rarely he errs in nautical technicalities. They were written in war-time, when the nation was excited to a pitch of frenzied enthusiasm by a succession of unparalleled naval victories—when a prince of the blood trod the quarter-deck, and Nelson was 'Britannia's god of war.' Their popularity with landsmen was then incredible. Everybody sang Dibdin's sea-songs, deeming them a perfect mirror of sea-life and seamen's character. The truth is, he has exaggerated both the virtues and the follies of sailors to an absurd degree; and his blue-jacketed heroes are no more to be accepted as a fair type of sailors, than are Fenimore Cooper's Chingachgook and Leatherstocking as types of the Red Men and trappers of North America. Herein, we conceive, is the primary cause of Dibdin failing to enlist strongly the sympathies of real blue-water tars; and the very same reason, with some modifications, prevents all prose works, descriptive of sea-life, from being favourably received by practical mariners. We have heard the 'sailoring' portions of the finest works of Cooper and others scoffed at by seamen; and the very best book on sea-life ever written, Dana's Two Years before the Mast, is held in no sort of esteem by the very men for whose benefit the author avows he wrote it, and whose life he has so vividly, and, as we think, faithfully described. Every sailor we have questioned concerning that book—and there are few sailors who have not read it—declared that he 'thought nothing of it;' and that all his messmates laughed at it as much as himself. They say that Dana 'makes too much' of everything, and that he gives false and exaggerated notions of life on shipboard. We personally deny this; but sailors, as a body, are such prosaic people, that they will make no allowance whatever for the least amplification of bald matter of fact. If the author dilates at all on his own feelings and impressions, they chuckle and sneer; and if he errs in the least—or the compositor for him—in his nautical details, they cry out that he is a know-nothing, a marine, a horse-jockey, a humbug. To please seamen, any book about their profession must be written precisely in the lucid and highly-imaginative style of a log-book—their sole standard of literary excellence.

Sailors are shrewd and sensitive, enough in some respects. They do not like to be flattered, and cannot bear to be caricatured; and they feel that Dibdin has—unconsciously—been guilty of both towards them. According to his songs, sailors lead a life of unalloyed fun and frolic. He tells us nothing about their slavery when afloat, nothing about the tyranny they are frequently subjected to; and in his days, a man-o'-war was too often literally a floating pandemonium. He makes landsmen believe that Jack is the happiest, most enviable fellow in the world: storms and battles are mere pastime; lopped limbs and wounds are nothing more than jokes; there is the flowing can to 'sweethearts and wives' every Saturday night; and whenever the ship comes to port, the crew have guineas galore to spend on lasses and fiddles. In fine, both at sea and ashore, according to his theory, jolly Jack has little to do but make love, sing, dance, and drink—grog being 'his sheet-anchor, his compass, his cable, his log;' and in the True British Sailor, we are told that 'Jack is always content.' Now, Jack knows very well this is all 'long-shore palaver, and he gives a shy hail to such palpable lime-twigs. 'Let the land-lubbers sing it!' thinks he; 'I'll none on't!'

Dibdin takes the first sip of his Flowing Can with the ominous line—

'A sailor's life's a life of wo!'

But what follows?—

'Why, then, he takes it cheerily!'

A pleasant philosophy this; but we happen to know that sailors do not take cheerily to 'a life of wo'—they would be more than men if they did. He talks coolly about times at sea when 'no duty calls the gallant tars.' We should very much like to know on board what 'old barkey,' and in what latitude and longitude, this phenomenon happened, and would have no particular objection to sign articles for a voyage in such a Ph[oe]nix of a ship; for in all the vessels we ever were acquainted with, there was never such a thing heard of, as 'nothing to do.' As to 'Saturday nights' exclusively devoted to pledging 'sweethearts and wives' over a flowing can in the forecastle, we are sorry to say, we regard that as little better than a poetic myth.

