and, what was very pleasant, the Franciscan monastery at Acre afforded him three days' rest and refreshment free of all charge. The first night, he observes, I passed without sleep: for, as I had not slept in a bed for a year and a half, I was quite uncomfortable in one.' Quitting this haven of rest, along with a comrade, he set out on a journey by way of Nazareth to Jerusalem. This proved a distressing pilgrimage. Towards evening, as the wayfarers entered the plain of Zebulon, they sought for a free inn among the villages, but none was to be found. It was dark, and we went on for another half hour. Then, arriving at a thicket, we turned to the left, out of the way, and took up our quarters under God's free heaven, and beneath a peaceful olive-tree. Camel-drivers went past during the night, and my comrade was full of anxiety; but we continued quiet, and awoke happy the next morning. With the break of day, without any food, and with only a little supply of water, which was already warni, we arose, and advanced over hill and dale, through copses of oak, over stones and naked rocks. Roads crossed themselves in all directions. In the mountains grazed long-haired goats, and sheep with broad tails. Our necessity increased at every step, as we had no water; and the burning heat made us exceedingly faint. My companion flung himself on the earth, and resolved to die on the spot rather than to advance another step into the wilderness. After much persuasion, he was prevailed on to go a little further, collected his strength, and marched with me forward. Presently we issued from this desert track, and entered again the cheerful green fields; a well, too, after which we had so earnestly sighed, presented itself, and a kind-hearted maiden, like another Rebecca, gave us to drink. By this well it is always, and especially towards evening, a busy scene. Women are washing, girls come and draw water in their jugs or leathern bags, herdsmen approach to water their cattle, and asses are loaded with water-sacks, which they carry frequently to a distance of from six to nine miles. We asked the way to Nazareth-called in Arabic Nazara-and it was pointed out to us, with the assurance that it was very easy to find. Thereupon we laid us down under a shady fig-tree by a cattle-shed, and refreshed ourselves with the clear water, but had nothing to eat. After this, when we had climbed other hills covered with low brushwood, had seen to the east the village of Cana in Galilee, with its little mud huts, which looked like ruins, and had again refreshed ourselves with cold water at a well near a village, in a dale planted with fig and olive trees, we espied the little town of Nazareth, standing still and lonely on another hill, with its little huts of clay and mud, with flat roofs, from amid which a convent towered aloft, surrounded by a wall. One hut, owing to the steepness of the hill, lay as it were over the other. And this, then, was the place where our Saviour passed the years of his childhood, and where he afterwards, on his perambulations, taught in the schools.' At Nazareth they receive poor treatment, and proceed through a miserable country to Tiberias, satisfied with a view of the sea of Galilee, which lay before them 'like a clear pure mirror, surrounded by naked and scorched hills. Amid stones, crags, and sandy wastes, they travelled to Cana, and then back to Nazareth, suffering great bodily distress from hunger and excoriation of the feet. Finally, they got to Jerusalem on the 15th of August 1838. Holthaus gives a pretty suc. cinct account of the Holy city, which, having inspected to his heart's content, living the meanwhile at free quarters in the Franciscan convent of St Salvatori, he went off on a wandering excursion to the Jordan and Dead Sea. He returned to Jerusalem, and finally quitted that city on the 2d of September for Jaffa, halting by the way at another of those Franciscan convents, without shelter from which, poor pilgrims would die in thousands in the inhospitable wilderness. At Jaffa, the ancient Joppa, he picked up his former comrade, and the wandering pair took ship to Bey rout. The vessel, which was loaded with watermelons, was a bad sailer, and one day when the anchor was dropped, our hero went ashore to a neighbouring Arab village. There is a touch of nature in what follows. An old woman speedily came running up to me, and implored me to enter her dwelling. I regarded the invitation with suspicion, for you cannot lightly trust the Arab and Turkish women. But I ventured; and she led me into a miserable hut, which I was obliged to enter by stooping, or rather creeping through its low doorway. There, on the floor, lay a black man and a boy, who were both ill. The old woman made me to understand that she wished me to cure them. I could only shrug my shoulders, and explain to her that I was no doctor, nor had any curative means with me. The poor woman sighed, probably imagining that I would not exert my skill. In the East, a Frank is continually regarded as a doctor, and this was now my case. Had I had some brandy and sugar by me, it is probable that I might have assisted the Arab, for this is the favourite remedy with these people.' The vessel again went forward on its voyage, but so slowly, that at Acre the errant journeyman lost patience with the delays, and resolved to encounter a