THE NEW MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLÉE. FEBRUARY, 1845. THE CHIMES. Here is another tale from the pen of the immortal Dickens; another of his pictures, fresh, racy, and heart-searching, of the life going on around us in this great, this misery-haunted metropolis. Yet, were it not profanity, we might say of this his last work, "How is the fine gold become dim!" For we fear, dearly as we love the author of some of our most delicious dreams, that in this story Dickens has aimed at much, and reached at little. In the first place it surely ill became the mighty master to plagiarise from himself. Had he, the brimful of invention, no new device for New Year's Day? but must it follow in the wake of good old Christmas? Here have we last year's machinery over again--a dreama spiritual guide-an unwilling wanderer in the air, and a waking into merriment, with the conclusion huddled up under a grand flourish of trumpets. But we are free to confess, that after those glorious old ghosts, Christmas Past, Present, and Future, each so direct in purpose, so suited to the allegory, so touching in manifestation, after them, the goblins of the bells are mere whiffs of air, whose forms and natures we cannot distinctly make out. It may be that we are not sufficiently etherial to enter completely into the spirit of "visible music." It is a fine conception; we wish Dickens had worked it out more clearly. After all, he only borrows from Bulwer in that said "visible music." The touches of Dickens's own wit, his own keen perceptions, enrich the somewhat meagre story. Witness poor Trotty's hands, "poorly defended from the searching cold by threadbare mufflers of grey worsted, with a private apartment only for the thumb, and a common room or tap for the rest of the fingers." Would any brain but that of "Boz" have given birth to such an idea? Another thing of which we complain is, that the author in the despotism of genius, has opened various little doors that led to mines of richest interest, such as would have been priceless in his hands, and left them ajar without entering. For instance, he tells us of a comfortable looking, red-faced gentleman, who maunders considerably about the "good old times," and we immediately set ourselves resolutely to enjoy a just, manly, and witty flagellation of the follies and fopperies, mental fopperies we mean, of "Young England." But lo and behold! our writer takes no further notice of this tempting opening, than incidently to satirize a game at skittles between Sir Joseph Bowley, (a great man for talking of his sympathy with the poor) and his own labourers. "Punch," we understand, also adverts to a similar game of cricket between the Lord Coningsby and real labourers. (See Punch's Agricultural Museum.) Nor in this alone do Dickens and Punch go hand-in-hand. The novelist copies his periodical friends in his personalities touching the Alderman who said "he had put down suicide;" and although such bombastic heartless folly is well worth a lashing, we fear Dickens has injured the general interest of his story by making so much of it unintelligible, save to the "constant readers" of the police report in the Times. The machinery, the goblin actors are very mystical and confusing, but the human interest is quite painful in its intensity. Any one, who like the dream-bodied father can follow Lilian and Meg through bitter suffering and deadly want, can see Meg's last anguish and terrible fierceness of motherly love and despair. Any one who can read that without tears and heartrent sympathy, we pity and would avoid. It is a vivid picture, it is true; and knowing that it is so, how we weep for the many women, young, pure, beautiful, who in the streets around our own cheerful homes, are perishing of want or shame, or worn down by ceaseless and hopeless toil. Many may say "We knew all this before; there are many societies to relieve them; the subject is getting stale and threadbare.” forbid that human suffering and human temptation should ever be threadbare among us. When it is so, may we, who have ceased to feel for and to help our fallen fellow creatures, find neither aid nor compassion in our own extremity, No one who has read Hood's magnificent and most direct in purpose poem of the Bridge of Sighs, can fail to remark how closely our author has trod in the steps of his poetical predecessor, F God Dickens, by retaining the strong interest of the infant in his picture, makes the description strike home to a thousand thousand mothers' hearts. Who is it, with a fond, soft tiny arm clasping their neck, a clear gladsome voice trickling in their ear, can read of the starving mother and her squalid babe, and the anguish of her love, without pressing in convulsion their own rosy, smiling darling close and closer to their breasts. The novelist leads the desperate one weary of breath," far from human habitation, to a dank and lonely part of the river's banks. The poet, with even more startling imagery, shows his unfortunate leaping into the black waters from a bridge, in the very heart of London life, bustle, and selfishness. We think, terrible as both pictures are, that even Dickens must acknowledge himself outdone by Hood. Let the reader judge. will forget his beloved pheasants, his dearly