Doubtless, at the time Dibdin's songs were written, sailors sang them to a considerable extent, for the public enthusiasm would in a way compel Jack to acquiesce in these eulogies on himself; but the said Jack never took them fairly to heart—how could he, when every voyage he made must have given the lie to many of these glowing pictures of life at sea? And from that time to the present, Dibdin's songs have gradually been forgotten among seamen, till, at this day, we question whether there is a foremast—Jack afloat who can sing half-a-dozen of them; and, probably, not many men aboard merchantmen know more than one or two songs of the hundred in question, although they may recollect fragments of several.

Dibdin's songs might be 'worth a dozen pressgangs' for manning the navy in war-time, and, for aught we can predicate to the contrary, they may be so again; but we reiterate our conviction, that they never caused sailors to ship aboard a man-o'-war. Landsmen might volunteer by scores through the influence of such stirring, patriotic ditties; but seamen, who 'knew the ropes,' would never be induced to ship through their agency.

Dibdin does ample justice to the bravery, the generosity, the good-humour, the kind-heartedness of sailors; and, as a class, they deserve his encomiums. His songs abound with just and noble sentiments, and manly virtues were never more constantly and strikingly enunciated by any author. We dearly love Charles Dibdin for this; and as a writer of popular lyrics, we class him as the very first England has ever produced. In this department of literature, we consider he holds the same place in England as Burns does in Scotland; Branger, in France; Freiligrath, in Germany; and Hans Christian Andersen, in Denmark.

The reader will now ask: 'What songs do sailors sing?' We answer, that their favourite sea-songs[5] are the most dismal, droning doggrel it is possible to conceive; and yet they relish them mightily, because they are stern matter of fact, and in most instances are descriptive of a battle, a chase, a storm, or a shipwreck—subjects appealing powerfully to their sympathies. The following may be taken as a tolerably fair specimen of the style of the genuine 'sailors' songs:'—

'It was the seventeenth day of May, in the year 'ninety-six, Our taut frigate the Ajax, she from Plymouth did set sail; Eight days out, com'd a squall from north-east by north, And then by four bells, morning-watch, it did freshen to a gale.'

Perhaps the most universally popular song among seamen is Rule Britannia; but in general they do little more than sing the chorus, and the way in which a crew of tars, when half-seas-over, will monotonously drawl out 'Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!'—repeating it over and over again, as if they never could have too much of a good thing—is highly amusing. We believe that a decided majority of the songs sang in the forecastle are not sea-songs at all, but purely land-songs; and, strange to say, the most popular of these are sentimental ditties, such as were, a score of years ago, drawing-room favourites! It is very rich to hear 'ancient marineres,' rough as bears, hoarsely quavering, I'd be a butterfly! or, O no! we never mention her; or, The days we went a-gipsying, long time ago! They are also very partial to songs about bandits and robbers.

Well, after all, we have often, when in a tight craft, tossing amid howling billows, complacently repeated—and perchance shall again—the closing lines of The Sailor's Consolation, which, we believe, but are not certain, Dibdin wrote—

'Then, Bill, let us thank Providence That you and I are sailors!'

FOOTNOTES:

[4] See The 'Romance' of Sea-Life, No. 414 of the Journal.

[5] We must explain that the working-songs of seamen—or such as they sing when heaving at the pawl-windlass, catting the anchor, and other heavy pieces of work—are of a different class altogether, and consist chiefly of a variety of appropriate choruses to lively and inspiriting tunes. These songs sound well, and are worth anything on shipboard, for they stimulate the men far more than grog would do with only a dead, silent heave or haul.



'SEWED MUSLINS.'