land journey at all hazards the rest of the way. Throwing my knapsack on my back, I bought some bread, filled my bottles with water, and marched on by land. It was a fruitful plain through which I strode. To the left lay the Mediterranean, and before me stretched a vast level. At first my way lay through pomegranate gardens and a cedar wood; but afterwards amongst rocks and precipices, till towards evening I entered the plain of Tyre, now Sur. The night overtook me, and I took up my quarters in the bed of a dried-up brook. The next morning, as I awoke, I heard the dull ringing of the bells of a caravan. I arose hastily, quickened my steps, and soon reached it. One of the drivers, who had an unloaded ass, allowed me for eight piastres to ride it to Sidon. This was a novelty for me. We passed several kanaks, where Arab bread, goats' cheese, figs, grapes, and coffee, could be purchased. This night again I slept in the open air, but in the company of six camels, two asses, and three Arabs. Three hours before the break of day, our caravan put itself in motion; and before the dawn, we were in Sidon, or Saide, as it is at present named, where I merely stayed a few minutes in a Turkish coffee-house, and then stretched my staff farther along the coast, now through deep sandy plains, and now over mountains. Six miles from Beyrout, however, from fatigue and thirst, I was unable to move another stride. I took up my quarters for the night in a summer-house in a mulberry garden, and arising early the next morning, proceeded to Beyrout, where, the 12th of September, I luckily again encountered my fellow-countryman and pilgrim, August, who had arrived the day before. Here then our pilgrimage ended. I had traversed the desolate mountain ranges of Palestine, stood on the shores of the Galilean lake, of the Jordan, and the Dead Sea. I had trod the scenes where the foot of the Redeemer had once wandered, and kneeled and prayed on the place of his birth, his death, and resurrection; and now I yearned once more after Europe and my native land.' From Beyrout the journeyman tailor went by sea to Constantinople, there got some work from his old master, but, urged by the thirst for travel, became impatient, and broke away for Athens. At Athens, he was delighted to find himself-thanks to King Otho's Bavarian followers-in a town almost half German. Getting work immediately from the ladies' tailor, Marksteiner, he describes his mode of life. Here, as in Constantinople, I hired a room with my fellowtraveller, but a room it was only, without bed, chair, or table. Beds I had no further acquaintance with. For years I had now slept on the paved ground, on boards, and frequently amongst rocks and precipices in the open air. Here, wrapped in my quilt, and with my knapsack under my head, I slept more sweetly than many a one in the softest bed. My trunk was my chair and table. Every morning I went early to the workshop, where, besides the master, four journeymen and five German girls worked. We made up only fine articles, for the most part silken stuffs; for the ladies of Athens dress as splendidly as the Grecian, Armenian, and Frank ladies in Constantinople. In the morning, at seven o'clock, we had a cup of sweetened coffee, with a white roll, handed to us in the workshop; at noon we dined in a Bavaroise-that is, a Bavarian hotel-and paid, for three dishes, with a bottle of wine, seventy lepte, about fourpence-halfpenny; in the evening we took supper at home: but I did not spend much time in my hired room. On Sunday mornings we went to church, took a walk in the afternoon, partook in a coffee-house, on a country excursion, a glass of wine, of which the bottle cost twenty lepte, or sixteen pfennigs, about a penny-farthing English, and chatted very agreeably the time away. In the evening we went to the "Concordia," that is, to a select society of German masters there established, their wives, and assistants, both young men and young women. The journeymen tailors and other professionists formed themselves into a theatric company, and one of my comrades was director; and sometimes an individual stepped forward and declaimed something. Occasionally a ball was given, so that, side by side with good employment here, pleasure and entertainment were not wanting.' Our space forbids us going much further with the vagrant tailor. He walked over a considerable part of Greece before leaving the country; sailed for Naples; visited Rome; arrived in France by Marseilles; and proceeded by way of Paris and Belgium to Germany, where the beloved waters of the Rhine again greet his sight. On the 5th of November 1840 he entered his native Werdohl, after an absence of sixteen years and six months. Affectionately the long absent tailor was welcomed by his friends, and the narrative of his wanderings was listened to with universal delight. Having given his travels to the world in the volume before us, he set forth on a fresh journey, taking this time a direction towards the northern countries of Europe. He is now stitching his way through Russia, and the reader may hope, if he return safe, for another and equally curious volume, to be translated, like the present, we trust, by our friend William Howitt. NICHOLSON, THE AIREDALE POET. A VOLUME of poems, the production of John Nicholson, 'the Airedale poet,' as he was termed, has fallen under our