guarded hares, when he reads the manly defence of the "suspicious" Will Fern. We hardly remember to feel ashamed on seeing that it is the poor man who is the kindest friend of the needy. It is by the mites, and not the talents, that so many are relieved from starvation; and so Dickens shows us, when Trotty Veck carries home to his wretched hovel the weary wanderers, Will Fern and his little niece. The reception they receive there, the tea and bacon lavished on them from poor Trotty's stray sixpence, make one feel quite social and generous for the nonce. We almost feel inclined to run out and fetch home the first ragged, sturdy labourer out of work, whom we may encounter stretched on the cold grass in the parks; but then, alas! comes memory, with her too faithful warning of the powdered footman, or burly butler, whose eyes would grow out of his forehead, and nose curl upwards to heaven, at the sight of such a guest to master or missus! Would "Thomas" really set a knife and fork for him, or "Johnson," (butlers are fastidious in answering only to surnames) really uncork the special old crusted port for our frieze-clad visitor? No, we are afraid of our own menials, they form a part, and no inconsiderable one, of that "world," whose eyes This has something of Dante's colouring: keep us in such a continual flutter; so we resolve, we can almost hear the wailing of those self-instead, to give our sovereign to some Dorcas, or destroyed ones floating on the thick, damp vapours. 66 To the rolling river swift and dim, where winter night sat brooding like the last dark thoughts of many who had sought a refuge there before her; where scattered lights upon the banks gleamed sullen, red, and dull, as torches that were burning there to show the way to death; where no abode of living people cast its shadow on the deep, impenetrable, melancholy shade." But this that follows has, we think, more of London in its horror "Where the lamps quiver, With many a light From window and casement, "The bleak winds of March visiting society; and by this easy charity, which only postpones our tailors' or milliners' bills a little longer, we salve our consciences, and forget that, to the rich, money gifts are the smallest part of charity. The mind that has imagined such fair creations as Meg, in this tale; Kate Nickleby, with her high spirit and integrity of heart; Madeline Bray; dear coquettish Dolly Varden; and best of all, contented, busy, loving, little Ruth Pinch, such a mind must be poetical. Yes, and it is so in words as well as in purely fairy visions. Many of Dickens's descriptions are lovely poetry without the rhymes. Sometimes he has a most musical refrain in his sentences, that thrills us with a delicious sweetness. His very superfluousness of words is the repetition of some tuneful thought, like the burden of an old Scotch song. His carelessness of style is actually artful. It is like the easy nonchalant air of a fashionable lady's dress, which, however, has cost her a good deal of secret trouble. His expressions, and colloquialisms have the effect of Is not that brief expression" anywhere, any-inost natural bursts, but if you study them, you where, out of the world," the consummation of human despair? Or the black flowing river; Out of the world!" Mr. Dickens writes with such impassioned interest in the cause of the poor, that the vividness of the painting deceives us who follow him through these touching scenes of distress: we forget that we belong to those comfortable, sleak, easy-eyed beings, the middle classes of society. We lay down for a time the prejudices of gentlemen, and flush with all the indignation of an outraged labourer when we read of wrongs, and misconceptions, hypocrisy and neglect, from the conceited lords of the soil, Many a proprietor | see that each is premeditated. With all his faults, and he has many, he is one of the most fascinating writers of fiction that England has ever produced. His fictions impress themselves on us as facts, even while we exclaim at many of them as gross caricatures: we forget the exaggeration of form, and remember only the fresh powerful colourings. And we now take our leave of him, trusting that he may live long, to give us many more lovely creations even brighter and better than the present; and that we may live also to delight in them, as we have ever admiringly done, P. P. C. THE PILOT. (A True Story.) BY FLORENCE. Old Ocean! beautiful Ocean! thou glorious emanation of Almighty power! Who can coldly gaze upon thee, and, insensible to thy grandeur, thy stupendousness, turn unimproved and unthinkingly away? Surely, of all the wondrous objects that adorn our beautiful earth, thou art the most calculated to awaken deep and serious reflection, and to raise the mind to a height of adoration leading on to devotion. Everything connected with thee is fraught with interest of no common order: in thine every change and mood thou bearest the rich, the glowing, the undeniable stamp of beauty; and the enthusiastic admirer of thy vast expanse, in the fervour and intensity of feeling awakened by the contemplation of majesty such as thine, scarcely looks upon thee as an inanimate object, but almost imagines thee gifted with the attributes of life and motive. To me thou art the familiar spectacle