Under the above technical name is produced in Glasgow a manufacture little known beyond the sphere of those immediately engaged in the business, the importance of which, however, as a means of employment to the poorer Scotch and Irish peasantry, renders it deserving of more attention than it has hitherto received. Sewed muslins include all those articles which are composed of muslin with a pattern embroidered on it by the hand—such as collars, sleeves, chemisettes, &c. together with the long strips of embroidery used, like laces, for trimming dresses, petticoats, &c. and called, technically, trimmings. The manufacture of these articles in the form in which they are now used was for a long period peculiar to France, and that country alone supplied all the rest of the world with the limited quantities which the high cost permitted to be consumed. An embroidered collar, thirty-five years ago, was an article of luxury only attainable by the rich, while the far greater part either dispensed with it altogether, or contented themselves with one of plain muslin or cheap net. Soon after that period, the rudiments of the manufacture began to be established at Glasgow, where for some time it made but moderate progress, and was confined to the production of a very low class of goods, leaving still to the French all the finer and more tasteful departments of the trade. During the last ten years, however, the progress has been very rapid; and now it supplies abundantly, with cheap and good embroidery, the whole British and American demand, to the almost total exclusion of both French and Swiss work.

The process by which a perfect piece of embroidery, delicately worked in a graceful pattern, and as white as snow, is produced, is far more complicated than might be imagined. The simple plan by which industrious ladies work a single collar on a traced pattern, with clean hands in a pure atmosphere, will not do when hundreds of thousands of collars are to be made, at the lowest rate, by poor children, in smoky hovels. In order to understand the matter clearly, it may be as well to transport ourselves to one of the large establishments in Glasgow, in whose extensive, well-lighted lofts the whole mechanism of the manufacture may be seen at work.

In the highest room, where the best light is obtained, we find a number of men, seated at small tables at the windows, engaged in drawing patterns. These are the designers, whose business it is to produce a constant and rapid succession of new patterns, either original or adapted from the French designs, which lie scattered on their tables. They are a very intelligent class, possessing considerable originality, and, what is even more important, thoroughly understanding the art of practical adaptation of costly designs to the necessities of the manufacture, without which the ingenious sketches of the French would be valueless. It is proper to add, that their powers of invention are steadily increasing year after year, and that the time is probably not remote when they will be independent of the Parisian designers.

The patterns sketched by them are transferred by the ordinary process to lithographic stones; and on entering the adjoining room, we find a large number of lithographic presses at work, some of great size. The unbleached muslin here receives the impression of the outline pattern, as paper is printed in the ordinary press; and the substitution of stones for the wooden blocks formerly used, has greatly cheapened and facilitated this process. The carved blocks were expensive to cut, and useless when the pattern was finished: the pattern is now put on the stone with great economy, and, the requisite number being struck off, is erased to make room for another.

The printed webs are now carried from the press-room to the floor below, where the green warehouse is situated—the common receptacle of the unbleached muslin going out to the working, and of the sewed goods coming in. The former are now made up into parcels, and sent off to the agents who are employed in the working districts to give out the work to the sewers, from whom they are again returned into the same department when sewed. We see them lying heaped in every direction, so saturated with dirt, that the pattern is hardly distinguishable from the muslin, looking and smelling as if no purative process could ever render them clean and sweet. The interval which elapses between the goods leaving the green warehouse and returning to it varies, with the nature of the goods, from a fortnight to six months; although occasionally pieces remain out much longer, and sometimes drop in after the lapse of years; while a per-centage are never returned at all, a loss which constitutes an item in the cost of the remainder. About three-quarters, at least, of all the embroidery is worked in Ireland; the remaining quarter being sewed in the south-western counties of Scotland. In Ireland, the sewing districts, at first confined to a very limited space in the neighbourhood of Donaghadee, have gradually spread, until the whole north, and even a portion of the western wilds of Connaught, have been covered with the agents of the Scotch and Irish manufacturers. There is every prospect that their extension will not stop here. It is requisite that the work should be performed at a very small cost; and from the position and habits of the Irish, they are able to work cheaper than the Scotch. The nature of the employment is also peculiarly fitted to them. It can be performed in their own cottages at leisure times, or by children, not otherwise useful. No cleanliness is required, as it matters not how dirty the piece is when finished; and the payments are prompt and in ready money. The remuneration is small, especially to children learning, and varies, according to the skill and industry of the worker, from 6d. to 5s. a week; but this is paid in cash immediately on the completion of the piece. It is easy to see what an important addition may thus be made to the means of a poor cotter, by the labour of the young children and girls, who would probably otherwise have no employment whatever.

