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sent edition, to present my writings to the public in a form and at a price that would place them within the reach of the 'many,' and on the prompting of this desire I have foregone propositions for an expensive work,feeling that I shall derive much greater pleasure from seeing my poems widely circulated than from any increase of pecuniary benefit.”
Eliza Cook's poems have for a lengthened period been especially popular amongst those whose means are too limited to patronise expensive books. The tone of her writings is, in the widest acceptation of the term, thoroughly English. Her sympathies have ever been on the side of popular freedom, and with the hopes and aspirations of the toiling millions, whose cheerful industry, manly self-reliance, and respect for public order, form the bone and sinew of the English character. This elegant volume,--tor it is elegant as well as cheap, will therefore, doubtless, command an extensive circulation. In addition to its other attractions, we can state, from personal knowledge, that it presents to the public, for the first time, a really faithful and characteristic portrait of its gifted author. Perhaps po popular female writer has had greater cause to coinplain of what may be termed a species of pictorial libel than Eliza Cook. A popular opinion prevails that she is a stalwart heroine of some six feet in height, with a fist like a prize fighter; on the contrary, she is scarcely of the middle height, and although possessed of a somewhat larger head than the average of women, she has, relatively, perhaps the smallest hand that ever wielded a pen. We are sorry to say, however, that the severe physical suffering to which she has been so long subjected is even yet but slightly alleviated; though, as she herself says, “I am hopeful that a gradual' restoration to a better state of health will enable me to resume my ininstrel vocation, and that I may still find willing ears to listen to my song-that the cheerful strain of iny noontide dream and the minor plaint of my twilight musing | may again win for me the responsive echoes which excited my young spirit and crowned my young ambition.” To which aspiration we say, in all heartiness and sincerity, God speed !
Another poet claims recognition at our hands. Before us is lying a neatly printed little volume, entitled (3)
POEMS AND LANCASHIRE SONGS BY EDWIN WAUGH. Though Mr. Waugh's lyrics are best known in the vernacular of Lancashire, the present volume is not by any means confined to songs and poems in the dialect of the cotton metropolis. Mr. Waugh's muse is essentially a popular one. His Lancashire Songs are all replete with truthful and idiomatic portraitures of the peculiarities of a race of people fast disappearing before the innovating influences of railways, electric telegraphs, and the triumphs of commercial enterprise. Our poet first became generally known beyond his own locality by the publication of a singularly truthful ballad, entitled, “Come whoam to thy childer an' me." This single poena has proved so extremely popular in Lancashire and Yorkshire, that considerably more than a hundred thousand copies of it have been sold in a remarkably short period. It has been set to music, and is not only a great favourite in the local concert room, but it is chaunted with singular relish in nearly every village in the poet's native county. We are credibly informed that it has already produced its author about one hundred pounds! Truly poets do not always go unrewarded. The volume before us is well worthy the acceptance of working men and all true lovers of genuine song. “Let me write the songs of the people,” said a wise man, "and they who will may make their laws.” This sentiment appears to
(a) Poems and Lancashire Songs. By Edwin Waugh, London: Whittaker & Co. Man. chester, E. Slater. 12mo, cloth, 5s.
have been felt in its integrity by such writers as Eliza Cook, Charles Mackay, Edwin Waugh, and W. C. Bennett. A volume lately produced by the latter gentleman, (*)
SONGS BY A SONG-WRITER, deserves a pleasant word or two from our pen,—the more especially as it was in the pages of the People's and Howitt's Journal, under our editorial sway, that some of the earliest and most popular of Mr. Bennett's poems appeared. These “songs" ring of the pure metal, and are full of true feeling and well-sustained power. Simple in style, they go home to the hearts and touch the warmest sympathies of their readers. Two of those included in the present volume, " Images ! Images !” and “The Luck of Eden Hall,” were originally published in this Magazine. The very fact, therefore, of our having so published them, must prove to our readers that we fully appreciate the charming simplicity and graceful tone for which their author is so justly celebrated. As a ballad writer, Mr. Bennett takes rank with the highest in the land.
