THE FAMISHED HAND.

In the summer of 1834-5 I left Norfolk Va. in a large schooner, bound for New York. One of the cabin passengers had a sick child and no attendant. The second day after we left Norfolk, the child asked for food, and I offered to prepare for it some toast. For this purpose I went to the cook's room which was below the deck, and in going to which it was necessary to pass a quantity of freight which had been put on board at Norfolk. The steward kindly assisted me in making the toast, and added a cracker and a cup of tea. With these, on a small waiter, I was returning to the cabin when, in passing the freight, which consisted of boxes, bags, etc., a little tawny famished looking hand was held out from between the packages. The skeleton fingers, agitated by a convulsive movement, were evidently reached forth with a view to the food in my possession. Shocked, but not alarmed by the apparition, I laid the cracker on the hand, which was immediately withdrawn. No one observed the transaction, and I went swiftly into the cabin. The sick child was gratified with its meal, and when in the afternoon it wanted more, I again offered my services. I apologized to the steward for the liberty I was taking in visiting his premises so often, but pleaded the necessity of attending to the little invalid. I found he was a father, and enquired the names of his children. I brought him presents for them, and so ingratiated myself into his favour that I soon had free access to the larder, and often found nice things prepared for myself as well as for the little one in the cabin. But whatever I could procure was divided with the famished hand, which, to me, had become a precious charge. There must have been an eye to watch my motions. I fancied I could see that eye gleaming at my approach, but at other times closed in dim despair.

As all was tranquil on board, it was evident that I alone was aware of the presence of the unseen fugitive, and I humbly returned thanks to God for allowing me the privilege of ministering to the necessities of his outcast, despised and persecuted image. That the unfortunate being was a slave I doubted not, but how could I serve him or her, or whoever it might be, effectually? I knew the laws and usages in such cases-I knew that the poor being had nothing to expect from the Captain and crew of the vessel, and repeatedly asked myself the agonizing question, Will there be any way of escape? I had hope that we might land in the night, and so under favour of darkness, the fugitive might be enabled to go on shore unseen by those on board. I determined to watch for and assist the creature who had been thus providentially consigned to my care.

On the sixth day (we having a long passage) I found that the goods below were being moved in order to come at something which was wanted, and so filled up was the passage that I could not go below. My heart seemed to die within me, for the safety of my charge had become dear to me. We sat down to dinner, but the dishes swam before my eyes. I felt that a discovery must take place. The tumbling of the goods below had not ceased. Each moment I expected an alarm. At length I heard a sudden" Hallo"-and all was silent. Presently the steward came into the cabin, looked significantly at the company, and whispered to the Captain who was carving, but who immediately laid down his knife and fork and went on deck. One of the passengers followed him, but soon returned, and in a laughing manner informed us that a strange passenger had been found among the freight. "It is" added he, "a small mulatto boy, who says that he belongs to Mr.of Norfolk. That he had been concealed among the lumber, on the wharves, for two weeks, and secreted himself in the schooner the night before we sailed. He is going to New York to find his father, who escaped

two years ago. And," continued he, "he is starved to a skeleton, hardly worth taking back." Many jokes were passed as to the manner of his being renovated, when he should again fall into the hands of his master. Some thought the vessel must put immediately back. Others were of opinion, that as we were within eight or ten hours sail of New York, the trip would be made, and the boy carried back on her return.

The unfortunate child had been brought on deck, and we all left the cabin to look at him. I followed behind, almost unwilling to see him, and stood some time by the companion way, in order to gain strength for the interview. I then proceeded forward, and as soon as he discovered me a bright gleam passed over his countenance, and he instinctively held out to me the same famished hand! My feelings were no longer to be controlled. There stood a child before me not more than eleven or twelve years of age, of yellow complexion and sad countenance, nearly naked, his back seared with scars, and his flesh wasted to the bone. I burst into tearsinto lamentations, and the jeers of others were, for a moment, turned into sympathy.

It, however, began to be suspected that I had brought the boy on board, and in that case the vessel must put back in order to give me up also. But I related the circumstances as they occurred, and all appeared satisfied with the truth of my statement.