The goods being fairly back in the green warehouse, the next process is to discharge the load of dirt contracted in the smoky mud-hovel, and restore the original snowy hue of the cotton. For this purpose they are sent out to what is termed a bleachfield, although those who should visit such a place in hopes of seeing a verdant lawn, strewn with the white folds of muslin waving in the summer breeze, would be grievously disappointed. A bleachfield is simply a huge steam wash-house, with red brick walls and a tall chimney vomiting smoke, with not a particle of turf about it. Here, amidst volumes of steam, and the unceasing splash of water, the mirky mass is subjected to repeated agitations in hot and cold solutions, by means of revolving hollow wheels, inside of which the embroidery is tossed and tumbled for many days. A little chlorine is at last used, with much care, to complete the bleaching; and after a term, varying from ten days to three weeks, the goods are once more returned to the manufacturer, of a pure white, starched and dressed as may be required. We shall find them by walking from the green warehouse into the darning and ironing rooms where the final process of examination and finishing goes on, and whence they are turned out in a complete state into the saleroom, on the lowest floor of the establishment, to be disposed on long mahogany polished counters for sale. The extreme economy and method of this long process may be imagined when we are shewn very pretty collars, the entire cost of which—designing, sewing, muslin, bleaching, and profit—only amounts to 3d., yet including a rather elaborate pattern; while a yard of good serviceable edging is produced for 2-1/4d.

The entire amount of the manufacture must of course be conjectural, but it has been estimated at about three-quarters of a million sterling a year. The principal part is sold in Glasgow, but a part of the Irish production is disposed of in Belfast. If we take, as the price of the work, two-thirds of the gross sum, the remaining third being cost of muslin, expenses, charges, and profit, we shall have L.500,000 as the sum annually distributed, in ready money, in small sums over the south of Scotland and the north of Ireland—a most important addition to the resources of the rural population of those districts. In addition to this, a large class of workers, male and female, are employed in Glasgow in the preparation and in the finishing of the goods—as designers, lithographers, weavers, clerks, darners, ironers, and patterners. These are all well paid—some very highly; and the young women composing the three latter classes are a remarkably well-to-do, prosperous class.

The growth of the manufacture has been much accelerated by the export-trade to the United States, where its superior cheapness and intrinsic excellence have induced a large consumption. Could we prevail on the French government to relax the prohibition which now bars its entrance into that country, a new and wide field would be opened for its extension, even at a pretty high duty; as the French manufacture, in its present state, is quite inadequate to supply the demand for cheap embroidery there. Even as it is, a good deal is smuggled in, and may be recognised by the experienced eye adorning the windows of the shops in Paris. An increased demand must tell immediately in favour of Ireland, the only place affording an increased supply of labour; and on this account, the prosperity and extension of the trade in sewed muslins must be an object of interest to all who desire the amelioration of the condition of the Irish peasant.



AN AMERICAN CONFESSES A FAULT.

The Americans are said to be grievously addicted to ——: we would rather avoid the word. Travellers have spread the imputation; but travellers are known to speak from prejudice, and their report did not appear to be altogether trustworthy. At length, strange to say, the charge of being intolerable—must we say it?—spitters is made by one of themselves, and of course there can be no more said on the subject: the fact is confessed. This marvellously candid, but painful acknowledgment, occurs in the recently-published work, Sketches of European Capitals, by W. Ware, M.D., the well-known author of those charming historical romances, Letters from Palmyra, Aurelian, &c. We trust that Dr Ware will not be ostracised on the score of taste or patriotism by his countrymen, for his extraordinary audacity in telling them of a fault, and, what is more, in drawing an unfavourable comparison between them and Englishmen on this most delicate subject. The following are his remarks:—

