(ORIGINAL).

MUSICAL MURMURS FROM A SHATTERED

STRING.

LONE, enduring, still, and thinking,
Gazing out upon the main ;
Now the Bygone cometh, linking

Bliss intense with speechless pain.
Far, far off my Fancy wanders

To my first fresh Eden bowers,
And my doting Memory squanders
Spirit-dew on withered flowers.
Now the Real, then the Seeming,
Come before my earnest gaze;
And I yet can mark the dreaming
By its halo mid the haze.
Fools we are while fondly holding

Parley with a phantom guest,-
Fools we are while closely folding
Poisoned mantles to our breast.

It is hard to see our glasses

Shiver ere they touch our lip;
But the dream-draught oft surpasses
All the Actual gives to sip.
True it is, my whole existence

Will be mix'd with rainbow thread, And that I shall track the distance By the leaves Romance has shed.

Yet my soul ofttimes is sighing

Over much it seeks to learn, When stern Wisdom, in replying, Makes me shiver while I burn. I have bought and sold while dwelling In the world's wide market-place, But I care not to be telling

All the items I can trace.

Somehow, when we stand and beckon
Shadows from our bygone days,
More of skeletons we reckon,—
Than of dancing spirit-fays.
Self-control, and quickened Feeling,
Truth, and Knowledge are my gain,
But I've bartered in the dealing
All my best of heart and brain.

I have gathered some few bay-leaves
That entwine about my brow,
But my violets and May-leaves
Blow not as they used to blow.
Once upon a time they covered

All Life's grassy hedgerow slope,
While around the wild bee hovered
In the shape of busy Hope.
I can look on record treasures
Of Experience and years,
But I see my rarest pleasures

Bear an after-blot of tears.

Time's broad tide of unplumbed waters
Rolls upon my mortal strand,
With its tribe of mermaid daughters
Singing on their hidden sand;

But that tide full oft is bringing"
Broken spar and shattered mast,
And the fairest waves are flinging
Shipwrecks of a fairy Past.
Be it so, but still I gather
Pearls no shipwreck can destroy;
And, though sighing, I would rather
Bear the woe than lose the joy.

Still the day dons golden glory,
Still the night wears silver studs,
Still the skylark sings his story,

Still the myrtle puts forth buds.
And, forsooth, the world can never

Hold delight for bird and tree, Yet in gloom shut out for ever

All its rays of love from me.

No, ah! no; bright hours are coming,
Health and Life will rise again,

With an echo of the humming

That once formed Hope's wild-bee strain. Yet, let Fate be stern or smiling,

I can brook the grave or glad;
And, though charmed by the beguiling,
Still I can defy the sad:

For I've stemmed the darkest billow
That can meet the human breast,-

I have found the hardest pillow
That Despair has ever pressed;
And I know that mortal trouble,
Offer all it can or may,
Will but seem a surface bubble

After what has choked my way.

"God is great!" He only knoweth

What I've borne, and still must bear ; "God is great!" my spirit boweth,

But there's pain too deep for prayer.
If I kneel not-if I feel not

All that holy pastors preach,
Wait till ye have wounds that heal not
Ere ye breathe condemning speech.
Hush, proud heart! my brow is sinking,
"GOD is great!"-my eyes are dim ;
Cynic priest, beware hard thinking,—
Leave the judgment-seat to HIM.

OBSERVATION.

ELIZA COOK.

It is far more difficult to observe correctly than most men imagine; to behold, Humboldt remarks, is not necessarily to observe, and the power of comparing and combining is only to be obtained by edu cation. It is much to be regretted that habits of exact observation are not cultivated in our schools; to this deficiency may be traced much of the fallacious reasoning, the false philosophy, which prevails.-British Quarterly Review.

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.

