ivory and wood. On one of the tables, in a plain case, was an old steel pen, which presented a remarkable contrast to the things by which it was surrounded. This pen was the one which the late Duke of Wellington used, and was sent as a present to the emperor by the present duke. -Mr. Pease's Lecture at Darlington.

You English people must be very fond of "shooting." You shoot on your farms, you shoot on your moors, you go to Scotland to shoot, you go to Norway to shoot, you go to Africa to shoot, you go to the Himalayas to shoot, your little boys shoot pop-guns, your post-boys "shoot the hills," your labourers "shoot the rubbish," your coalheavers shoot the coals," your dissipated drinkers 'shoot the cat," your runaway tenants "shoot the moon," your storytellers "shoot the long-bow," and your highly-bred gentleman makes no ceremony of shooting his friend; in fact, you English seem inclined to shoot anything and everything excepting the Russians.-Extract from the private Letter of a Foreign Correspondent.

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.*

[The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher, subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder, in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem.]

'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,

When four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school;

There were some that ran, and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped, with gamesome minds
And souls untouched by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:

Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran-

Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can:

But the usher sat remote from all,

A melancholy man!

*As the above poem affords the subject of one of the beautiful medallions on Hood's monument, we think it may be acceptable to those of our readers who may not have seen it.

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch Heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was on his brow, And his bosom ill at ease:

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees.

- Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside;

For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide :
Much study had made him very lean
And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome;
With a fast and fervid grasp―
He strained the dusty covers close
And fixed the brazen hasp;
"O GOD! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp.'

Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took-
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook-
And, lo he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book.

"My gentle lad, what is't you readRomance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable ?" The young boy gave an upward glance"It is The Death of Abel."

The usher took six hasty strides,

As smit with sudden pain-
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,

And talked with him of Cain.

And long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;

Of lonely folk cut off unseen,

And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves!

And how the sprites of injured men

Shriek upward from the sod-
And how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from GOD!

He told how murderers walked the earth
Beneath the curse of Cain-
With crimson clouds before their eyes,

And flames about their brain;

For blood had left upon their souls

Its everlasting stain!

"And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth,

Their pangs must be extreme

Woe, woe, unutterable woe

Who spill life's sacred stream!

For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream!

"One that had never done me wrong—

A feeble man, and old;

I led him to a lonely field,

The moon shone clear and cold; Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!

"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,

And one with a heavy stone,
One horrid gash with a hasty knife-
And then the deed was done;
There was nothing lying at my feet,
But lifeless flesh and bone!

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill;

And yet I feared him all the more,
For lying there so still :
There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill!

"And lo! the universal air

Seemed lit with ghastly flame-
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame;
I took the dead man by the hand,
And called him by his name!

"Oh GCD! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain !

But when I touched the lifeless clay,
The blood gushed out amain!
For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain!
"My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart was solid ice;

My wretched, wretched soul I knew,
Was at the devil's price:
A dozen times I groaned; the dead
Had never groaned but twice!

"And now from forth the frowning sky,
From the heavens' topmost height,

I heard a voice-the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite;
'Thou guilty man, take up thy dead,
And hide it from my sight!'

"I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream-

A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme
(My gentle boy, remember this
Was nothing but a dream).

"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanished in a pool;

Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And washed my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young
That evening in the school.

"Oh Heaven! to think of their white souls,

And mine so black and grim!

I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in evening hymn;
Like a devil of the pit I seemed
'Mid Holy cherubim.

"And peace went with them one and all,
And each calm pillow spread;

But Guilt was my grim chamberlain
That lighted me to bed,

And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red!

"All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint,
That racked me all the time,
A mighty yearning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime!

"One stern, tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse

Did that temptation craveStill urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave!

'Heavily I rose up-as soon
As light was in the sky-
And sought the black, accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye:
And I saw the dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry!

Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dew-drop from its wing;

But I never marked its morning flight,
I never heard it sing:

For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,

I took him up and ran―

There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began:

In a lonesome wood with heaps of leaves,
I hid the murdered man!

"And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was otherwhere;
As soon as the mid-day task was done,
In secret I was there :

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare!

"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
That Earth refused to keep;
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep!

"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atones!
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,

And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his fleshThe world shall see his bones!

"Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again-again, with a dizzy brain,

The human life I take;

And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow ;
The horrid thing pursues my soul—
It stands before me now!"
The fearful boy looked up and saw
Huge drops upon his brow!

That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin's eyelids kissed,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

The Editing of this Journal will, for the future, be SOLELY in the hands of the Proprietress. It is, therefore requested that all communications will be addressed in her name to the Office, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

LANCASHIRE STUMP ORATORY

AND

REMINISCENCES OF THE LABOUR BATTLE.
BY A PRESTONIAN.

CHAPTER II.-NATIVE ELOQUENCE.
Give me one spark of Nature's fire,

That's all the learning I desire.-Burns.

[PRICE 1 d.

glittering brass clasps and periodically-renewed applications of the celebrated sable product of Messrs. Day and Martin's establishment, are still very much worn amongst them, though not so generally as in Bolton and other neighbouring towns. The lasses were not in their holiday clothes when they assembled to hear the statements of the delegates in the Orchard. It is no unusual thing to meet groups of them on the picturesque walks near the banks of the Ribble on fine Sunday evenings, neatly attired in muslin or silk dresses. The aristocratic antecedents of "proud Preston" would appear to have exercised some influence in the formation of the tastes of the plebeian successors to the race of poor but "well-born" denizens, whom the vulgar innovating steamengine has almost entirely scared from the town and immediate neighbourhood. I found the principal portion of the adult males conversing quietly in groups, doubtless speculating upon the chances of a successful issue to the contest. The younger were cheerfully consuming the time in various popular sports, such as "hop, skip, and jump," and "frog-leap," or "pug-hole," and other games at marbles. Upon the whole, to my surprise they appeared to be remarkably well satisfied either with their then condition or with the aspect of the future.

In the earlier portion the late contest between the capitalists and the "hands" engaged in the staple trade of Preston, I felt disposed to view with my own eyes the conduct and temper of the operatives and their leaders. Accordingly, on a fine Saturday afternoon I turned my steps from Friargate through Orchard Street to the scene of their great public meetings. I arrived a few minutes earlier than the time announced for the commencement of the proceedings. Crowds of persons were rapidly con-verging from the various inlets to the locality towards the upper portion of the principal plot, situated immediately opposite to the "Blackamoor's Head Inn." I expected to find a mass of care-worn countenances, to hear occasional expressions of sullen discontent, and altogether to witness an exhibition tinctured strongly with moody passion or fierce excitement. But I was singularly and agreeably disappointed. A large proportion of the spectators were big boys and young women, the power-loom weaving, which employs the largest portion of the human "hands" appertaining to the cotton manufacture, being principally superintended by these classes of the population. The Preston weaver lasses" have long enjoyed the reputation of being rather cleaner and "smarter" in general personal appearance than many of their compeers in neighbouring towns; and from some little experience I rather think they deserve it. The bulk, though humbly, were tidily dressed, in a costume in some respects peculiar to their class. For instance, most of them appear in the open air in thick woollen shawls of various colours, and clean little aprons principally though not invariably of gingham or check. Light and neatly formed wooden-soled clogs resplendent with

Being personally known to the reporters for the press, I, under their guidance, forced myself, with some difficulty, through the dense crowd in the direction of the "stump," which, in this instance, differed slightly from the "genuine original" of the Kentucky backwoodsmen. In place of the radical remnant of one of the lords of the primeval forest bearing on his front, like a slaughtered hero, death-wounds from an invader's hatchet, a simple, every-day, rather dirty-looking cart, scotched at the wheels and firmly fixed in a horizontal position, formed the platform from which these rude, untrained, but courageous and indomitable asserters of the "rights of labour," fulminated their indignation and their hatred of the "tyrant millocrats" and "shoddyocracy."

I may as well, perhaps, observe here, that "shoddy" is the provincial term for coarse waste cotton or silk, and that the title "shoddyocracy" is conferred upon manufacturing capitalists by the disaffected operatives as an expression of contempt, in lieu of "cottonocracy."