I requested that I might be allowed to feed the boy, which request was granted, and I carried him some dinner on a plate. He took it with an eye of sadness, and looked into my face every time he raised a bit to his lips. There was something confiding in the look. When he had finished his meal, as I took the plate, he rubbed his fingers softly on my hand, and leaned his head towards me with an air of weariness. Oh! that I could have offered him a place of rest-that I could have comforted and protected him,-a hapless child, a feeble, emaciated, innocent lad, reserved for bondage and the torture.

Before night he was taken below, and I was no more allowed to see him. But I learned that he was put in the steerage strongly bound, and that the 'Proper Authorities' of New York would be consulted as to the disposal of him. We came to anchor during the night at some distance below the city. The Captain informed us in the morning that the vessel had been forbidden to enter the port with a fugitive slave on board. That she must discharge her cargo where she lay, and return with all possible despatch to Norfolk. A boat was provided to carry us up, and I remarked to the captain that there was "great ado about a helpless child." He replied, "that the laws must be obeyed."

As I approached the city I could not help exclaiming, "Is this the region, this the soil,' of boasted freedom? Here, where a child is treated like a felon, manacled and withheld from the shore, to be sent back to slavery and the lash, deprived of the fostering care which even the brute is allowed to exercise towards its young? Here the slender boy seeks the protection of a fathername dear to helplessness. Does humanity aid him in the search? No, for humanity is limited in her operations by laws which consign one portion of freedom's sons and daughters to the service, the control, and the brutality of others. Humanity looks on and weeps. Further she may not do. The laws must be obeyed.'

And now since years have passed, where is that boy? Does he still live in hopeless bondage? Are other scars added to those imprinted on his infant skin? When I saw him he appeared innocent as a child of freedom would appear. He felt and suffered as a child of free parents would feel and suffer. His sorrows were touching as those of a white child would have been. Alas! poor youth, from me thy fate is hidden. If living, thou art still young, but were thy days turned into pages, what a volume to meet the human eye.

THE CHRONICLE OF A RAGGED RASCAL. BY EDWARD YOUL.

Part the Second. I.

THE Muse will now commence the second canto. O, evil morning, if it was the morning,

If not, O, evil night, or afternoon,-
Whether the sun beheld it, or the moon,
(Did not an earthquake or eclipse give warning?)
That saw our rascal born, when he began to
Inhale the circumambient air,

And exercise his infant lungs
With a surpassing gift of tongues;

O, evil day, when such a wretch had birth,
The pest of man, a nuisance on the earth,
Detested, spurned, avoided everywhere!

II.

To do him justice, there was that within

His breast, whose impulse urged recoil from sin;
And there were moments, when his own disgrace
Brought something like a blush into his face.
He had affection, but for what? for whom?
Some men who are not opulent in friends,
Make pets of animals, and reap amends
In the attachment of a dog or cat ;
Sorry companionship-he had not that,
A desert was his world, his heart a tomb.
"Men, my relations," thoughts like these escaped
His soul, and into language thus were shaped,
"I do not wish to wrong you, but I must;
Ye trust each other;-me ye will not trust:
Yet I was made,-I was not born, your foe;
Your kindness might have won me long ago;
Have ye been kind? Have ye been gentle? No.
To I am a nuisance, and a scourge;

you,

To me you are-what wrongs have I to urge?
You call me thief,-I do not wish to steal,
But when I famish, I must get a meal.

I linger in your streets in dismal plight,
And none will help, so I must rob to-night.
There is a house unguarded by a dog;

'Tis ten o'clock, and fortune sends a fog."

III.

The lamps are useless, every one; Along the streets, the link-boys run; -as if by day,

He does not pause,

As readily as if the sun

Lighted his steps, he finds his way;
While men, who know not where they are,
Think London Bridge is Temple Bar:
The foul fog wraps them like a cloak,
But for its stench, they seem to choke
In an atmosphere of furnace smoke.

The thieves are out, they come by scores;
There's not a thief confined by doors,

Unless the gaoler keeps the key:

A prisoner gets no release.
To-night, who cares for the police?