'An Englishman, I believe, rarely chews, and, compared with the American, rarely smokes; but whether he does not secretly practise both these abominations, I am not prepared to say. But with both these provocatives, if it be so, one thing he never does—is to spit. That fact draws a line of demarcation between the Englishman and the American, broader and deeper a thousandfold than any other in politics, government, laws, language, religion. The Englishman never spits; or, if he does, he first goes home, shuts himself up in his room, locks his door, argues the necessity of the case; if necessary, performs the disagreeable duty, and returns to society with a clear conscience. The American spits always and everywhere; sometimes when it is necessary; always, when it is not. It is his occupation, his pastime, his business. Many do nothing else all their lives, and always indulge in that singular recreation when they have nothing else to do. Sometimes, in a state of momentary forgetfulness, he intermits; but then, as if he had neglected a sworn duty, returns to it again with conscience-smitten vigour. He spits at home and abroad, by night and by day, awake and asleep, in company and in solitude, for his own amusement and the edification of a spitting community; on the freshly-painted or scoured floor, on the clean deck of a ship or steam-boat, on parlour floors—covered whether with ingrained Brussels, Wilton, or Turkey—even there he voids his rheum; upon the unabsorbent canvas, so that one may see, where numbers congregate, the railway cars to run in more ways than one; the pulpits and pews of churches are not safe; the foot-pavement of the streets, the floors of all public places—of exchanges, hotels, of Congress halls—are foul with it; and in railway cars it must always be necessary for a lady to shorten her garments, as if about to walk in the deep mud of the street, or the snow and water of spring, if she would escape defilement to either her dress or her slippers. As the power of direction of these human missiles is by no means unerring, notwithstanding so much practice, one's own person, and all parts of his person, are exposed to the random shots of this universal foe of American civilised life; and often he finds, on different parts of his dress, proofs abundant of the company he has kept. The only single spot absolutely secure is a man's face—and that would not be, were it not for the fear of a duel. That there is not the shadow of exaggeration in this description, coarse as it is, and coarse as it has been my intention to make it, all Americans, and all travellers who have ever been within an American hotel, steam-boat, or rail-car—all will testify. And the result of it all is, I suppose, that we are the freest and most enlightened people on the face of the earth! But for one, republican as I am in principle, I think, on the whole, I would prefer the despotism of Austria, Russia, or Rome, to the freedom, if I must take with it the spit, of America. It is vice enough to tempt one to forswear home, country, kindred, friends, religion; it is ample cause for breaking acquaintance, friendship, for a divorce; in a word, it is our grand national distinction, if we did but know it. There are certainly parts of the country comparatively, but only comparatively, free from this vice. Here at the north, there is much less than at the west and the south, though here enough of it to disgust one with his race. In proportion as general refinement prevails, the custom abates. At the south, no carpets, no rooms, no presence, affords protection.[6] Here, in the best rooms, the best society, there is partial exemption, though not often enough from the presence of that ingenious, fearful patent—the brazen, china, or earthen box. Would that my country could be induced to pause in this its wonderful career! Pity some public effort could not be made by way of general convention, or otherwise, for the abatement of this national mischief—certainly as worthy of attention as very many of our political and moral reforms. The advice of the London surgeon, Abernethy, to an American sea-captain, was at anyrate useful to us all, and pregnant with good medical philosophy. "Keep your saliva in your mouth to help to digest your food with," said he, "and do not spit it all over my carpet." Very wholesome counsel. And, seriously, who can say how much the pallid face, the proverbial indigestion of our country, even consumption itself, may not be owing to this constant drain, which deprives the stomach of a secretion which nature provided for the most important purposes in the manufacture of the blood, and which she certainly did not provide to be wasted and thrown about in the manner of the Anglo-American?'

