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school-room, out of Mr. Toil's own mouth.
And turning his eyes to the captain of the
company, what should he see but the very
image of old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart
cap and feather on his head, a pair of gold
epaulettes on his shoulders, a laced coat on his
back, a purple sash round his waist, and a long
sword, instead of a birch-rod, in his hand.
And though he held his head so high, and
strutted like a turkey-cock, still he looked
quite as ugly and disagreeable as when he was
hearing lessons in the school-room.

" This is certainly old Mr. Toil," said Daffy-
downdilly, in a trembling voice. "Let us run
away, for fear he should make us enlist in his
company ! "

"You are mistaken again, my little friend,"
replied the stranger, very composedly. " This
is not Mr. Toil the schoolmaster, but a bro-
ther of his, who has served in the army all
his life. People say he is a terribly severe
fdlow; but you and I need not be afraid of

"Well, well," said little Daffydowndilly,

" but if you please, sir, I don't want to see the
soldiers any more. "

So the child and the stranger resumed their
journey; and, by-and-by, they came to a house
by the road-side where a number of people were
making merry. Young men and rosy-cheeked
girls, with smiles on their faces, were dancing
to the sound of a fiddle. It was the pleasantest
sight that Daffydowndilly had yet met with,
and it comforted him for all his disappoint-

" Oh, let us stop here," cried he to his com-
panion; "for Mr. Toil will never dare to show
his face where there is a fiddler, and where
people are dancing and making merry. We
shall be quite safe here."

But these last words died away upon Daffy -
downdilly's tongue; for happening to cast his
eyes on the fiddler, whom should he behold
again but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a
fiddle-bow instead of a birch-rod, and flourish-
ing it with as much ease and dexterity as if he
had been a fiddler all his life ! He had some-
what the air of a Frenchman, but still looked
exactly like the old schoolmaster; and Daffy-
downdilly even fancied that he nodded and
winked at him, and made signs for him to join
in the dance.

"Oh, dear me!" whispered he, turning pale.
" It seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil
in the world. Who could have thought of his
playing on a fiddle!"

"This is not your old schoolmaster," ob-
served the stranger, " but another brother of
his, who was bred in France, where he learned
i the profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of
j his family, and generally calls himself Mon-
sieur le Plaisir; but his real name is Toil, and
those who have known him best think him still
more disagreeable than his brothers."

" Pray let us go a little further," said Daffy-
downdilly. " I don't like the looks of this
fiddler at all."

Well, thus the stranger and little Daffydown-
dilly went wandering along the highway, and
in shady lanes, and through pleasant villages;
and whithersoever they went, behold! there
was the image of old Mr. Toil. He stood like
a scarecrow in the corn-fields. If they entered
a house, he sat in the parlour; if they peeped
into the kitchen he was there! He made him-
self at home in every cottage, and stole, under
one disguise or another, into the most splen-
did mansions. Everywhere there was sure
to be somebody wearing the likeness of Mr.
Toil, and who, as the stranger affirmed, was
one of the old schoolmaster's innumerable



Little Daffydowndilly was almost tired to
death, when he perceived some people reclining
lazily in a shadj place by the side of the road.
The poor child entreated his companion that
they might sit down there, and take some

" Old Mr. Toil will never come here," said
he; "for he hates to see people taking their
ease. "

But even while he spoke, Daffydowndilly's
eyes fell upon a person who seemed the laziest,
and heaviest, and most torpid, of all those
lazy, and heavy, and torpid people, who had
laid down to sleep in the shade. Who
should it be again but the very image of
Mr. Toil!

"There is a large family of these Toils,"
remarked the stranger. "This is another of
the old schoolmaster's brothers, who was
bred in Italy, where he acquired very idle
habits, and goes by the name of Signer Far
Niente. He pretends to lead an easy life,
but is really the most miserable fellow in the

"0, take me back take me back!" cried
poor little Daffydowndilly, bursting into tears.
" If there is nothing but Toil all the world
over, I may just as well go back to the
school-house ! "

" Yonder it is, there is the school-house!"
said the stranger; for though he and little
Daffydowndilly had taken a great many steps,
they had travelled in a circle instead of a
straight line. "Come, we will go back to
school together."