We have known men gifted with superior talents tossed hither and thither over the surface of society, without any obvious pursuit, occupation, or place assigned them. We trace in their conversation germs of good and beautiful thoughts; we feel that these thoughts have had their wings,--but these have been clipped by some unseen agency; we meet them in the prime of life, we hear them talk of their youth as a season to be regretted, since the time for the choice of a profession was then, and is past. They had perhaps chosen, they had sketched a brilliant career; they had risen to the pinnacle of glory in imagination; they had given their whole soul, their whole energy to the task; they had stolen rest from nature, sacrificed the hours of repose and enjoyment, had bounded forward hopefully; and just when, as it seemed, their brilliancy was to show itself to the world, some crushing sickness had laid them prostrate, had swept away the fire that gave animation and delight to toil, had disgusted them with the seclusion and retirement necessary to study, and they were then only where they began. They gradually feel their strength reanimated within them: some fresh occupation is spread temptingly to their view,-they have just, perchance, reached that time in life when the soul, unsatisfied with its own companionship, weary with this everlasting converse with self, sighs for the communion of another spirit. Many a glance is cast hither and thither, and the soul returns unsatisfied to its habitation without its companion,for the talented will not always be satisfied with ordinary minds; they long for something rare and exquisite,something that shall unite itself with their own conceptions! Seek as oft as they will, they will not find; the brightest jewels lie the deepest, the sweetest flowers bloom oft in the shade! and things that are sought long are rarely found. But some chance, some accident, as it seems to mortal eyes, shows them some beautiful form, which flits by them as a shadow. They feel its influence, they hear the tones of its voice, and like something it has heard before, like a childhood's memory, the soul bounds forward to worship the image of beauty, and seeks to draw it within the circle of its own influence. ofttimes it happens in this world that the thing we regard as most beautiful, as most rare, that we may not have. So to the man of intellect we have chosen for our instance, in the full tide of his hope and yearning for the future, there came by chance, to fire him, a vision of rare beauty. He watched and loved the form in which a soul more beauteous still dwelt, he hoped to call it his own! But while he watched and loved, the flower passed to another, and his dream is ended. Other dim dawnings of greatness flash over the mind, occasional dreams of glory come, like beauteous sunsets, to visit the disappointed man; the fire of youth warms itself again faintly; but the time comes, when to talk of the past, while it raises bitter regrets and unavailing sorrow, is all the consolation of him who has so long battled with the Force of Circumstances.

But

If the great social fabric were differently constructed, if different laws guided its formation, we should have apparently fewer instances of great genius, and more of a mediocre character. It is those that have been stoics in the world,-who have resolved to overstep the obstacles which all encounter who fight bravely, gloriously, against poverty, position, circumstance,

disappointment,-that leave an imperishable name behind them. The great are gifted with powers of endurance, with energy of soul beyond ordinary mortals; but this arises, too, from strength of constitution and unimpaired health; the best and cleverest of men have been subdued and cramped in their energies by continued ill-health. Never was an age in which so few instances of great men have been known; yet there is a vast amount of talent afloat, which, from some cause or other, never rises to greatness. In many cases, the continual necessity of providing daily bread for a numerous family, leaves a man no leisure for the development of the superior faculties of his nature. To earn a livelihood, the populace must be pleased; flashy, every-day subjects must be chosen, because they are those that are most easily written. The grandest conceptions of the intellect require time, patience, -freedom to develope.

We could enumerate a thousand instances of men kept down, by the Force of Circumstances, below the level to which nature obviously intended them to rise; and a great portion of the blame of this rests with the principles on which society, and, indeed, our whole constitutional fabric, is placed. Alteration is especially needed in the conduct of society towards literary men; but as this is touching upon the subject of another essay, we quit it here. Our business is with the outward influence which circumstances seem to cast upon men in spite of themselves.

There are men at this moment in existence in our country who are possessed of talents as brilliant as ever adorned a Locke, a Bacon, or a Plato. We trace their glorious spirits in the flights which they take in moments when they forget, as it were, their daily struggle to provide for the exigencies of the hour, when they fall back upon the sunny fields of fancy, and suffer their imagination to take a free and boundless scope! When they speak of things which the common mind utterly rejects; when they lead us into worlds of thought, unexplored save by such spirits as their own, they fire, with the torch of fancy, a pile that throws its light far over the landscape, and what was darkness becomes light, and what was dim, distinct and palpable. It is joy to listen to their conversation, to follow them in their flights, to hear them speak of the great work they had planned, of the labours they had sketched for themselves in their brilliant youth, when they deemed they could call the future time their own, when they thought that every evidence they made would be received and welcomed, before they had discovered that, to live, the man of merit must forego ease, quiet, and retirement,must fix his mind upon the moveables of the day,must pander to the taste of an uneducated public, must write to live,-not live to write. The clever man, if he be not rich, if he have a family to support, must work,-work on, and forget that he once planned such glorious labours for his mind to conceive and hand to perform.

