THE

PEOPLE'S PRESS,

AND

MONTHLY HISTORICAL NEWSPAPER.

VOL. II.-1848.

CONDUCTED BY

WILLIAM SHIRREFS,

FELLOW OF THE STATISTICAL SOCIETY OF LONDON, EDITOR OF THE "ISLE OF MAN TIMES," THE "ODD-FELLOWS' CHRONICLE," ETC., ETC.

"Yet much remains

To conquer still: Peace hath her victories

Not less renowned than War: new foes arise,

Threatening to bind our souls in secular chains."---MILTON.

"Resolve earnestly on Self-culture. Make yourselves worthy of your free institutions, and strengthen and perpetuate them by
your intelligence and your virtue."-CHANNING.

LONDON:

JAMES WATSON, 3, QUEEN'S HEAD PASSAGE, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDWARD HEALEY, 1, RAQUET COURT, FLEET-STREET;

SOLD BY ALL RESPECTABLE BOOKSELLERS AND NEW3-AGENTS IN GREAT BRITAIN, IRELAND, AND THE COLONIES.

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STANFORD LIBRARY

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ME

THE

No. 13.-VOL. II}

And Monthly Historical Newspaper.

EDITED BY WILLIAM SHIRREFS.

JANUARY, 1848.

THE FEMALE CRIMINAL TO HER OFFSPRING.

BY H. MANDER MAY.

SLEEP, thou winsome babe, in tranquil innocence,
Nor think of the cares of to-morrow;

The God of the helpless will shield thee from harm,
And guard thee from shame and from sorrow!
Thon darling little one-heart's pride of thy mother--
Thou know'st not the pangs which await thee;
Alas! the world's devil is waiting to bribe—
Is waiting to warn thee against me.
But hear not the tale, 'twill entangle thy heart-
"Twill teach thee to hate and despise me: .
Hark not to its prattling, tho' winning it be,
Which will basely corrupt and deceive thee.
Sleep, handsome one, with thy eyes of lustre,
Thy little hand clasp'd and around my neck;
And must a mother's guilty deeds divide us,

And cause this my aching heart to break?
It must be so-Fate has thus ordained:

Thou and thy parent must for ever part,
Can any change which time may bring hereafter
Relieve the pang which breaks thy inother's heart?
No longer can I hear thy prattling tongue;

Forsaken and friendless I must leave thee:
No longer wilt thou hang on this fond breast;
Child of a felon! who will befriend thee?
Sleep on, my pretty one-sleep gleesome child,
Thy parent is branded with shame and crime;
No more she'll hear thy playful voice,

To-morrow wafts her to a distant clime.
And must I wake thee, to dim thy bright eyes,
Or, sleeping, bedew them with tears for awhile?
Oh say should a mortal so guilty as I

Force from a child the innocent smile!

But here with remorse, whilst placidly sleeping,
A criminal mother bestows her last kiss;

If in Heaven there's joy in a sinner repenting
In Heaven we med ogether in bliss.

I know that the base world will seek to deceive thee
With falsehoods like that which thy mother beguiled;
Yet, lost and degraded, to whom can I leave thee?
Oh! God of the fatherless, pity my child.

ABOUT BEGINNINGS.

[PRICE 1d.

enlightens the reader on both subjects-has been so frequently resorted to, that the charm of novelty has ceased to be imparted. Then there is the domestic opening, such as-" 'It won't do," exclaimed Sir Gregory Gibbs, as he sat meditatively over his breakfast, and vigorously stirred the peaceful surface of his matin cup of coffee, into a series of responsive ripples-"it will not do to allow the visits of Lord Cashmere to ensnare the heart of Arabella," and so on, in a long speech, which prepares the peruser for paternal opposition, fashionable elopements and clandestine marriages as forming the staple of the narrative. All these, and the other thousand-andone modes of forging the first link of a new chain of adventures, in which the mind of the reader is to become interestingly entangled, are beginnings that involve a considerable share of consideration.

Beginning to get up of a winter's cold and frosty morning is a task positively exacting an amount of Spartan fortitude. The icy chilliness of the surrounding atmosphere, the freezing touch of the exterior counterpane, the ordeal of investing oneself in appalling garments that arouse a memory of the North Pole, merely to look upon, form a repelling contrast to the snug cosiness of the blankets beneath which we are comfortably submerged. Our very breath seems to assume the vapourous emission from one of the Geysers round Hecla, and the first plunge of the warm feet on the cold oil-cloth will suggest to us the associations of making a progress of discovery on an ice-berg. Beginning to prepare for a long journey by one of the early trains, and cramming carpet-bags by can

BYRON'S line that "Nothing's so difficult as a beginning,"dlelight, with a desperate recollection of the raw mornmay, instead of a mere versified assertion, be justly re-ing air to be encountered afterwards, is a distressing ingarded as a moral verity. A Beginning. There is some- crease of the infliction. thing positively awful about the very word. One feels

In that peculiar manufacture, which has the human heart

a sort of Frankenstein-like awe creeping over the mind for its factory, and the throbbing, tingling pulse for its at the bare contemplation of starting some new and hither-motive-power, that intricate process usually denominated to untested project; of investing a previous nothing with love-making-the beginning is the most difficult,-if not the attributes of a substantial something. The difficulty so graphically described by the poet is one shared, to a greater or less extent by all authors. The commencement of any literary work, from the opening of a chapter to that of a cyclopædia, is always attended with a greater outlay of thought than any other portion of the production. The introductory sentences of "It was a dark and rainy night towards the later end of November," or, "It was a bright and smiling morning in May"-have ushered in many an interesting love story, but these are getting too hacknied for the present generation. Novelists have been sadly posed by the gradual absorption of their favourite openings, and the expedients of the voluminous novelist James, who generally commences with a conversation between two travellers who meet, no one knows how, in a place no one knows where, until the progress of the first volume

the most delightful, part of the business. Seated next to the object of our devotion in the ball-room, or promenading slowly homeward, arm-in-arm, how the perplexities of a beginning will extend and accumulate! How the timid tongue coquets with every subject but the one which it is most eager to discourse upon; how it rattles on about the weather, the parks, the promenades, Jullien's concerts, the theatres, music, dancing, and in short runs through the gamut of small-talk, before it dare entrust itself with that ominous little monosyllable “Love!'' and then, when the avowal of affection is once made, and the entente cordiale fully established, what a melancholy mass of matter-of-fact does the whole proceeding seem! Yet to the amount of moral courage necessary to make such a disclosure how many nervous old bachelors could testify.