There was something in his companion's
voice that little Daffydowndilly now remem-
bered; and it is strange that he had not re-
membered it sooner. Looking up into his face,
behold there again was the likeness of old Mr.
Toil; so that the poor child had been in com-
pany with Toil all day, even while he was
doing his best to run away from him. Some
people, to whom I have told little Daffydown-
dilly's story, are of opinion that old Mr. Toil
was a magician, and possessed the power of
multiplying himself into as many shapes as he
saw fit.

Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had
learned a good lesson, and from that time for-
ward was diligent at his task, because he knew
that diligence is not a whit more toilsome than
sport or idleness. And when he became better
acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think
that his ways were not so very disagreeable,
and that the old schoolmaster's smile of appro-
bation made his face almost as pleasant as even
that of Daffydowndilly's mother.


It's hame and it's hams, hame fain would I be,
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree ;
There's an eye that ever weeps, and a fair face will be

As I pass through Annan-water with my bonnie bands

again ;
When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf upon the

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree.

It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be,
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree;
The green leaf of loyalty's beginning now to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering and a',
But I'll water't with the blood of usurping tyrannie,
And green it will grow in my ain countree.

It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be,
O hame. hame, hame to my aiu countree ;
There's nought now frae ruin my country can save
But the keys of kind heaven to open the grave,
That all the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countree.

It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be,
hame, hame, hame to my ain countree ;
The great now are gane a' who ventured to save-
The green grass is growing aboon their bloody grave,
But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my ee,
" I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree."



Once on a time, a nightingale

To changes prone ;
Uncoustant, fickle, whimsical

(A female one),

Who sung like others of her kind,
Hearing a well-taught linnet's airs,
Had other matters in her mind,
To imitate him she prepares.

Her fancy straight was on the wing :

"I fly," quoth she,

"As well as he;

I don't know why

I should not try
As well as he to sing."

From that day forth she changed her note,
She spoiled her voice, she strained her throat :
She did, as learned women do,

Till everything

That heard her sing,
Would run away from her as I from you.





Reader, if your whim or your necessities
should lead you to Madeira, go, for my sake,
to the nunnery of Santa Clara. It is at the
western end of Funchal, and you may buy
there the prettiest flowers for your sweetheart's
hair, and the most ingenious toys in wax that
are in the world. The nuns sell them very
cheap, and all they get from you goes in real
charity to themselves or their pensioners. Per-
haps, also, you may see poor Maria, if she is
not dead; if she comes, speak to her very kindly,
and give my love to her ; but you do not know
me, or poor Maria either.

Maria Clementina, the youngest child of
Pedro Agostinho, was born in Madeira. Her
parents had an unusually large family, and
were labouring under some embarrassment,
from the unfavourable termination of an im-
portant lawsuit. What unfortunate event
coincided with her birth I know not, but
Maria was disliked by her father and mother
from the first years of her infancy. Her
brothers neglected her, in obedience to their
parents ; and her sisters, who were very ugly,
hated her for her beauty. Every one else in
Funchal and the neighbourhood loved her, and
she had many offers of marriage at thirteen
years of age ; which the little maiden laughed
at, and forwarded to her elder sisters. The
more she was petted abroad, the more was she
persecuted at home. She was treated at length
like Cinderella, \vith no chance of a fairy to
help her. Amongst other arrangements for the
purchase of commissions for two of his sons,
and for giving portions to two of his daughters,
Pedro Agostinho determined to sacrifice his
best and sweetest child Maria. At eighteen
she was placed as a novice in this nunnery ; at
nineteen she took the veil, and renounced the
world for ever. At this time she was the most
beautiful girl in the island; and, what is re-
markable in a Portuguese, of a fair complexion,
with a brilliant colour, blue eyes, and very long
and glossy brown hair.