notice, and affords us a not unsuitable opportunity of saying a few words respecting this son of genius, and of drawing a moral from his unhappy fate. John Nicholson, as we learn from a biographic sketch prefixed to his poems, was the son of a wool-sorter at Bingley, in Yorkshire, in the neighbourhood of which, on the summit of the wild mountain tract of Romalds Moor, he received the elements of education from a rustic besom - maker; who, like a peripatetic philosopher, led forth his little band of scholars to teach them lessons, while they pulled the blooming twig for his besoms, which he sold in the surrounding villages on the Saturday holidays. Whether this vagrant life among the hills unsettled the mind of young Nicholson, does not clearly appear; but we learn that, as he grew up, his father could not induce him to adopt patient habits of industry at his profession of wool-sorting, and that he took every opportunity of neglecting his duties for the sake of reading and meditating on poetic composition. We must pass over his early years, however, and take him up at middle life, when he had begun to write and publish fugitive pieces, and to have almost entirely abandoned the means of gaining a regular livelihood for himself and family. Encouraged by admiring friends, in 1824 he published Airedale and other Poems;' of the versification of which, the reader may form an idea from the following eulogy on past times: Though history hath shaded o'er with crimes The long past period of the feudal times, Here foreign luxuries were yet unknown, And all they wished was in the valley grown. Their wholesome food was butter, cheese, and milk, And Airedale's ladies never shone in silk; The line they grew their own soft hands prepared; The wool unneeded to the poor was spared; But few the poor, unless by age oppressed; At little rent some acres each possessed. Such was this vale when Kirkstall's glories shone, And who can help but sigh that they are gone? A few lines from a poem entitled Reflections on the Return of the Swallow,' may be given as a specimen of one of his shorter pieces: Swift-winged and pleasing harbinger of spring! From whence, with new-fledged wings, thou took'st thy flight. Like thee, could man with philosophic eye Would grasp the human race in every form: A literary work from a hand so unpolished and unpromising excited surprise; and a poet being at that time a phenomenon in the locality, he became highly popular, and received many substantial marks of favour from his patrons. In his long and frequent journeyings to deliver his book to subscribers, and to obtain other purchasers, he unavoidably associated with men who were ever willing to treat him with liquor for the sake of his original and instructive conversation, and to witness his feats of impromptu verse-making. Had he possessed the least prudence or foresight, the produce of the poems, and the presents he now received, might have secured him a moderate competency for life; but, regardless of the intreaties and endeavours of friends, he riotously wasted his money among convivial companions, and seldom returned from book-vending excursions with a penny in his pocket. It is difficult to say whether this poor man most deserves pity or blame. Whatever were his own natural weaknesses, he was evidently a victim of the vulgar admiration which has shipwrecked so many uneducated poets. For years he gleaned a subsistence by selling his books, both in the country and in the metropolis; but this precarious mode of life brought no consolation, and having glutted the market with his wares, he was fain to return to the occupation of a wool-comber at Bradford. His life was a chequered scene of labour one day and reckless conduct the next, till the event which led to his melancholy end. Fond of rambling over hill and dale, and communing with nature, he one night, in April 1843, in crossing the river Aire by means of steppingstones, lost his footing, as is believed, and was swept down the stream. He was able to scramble to land, where he lay unnoticed, or at least unassisted, till he perished from cold and the apparent effects of apoplexy. He left a wife and eight children, for whose benefit the present volume of his poems has been laid before the public." of his life and writings, by John James, author of the History of Poems by John Nicholson, the Airedale Poet, with a sketch Bradford. London: Longman and Company. 1844. We said that a moral might be drawn from the dismal fate of poor Nicholson, and it is this-that whatever be a man's attainments, or however influential be his friends, all will not compensate for the want of prudence, and particularly temperance; nor will anything whatever excuse the neglect of the first of natural duties, a regard for the well-being of the domestic hearth. Nicholson possessed a wonderful degree of taste and power of expression; his poetry abounds in beautiful descriptions of the scenes amidst which he delighted to wander. But what availed such gifts? His career was one of disappointment and wo-his death that of the veriest outcast. Committing first the error of deserting his profession for the uncertain products of a half-mendicant existence, he yielded to temptations which in his sober moments he despised. The mental anguish he appears to have sustained during these lucid intervals is well depicted