There is so much frankness and sorrow in this confession of a national sin against good manners, that the least thing we can do is to assure Dr Ware, that he takes much too favourable a view of the habits of the English in the matter in question. That among the highly-educated, the refined, and in what is called 'good society' generally, no one is guilty of the crime he speaks of, is quite true; but we take leave to say that inferior grades of people—the bulk of those walking the street, for example—are about as guilty of it as are the Americans; and it must doubtless be from this source that our transatlantic brethren have been contaminated. This hint as to the origin of a bad practice may perhaps suggest amendment in those departments of our population where it is required. Might not something also be done in the way of school instruction?

FOOTNOTES:

[6] 'Let six such Americans meet round a stove, in a bar-room, or parlour, or hotel drawing-room, of a morning—of the six, four will spit before speaking a word; one will bid good-morning first, and spit afterwards; the sixth will make a remark somewhat at length upon the weather, and, by way of compensation for extraordinary retention, spit twice or thrice.'



'THE MAGNETOSCOPE.'

In No. 415 of this Journal, we printed a paper with the above title, merely as one likely to excite interest, but warning the reader that we did not ourselves vouch for its statements. This caution appears to have been very necessary; for Dr Madden—the substance of whose lecture was given in the article—now declares, that 'very shortly after its delivery, he, in common with many others, detected a serious fallacy in the whole series of experiments; and that, by prosecuting his inquiry in this new direction, he ascertained that not one of the hitherto recorded experiments can be looked upon as proving the existence of magnetic currents at all.' The pendulations, it seems, are caused solely by 'slight mechanical impulsions, unconsciously or half consciously conveyed to the instrument by the luckless experimentalist.'



VILLAGE CLEANING.

It is a serious mistake to suppose that sanitary arrangements are required only for London and other large cities. Few small towns or even villages are exactly what they should be as regards health. Villages, indeed, by having no jurisdiction, are in many cases far more unhealthy than populous towns. We could point out a village of a few hundred inhabitants—a pretty place to look at, at a distance—where there is much mortality among infants and others in consequence of foul gutters and bad drainage. In a small pamphlet, forming an appeal to the ratepayers of Keswick on this subject, there occur the following observations respecting the state of a place called Braithwaite, which we candidly believe might apply to a hundred other villages in England, and more particularly Scotland:—'The village of Braithwaite, for example, contains, in proportion to its population, more dirt, disease, and death than any decent town. It is one of the most romantic and filthy villages in England, and yet it might easily be made one of the cleanest and neatest. There are lanes, alleys, and courts in almost all small towns and villages, in which the mortality is greater far than that of our great towns; nay, in hamlets, and isolated farmhouses in this, as in many other country districts, there is often more sickness in proportion to the population than in cities; and I could point out within a circuit of a few miles, localities in which, during the last few years, scrofula, small-pox, measles, and typhus fever have left their ravages; and which, with proper care and cleanliness, might, I firmly believe, have escaped. But that disease, and especially infectious disease, haunts all ill-drained, ill-cleansed, and ill-ventilated places in both town and country, there are now few intelligent persons that require to be convinced; and the question has come to be with the well-informed part of the public, as it has long been the question with medical men—has not the time now arrived to compel those who harbour the filth and the contagion that carry off one-half of mankind, to expel those enemies to the human race? The innumerable statistical inquiries of the last ten years on this subject, all go to prove that dirt, squalor, close air, and stagnant water, are the causes of one-half the mortality of mankind in civilised countries. The majority of thinking people of all classes—and these, though a small minority of mankind, are the directors of every great social movement—are coming to see that we must proceed with this sanitary business at once; and that, if not by mild means, then by a little wholesome compulsion, we must oblige the owners of property haunted by death and contagion, to yield to the demands of society. If a man may not harbour a ferocious bull-dog in his alley, is he to keep a noisome ditch running at large there?—and if he may not hold a main of fighting cocks, is he to keep cholera and typhus in his house? For my part, I cannot see, if a justice of the peace can stop a man from knocking me down with a bludgeon, why he should not be authorised to interfere to save me from a typhus fever; and if he can prevent boys from endangering the lives of passengers by firing guns on the high roads, why he should not also be enabled to forbid the open sewers and other nuisances, which, if not so noisy, are even more dangerous. A railway company pays heavily for the lives and limbs of passengers sacrificed by the neglect or rashness of its officials—should not a town be equally liable for the losses caused by a public violation of the laws of health? We move slowly in this neighbourhood, disliking changes, and hold strongly, while the rest of the world is advancing, to the old ideas; yet even Wordsworth's consecration of this sentiment to Cumberland—