A year after this the constitutional govern-
ment was established in Portugal, and one of
the first and wisest acts of the Cortes was to
order the doors of all religious houses to be
thrown open. Santa Clara was visited by
friends and strangers, some to see the church
and some to see the nuns. Amongst others, a
Portuguese officer, at that time quartered in
Funchal, saw and fell in love with Maria: he
was a handsome youth, of a good family, and

Maria returned his love with an earnestness
which perhaps had as much a desire of liberty
as female passion in it. A nun is emancipated
from her parents, and the law declared the vow
of celibacy null and void. The marriage was
determined on, her hair permitted to grow
again, her clothes prepared, and the wedding-
day fixed. Maria fell ill, and the physicians
enjoined perfect quiet for some time. The
wedding was fatally postponed to another day,
and before that day arrived, his faithful ma-
jesty had dissolved his parliament, and fearful
lest Heaven should lose one more of its daugh-
ters, had revoked the law of the Cortes, and
despatched an express to notify as much to his
subjects in Madeira. Maria rose from her bed
of sickness to return to her cell and her rosary ;
her lengthening ringlets were again mercilessly
shorn; the mob cap, the leathern corset, the
serge gown, were laid before her; and some old
Egyptians, who could not better themselves
elsewhere, bade her return thanks to God that
she had so narrowly escaped mixing again in
the vanities of the world.

On the 5th January, a few hours before we
sailed from Madeira, I walked with a hand-
some and very agreeable Englishwoman to visit
Santa Clara. I was very anxious to see Maria,
whose story I knew. After a little hesitation
on the part of two or three venerable ladies,
who first presented themselves at the great
door of the house, Maria was summoned. She
came to us with a smiling countenance, and
kissed my companion repeatedly. Her colour
was gone, but she was still beautifully fair,
and the exquisite shape of her neck, and the
nobleness of her forehead, were visible under
the disadvantages of a dress as ungraceful as
was ever invented for the purpose of mortifying
female vanity. She spoke her language with
that pretty lisp which, I believe, the critics of
Lisbon pronounce to be a vicious peculiarity of
the natives of Madeira, but also with a correct-
ness and an energy that indicated a powerful
and ingenuous mind. I took half of a large
bunch of violets which I had in my hand, and
gave them to my friend to present to her.
Flowers are a dialect of the Portuguese which
is soon learned. She took them, curtsied very
low, opened the folds of a muslin neckerchief,
and dropped them loose on her snowy bosom.

The vesper-bell sounded, the door was closed
between the nun and the world, but she beck-
oned us to go into their church. We did so,
it is one of the finest in the island, and very
curiously lined with a sort of porcelain; at-
tached to its western end is the chapel of the
nuns, and a double iron grating to enable them




to hear and participate in the service of the
mass. Maria came with some flowers in her
hand, which she had been gathering in the
garden. She took four of them from the rest,
and gave them to me through the bars. " How
old are you?" "Twenty-one." "And your
name is " "Maria." "And Clementina as
well?" "Yes, in bygone days !" I leaned as
close as I could, and spoke a few words in a
low tone, which she did not seem to under-
stand. " She does not understand," said 1.
"Yes, yes, I understand well; speak." "Are
you happy, lady?" The abbess, who was en-
gaged with my companion, turned her head,
and Maria answered with an air of gaiety, "0
yes, very happy." I shook my head as in
doubt. A minute elapsed, and the abbess was
occupied again. Maria put her hands through
the grating, took one of mine, and made me
feel a thin gold ring on her little finger, and
then, pressing my hand closely, said, in an
accent I still hear, "No, no; I have the heart-

The service began; the old nuns croaked
like frogs, and the young ones paced up and
down, and round about, in strange and fanciful
figures, chanting as sweetly as caged canary-
birds. I gazed at them for a long time with
feelings that cannot be told, and when it was
time to go, I caught Maria's eye, and made
her a slight but earnest bow. She dropped a
curtsey, which seemed a genuflection to her
neighbour, raised a violet behind her service-
book to her mouth, held it, looked at it, and
kissed it in token of an eternal farewell.



In the convent of Drontheim,
Alone in her chamber
Knelt Astrid the Abbess,
At midnight, adoring,
Beseeching, entreating
The Virgin and Mother.

She heard in the silence
The voice of one speaking,
"Without in the darkness,
In gusts of the night- wind,
Now louder, now nearer,
Now lost in the distance.

The voice of a stranger
It seemed as she listened,
Of some one who answered,
VOL. iv.

Beseeching, imploring,

A cry from afar off

She could not distinguish.