of my childhood; my earliest slumbers were hushed by the murmuring of thy wavelets; my first awakening consciousness of the beautiful sprung from thee; and among the first wild and passionate breathings of my lowly minstrelsy sounded the chord which thy sublimity had swept into life. How many of the idle hours of my youth have been passed on thy shore, my eye fixed on thy rolling waters, and my ear soothed by their continuous roar, that ever brought to my youthful mind its most thrilling and impressive ideas of eternity! Many and weary years have passed since then, and the vicissitudes of life have cast my lot far from the glorious companion of my childhood; yet once more am I standing beside thee, mighty ocean; and for a time-perchance a brief, but oh, how bright, how blest a time-all the long, long intervening space of trial and care seems imperceptibly to fade from the mind, and beneath thy mighty spell memory recalls only the scenes, the thoughts, the aspirations, of the spring-tide of life; "The time when I roved there a careless child, "True, these are but visions, these pleasures are But oh such a beauteous reflection they cast, bloom." Then comes rushing on my mind much that the current of time appeared to have obliterated in its overwhelming force, but now its waters seem to roll back for a season, and disclose what, 66 although for a space hidden beneath its depths, was too deeply engraven to be effaced; and so strongly, so forcibly, recurs to my mind, a simple narrative, listened to from the lips of a fondly loved parent, in whose family the sad events too actually occurred, that the deeply impressed mind, aroused by the awakening call of old associations, can no more repress the relation of those facts than the flower-stalk, in its full vigour and abundance of sap, can avoid putting forth its leaves and buds. Should no eye but my own ever peruse this ower true tale" my mind will find a relief in pouring it forth; and here, with the bright sun of July shedding its glorious light on the waters, and a beautiful and invigorating breeze disporting on their broad expanse, now gathering them into wave upon wave in quick succession, and now cresting them with a foam so snowy in its hue as to awaken in the fancy the idea that the graceful naiads of the deep, in the recesses of their coral homes, were sportively flinging up showers of ocean pearl, I will indite the following simple yet sorrowful tale of the sea. In a little unpretending sea-port, in the north of England, there lived not many years since a loving and happy family, strongly attached to each other, and respected by all around them; the little group consisted of a father and five sons, one and all bred to the sea, and one and all admirably representing the high and honourable character of the British sailor, in its brightest phase; "Hearty and honourable" may well have been their family motto, and it was a truly beautiful sight in this world of selfishness to behold the unity and kindliness that pervaded their hearts. The wife and mother had long passed from earth, and her place had never been filled; but still they continued to form one household, and never could father feel more pride and delight in his offspring than did the patriarch of the party in the daily observance of the virtues and excellence of his children. : As I have said, all were bred to the sea, almost from the cradle; the father himself was the most experienced pilot in the port, and had deemed it expedient to bring up one of his sons to the same occupation, that he might in following years succeed to the office he had himself long held it was his youngest and, as some said, his best-loved son, that he initiated into this branch of seamanship; but this opinion the old man steadily contradicted, justly affirming that to make a favourite of one, where all were equally worthy, was a gross act of injustice to the rest. True, the very fact of George being now almost continually with him, whilst the other brothers were engaged, and often absent with their several vessels, naturally created sympathy between them, which the estimable disposition of the young man tended to foster, whilst continually receiving the results of his father's long and valuable experience, it was not to be wondered at if he grew up with a strong and deeply seated reverence for the only parent he had ever remembered; indeed, the high character of the old man kept alive every feeling of veneration and love, which George but shared with his brothers, by all of whom their father was looked upon as the very model of what a seaman should be; and as his affection was ever extending to all, no spirit of jealousy against George existed for a moment in either breast; on the contrary, they felt the interest with which elder brothers, from their advance in life, regard the opening career of the youth as yet untried in the world's warfare. And George grew on to manhood, realizing all their hopes, and forming as bright a link in the family chain as had previously appeared; whilst, in the steadiness far beyond his years, his happy father could place every reliance, and gradually began to resign the pilot's office into his hands, and, to use his own expression, " calmly and quietly to rest upon his oars." But, inured