In every phase of life we trace the Force of Circumstances; they come and sweep past us, and carry us along with them; we find ourselves insensibly altered and changed by their influence. The young girl who planned and loved an ideal picture is not the same that sits brooding over the past, counting its moments with as much veneration as the monk his beads! No; she, too, is altered by the tide of human affairs. What mother, or what wife, looking back over the past, has found her future carved out? Some there are who, having centred their hearts' requirement on love, have found it answered more a thousand-fold than they could have hoped or expected. But how often in our transit through the world,—in our experience,—have we not

heard sketched the sunny picture which a woman has drawn of her youth, and the bitter contrast presented by actual events. Young, eager, and enthusiastic ; full of the wild spirit of joy which the consciousness of young life imparts, before we have lived through the trying experience of others, before we have tasted either of deep grief or immeasurable joy, she gives her heart, and she thinks she has done all! And what sacrifice more can she make? What has a woman to give more precious to man than the love of a young, confiding, and unsuspecting heart? Full of life, impressed with a consciousness of her own purity and devotion-she pours forth all the treasures of her thought at man's feet; she lets him into all the little weaknesses of her nature; she unfolds her unmeasureable love; she plans a happy future; she fancies she hears the joyous tones of infant voices, in the distant horizon of her life, sweep past like the tone of a distant bell; she places her little joys in them, the happiness they must afford her. In fancy she rears them to brilliant positions; she makes them all like herself,--good and pure; she gives them her thoughts; she inspires them with her own elevated sentiments, and the husband of her choice with undying love and tenderness! How often, we will hope that it is not always thus, -how often, we say, are these dreams disappointed? She watches the dying out of love, of kindness; she has her children; as long as they are young her pictures still continue true; they are her happiness and her joy; she loves them all, watches over them tenderly, and cherishes each early indication of goodness and talent. Time, however, dissipates her illusions; circumstances turn out differently from what she anticipated; the children of reality are not ideal children; they are human beings,—some good, others bad,-their fates are determined by the Force of Circumstances, which works out quietly a future for each, but which, however brilliant it may be, is not what she planned!

The actual truth is, that in the grand scheme of Providence the good of all mankind is consulted; and when things turn out differently from what we anticipated, and seem to injure us individually, the good of all is advanced by means which our limited comprehension cannot always understand. We know and feel there is a current sweeping us on,-that the Force of Circumstances impels us forward, and therefore we must set our energies to work; to guide our own bark well, we must keep it from shoals and reefs to the best of our ability, and the remainder must be left in the hands of Providence, with the ultimate aim and object of all that is human. With dependence and Faith guiding our prow, in all the events of life, we are safe.

LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A LAW-CLERK.

MALVERN versus MALVERN.

THE remarkable suit I have thus named, came on for hearing before Lord Ellenborough and a special jury, at Westminster Hall, about five and thirty years ago. Mr. White, of Furnival's Inn, Mrs. Leigh Malvern's solicitor, retained Mr. Prince for the defence, which was to be led by the great Nisi Prius celebrity, Mr. S The matter, in its first aspect, had a queer, almost absurd, character. Mr. Raymond Malvern, a broken-down gentleman of high family, but by no means equally elevated character, had brought, on the demise of his elder brother, Mr. Leigh Malvern, in conjunction with the mythic John