The voice of Saint John,
The beloved disciple
Who wandered aud waited
The Master's appearance,
Alone iu the darkness,
Unsheltered and friendless.

" It is accepted,
The angry defiance,
The challenge of battle !
It is accepted,
But not with the weapons
Of war that thou wieldest !

"Cross against corslet,
Love against hatred,
Peace-cry for war-cry !
Patience is powerful ;
He that o'ercometh
Hath power o'er the nations !

" As torrents in summer,
Half-dried in their channels,
Suddenly rise, though the
Sky is still cloudless,
For rain has been falling
Far off at their fountains;

"So hearts that are fainting
Grow full to o'erflowing,
And they that behold it,
Marvel, and know not
That God at their fountains
Far off has been raining!

" Stronger than steel
Is the sword of the Spirit ;
Swifter than arrows
The life of the truth is ;
Greater than anger
Is love, and subdueth !

"Thou art a phantom,
A shape of the sea-mist,
A shape of the brumal
Rain, and the darkness
Fearful and formless ;
Day dawns and thou art not !

" The dawn is not distant,
Nor is the night starless ;
Love is eternal !
God is still God, and
His faith shall not fail us;
Christ is eternal ! "




The late Duke of used to say, "Next

Friday, by the blessing of Heaven, I purpose
to be drunk;" and in like manner I used to
lix beforehand how often, within a given time,
and when, I would commit a debauch of opium.
This was seldom more than once in three
weeks; for at that time I could not have ven-
tured to call every day (as I did afterwards)
for "a glass of laudanum negus, warm, and
without sugar." No: as I have said, I seldom
drank laudanum, at that time, more than
once in three weeks: this was usually on a
Tuesday or a Saturday night; my reason for
which was this. In those days Grassini sang
at the opera: and her voice was delightful to
me beyond all that I had ever heard. I know
not what may be the state of the opera-house
now, having never been within its walls for
seven or eight years, but at that time it was
by much the most pleasant place of public
resort in London for passing an evening. Five
shillings admitted one to the gallery, which
was subject to far less annoyance than the pit
of the theatres: the orchestra was distinguished
by its sweet and melodious grandeur, from all
English orchestras, the composition of which,
I confess, is not acceptable to my ear, from the
predominance of the clangorous instruments,
and the absolute tyranny of the violin. The
choruses were divine to hear: and when Grassini
appeared in some interlude, as she often did,
and poured forth her passionate soul as Andro-
mache, at the tomb of Hector, &c., I question
whether any Turk, of all that ever entered the
paradise of opium-eaters, can have had half
the pleasure I had. But, indeed, I honour the
barbarians too much by supposing them cap-
able of any pleasures approaching to the intel-
lectual ones of an Englishman. For music is
an intellectual or a sensual pleasure, according
to the temperament of him who hears it. And,
by-the-by, with the exception of the fine ex-
travaganza on that subject in Twelfth Night,
I do not recollect more than one thing said
adequately on the subject of music in all litera-
ture: it is a passage in the Religio Medki 1 of
Sir T. Brown; and, though chiefly remarkable
for its sublimity, has also a philosophic value,

1 1 have not the book at this moment to consult, but
I think the passage begins "And even that tavern
music, which makes one man merry, another mad in
me strikes a deep fit of devotion, &c."

inasmuch as it points to the true theory of
musical effects. The mistake of most people
is to suppose that it is by the ear they com-
municate with music, and, therefore, that they
are purely passive to its effects. But this is
not so: it is by the reaction of the mind upon
the notices of the ear (the matter coming by
the senses, the form from the mind) that the
pleasure is constructed : and therefore it is that
people of equally good ear differ so much in
this point from one another. Now opium, by
greatly increasing the activity of the mind
generally, increases, of necessity, that particu-
lar mode of its activity by which we are able
to construct, out of the raw material of organic
sound, an elaborate intellectual pleasure. But,
says a friend, a succession of musical sounds is
to me like a collection of Arabic characters: I
can attach no ideas to them! Ideas! my good
sir? there is no occasion for them: all that
class of ideas, which can be available in such a
case, has a language of representative feelings.
But this is a subject foreign to my present
purposes: it is sufficient to say, that a chorus,
&c., of elaborate harmony, displayed before me,
as in a piece of arras work, the whole of my
past life not as if recalled by an act of memory,
but as if present and incarnated in the music:
no longer painful to dwell upon: but the detail
of its incidents removed, or blended in some
hazy abstraction; and its passions exalted,
spiritualized, and sublimed. All this was to
be had for five shillings. And over and above
the music of the stage and the orchestra, I had
all around me, in the intervals of the perform-
ance, the music of the Italian language talked
by Italian women: for the gallery was usually
crowded with Italians: and I listened with a
pleasure such as that with which Weld the
traveller lay and listened, in Canada, to the
sweet laughter of Indian women; for the less
you understand of a language, the more sen-
sible you are to the melody or harshness of its
sounds: for such a purpose, therefore, it was
an advantage to me that I was a poor Italian
scholar, reading it but little, and not speaking
it at all, nor understanding a tenth part of
what I heard spoken.