in one of his poems, called Genius and Intemperance,' with a quotation from which we close the present notice : Oh! could I write that I myself could save I know there's mirth, and there's a flash of joy, Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, whero For drinking drowns all genius, wealth, and hope, And fills connexions with a deep distrust. But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told Eternity alone can these unfold. That I may know these ills, and stop in time, HEALTH-ITS LOSS AND PRESERVATION DEPEND ON DAILY CONDUCT. [From Dr Combe's' Principles of Physiology applied to the Preservation of Health.'] WE are constantly meeting with anomalies in practical life, in the case of individuals little accustomed, when in health, to observe or to reflect on the influence of external circumstances and modes of living in disturbing the actions of the various animal functions, but at the same time easily and deeply impressed by all extraordinary occurrences affecting them. Thus, when any one is taken ill, his relatives or friends become extremely anxious to have his room properly ventilated; his body-clothes frequently changed and carefully aired; his food properly regulated in quantity and quality; his skin cleaned and refreshed; his mind amused and tranquillised; his sleep sound and undisturbed; and his body duly exercised. And they state, as the reason for all this care, and most justly, that pure air, cleanliness, attention to diet, cheerfulness, regular exercise, and sound sleep, are all highly conducive to health. And yet such is the inconsistency attendant on ignorance, that the patient is no sooner restored, than both he and his guardians are often found to become as careless and indifferent in regard to all the laws of health, as if these were entirely without influence, and their future breach or observance could in no way affect him! Just as if it were not better, by a rational exercise of judgment, to preserve health when we have it, than first to lose it, and then pay the penalty in suffering and danger, as an indispensable preliminary to its subsequent restoration! One cause of such anomalous conduct is the dangerous and prevalent fallacy of supposing that, because glaring mischief does not instantly follow every breach of an organic law, no harm has been done. Thus, what is more common than to hear a dyspeptic invalid, who seeks to gratify his palate, affirm that vegetables, for example, or pastry, or puddings, do not disagree with him, as he ate them on such a day, and felt no inconvenience from them? and the same in regard to late hours, heated rooms, insufficient clothing, and all other sources of bad health, every one of which will, in like manner, be defended by some patient or other, on the ground that he experienced no injury from them on a certain specified occasion; while all, when the rule is not directly applied to themselves, will readily admit that, in the case of others, such things are, and must be, very hurtful. Happy would it often be for suffering man could he see beforehand the modicum of punishment which his multiplied aberrations from the laws of physiology are sure to bring upon him. But as, in the great majority of instances, the breach of the law is limited in extent, and becomes serious only by the frequency of its repetition, so is the punishment gradual in its infliction, and slow in manifesting its accumulated effect; and this very gradation, and the distance of time at which the full effect is produced, are the reasons why man in his ignorance so often fails to trace the connection between his conduct in life and his broken health. But the connection subsists, although he does not regard it, and the accumulated consequences come upon him when he least expects them. Thus, pure air is essential to the full enjoyment of health, and reason shows that every degree of vitiation must necessarily be proportionally hurtful, till we arrive at that degree at which, from its excess, the continuance of life becomes impossible. When we state this fact to a delicately constituted female, who is fond of frequenting heated rooms, or crowded parties, theatres, or churches, and call her attention to the hurtful consequences which she must inflict on herself by inhaling the vitiated air of such assemblies, her answer invariably is, that the closeness and heat are very disagreeable, but that they rarely injure her: by which she can only mean, that a single exposure to them does not always cause an illness serious enough to send her to bed, or excite acute pain; although both results are admitted sometimes to have followed. An intelligent observer, however, has no difficulty in perceiving that they do hurt her, and that although the effect of each exposure to their influence is so gradual as not to arrest attention, it is not the less progressive and influential in producing and maintaining that general delicacy of health by which she is characterised, and from which no medical treatment can relieve her, so long as its causes are left in active operation. * Of the truth and practical value of the above doctrines, the author may be allowed to quote his own case, as an instructive example. In the autumn of 1831, he went to Italy in consequence of pulmonary disease; which, in January and February 1832, reduced him to such a state of debility