to the sea from his boyhood, it was the old man's home; and, with health and strength but little impaired, the activity of a naturally vigorous mind led him frequently to prefer the exercise of his old avocation; and when, one boisterous December night, George and himself descried a vessel in the offing making signals for a pilot, he determined to accompany his son, who was preparing to set out alone. The intreaties of the young man to be allowed to do so were, however, fruitless; the roughness of the sea, and the violence of the wind, which he urged as reasons for his father's sheltering himself from them, were the very causes which led the old man steadily to adhere to his in tention. "I would match you against any pilot in the port, George," was his reply to the affectionate urging of his son; "but you cannot yet have gained the experience which a long life has given me, and this is a bad night of weather, in which it may all be needed; and I could not reconcile it either to my conscience or my feelings to let you go alone. There may be danger before us, my son, but we will share it, and, if it please God, weather it too; so think no more of me, but get ready to put off from the shore." The young man, seeing his father's determination, hastened their departure, and their little boat took its course toward the vessel; but the storm increased in fury till it became truly terrific, and never, in the course of a long life, was the skill of the old seaman more severely tasked; all their united energy and strength was necessary to carry the boat on her way to the vessel, whose position was momentarily becoming more critical, and shipwreck almost inevitable, if assistance were not speedily rendered to conduct her through the many dangers of a wild and rocky coast, and enable her to make safe anchorage in the bay. "It blows a perfect hurricane, boy," said the old man after a long silence, in which their whole attention had been necessarily absorbed by the difficulties of their way. "I would have had more hands had I expected the storm would have so increased upon us; but we are nearing the vessel at last, and thank God for it, for we have weathered a dreadful sea; and now, if she be but sea-worthy, I hope we shall bring her safe into port yet; but your father is happy that he did not venture your young life alone tonight, my boy. Now, here we are, bring the boat alongside, and board her while I steady the craft." The anxious and expectant crew of the sorelytried vessel gave them a cheer of welcome as they drew up, and the young man, in accordance with his father's directions, sprung hastily from the boat up the ship's side, when instantaneously a cry, thrilling, unearthly, ringing out wildly amid the howling of the storm, startled him, ere he had gained the deck, and froze his blood with agony. Horrible to relate, the young, active, sturdy tread of the son on the boat's edge, at the moment of the breaking of an immense wave, had precipitated the father into the roaring waters, and into the boundless ocean of eternity. The boat, keel uppermost, was all that met the earnest and straining gaze; futile was every effort to save life; never, from that fatal moment, was the body seen by mortal eye; and poor George, in his wild agony and despair, convulsively shrieking the one word, "Father!" with frightful reiteration, could scarcely be restrained from leaping into the surging waters, in reckless searching for the parent so beloved and revered. Only by the strong exertion of physical force could his passionate impulse be resisted, until, exhausted by excess of emotion, he fell into a long and death-like swoon. In this state he was carried below to the captain's berth, and the their situation allowed, endeavoured to make the awe-stricken crew, rendering him every attention vessel ride through that awful night. Almost beyond their hopes they did so, for the storm, subsided, and in the early morning another pilot as though it had done its fearful work, gradually coming on board, in answer to their repeated signals, learnt the awful catastrophe that had befallen his old friend and companion in many a rough hour, and guided them safely into the harbour. Soon did the sad news fly through the little port, where the old man had so long lived respected and beloved, and poor George was conveyed on shore to his agitated and afflicted relatives, in strong fever and delirium. Long, long, were life and death trembling in the balance; but at length youth and strength of constitution triumphed, and his affectionate and anxious friends hailed his approaching convalescence and returning reason; but alas, with that returned the memory of the horrors of that eventful night, and nothing was able to remove from his mind the one strong, vivid, ineffaceable impression that he had, unwittingly, oh how the mind's energy, gladly acquiesced in their unwittingly! been the cause of his father's temporary separation, in the strong hope of the death. Often would he sit for hours gazing on the sea from his window, then suddenly starting up would pace the room in a burst of uncontrollable agony; sensibility, thought, memory, all seemed to concentrate their powers on one dark spot of the irreparable past, and the wildness of delirium seemed to have given