These were my opera pleasures: but another
pleasure I had, which, as it could be had only
on a Saturday night, occasionally struggled
with my love of the opera; for, at that time,
Tuesday and Saturday were the regular opera
nights. On this subject I am afraid I shall
be rather obscure, but, I can assure the reader,
not at all more so than Marinus, in his life
of Proclus, or many other biographers and
autobiographers of fair reputation. This



pleasure, I have said, was to be had only on
a Saturday night. What then was Saturday
night to me more than any other night? I
had no labours that I rested from; no wages
to receive: what needed I to care for Saturday
night, more than as it was a summons to hear
Grassini? True, most logical reader: what
you say is unanswerable. And yet so it was,
and is, that, whereas different men throw their
feelings into different channels, and most are
apt to show their interest in the concerns of
the poor, chiefly by sympathy, expressed in
some shape or other, with their distresses and
sorrows, I, at that time, was disposed to express
my interest by sympathizing with their plea-
sures. The pains of poverty I had lately seen
too much of; more than I wished to remember:
but the pleasures of the poor, their consolations
of spirit, and their reposes from bodily toil,
can never become oppressive to contemplate.
Now Saturday night is the season for the chief,
regular, and periodic return of rest to the poor:
in this point the most hostile sects unite, and
acknowledge a common link of brotherhood:
almost all Christendom rests from its labours.
It is a rest introductory to another rest: and
divided by a whole day and two nights from
the renewal of toil. On this account I feel
always, on a Saturday night, as though I also
were released from some yoke of labour, had
some wages to receive, and some luxury of
repose to enjoy. For the sake, therefore, of
witnessing, upon as large a scale as possible, a
spectacle with which my sympathy was so en-
tire, I used often, on Saturday nights, after I
had taken o.pium, to wander forth, without
much regarding the direction or the distance,
to all tl>3 markets, and other parts of London,
to which the poor resort on a Saturday night,
for laying out their wages. Many a family
party, consisting of a man, his wife, and some-
times one or two of his children, have I listened
to, as they stood consulting on their ways and
means, or the strength of their exchequer, or
the price of household articles. Gradually I
became familiar with their wishes, their diffi-
culties, and their opinions. Sometimes there
might be heard murmurs of discontent: but
far oftener expressions on the countenance, or
uttered in words, of patience, hope, and tran-
quillity. And, taken generally, I must say,
that, in this point at least, the poor are far
more philosophic than the rich that they
show a more ready and cheerful submission to
what they consider as irremediable evils,' or ir-
reparable losses. Whenever I saw occasion, or
could do it without appearing to be intrusive,
I ioined their parties; and gave my opinion

upon the matter in discussion, which, if not
always judicious, was always received indul-
gently. If wages were a little higher, or ex-
pected to be so, or the quartern loaf a little
lower, or it was reported that onions and but-
ter were expected to fall, I was glad: yet, if
the contrary were true, I drew from opium
some means of consoling myself. For opium
(like the bee, that extracts its materials indis-
criminately from roses and from the soot of
chimneys) can overrule all feelings into a com-
pliance with the master-key. Some of these
rambles led me to great distances: for an
opium-eater is too happy to observe the motion
of time. And sometimes in my attempts to
steer homewards, upon nautical principles, by
fixing my eye on the pole-star, and seeking

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