as to leave no hope of his surviving the spring. Aware that his only chance lay in assisting nature to the utmost extent, by placing every function in the circumstances best fitted for its healthy performance, he acted habitually on the principle of yielding the strictest obedience to the physiological laws, and rendering every other object secondary to this. He did so, in the full assurance that, whether recovery followed or not, this was, at all events, the most certain way to secure the greatest bodily ease, and the most perfect mental tranquillity compatible with his situation. The result was in the highest degree satisfactory. From being obliged to pause twice in getting out of bed, a slow but progressive improvement took place, and by long and steady perseverance, continued till, at the end of course under the necessity of borrowing money; but by industry and good management he has been enabled to pay it off, and is now free of the world. To make his history still more remarkable, he has brought up a family of 14 children, and buried two others. The circumstances of the case, as I heard them related, appeared to me so extraordinary, that I was induced to go over to Carlton to see the land, and to inquire into the system pursued with such admirable results. I found that Chancy has two sons grown up and married, who work for him as day-labourers, and three unmarried, who also work for him. In addition, he sometimes employs two or three other hands. He has five working horses, besides a brood mare and foal; nine breeding sows and a boar, five milk cows, and nine young cattle of different ages. I did not see any sheep. I could not find that he adopts any regular system of cropping; but the appearance of his crops bore testimony to the high condition of the land, though originally, I was informed, of inferior quality. The great secret of his good management and extraordinary success seems to be in a very liberal application of manure and of labour to improving the soil. He told me that he never sells any barley, peas, or beans, but devotes his whole growth of these to the feeding of stock, chiefly hogs, of which he fattens a great number. The particulars of this case are so extraordinary, that I should scarcely have given credit to them, had I not verified them on the spot. They appear to me to furnish a proof as remarkable as it is delightful, of the benefit of high farming. Rent of the 24 acres originally taken, 20s. per acre. Rent afterwards raised to 22s. and 24s. Rent of land subsequently taken, 40s. Weekly Chit-Chat. has one The Reformed Crows.-The following piece of drollery is found in a late Illinois newspaper:- Colonel B—of the best farms on the Illinois river. About one hundred acres of it are now covered with waving corn. When it came up in the spring, the crows seemed determined on its entire destruction. When one was killed, it seemed as though a dozen came to its funeral; and though the sharp crack of the rifle often drove them away, they always returned with its echo. The colonel at length became weary of throwing grass, and resolved on trying the virtue of stones. He sent to the druggist for a gallon of alcohol, in which he soaked a few quarts of corn, and scattered it over his field. The blacklegs came and partook with their usual relish, and, as usual, they were pretty well corned; and such a cooing and cackling-such strutting and staggering! When the boys attempted to catch them, they were not a little amused at their staggering gait, and their zig-zag course through the air. At length they gained the edge of the woods, and there being joined by a new recruit, which happened to be sober, they united, at the top of their voices, in haw-haw-hawing, and shouting either praises or curses of alcohol; it was difficult to tell which, as they rattled away without rhyme or reason. But the colonel saved his corn. As soon as they became sober, they set their faces steadfastly against alcohol. Not another kernel would they touch in his field, lest it should contain the accursed thing, while they went and pulled up the corn of his neighbours. They have too much respect for their character, black as they are, again to be found drunk.' Railway Charges.-Railway companies, from the general want of tact in their directors, are yet far from meeting the public wants. They do not seem to be aware that while a thousand persons desirous of travelling can spare ten shillings, a hundred thousand can spare five shillings, and so on in proportion-the lower the fare, the much greater increase in the number who would travel. This may be well exemplified in our own publication. At its present price of three-halfpence, it has sixty thousand purchasers: were the price raised to threepence, it would get only seven or eight thousand purchasers, if so many: if raised to fourpence, its circulation would probably sink to a thousand, and then it would not be worth anybody's while to issue it. How long it is before public bodies of traffickers can take lessons from facts so obvious to private comprehension! A universal lowering of railway fares is earnestly demanded by the public. A late writer on the subject observes-What astonishes us most in the present management of railways, is the indisposition to meet the public in the adoption of low fares--a plan which, we are more than ever convinced, would prove of incalculable ad vantage to those lines that would fearlessly adopt it. A penny-wise policy induced the directors of the Hull and Selby Railway to raise their fares, particularly the third class; and what has been the result ?