CAPTAIN CRAWLEY'S CHESS (6) is a very clever treatise on this ancient and noble game. By its means the amateur may soon become proficient in the “art and mystery" of this best of all indoor amusements. The author begins at the beginning, and leads the tyro, by almost imperceptible steps, to the practice of a Morphy or a Staunton. Besides telling all that is known of the history of chess, Captain Crawley gives practical illustrations of the various openings and endings of games and a collection of original problems, the study of which will doubt. less be found of great utility to young players. The book also contains a chapter on Draughts that is both well written and instructive.
Just as we are about to close the preparation of “copy" for the October Magazine, we receive a parcel of books from Messrs. Routledge. Among others, are John Poole's excellent “Comic Sketches ;” and Mrs. Eliza Winstanley's “Scenes from a Theatrical Life," an interesting tale well told. As our space is nearly exhausted, we can but afford a single paragraph.
DOTTINGS OF A LOUNGER. (*) These sketches of London life are the joint production of Mr. Frederick Town Fowler, the deceased manager of the Herald and Standard, a man of great ability and profound acquaintance of that useful kind of learning, a knowledge of life; and Mr. Frank Fowler, author of a most successful little book of Australian travel and manners, called "Southern Lights and Shadows." The brothers write so much in the same light, pleasant style
, that it is difficult to tell which of the jottings have been jotted by the litterateur and which by the returned wanderer. The "Past and Last of Vauxhall” brings the series and the book to an appropriate end, for the style of both the volume and the place of entertainment is—to say it not unkindly-of a rather tinselly character. These three books belong to that excellent and cheap series issued by Messrs. Routledge, in which are to be found the principal fictions of Bulwer, James, Lover, Dumas, Maxwell, Marryatt, Disraeli, Cooper, Ainsworth, Hawthorne, Albert Smith, and a host of other scarcely less known popular writers.
Our space is exhausted. And so, Vale!
(*) Songs by a Song.Writer. First Hundred. By W.C. Bennett, London: Chapman and Hall. 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.
(5) Ches : its Theory and Pra By Captain Crawley, nor “ Billiards,” “Backgammon, "“Whist," &c. London: C.H.Clarke, Paternoster Row. 18mo. cloth, elegant, .
101 Dottings of a Lounger. By Frank Fowler. 12mo. Illustrated paper cover. ls.
FLOWERS AND TREES.
BY ELIZA COOK.
(Written expressly for the Odd-Fellows' Magazine.) Who amongst us does not love flowers, trees, and grass ! We have only to cast our eyes around on the varied paths of life, and ample evidence will be afforded that there is an immortal influence in
“ The pomp of groves and garniture of fields." Mankind has ever revelled in the scent of the blossoms and shadow of the boughs, and ever will. The tawny savage of the backwoods strides over the wide prairie's purple bells, and gazes on the pine giants of his native forests with an exulting, although an indefinite joy. The ducal master of Chatsworth breathes among his
choice exotics, and treads daintily beneath the branches of his ancestral oaks and beeches with infinite pride and pleasure. The same instinct dwells in each bosom-though one is girded by the ribbon of the Bath, and graced with the star of blazing gems; and the other is swathed in the buffalo's skin and chequered with the red tattoo. They both love flowers and trees. The Infinite and the Beautiful erects its altar alike in the hearts of the Indian Pawnee and the English peer.
Most of us have our earliest recollections associated with “buttercups and daisies,” cowslip bells, and palm branches. The "Field of the Cloth of Gold” that saw the meeting of Harry of England and Francis of France, bore no such extatic hearts and bounding limbs as Old Farley's meadow did when he allowed some dozen town-born children--myself included the free range of it in full buttercup season. What a memorable day it was! The meridian sun was blazing away in cloudless glory. The scarlet poppies along the hawthorn hedge banks seemed to have breathed their opium into the wings of young Zephyrus, and put a stop to his gadding for the day. The bees had been so thirsty that they had drank too much red clover wine, for they blundered against each other, and staggered and tumbled about with aimless indecision of place and purpose, and evidently did not know a corncockel from a dandelion. We heard a couple of them attempting to “hum some snatch of melody, but the incoherent style of their performance left a doubt as to whether they intended it for “Jolly companions” or “We won't go home till morning.