"Hail usages of pristine mould, And ye that guard them, mountains old!"

can scarcely apply to bad drainage and ventilation.' We should think not. There is a scandalous deficiency in the ordinary institutes of the country on this important subject of town and village cleaning!



NATIONAL CUSTOMS.

Sir C. Napier put down the practice of suttee, which, however, was rare in Scinde, by a process entirely characteristic; for, judging the real cause of these immolations to be the profit derived by the priests, and hearing of an intended burning, he made it known that he would stop the sacrifice. The priests said it was a religious rite which must not be meddled with—that all nations had customs which should be respected, and this was a very sacred one. The general, affecting to be struck with the argument, replied: 'Be it so. This burning of widows is your custom: prepare the funeral pile. But my nation has also a custom: When men burn women alive, we hang them, and confiscate all their property. My carpenters shall therefore erect gibbets on which to hang all concerned when the widow is consumed. Let us all act according to national customs!' No suttee took place then or afterwards.—Sir C. Napier's Administration of Scinde.



BY THE SEA.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

When tired of towns, and pining sore For change to healthful ground, Thou turn'st from crowds—still at the core Feeling thy heart's worst wound— When thou hast knocked at every door, Yet no admittance found: At every door where Pleasure in Glides, with a sunny grace, But which thine own bale barreth up From thee—then seek a place Where gates of stone and brass are none To frown thee in the face!

The woods have walks, where thou mayst find A balm to salve thy grief; And in and out where waters wind, Are sources of relief, In which, if thou wilt bathe the mind, Thou'lt have no comfort brief, But peace—that falleth like the dew! For everything that shews God's sunshine speaketh marvels true Of mercy and repose, And joy, in rural scenes, beyond All that the loud world knows!

Yet more, than wood or woodland rill Can give of keen delight, We glean from ocean-margins, till The spirit—at the sight Of all its range of changeful change— Becometh, like it, bright! Bright when the sunlight on it falls, Or grave and grand when, dark, The shadowy night lets down its pall Upon each human ark; And every surge seems but to urge Extinction of life's spark!

A change, an always active change, An everness of grace, Of grace and grandeur, takes its range Over the ocean's face: As in a book for thoughts men look, Thoughts in it we can trace! A thought to turn us from ourselves And all our petty cares— A thought to move the spirit's love To God, and God's affairs; And thereby give to all that live The sympathy that spares—

That spares our brother man from blame, And pities him when o'er His nature come such clouds of shame As menaced us before: God only can the sea-swell tame, The mental peace restore! Look on the ocean, then, and feel Its turmoil and its calm Arouse or tranquillise thy mind— A stimulant or balm; A thundertone to make thee think, Or, gently soothing psalm!

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Printed and Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. Also sold by W.S. ORR, Amen Corner, London; D.N. CHAMBERS, 55 West Nile Street, Glasgow; and J. M'GLASHAN, 50 Upper Sackville Street, Dublin.—Advertisements for Monthly Parts are requested to be sent to MAXWELL, & Co., 31 Nicholas Lane, Lombard Street, London, to whom all applications respecting their insertion must be made.

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