Doe, an action in ejectment, to establish his right to certain property in Middlesex, wrongfully withheld from him by Mrs. Leigh Malvern, the guardian of the said deceased brother's infant son. The claim involved, in fact, the right to the whole of the Malvern estates, which were extensive. At first, Mr. White believed the action to be a mere flash in the pan, a stupid, clumsy device to terrify Mrs. Leigh Malvern into supplying, much more largely than she was inclined to do, the ruined roue's necessities. As the suit however proceeded, a vague feeling of apprehension succeeded to the solicitor's contemptuous pooh-poohish manner of treating it, and yet, wherein could lie the danger? Mr. and Mrs. Leigh Malvern had been married some four or five years; three children, two boys and a girl, were the issue of the union; and the estates contended for were entailed on the heir-male. There could be no doubt of all this; still, Mr. White, a wary, clever man, grew more and more fidgety when Hilary Term came round, and the cause was ripe for hearing at an early day. And this vague, undefinable feeling of alarm appeared at the last consultation held at Mr. Prince's chambers on the eve of the day when the cause would, in all likelihood, be called to be shared by all the counsel engaged, Mr. S- included. Mrs. Malvern, accompanied by her brother, Mr. John Halcombe, was present for a short time, and they also, I observed, looked pale and nervous, chiefly, I concluded, in consequence of the grave tone of the lawyers. Those gentlemen could not divest themselves of a suspicion that something remained behind; something which the form of the pleadings did not afford a hint of. One or two questions suggested, rather than directly put, by Mr. S- kindled Mrs. Malvern's fine, expressive countenance to a flame, and the dark, lustrous eyes sparkled with fire. She was a splendid woman, not more than five or six-and-twenty years of age, of a Juno-like presence and aspect, and a complexion so fair as to be almost dazzling,-especially heightened and relieved as it was by the glossy blackness of her hair she was one of the queens of earth, in short, whose sceptres command the homage of the reddest of red republicans. It could not be for a moment supposed that she would wifully conceal anything, and the puzzled conclusion was, that either the record would be withdrawn at the last moment, or that some incomprehensible conspiracy was hatching by the plaintiff and his attorney, whom I shall call Mr. Benjamin Walker, a gentleman whose name had been more than once in danger of suddenly disappearing from the roll of attorneys.

The Court of King's Bench was crowded the next day chiefly by distinguished persons, of both sexes, anxious to learn the issue of so strange a suit. About twelve o'clock the case was called. An instant hush pervaded the eager auditory, and all eyes were bent upon Mr. G, who led on the other side, and who, as soon as the case had been formally stated by one of the juniors, rose to address the Court and jury. His tone, it struck me from the first moment, though firm and confident, was regretful, almost sad, and it was quickly apparent that the curtain was rising, not upon an insane farce, as we had hoped, but upon the opening scene of what threatened to prove a lamentable tragedy, "His client, Mr. Raymond Malvern," Mr. G- said, after a brief exordium, "claimed the property in question, as heir-at-law of his elder brother, Leigh Malvern, who had died childless-." "Died childless?" ejaculated Mr. S

"Yes; we shall prove that, and having done so, there can be no doubt that the verdict must be for

the plaintiff. In a word," continued counsel, "a great crime has, I am instructed, been committed against the estimable, but unfortunate lady who

defends this suit as guardian of her son. With that, however, my client has nothing to do. It was only very lately, and by mere chance, that he hit upon the true circumstances of the case, and, as advised, brought this action for the recovery of his undoubted right, a right which cannot be withheld, however much the necessity of coming to such a decision may be regretted."

Counsel paused, as if to gather energy and courage to launch the thunderbolt that was to annihilate the defendant, and I had a moment's leisure to look around. Mr. Raymond Malvern was busy with his snuff-box, so that I could not see his features; but Benjamin Walker, Esquire, I observed, looked as cadaverous and shaky as a man in a fit of tertian ague. I next glanced at Mrs. Malvern, who, closely veiled, was seated, not far from us, between her father and brother. She was playing with the leaves of a lawbook lying before her, and counsel's solemn sentences, I was rejoiced to perceive, had not, in the slightest degree, troubled the disdainful calm of countenance and manner, which contrasted so strikingly with the nervous agitation of the majority of the audience, many silk and stuff gowns included.

"Mr. Leigh Malvern," counsel resumed, married in October, 1811, to-"

was

"In February, 1813," interrupted Mr. Prince, glancing at the certified copy of the marriage. register.

"Was married," persisted Mr. G---, "on the 7th of October, 1811, at Stratford-le-bow Church, to a person whose name will not be unfamiliar to the lady so unfortunately interested in this most painful case, -one Eleanor Beauchamp-"

A slight exclamation arrested the barrister's words, and turned the eyes of every one in Court

upon Mrs. Malvern. "Eleanor Beauchamp!" she ejaculated with impulsive wildness,-"married to Eleanor Beauchamp,-good God!" The calm, disdainful confidence was gone; the book had fallen from her nerveless grasp, and the dead marble of her features gleamed, almost spectre-like, through the meshes of her black veil.

"Who died in the month of April, 1813, never having borne her husband a living child."