The barn cat had found a shady spot in the romantic recess of a dilapidated pig-sty—so completely overcome by the heat that two audacious kittens were uninterruptedly playing at "scratch-cradle” with her tail
, passing it from one to the other in the most intricate right lines and angles imaginable.
The cows and ducks had been in the pond since sunrise, and appeared thoroughly determined to pursue the hydropathic system until sunset. Everything was dry and dusty, or bright and burning. Old Farley expressed an opinion at the meadow gate that it would be too hot" for us; but our “rush ” in a body-such as never tried a pit entrance on Edmund Kean's benefit nights, soon rendered that opinion null and voidaway we went, like the starters for the Derby, and the gorgeous yellow prairie was attacked with an onslaught that few blossoms, save the immortal buttercup, could provoke.
How we danced, and jumped, and leaped about that beautiful field-DOW screaming with delight over a lot of brazen ox-eyed daisies, and pulling up handfulls of them at a clutch-roots and all; then shouting over å patch of sweet scented bind-weed, and then flying off to seize the tall fox-gloves, rather out of reach on the banks. Any rational looker-on would have imagined us to be compounded of the greyhound and grasshopper-such lithe activity-such uncalculating gymnastics were displayed. What boughs we pulled of hornbeam and dogrose-what bundles of ferns and dodder-grass-what armfulls of sorrel, until, utterly exhausted, we flung ourselves down under the lop-elms, with countenances that amalgamated the delicate tints of a postman's coat and an over-ripe pickling cabbage, and with elfin tressses and excited skins that no Rowlands Maccassar or Kalydor could have made decently presentable. Well do we remember the tea and fruit we had that day-what delicious bread and butter, so moist and fresh-what luxurious cream, so white and thickwhat heaps of strawberries, real Elton pines—what baskets of cherries, true black hearts, which added vastly to the complexional beauty of our faces what pottles of raspberries, all pulp and perfume—and how we did eat-city aldermen would have been ashamed of us; and how well do we remember that the tables and chairs in old Farley's big parlour were covered with our gathered spoils, for the revelling joy of & fruit feast could not exclude our demonstrative admiration for the lovely " nosegays" we had collected. This heap of marsh-mallows was prominently held up to notice, and that lot of feather-grass claimed distinct praise. The bunches of buttercups and daisies were gigantic and countless, and the branches of nut-trees and silver-ash afforded no mean resemblance to the celebrated march of Birnam Wood. How carefully we tied them up-how zealously we guarded them on our way to town-how we loved thuse sweet and simple things--and how innocent and happy were those days, when green leaves and wild flowers formed a Paradise for us, with no worse serpent to ruin its character than a mother's gentle reprimand for bringing home such a lot of rubbish;" and yet we have seen that mother quite as great an idolator of them as we were, only in a more subdued style of worship ; and many a time have we discovered her cherishing some of the lot of rubbish with fresh water, and arranging them with tasteful hands.
We meet Sunday morning idlers by dozens, strolling through the streets of our great city. Let us just glance at them. We see a brawny drayman who has evidently forgotten to shave himself, and not been too particular as to the set of his neck-tie. He has on the same rough, tough, dirty, thick, blanket-sort of jerkin in which he let down innumerable butts of “ Barclay's best” into dingy cellars during the week ; but in a button hole of the said jerkin there is a splendid carnation. He has consumed some seconds of time in placing it safely and conspicuously, and walks slowly on, eyeing it every now and then wiih great self-satisfaction; and his satisfaction is not unshared, for, while observing his warm appreciation of the really exquisite blossom, we feel a degree of pride also that one of a class who had the courage to pelt Haynau, the woman-whipper, should love flowers. A little farther, and we encounter a grimy son of Vulcan, who is carrying off a large bunch of all sorts, beginning with "old man” and ending with “prince's feathers;" he says his “ little Polly, who ain't over well, likes the smell on 'em;" whether the smell may be very beneficial to the young sufferer we will not inquire, but the tendency to "love Howers" claims our admiration under any circumstances. A lank pale woman has spent an extravagant halfpenny on a dozen brilliant sweet-peas, which slio declares will “keep beautiful for a whole week, with plenty of water."