Those who are in the habit of depositing their respectable persons in elegantly-fashioned and richly-emblazoned vehicles by means of patent folding steps, carefully adjusted by footmen practically conversant with the punc

tilios of fashionable life, might perhaps have met with serious difficulty in an attempt to mount the "stump in question. But the leaders of this great and significant movement, although a little better dressed than the mass of their audience, being, after all, but rude hard-working men, accustomed to rough it" in ordinary life, and habituated to little ceremony, vaulted actively over the cart-wheel into the centre of the vehicle. Though infinitely less expert, I made the best of the difficulty, and followed amid some good-humoured jostling of the lasses, and the not very flattering observations of two or three more ancient dames, who seemed mightily amused at my well-meant, but, I must confess, rather clumsily-executed gymnastics. I was evidently suspected to be a "cotton lord," or, at the least, some friend of the "masters," but after I had taken out my pocket-book and commenced writing along with the reporters, I ceased to attract particular attention. The "stump was pretty well crowded, each individual "gentleman of the press" and popular speaker seating himself with little dignity and less comfort upon the sharp edge of the sides of the vehicle.

From my elevated position I was enabled to survey at leisure the aspect of the multitude assembled around me. Of course, in so numerous a gathering, for there were supposed to be upwards of 10,000 persons present, almost every variety of stature, physiognomy, complexion, and expression might naturally be expected to be found; yet, though daily accustomed to a sight of our factory operatives, I was painfully struck on this occasion with the very great prevalence of a sickly pale primrose tint with which the skin-nay, indeed the very blood, seemed to be completely saturated, and which gave to the whole frame that dry, sapless, "sere-and-yellow-leaf" sort of hue, so strongly characteristic of premature old age. Upon the whole, the skin of the males seemed to be more deeply imbued with this jaundiced kind of infusion than that of the females, to many of whom it imparted what the fashionably-educated young lady would, doubtless, from its positive insipidity, describe as rather an "interesting sort of complexion. Here and there the well-rounded form and rosy countenance of some country girl but lately introduced into the mill, and consequently comparatively uninfected, beamed amongst the mass like an indignant commentary upon the general deterioration of that beautiful and noble humanity first fashioned in his own image by the hand of God. There was no mistaking the cause, however repugnant to our own money-getting notions and prejudices. This conversion of the robust hardy frame of our Saxon manhood into something like "a blasted sapling withered up" is evidently one of the results of continued confinement in a heated atmosphere, and I suppose must of necessity be accepted as a portion of the set-off to the many and great commercial advantages which have accrued to England since the introduction of the cotton manufacture. Well, I suppose it is so. But may it not be advisable just now and then, by the way, to reflect that we may possibly, as a nation, purchase commercial prosperity, and even wealth itself, at rather too great a price? The poet spoke a prophetic warning when he exclaimed

Ill fares the land, to hastening woes a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay.

Mr. Waddington, a Preston weaver, performed the duties of chairman. The chair itself was a myth, or rather a polite fiction, as Mr. W. simply stood amongst the other occupants of the cart, undistinguished by either insignia or position. His opening address presented a capital specimen of what I term the medium phasis of the rich dialect of Lancashire, so redolent with strong obsolete Saxonisms, still retained occasionally, however, in the modern versions of Chaucer and Spenser. This dialect varies much in different portions of the

county- the northern, southern, and middle districts exhibiting distinct peculiarities. Take a stickful," as a printer would say, by way of a specimen :

"Well, friends, what dun yo think? They (I meean t' press) nah co us delicates' stump orators!' They sen we goa about maunting t' stump an mecking speeches; an we do it o' for t' brass as yo give us. Well, it's a terrible deal yo give us, to be sure. [Loud laughter.] They sen we're lazy fellows, an to idle to wark. [Laughter.] I should think I know what wark is as weel as some on 'um; an I'll tell yo what, it's t' fost time I ever went aut a stumping' it; an it's t' hardest wark I ever did i' moy life afore. It'll never do for lazy chaps, I con tell yo. [Loud cheering.] I don't care ha soon I give o'er; an when we've settled this, yo waynt catch me going aut on t' stump agean so soon, I know!"

Amongst others, Mr. George Cowell and Mr. Mortimer Grimshaw addressed the meeting. These two men were unquestionably the Cobden and Bright of this Labour League." By their untiring energy and inflexible determination, they contributed much to the lengthy and unparalleled resistance offered by the operatives to the dictum of their employers.