Mr. G stopped abruptly. Mrs. Malvern had fainted, and was instantly conveyed out of Court by her agitated relatives. As soon as the confusion and dismay caused by this incident had, in some measure subsided, the address to the jury was resumed; but there was little more to say, and the first witness, Samuel Pendergast, was called. This person, counsel informed the Court, was a very reluctant witness, so much so, that from some expressions that had escaped him, it had been thought necessary to compel his attendance by a judge's order.

A tall, well-looking individual, of about forty, appeared upon the summons, in the charge of a tipstaff, and was conducted to the witness-box. Reluctant as he was said to be, I never saw a man better dressed and made up for the part of a conscientious, solidly-respectable witness in my life! He was habited in black, plainly cut, of finest quality, and without a speck his white, parson-tied cravat, and shirt-front, were equally unexceptionable; his portwined, double-chinned visage, and ample corporation, were of unquestionably well-to-do colour, sleekness, and rotundity; and his right mourning-ringed hand held a gold-headed cane.

Mr. Pendergast was sworn, and the examination in chief was about to commence, when the witness begged, with submission, to address the Court. This being acceded to, he went on: "I find myself," he said, "in a most painful position. I would not, for half I am worth, have appeared here to day. How

ever, as the harsh measures of the plaintiff have compelled my attendance, I respectfully ask your lordship whether I can be obliged to answer questions which must convict myself, if not of legal criminality, yet of moral neglect of duty, of criminal supineness, at all events, at a time when prompt exertion might have averted the lamentable consequences which I fear may flow from these proceedings."

"Over-doing it, Mr. Plausible!-over-doing it!" shot through my brain, and almost leapt to my lips. And so, I was pretty sure, thought Lord Ellenborough, who had been keenly eyeing Mr. Samuel Pendergast during his very smooth speech. "We must wait to hear what questions will be asked,” replied the Chief Justice, coldly. "If you object to answer, the Court will decide whether you must

or not.

1

The examination went on, and, substantively, the witness deposed as follows:-He had been long in the deceased Mr. Malvern's and his venerable mother's service. He left in August, 1811, under circumstances which he was willing and able to satisfactorily explain, if called upon to do so. The quarrel between him and Mr. Leigh Malvern had been envenomed and rendered irreconcilable by a gentleman, whose name he had no desire to mention, and towards whom he felt not the slightest animosity. He knew Eleanor Beauchamp; she lived as companion with Mrs. Malvern, She was a young lady of rare personal attractions. Mr. Leigh Malvern paid her very assiduous attentions, but studiously apart from his mother, Mrs. Malvern's observations. In the beginning of October, 1811, a rumour, communicated by one of the servants, reached him, that a stolen marriage was on the tapis; and, by dint of close observation, he, witness, contrived to be present at the ceremony, which took | place on the 7th of October, at Stratford Church. At about ten o'clock on the morning of that day, Eleanor Beauchamp was privately married to Mr. Leigh Malvern. The reason he had been so inquisitive, he was not ashamed to say, was, that he had himself made Miss Beauchamp an offer of marriage, and been somewhat rudely repulsed: a feeling of jealousy or envy had prompted his conduct. He had seen the lady, then Mrs. Leigh Malvern, at a place near Cardiff, in Wales, where she was living in strict retirement. This was in the following August: he had sought her out to solicit her good offices with Mr. Malvern for the restoration of his, witness's, place, a request she declined acceding to for the moment, but hinted that, if he were discreet enough not to speak of her marriage till after Mrs. Malvern's death, who had a large personalty at her disposal, his silence would be rewarded. Mrs. Leigh Malvern appeared to be in delicate health; and Mr. Griffiths, a surgeon, of Cardiff, who attended her, said she had just previously been confined with a still-born infant. Mr. Malvern, it was also stated, visited his wife very seldom, and then remained so brief a time, and was so wrapped up and disguised, that even the servants would have great difficulty in recognising him. Witness saw Mrs. Leigh Malvern, in the following November, at Everton, near Liverpool, where she was then residing, still in strict privacy. He preferred the same request as before, and was put off with the same excuse and the same caution. He then determined on settling in Liverpool as commission agent, and God had prospered him. In December, 1812, a paragraph in a London paper announced the approaching marriage of Mr. Leigh Malvern with Miss Julia Halcombe. He at first paid no attention to it. "And here," solemnly exclaimed Samuel Pendergast, -"here, my lord and gentlemen, was my first criminal neglect of a plain duty, and it was only, I grieve to say, after much hesitating reluctance