-a falling off of passengers, inconvenience to the public, diminished revenue, and then a return to former rates, when they find their exorbitant demands will not pay them for the capital expended.' Southey's Epitaph.-The following lines, for inscription on a monument to Mr Southey in the church of Crosthwaite, have been furnished by Mr Wordsworth, poet-laureate :— 'Ye torrents foaming down the rocky steeps, Ye lakes wherein the spirit of water sleeps, Ye vales and hills, whose beauty hither drew The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you His eyes have closed; and ye, loved books, no more Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore, To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown, Adding immortal labours of his own: Whether he traced historic truth with zeal For the State's guidance, or the Church's weal; Or fancy, disciplined by studious art, Informed his pen, or wisdom of the heart, Or judgments sanctioned in the patriot's mind By reverence for the rights of all mankind. Large were his aims, yet in no human breast Could private feelings find a holier nest. His joys, his griefs, have vanished like,a cloud From Skiddaw's top; but he to heaven was vowed Through a long life, and calmed by Christian faith In his pure soul the fear of change and death." The Line of Literature. The reason why the periodicals have all arranged themselves along the line of Ficet Street and the Strand, is merely one of convenience. To establish an office for a newspaper in any other district of the metropolis, would argue very great ignorance on the part of the sistible attraction or extraordinary merit to overcome the publisher or proprietor. This alone, without some irrethe bud. The newsmen, in collecting their daily supply of obstruction, would be sufficient to nip the young flower in literary ware, run along the line of literature, and pick up dozens or half-dozens, or even single numbers of periodicals, within a line of about one mile in length. Even this is too long for many; and a literary square or market would reduce the trudgery of the trade considerably; but to be compelled to diverge from this line into any other as long as itself-to run from Fleet Street to Holborn, and from thence to Oxford Street or Regent Street, to collect two or three copies of different periodicals-would scarcely repay a common mendicant for the risk and the labour, even supposing he got his shoes for nothing, which, howfore, either establishes its office in Flect Street or the ever, needs no supposition at all. Every periodical, thereStrand, or in some street that branches off from them, as the two parent stocks-the father and the mother of English periodical literature. I should say that Fleet Street, being the oldest of the two, and within the city of London, is the male parent. The Strand, being the youngest, and within the city of Westminster, may be entitled to the honoured name of mother, or alma mater. It is remarkable, too, that there is a city for each, and that these two cities unite where the two streets unite-at the venerable old gateway of Temple Bar. There are several streets, or of them are publishing lanes: they have not yet risen to rather lanes, which branch off from Fleet Street, but none that dignity and such is the conservatism of the venders, as a class, that it would be almost dangerous to settle in one of them.- Walk from St Paul's,' in Family Herald. Duty of Old Age.-A material part of the duty of the aged consists in studying to be useful to the race who succeeds them. Here opens to them an extensive field, in which they may so employ themselves, as considerably to advance the happiness of mankind. To them it belongs to impart to the young the fruit of their long experience; to instruct them in the proper conduct, and to warn them of the various dangers of life; by wise counsel to temper their precipitate ardour; and both by precept and example to form them to piety and virtue. Aged wisdom, when joined with acknowledged virtue, exerts an authoarises from power and station. It can check the most rity over the human mind greater even than that which forward, abash the most profligate, and strike with awe the most giddy and unthinking.-Dr Blair. Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, Edinburgh; and, with their permission, by W. S. ORR, Amen Corner, London.-Printed by W. and R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. JOURNAL CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE,' 'CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE,' &c. No. 6. NEW SERIES. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 1844. 'SAVE ME FROM MY FRIENDS.' 