"Tis only thieves have eyes to see.

Alert to dart upon their prey,

They seize and fly, there's no pursuit;

Your hat is gone, a daring fellow

Wrests from your grasp, your silk umbrella;

Stop thief,'-you might as well be mute;

He went, but please to tell which way.

Alas, you cannot tell;

He snatched, and disappeared; It cost a guinea not a month ago. Unutterable woe!

The worst has happened that you feared,

For when you come, and you make haste, to look, You find that you have lost your pocket-book. And you remember well

That it contained

A roll of notes, the number and the dates
Unknown, so hard the vengeance of the Fates,

Nor consolation does the thought bestow,

That all which you have lost, the thief has gained. Then, first, you swear,

And, secondly, you pull your hair

As if you meant to tear it from your head :-
Reflection interposes, you desist,

And, with wild staring of your eyes, instead,
You grope your way along, and clench your fist.
IV.

Although the fog was dense as any cloud
That rests on Skiddaw, the bewildered crowd
The ragged rascal threaded;-like a kid
He bounded, and his zig-zag way amid

The vehicles that moved with progress slow,
Or those that knew not where to go,
And so stood still,

He dashed;-was danger in the way?
He cared not-did not dream of ill;
It might have been the noon of day,

Instead of that foggy night, and chill,
So rapidly he ran, nor altered

Once his pace, nor checked, nor faltered.
But his steps are arrested, the cloak of the fog
Is around him,-the house, unprotected by dog,
Like a rude shape, chaotic, looms out of the dark,
'Tis his trust, 'tis his temple, his refuge, his ark.
O man, be not wakeful. O woman, recline,
And close to thy pillow, that warm cheek of thine
Nestle down, that the chink of the plate that is taken,
Thy dream may not banish, thy slumber awaken :
Let his grasp once contain it, he knows where the pot
Is provided, they watch there,-the furnace is hot.
But, hush! what's that?

Was it a voice? It might have been a cat.
His auditory sense

Is wide awake,-it came-it came from thence.
Hark, 0, be still!-

It speaks. He listens pantingly. "Now, Bill,

If any cove within should wake up reg'lar,

Out with your knife, and draw it through his jug'lar." "Leave that to me, and hold your prate;

Your duty 'tis to seize the plate."

The rascal hears,

And scarcely can believe his ears;

He came to rob, but he arrived too late.

V.

He stands, he knows not what to do;
The other rascals,-who are they?
He is but one, and they are two,

Older than himself and bigger,-
He will cut a pretty figure,
If they find him in the way.
Strong in themselves, they do not want his aid,
And all men hate a rival in their trade.
(Of morals that are very much in vogue,
The Muse will warrant this a fair example,
"Be honest, when you cannot be a rogue,"
And men, who do not hesitate to trample
On moral laws, and moral lessons spurn,
Obey this counsel, when it serves their turn.)
He cannot steal, but he can save,
Yes, he can raise alarm;

He will not longer be a knave,
For Virtue hath a charm.
Now, burglars, rascals that ye are,
There's one that ready stands to mar

They wrench a shutter, all within

Is quiet, so is all without;

The silence that betrays a pin

When dropt, or mouse that creeps about, Reigns through the house, and they produce A lantern made for burglar's use.

Our rascal darts along the street;

A constable he hopes to meet,

And soon encounters one-two-three;

He sees them, but they cannot see.
"It was his lot-an honest man,
To overhear the burglars' plan,
Who talked, intent upon their prey."-
He tells his tale and leads the way.
But not to lengthen out a tedious tale,
The Muse consigns the burglars to a gaol;
And none will say, the sentence was severe,
That sent them to the Southern Hemisphere.
Did this good action of our rascal go
Unpraised? Was he left unrewarded? No.
It was, O reader, for surprise prepare,-
The Chaplain's house, and he resided there.
The rascal knew it, but he feigned surprise,
And he has merit in the Chaplain's eyes.
"I bade you alter your career.”—“ You bade,
And here I am, what your advice has made."
"It does you credit, I will not forget;
Altered you are, and rich you may be yet.
Me you shall serve, and I will give you proof
How I esteem you, lodged beneath my roof."

VII.

A week has passed, the rascal does not roam;
Within the Chaplain's house, he finds a home.
O, if he knew his happiness! but bred
As he had been- -what more is to be said?
One morn, the Chaplain rose, and found him fled.
Stript was the house of valuables and plate;
He found a friend, but found that friend TOO LATE.
Fruit of its kind, the seed in childhood sown,
In manhood yields;

The grain that we have planted, is alone
Ripe in our fields.

Who looks for wheat, that left the ground to tares?
No golden harvest springs up unawares.

VIII.

Now, of the rascal's story what remains?
A convict's destiny, a felon's chains,
His first crime was committed at his birth.
What right have ragged rascals upon earth?
How dared he come, that had no place therein?
Moreover, in a ragged rascal's case,
The little stranger is a child of sin,

While opulence is blest with babes of grace.
How dared he wander barefoot through the street?
How dared he beg that had no bread to eat?
Pity for HIM! No, overwhelming scorn,
And the world's anger for his being born;-
These were his due,-a debt to such a pest,
Paid to the full, and paid with interest.

He soon was captured, and the Chaplain stood Witness against him;-in his hardihood

The Chaplain seeks an interview, the last. Some books he brings the prisoner. "Peruse These tokens of forgiveness. You refuse?"I want no tokens, what are books to me, Banish'd for life, and only twenty-three?" "At least, acknowledge you deserve your fate." "A thief you knew me, why expose your plate? My habits form'd, you were my friend TOO LATE. I was not four years old, when I was made To thieve, and robbery has been my trade." "You said the counsel that I gave, of old, Had changed your heart." -"It was a lie I told, But had you met me in my childhood, then, I had been honest among honest men,

Now see the ruin which the world has wrought, That punishes the wretch it should have taught.”

IX.

The convict-ship is on the sea;

Unto another clime,

It bears its freight, a terrible weight

Of outcast human crime.

Chains are clanking on the deck, Manhood there is manhood's wreck, And, O, for the wreck of woman! Eyes of blue, and eyes of jet, Sparkling, dazzling, soft, and yet There are those, that would have us quite forget That the heart beneath is human.

LETTERS FROM PARIS.

(For Howitt's Journal.)

No. VII.

THE CLUBS OF PARIS.

DEAR FRIENDS,

There is a considerable difference between an English club-stick, and an Irish shillelagh: so also between the clubs of London, and the clubs of Paris. Much more so indeed. Our clubs of the West End, and these clubs of the Pays Latine, have in one sense a wide sea between them. The Carlton would not acknowledge the Sorbonne, nor the Montagne, the Reform. A deal of enmity would, alas! still be found between the United Service, and the Central Club of the Garde Nationale. We English, are still wearied with Waterloo in France. Clubs are trumps now, however, at Paris. He that has a club does not want a musket. He works on by intellectual force, laying about him with a spiritual shillelagh, often the best sort of weapon, and doing battle with brain, instead of gun cartridges. The club, these election times, is the best card in your pack. A club missed, and you lose your deal. In shuffling the pack at Paris, therefore, we must not leave out the clubs.

All Paris is sectioned out in clubs. Every edifice, the Bourse, the Sorbonne, the colleges, every dancing room from the Salle Valentino to the Grand Chaumiére, is now a place of political re-union for the Parisians. Some of these halls of rendezvous are meuble, simply furnished. Others are garnis, handsomely adorned. Most of them are decorated more or less, with the three republican colours. In some the entry hall is tapestried with blue, red, and white, drapery. From the walls of others ribands of the three colours, hang in graceful festoons from immense rosettes. Over the tribune of most of the clubs, but always in some prominent position in

In conclusion, I may be perhaps permitted to state, without obtrusive egotism, that I have had the pleasure of addressing one French club since my stay at Paris. It was the Phalansterian Club. I spoke in English, and my speech was translated, sentence by sentence, into French by a gentleman present. I may also add, that an English club has been formed here, by Lord Wallscourt, an Irish peer; Percy St. John, the author of the English history of the late Revolution; Hugh Doherty, one of the Editors of the Democratie Pacifique, myself, and others. It has taken the name of the Paris Progress Club; and will, I hope, work usefully. A republican club of English residents is very requisite in Paris. The so-called deputation of English, who bore the address to the Provisional Government, worked in the dark. Unlike the residents of other nations, they never announced their intention by a placard; and it was therefore utterly unknown to the majority of English in Paris. An English Paris Progress Club will, however, prevent anything of this kind for the future. And now long life to the Clubs of Paris. May their clamour cease, but may they survive. May never again the sacred right of meeting and association be impeached in France. If by the battle of the barricades Paris has won nothing more than the clamour of the clubs, yet in time from that healthy hubbub will arise the angel forms of Reflection, Reason, and Right.

Yours truly,

GOODWYN BARMBY.

Mr. RoWTON has filled a vacuum in our literature. We have numerous collections of our poets, but none of our poetesses. We have now a beautiful compendium of them, and the specimens of their productions and short biographical notices will enable readers who may wish to make a further acquaintance with any of them to do so. Mr. Rowton has a true and therefore a high estimate of the powers, influences, and mission of woman, and he argues her cause well in his introductory chapter, which he concludes thus:

"It is our policy, therefore, no less than our duty, to admit and develope, in their fullest extent, the noble intellectual gifts which nature has bestowed upon woman. Urged by a blinding pride, or a ridiculous envy, we have for ages denied her right to share with us the throne of intellect; and, as has before been urged, we have paid a heavy penalty for our folly. Let us amend our fault for the future. Let us give woman's intellect that free scope for its exertions which we have so long refused it.

And let us gratefully recognize in woman a partner, not a rival, in the mental race; a fellow worker, and that a pure and courageous one, in the great task of enlightening and elevating the whole family of man."

Mr. Rowton has brought forward some names and

ral reader. We have the quaintness of the thinly scattered older poetesses from Juliana Berners to Queen Elizabeth-and as many and as much as is necessary of those belonging to an intermediate period when verse was abundant and poetry rare-when both men and women had abandoned the exhaustless and life-giving acquaintance of nature for vapid imitations of one another. We are proud and, more than that, delighted with a cheering pleasure to see that nearly the half of this handsome volume is occupied with the poetesses of our own age, and that the amount of genius and nature is fifty times that of all the rest together.

This is an evidence that the shackles and prejudices which formerly subdued the female mind are in a great measure abandoned, and that woman now has her capacity enlarged in proportion to her freedom and just estimation. What an illustrious constellation of female genius presents itself as we con over the mere names of Mrs. Opie, Joanna Bailliè, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Howitt, Mrs. Southey, Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. Norton, L. E. L., Eliza Cook, Mrs. Butler, Mrs. Barrett Browning, etc. Tempted as we are to extract from many of them, we must confine ourselves to one of the exquisitely pathetic lyrics of Mrs. Southey. "The Dying Mother to her Infant" brings Tennyson's May Queen strongly to mind. It was written long before that beautiful poem, and will bear the fullest comparison with it. In fact, no poet or poetess of any country can surpass Caroline Southey in the qualities of deep religious feeling and natural pathos. What a fine Radical, or, in other words, Christian poem is the following, written as it is by one of the most Conservative women of England. How the divine philosophy of Christ, operating on a noble womanly nature, breaks through all teachings and narrowings of human creeds and interests.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH BED.
Tread softly!-bow the head-
In reverent silence bow!-
No passing-bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow: There's one in that poor shedOne by that paltry bed,

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo, Death doth keep his state;
Enter-no crowds attend-
Enter-no guards defend
This palace gate!

That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound-
An infant wail alone;

A sob suppressed-again
That short deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

Oh, change! oh wondrous change-
Burst are the prison bars-
This moment, there, so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!

Oh, change!-stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod:
The sun eternal breaks-
The new immortal wakes→→
Wakes with his God,