Some experience in life has taught me that the genuine native humanity presents no essential class difference when the external plumage is stripped, and the influence of education and habit duly considered. You may stitch the universal memoir in a wrapper, or bind it in morocco and gold, yet the honest seeker after unalloyed truth still reads but the old, old story-the eternal struggle between the famous "first law of nature," or vulgar self-interest, and the second and BEST, Christian charity and duty to others.

The rough, knarled Australian nugget, though unsightly in form and surface, nevertheless contains as pure gold as the elegantly-chased and burnished vase which excites the rapture and envy of fashionable loungers in the saloons of royalty. To me the dull rude ore of humanity is the sturdy unlettered operative; the resplendent vase, the wealthy merchant or polished gentleman. Experience and skill fashions the latter from the former. True, the appearance and the form are marvellously changed, but the precious metal remains the same,-the amalgam can easily be resolved into its original elements.

With this explanation, then, I regard George Cowell as the "Cobden " and Mortimer Grimshaw as the "John Bright of the 'Labour League." I do not simply allude to the respective relative positions or to the influence of the men over their fellows. The parallel holds good in several respects. Their temperaments to some extent assimilate. Cowell was generally calm and logical in his style of address. After all, he appealed more to the intellect and judgment of his audience, such as it was, than to their passions. His very manner and conduct bore the impress of sincerity. I have conversed with men opposed to him in opinion upon this subject, who have cheerfully acknowledged their belief in his general integrity of purpose. Cowell is a Preston weaver; yet, though I am a native, and pretty well known to the working classes of the town, I never heard of such a man before the commencement of the "strike!" Indeed, had Cowell been merely a "professional agitator" or spouting demagogue," the struggle could not have lasted half the time it did. Whatever might be the amount of ignorance of commercial law or "political economy played by these delegates, they, as a body, certainly lacked not zeal and enthusiasm in the cause. Notwithstanding the inuendoes of interested parties and their friends, "the people seem to have reposed the fullest confidence in Cowell to the last; and, honestly, from all the known facts, he appears to me to have deserved it,-at least, quite as much as most public men. To Cowell and two or three others we are mainly indebted for the orderly

"dis

conduct which, in the opinion of one of the most active of the "masters," expressed to myself, "reflects lasting credit upon the working men of Preston!"

George Cowell is rather below the middle height. His forehead is ample, and the expression of his countenance thoughtful and benevolent. He is a man of very limited scholastic education, but he appears to possess calm, steady resolution, coupled with a powerful and somewhat active brain. With early cultivation, he would doubtless have distinguished himself in a more "respectable arena than the one generally occupied by the "stump orator." The patois of the district is not so strongly marked in his speech as in that of Waddington and some others, yet you know he is a Lancashire man the moment he opens his mouth. He stepped on the front of the cart in a quiet unassuming manner; and, after the tremendous applause which greeted his appearance had subsided, prefaced one of his most telling orations with the simple phrase,

Respected friends"-and then quietly proceeded in a business-like manner to narrate in detail the results of his various labours in different localities. He afterwards courageously, and with a steady voice, read aloud from the Times a terrible philippic, reeking with polished invective against himself, which was chorused at intervals by the auditory with a series of roars of laughter, indicative of anything but complimentary appreciation of the efforts of the writer for their edification. Cries of "Who's Times?" "Wot's he know about it?" "He's a fou!" "Let him mind his own business!" "Ne'er heed um, George; we know who tha are!" and such like expressions, jerked in between the laughter peals, pretty plainly indicated that the "thunder of the "leading journal," in the opinion of the Preston factory hands, partook largely of either the "buttered" or the theatrical brand of that commodity. It was certainly a fine exhibition of English "pluck" to see this sturdy Briton shake his unarmed fist in the face of the great "literary gladiator," and, like friend Nathan with the “ ring-tailed roarer," try a friendly fall" with him. George did not always get the worst of it either in these encounters. The Times influence does not extend to the working men; and George on the "stump was a greater monarch than the potentate of Printing-house Square. What the one lacked in polish was compensated by an equal lack of knowledge of facts connected with the dispute on the part of the otherwise powerful adversary. George came off so well in one of these tournaments, that the reporters of the press pretty unanimously awarded to him the victory, and the arrival soon afterwards of that mysterious being, our own correspondent," proved that the great monetary organ thought its plebeian antagonist was worthy of a nearer inspection.