'SAVE me from my friends, I can take care of my enemies,' was the exclamation of some one to whom it was suggested by circumstances which rendered it no paradox. It has since fixed itself in the popular mind, because occasions are perpetually occurring when men and causes appear in much more danger of being injured by their friends than by their enemies. It is indeed a most lamentable truth, that friends are more generally seen to be operative for evil than enemies, as if it were a law that that which is sweetest and best in this world should always carry in itself the greatest bitter. Respecting unfortunate princes, the remark has almost become an axiom. Laud and Strafford evidently did more to bring their master Charles I. to the block than Pym and Hampden. James II. lost his throne, not through the manly English opposition of his enemies the Whigs, but by those men who called themselves peculiarly his friends, the drivelling bigots who flattered him with their preachings of passive obedience, and changed their religion to please him. So was it also with Louis XVI. If he had had no friends within and without the country plotting for his restoration to a power which for the time was impossible, to all appearance he would have settled into a quiet limited monarch, and transmitted his crown to his children. He was not destroyed because there were enthusiastic republicans in his country, who were the enemies of his kingly function and person, but because there were extravagant ultra-monarchists who would not be corrected out of the ideas of a former age, and were so absorbed in their attachment to his single person, that they had no sympathy for the millions placed under him. Even French republicanism itself was allowed to be destroyed, not by its enemies, but by its friends, and not by the most lukewarm of these, but by the hottest. Robespierre, Marat, Barrere, the most enthusiastic of its lovers, the men who would have sacrificed anything for it, these were the men whom Providence appointed to make it odious for a series of ages in the eyes of mankind, by its frenzies, its heartlessness, and its immeasurable thirst for blood. Take any great cause of modern times, and it will be found that its greatest difficulties and dangers are from those who esteem themselves as most peculiarly its friends. To contend against a great majority, to struggle with powerful prejudices and interests serried on the other side, to wait for the slow progress of truth in converting men's minds, these are easily submitted to: they are the common fate of all aspiring causes. And in all these contentions with what is declaredly inimical, there is elicited an active and cheerful spirit well calculated to carry the rational votary over all sense of hardship. But very different is it to see the noble PRICE 14d. prospects in view dashed by a few hot-heads, who love the cause not wisely, but too well. Often will one rashly spoken word from these men undo all the good that has been done by the multitude of the judicious. Their inconsiderate proceedings in general form the very bane of the cause. Yet all the time, they usually consider themselves as the only honest, consistent, efficacious persons in the whole fraternity. Those who pause for combined movements, they regard as indifferent and obstructive. In the partial compromise of opinion which must attend all union, they see only dereliction of principle. They neither can wait for a good time, nor stoop to take advantage of ordinary maxims of policy. If the thing cannot be carried exactly in the way they wish, and in the form and to the extent of their wishes, all is to them naught. In fact, these heady co-sociates, who think themselves the only true friends of the cause, are simply the men of greatest self-esteem, obstinacy, and narrowness of judgment in the party-a class of unmovable and impracticable dolts, who attend all parties to their confusion and vexation, doing infinitely more daily damage, and occasioning infinitely more peril, than could be produced by enemies ten times more powerful. It is very curious to find the same principle operating to a large extent in the scientific world. Mr N. A. Vigors, in a paper on the classification of birds, makes the following remarks on the great Swedish naturalist, his friends and enemies: It has been his [Linnæus's] fate, in common with every exalted character who may be considered the founder of a school in science or philosophy, to have suffered more by the injudicious zeal and overweening partiality of his professed supporters, than from the undisguised attacks of those who would raise themselves upon his subversion. The former, regardless of the state of this department of nature [ornithology] at the period when he undertook to arrange it, and forgetting that the first efforts, even of his great mind, in reducing his subject into order, were necessarily but the rudiments of the science; mistaking, in fact, the foundation of his system for its perfect consummation, and thus making the grasp of the infant Hercules the measure of the powers of his manhood; these his injudicious supporters, I repeat, adhering solely to the letter of his works, but unmindful of their spirit, have palmed upon him a confined and restrictive code of arrangement, as foreign from the enlarged views of his own enlightened mind, as from the disposition of that Nature of which he was so faithful an interpreter. What was intended to have been applied to her works on a general and expanded scale, they would apply upon the minutest; they would make that system which they wish to uphold a universal and unalterable standard for the adjudication of every object that may be referred to it, however great or however contracted may be its dimensions. They would preserve this system, in short, |