A charity boy has picked up a bit of double-stock, and, with earnest endeavour, fixes it above his badge of poverty-and then as earnestly bends bis head to try and get a whiff of its odorous breath. There, at that stall yonder, are a decent man and his tidy wife, who have suddenly discovered that they have an “odd penny” out of the shoulder of mutton which the man carries in a flag basket, in immediate conjunction with a monster cabbage-and it is as suddenly imagined that the odd money cannot be better laid out than in one of those tempting clusters of roses, as they happen to be just “a penny a lot ;" and away the couple go, to gladden the eyes of their young Tommy and Nancy with the sight of real, smelling, lovely roses. Aye! ye children of Toil; ye “love flowers."
We loiter on, and down a close iron-railed area we see a goodly number of half-dead plants, with their brown leaves supported by green sticks, in pots of extreme brunette complexion, some of which plants are so totally devoid of character” in their foliage that their “order” is a mystery. These are the especial and treasured property of the cook, who is never known to abuse her favourite tabby-a matchless mouser - save when he surreptitiously nibbles at the white pinks; she has serious thoughts of rubbing them with mustard, to deter him from the indulgence, having tried pepper without any success. In the balcony of the drawing room above we perceive snowy camelias and gorgeous cactuses and oleanders standing up in their rich china vases, in attractive and splendid magnificence. They belong to the young heiress, who tends them daily with her own delicate and jewelled fingers, and who dispensed as decided and vulgar a box on the ear of her juvenile sister, for destroying the bud of a matchless arum, as could have been bestowed by the most unrefined of exasperated young ladies. It is plain that those above and those below “love flowers.
The old red night-capped cobbler, who labours continually in a cubbedup shed at the corner of a street in our neighbourhood, has a beloved idol by his side in the shape of a pot of mignionette ; sown by himself, watered by himself, put in the sunshine by himself, and carefully preserved from all the incidental damage likely to ensue in such limited space. We suspect that the cubbed-up shed, with its abominable effluvia of strong horsehide and stronger wax-ends, is rendered a degree more cheerful to the eyes and senses of the inhabitant by the presence of that poor pot of mignionette, The old cobbler, though he is accused of making too frequent morning calls” at the adjacent "Cow and Compasses,” “ Joves flowers.”
As for “ gardens,” they are as old as Paradise itself--and we see the original occupation of the "old Adam” peeping out still when the over-fed, gold-surfeited citizen betakes himself to a detached villa, “within twenty miles of London, and two of a railway station," where he puddles and pokes with spade and rake, in his loose jacket, and finds more exciting interest in grubbing up a few weeds, or planting a row of seedlings, than he ever experienced while cashing a heavy bill for Messrs. Needham and Co.
We happen to know an elderly gentleman who is a thorough repre. sentative of this numerous and increasing race. He has given up his smoke-dried, wall-surrounded house in Bedford Square, and ensconsed himself in a rural villa, twelve miles from town, with charming French windows opening to mossy lawns, sparkling flower-beds, mazy shrubberies, and a kitchen plot in the distance, large enough to supply the granivorous demands of the Reform Club. His wife has confidentially informed us, tbat his temper is not nearly so irritable since he has taken to "doing a little gardening," and that his attacks of gout and indigestion are much lighter. Her confidence also enlightened us as to the standard roses being extremely expensive--that the "Duchess of Sutherland” (a fine įmposing