way but to a deep, fixed, and cureless depression; vain were the unremitting efforts of friends and relatives to soothe his sorrow-wrung soul; vain even the heart-warm sympathy of the gentle girl, whom, ere this affliction had befallen him, he had wooed to become his wife-all seemed vain; and when at length his health was fully restored, and he mingled once more with men, and things of life and bustle, it was with the apathetic and abstracted manner of one whose thoughts are far away. ""Tis of no use, Lizzy," said he one day, in answer to her gentle pleadings that he would not distress himself with grief too great to be borne, "'tis of no use; I feel now that I was as morally innocent of his death as if I had been here on shore at the time it happened, and I know that it is wrong of me so continually to dwell upon the recollection of it; 'tis like the creature lifting his voice to repine at the dispensations of his Creator. I know that he who has gone would have taught me better, would have bade me meet the cross of my lot, whatever it was, firmly and manfully; I know all this, but then comes the thought of that terrible night, his skill, his courage, as we fought our way through that dreadful sea; his last words of affection to me, then, then the last wild-." And overcome with the recollection, he buried his face in his hands, and wept convulsively. His loving companion, agitated at the spectacle of his grief, wept with him; yet did she rejoice in her tears; never before had he so directly spoken on the subject so engrossing all his mind; never before had a tear been seen to fall from his eye, and rightly did she imagine that they would bring relief to that warm young heart so overcharged with early woe. Unrestrained and unchecked they flowed; gradually their passionate character gave way, and the sorrowful eye was at length raised to hers, and with his arms clasped around her he resumed-" I know I ought not thus to give way, and increase the pain and sorrow of you all, but I strive against it in vain; everything here serves to keep him in my memory, and it is now too late in the day for me to give up the sea; my habits are too fixed for that; I could do nothing on land. But I can never be a pilot again; and I think I will leave Baltogether, and take a few voyages, and see if removing from these scenes, and entering upon fresh ones, will at all lighten the load on my heart. I cannot like to think of leaving you, Lizzy, even for a short time; but if I find that in other places my mind is happier, I will make a home elsewhere, if you will submit to the separation from your friends, and settle with me.' Poor Lizzy, delighted at this partial return of beneficial effect which change of scene was likely to have upon him she truly loved. Their mutual friends all hailed the determination with joy, and unitedly assisting him in the necessary arrangements, George soon started on his first voyage. And merrily the good ship sped on her way; and the young mate entering earnestly into the interests of the master and captain, endeavoured in strict attention to his duties to obliterate, or at least to weaken the remembrance of his individual grief. But alas! we have still to record sorrow and woe, old ocean, connected with thee in thy dreadful might. After a prosperous voyage to the place of her destination the homeward passage was commenced, but a violent equinoctial gale driving the vessel suddenly on a rocky shore, she split, went down, and most of her gallant crew perished; two only, battling with the waters, were flung exhausted on the barren coast; and one of them was poor George; but alas! both himself and his companion reached the land only to die. Not till the dawn of morning did footsteps approach the spot where he lay the sole survivor of the wreck, and evidently fast sinking in death. Feebly replying to their inquiry, he gave his name and place of abode; and then, as one worn down with sorrow and suffering, quietly breathed his last in the arms of his kindly supporter. Communication being instantly made, in accordance with his dying information, one of his brothers sought the spot, and in the lifeless form presented to his gaze recognised the beloved, the hapless youth, now past all sorrow. Unfeigned and bitter was the grief of the hardy sailor, and when the last sad offices were performed, he mournfully returned to the bosom of his once happy family, with the melancholy confirmation of the fate of one so deservedly beloved. Deep gloom and fond regret weighed down the hearts of all, and poor Lizzy's grief was agony; in the bosom of his affectionate family she was fondly cherished and warmly loved; but when time had softened the intensity of her grief, she acknowledged that, heavy as her own trial and loss might be, it was in mercy poor George was taken from earth, where his ardent spirit, however soothed by time and love, would have saddened and withered under the recollection of the past. July, 1844. Persons unconstrained by necessity are so apt to be allured by indolence and amusement, that their better faculties are seldom exercised as they ought to be. The joys of a benevolent heart animated by an active, diligent spirit, refined sentiments, and affections justly warm, exceed the most gay imagination. |