66

George occasionally got a little excited, when he quitted for a time his "unadorned" Cobden style, and became rather more "eloquent," and now and then somewhat indiscreet; but considering the difficulty of his position, and the manner in which he was personally abused, by no means so much as might have been expected.

Mortimer Grimshaw is a bigger man, very much marked with the small-pox. He was well known by his white hat, which, I suppose, he wore after the fashion of Hunt and Cobbett, to indicate the depth of his "Radical" propensities. As John Bright plants his elevated fist firmly in advance, whilst eloquently expounding the doctrines of the Peace Society, so Mortimer Grimshaw advocates liberty to the oppressed "factory slaves' with a dogmatical invective and a blatant vituperation more worthy of a Russian despot than an English patriot. I do not assert that he is insincere. Maliciously impugning an adversary's motives is the height of folly to my mind, and the worst of all arguments. He appears to me to be an enthusiast, and that the warmth of his feelings, when excited, overpowers his judgment. I am told he comes of

a "speaking family," and that his father was considered pretty eloquent by the humbler radical reformers in the earlier part of the century. Grimshaw has very powerful lungs, and a most cordial hatred of all "cotton," or rather shoddyocracy." The most "malignant" of the defunct "Protectionists" could not outvie him in his horror of the "Manchester School!" I should imagine he is a great admirer of Mr. Disraeli's style of eloquence, or, perhaps, that of Mr. Busfield Ferrand is flavoured more to his taste. His fierce declamation evidently pleased a considerable part of his audience, and made him unquestionably the next favourite to Cowell. Some of the old women in the crowd mightily relished his highly seasoned harangues. "Isn't he a stunner? screamed one with ecstatic delight. "He's nowt else," replied another, with dogged determination to live for ever in that opinion. Yet, Mr. Grimshaw, with a most unpardonable want of gallantry, had actually ignored the presence of the fair sex in the opening sentence of his fierce invective against "tyrant millocrats." Men of Preston!" he exclaimed, in a theatrical tone and manner, which made me quake for future consequences. I have an objection to this style of opening the verbal battery upon a public audience. It seems to announce as plainly as possible the orator's good opinion of himself. It might be translated thus:- Now I am a great speaker! I'll tell you all about it. Let my opponents look out!" Depend upon it, more declamation than logic will follow such a commencement, whether the orator be Mr. Mortimer Grimshaw or any other "eloquent " gentleman, "honourable" or otherwise.

66

Mr. Worswick, of Padiham, is a capital specimen of another style. He does the low comedy, and does it well, too. I laughed till my ribs protested at some of his rough sallies and singular antics. How he contrived to keep his feet upon the head of the cart is past my comprehension, unless he has served a twelve months' engagement as clown to the ring" in some amphitheatre. He is a singularly enthusiastic, but goodhumoured fellow. He complimented the lasses on their appearance, made jokes, told humorous anecdotes, declared his "head, heart, and hands" were all true to the cause, and finished off in a complete paroxysm of virtuous determination to sacrifice his life in the cause. He flourished his arms in the air as wildly and rapidly as the sails of a "peg," or wooden windmill, in a gale of wind. He danced and jumped with an enthusiasm more fanatically outrageous than an Eastern dervish, and finished off by exclaiming, amidst the laughter of his audience, with a singular mixture of energy and good humour: "I don't care what comes or goas, I'll ne'er surrender. I'm alus thinking about it neet an day. I dream about it. I know it's our just reets, and we'll hev it yet. I'll ne'er give in if yo do, I've med up my mind for t'wost. I'm determined to hev it or to dee, shanghting ten pu'zent, and noa surrender!" Then bringing the whole of his force to bear for a single effort, he clasped his hands, threw up his arms, leapt into the air, and screaming at the top of his voice: "Ten pu' zent! ten pu' zent! TEN PU' ZENT, and noa surrender!" fell back into the cart.

POOR HOOD'S LAST NOVEL.

VERY few persons are acquainted with poor Hood's last novel, Our Family, which he left unfinished. We happen to have some of its stray chapters by us, and as we read them lately for about the fifteenth time, we thought it would be a treat to our readers to give them an extract or two, when space permits. Who will not admire and enjoy this introductory page: