Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 54, No. 334, August 1843

Thus the imports in ten years had more than doubled, whilst the exports had advanced 400 millions in official value; say upwards of twenty millions sterling per annum for imports, and sixteen millions for exports. The special commerce of France, representing exports of indigenous and manufactured products, and imports for consumption, and, therefore, significative of the march of domestic industry, presents the following movement:—

The imports, therefore, for consumption, that is, duty paid upon and consumed, had multiplied twofold in the ten years; and the exports of the products of the soil and manufactures, at the rate of 300 millions of francs or twelve millions sterling.

Thus flourish, wherever we turn our eyes, the interests of industry, where defended and encouraged by that protection to which so righteously entitled at home. The abolition of all protection, in the economical sense, would be policy just as sane as, politically, to dismantle the royal navy, start the guns overboard, and leave the hulls of the men-of-war to sink or swim, in harbour or out, as they might. Conscious of the inherent rottenness or insanity of such a destructive principle of action, its advocates would now persuade us, that, although inimical to protective imposts, they are by no means averse from the imposition of such fiscal burdens as might be necessary for raising the amount of revenue required for State exigencies. The difference between one sort of impost and the other, would seem little more than a change of name—a flimsy juggle of words—"a rose by any other name would smell as sweet;" and, to the consumer, it matters little whether the tax he pay is levied for protection or finance, the sum being equal. It is, and it has been objected against various protective duties, that, as revenue, they are little productive; but, in fact, they were not originally or generally laid on with a view to revenue direct, but with the intent of protecting those growing or established interests, which are productive of revenue indirectly, by enabling protected producers to consume largely of taxed commodities, or to contribute, by direct taxation, their quota towards general revenue. If, by reciprocal agreement and stipulations with foreign states which are, or might become, consumers of the products of national industry, equitable equivalents can be found for the sacrifice of a certain amount of home protection, that may be a question deserving of consideration; but a very different question from the one-sided suicidal abolition of all protection. It may pass under review hereafter. In the mean time, let us hope that neither Government nor Legislature will be insidiously betrayed, or openly bullied, into any unsafe tampering with, or rash experiments upon, a sound and rational principle.

JOLLY FATHER JOE

A TALE FROM "THE GOLDEN LEGEND," IN HONOUR OF THE B.V.M., TO BE READ ESPECIALLY ON THE 15TH OF AUGUST, BEING THE FESTIVAL OF HER ASSUMPTION

In olden times, when monks and friars, and priests of all degrees,About the land were cluster'd thick as swarms of summer bees,And, like the bees on sunny days, were wont abroad to roam,To gather, as they went along, sweet provender for home,Bright blazed the abbey's kitchen fire, the larder well was stored,And merrily the beards wagg'd round the refectorial board.What layman dare declare that they led not a life divine,Who sat in state to dine off plate, and quaff the rosy wine?Good men, and true as bricks were they, to every Church decree;Because as kings were called "The State,"11 they said "the Church are we;"And then all men believed "The Church" could pardon every sin;And foul as was the outward stain, wash white the soul within.No marvel that they prosper'd so, for then, as in our times,Sins ever were most plentiful—their traffic was in crimes;And as each man who pardon sought, became the Church's debtor,Each wicked deed their store would feed, the worse it was the better.For they'd a regular tariff, as we've Sir Robert Peel's,Stating so much for him who "lies, swears, murders, stabs, or steals;"And p'rhaps a thousand items more, as "not attending mass,""Ogling the girls," "neglecting shrift," and others we'll let pass.However, all a duty paid for priestly absolution,According to the culprit's sex, rank, purse, or constitution.Such was the pleasant state of things, some centuries ago,With holy men throughout the land and jolly Father Joe."A round, fat, oily man of God," as ever sang a psalm,Or closed a penitential fee devoutly in his palm,Was Father Joe; and he also, when psalms and prayers were done,In festive scene, with smile serene, aye cheerfully made one.Fond of a jest, he'd do his best good-humour to provoke,Fill up his glass, extol some lass, and crack some convent joke;Nor heed the frown or looks cast down of atrabilious friars,Till his gills grew red, and his laughing head look'd a rose amid the briers.Right well he knew each roast and stew, and chose the choicest dishes,And the bill of fare, as well as prayer, with its venison, game, and fishes;Were he living now he might, I vow, with his culinary knowledge,Have writ a book, or been a cook, or fellow of a college.In those old days the wealthy knew such qualities to prize,And our good priest much favour found in lords' and ladies' eyes;For seldom in their ancient halls a sumptuous feast was dressing,But Father Joe that way would go thereon to "ask a blessing."When lords and ladies bade their guests to castles, halls, and towers,Though every thing beside was good they seldom kept good hours;Course after course slow marshall'd in with dignity and state,Their prime repasts were apt to last sometimes till rather late.And Father Joe esteem'd it rude to break a party up,Indeed, it was his usual plan, where'er he dined to sup;And then to take what modern rakes sometimes "a nightcap" call—That is, a friendly parting glass, a sort of "over-all."He used to say it kept at bay the night-air, cold, and damp,And cheer'd him on his journey home as though it were a lamp;Nought cared he then how black the clouds might gather overhead,His heart felt brave as he humm'd a stave and boldly onward sped.So Father Joe his course pursued—a pleasant mode of living;Alternately at prayers and feasts—now taking, now forgiving;But dark or light, by day or night, the great thing to be said is,Where'er he went he ne'er forgot due homage to the ladies.By this it is not meant that he knelt down to living beauty—A deed forbidden and eschew'd by priests who mind their duty;His were not walking, breathing belles, to monkish rules contrary,But images of wood and wax, dress'd like the Virgin Mary.He seldom pass'd by one of these without a genuflexion,Beseeching that she'd condescend to grant him her protection;Or if in too much haste to pray, he always bow'd politelyBefore her shrine, as heretics to damsels fair and sprightly.But such a holy, jolly man could scarce escape the eyeOf Satan, who, if all be true that legends testify,Was then allow'd great liberty, and took, of course, much more,Playing his pranks among all ranks, till he was "quite a bore."Go where one might, some ugly sprite of his long-tail'd policeWas ever on the dodge to break, instead of keep, the peace;And he himself at times appears to have appear'd where he,By rules canonical forbid, no business had to be.Much he alarm'd the laity, while reverend men of grace,Like Father Joe, we're told, might snap their fingers in his face,Or order him to take a dip all in the sea so red;Wherefore, when holy men he saw, he turn'd about and fled.Yet not the less watch'd he their steps, but set his imps to markThe paths they trode, in hopes to catch them stumbling in the dark;And one dark night—ah me! it is a grievous tale to tell—In coming home past twelve o'clock, our jolly father fell.He fell—and fell into a stream that ran both deep and strong;No pain felt he, but seem'd to be as borne in sleep along;His head contused, or else confused, allow'd him not to swim,And Satan swore, with joyous roar, "At least, I'm sure of him!"Crowding along the river's banks, his imps all eager ran,Each striving to be first to catch the fallen holy man;And when at length they fish'd him up, and laid him on the ground,'Twas plain an inquest's verdict must have been brought in "found drown'd."But twelve grave men were not there then, the case was graver far;An evil set, as black as jet, all gabble, grin, and jar,Claim'd Father Joe as lawful prize, and Satan said, "No doubt!Angels and saints abandon him, or they'd have pulled him out:"So bear him off!" But as he spake a sudden gleam of lightBroke forth, nor ceased, but still increased, till all around was bright;And then appear'd what most he fear'd, in white and wing'd array,A company of angels come to take from him his prey."We claim all holy men," said one who seem'd to be their chief;"I don't dispute that," Satan cried; "but really, to be brief,This friar or monk died reeling drunk, without or shrift or prayer;So yours can't be, but comes to me. I only want what's fair."The bright one look'd, of course, surprised, and then observed, that heCould not conceive nor yet believe that such a thing could be;So Satan call'd his witnesses, who swore through thick and thin,That Father Joe couldn't stand or go before he tumbled in.Now though the angel knew that imps were never over niceIn swearing at their master's call to prop each foul device,He felt perplex'd, because the case look'd really rather shady,And so declared, "I daren't decide till I consult Our Lady."While thus he spake, a sudden quake ran through the dingy crowd,And, as in votive paintings seen, encircled by a cloud,With 'broider'd coat and lace-frill'd throat, and jewels rich and rare,The Virgin Queen, with smiles serene, came sailing through the air.The angels with an "Ave!" hail'd the lady to the place,The impish band, each with his hand conceal'd his ugly face,And Satan stared as though ensnared, but speedily regain'dHis wonted air of confidence, and still his claim maintain'd.Said he, "I'm sure your ladyship could never stoop to ownAcquaintance with a libertine, to drunkenness so prone;A gormandizer too you see, as full as any sack,"And here he gave poor Joe a kick, and turn'd him on his back.The lady started with surprise, and cried, "That face I know:Oh yes! 'Tis he! I plainly see! Dear jolly Father Joe!I do not say but perhaps he may, be somewhat over fat,But there's no rule why sage or fool should go to you for that."His appetite was always good, a fact that makes it clearHe was no heavy-headed sot, be-stupefied with beer,Nor spoil'd his dinners with hot lunch, but kept his palate clean,And sat down cheerfully to dine—and that's no sin, I ween."And as for drink, I really think a man who weighs twelve score,May be allow'd an extra pint, or p'rhaps a bottle more,Than folks who're slim, or gaunt and grim, like some that I could name,Who, when in company, are wish'd safe back to whence they came."Here the black prince was seen to wince, the lady waved her hand,And then resumed, "But now I'll speak of what I understandA trifle better than you all—I mean of what is dueTo ladies from all gentlemen. Of course I don't mean you."I mean all those whom folks suppose, or who themselves believe,To be entitled to the name, (although I oft perceiveThat many are mistaken quite,) should keep on the alertIn ladies' company, lest they our tender feelings hurt."A word or look that men may brook, may give a lady pain,Wherefore from all that's coarse and rude, real gentlemen refrain;Their manners gentle as their name, when they a lady greet,A pleasant thing enough it is such gentlemen to meet."And such a man was Father Joe. He never pass'd me byIn disrespectful haste, although there might be no one nigh;Nor duck'd his head, or look'd askance, like some rude people now,Who seem to chuckle as they pass, to cheat one of a bow.""But may it please your ladyship!" exclaimed the dusky wight,"A man may be a precious rogue, though perfectly polite.""I don't know that," the lady said, "but grant that now and thenSome fellows may appear polite who really are rude men,"'Tis not the simple smirk or bow that makes the gentleman,But constant care to please the fair in every way he can;And this good father never miss'd whene'er my shrine he pass'd,To kneel or bow, extremely low, up to the very last."Therefore I don't, because I won't, believe a word you sayAgainst him in his present plight, which, happen how it may,Was doubtless accidental quite—at all events my willMust be obey'd, and I command, you'll let him lie there still."The dark one scowl'd and mutter'd low, about "a losing game,"And being "done clean out of one," "done brown," and "burning shame,"Then hung his head, and slank away, and all his dirty crewDispersed themselves about the land fresh mischief to pursue.The lady then, in accents kind, accosted Jolly Joe,"They're gone! You're safe! Come! Rouse yourself! You are not dead, I know;But in a swoon that very soon away like dreams will pass,Much sooner than the cold you'll catch by sleeping on the grass."Go quickly home and get to bed—don't stop to thank me now,But come to-morrow to my shrine and make a solemn vow,That when for friends or fellowship henceforth abroad you roam,You'll never take a drop more wine than you can carry home."She spake and vanish'd, and again the night was dark and drear;Joe gave a grunt and shook himself, then shook again with fear,For though his body lay inert, to all appearance dead,It seems his mind was quite awake to what pass'd overhead.Such near escape from such a scrape was certainly enoughTo shake the stoutest nerves, and his were not by nature tough;He got upon his legs, and then went down upon his knees,Gave thanks, and said, "Dear Lady, pray do with me what you please."Then up he rose and shook his clothes, and dripping by the way,Straight homeward sped, and went to bed, where long he sleepless lay;But natheless at the peep of dawn rose up again alert,And as beseem'd a penitent put on a hairy shirt.With humble air he then repair'd unto the Lady's shrine,And took the vow, as she advised, concerning taking wine;And thenceforth, as the legend runs, was never after foundIn such a plight as on the night when he was nearly drown'd.Here ends the tale. May it prevail this moral to impressOn good men all, who're apt to fall at times into excess,To seek the ladies' company when sins or wine entice,And strive not only for their smiles, but follow their advice.Now prosper long our lovely Queen, and Albert whom she loves;And may they, though at eagles' height, live lovingly as doves,From youthful prime till father Time may change their locks to gray,While all their Royal progeny "love, honour, and obey!"May peace long smile on Britain's isle! may Blackwood's Magazine,If possible, be better still than it hath ever been;May every thing that's good increase, and what to goodness tends;And may the writer always have the ladies for his friends!

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

BY ELIZABETH B. BARRETDo ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers!Ere the sorrow comes with years?They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,And that cannot stop their tears.The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,The young birds are chirping in the nest,The young fawns are playing with the shadows,The young flowers are blowing from the west;But the young young children, O my brothers!They are weeping bitterly!They are weeping in the playtime of the others—In the country of the free.Do you question the young children in the sorrow,Why their tears are falling so?The old man may weep for his to-morrowWhich is lost in long ago.The old tree is leafless in the forest—The old year is ending in the frost;The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest—The old hope is hardest to be lost!But the young young children, O my brothers!Do ye ask them why they standWeeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,In our happy fatherland?They look up with their pale and sunken faces,And their looks are sad to see;For the man's grief untimely draws and pressesDown the cheeks of infancy."Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary—Our young feet," they say, "are very weak!Few paces have we taken, yet are weary—Our grave-rest is very far to seek!Ask the old why they weep, and not the children;For the outside earth is cold—And we young ones stand without, in our bewild'ring,And the graves are for the old."True," say the young children, "it may happenThat we die before our time!Little Alice died last year—the grave is shapenLike a snowball, in the rime.We look'd into the pit prepared to take her—Was no room for any work in the close clay!From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,Crying—'Get up, little Alice, it is day!'If you listen by that grave in sun and shower,With your ear down, little Alice never cries;Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,For the new smile which has grown within her eyes.For merry go her moments, lull'd and still'd inThe shroud, by the kirk-chime!It is good when it happens," say the children,"That we die before our time!"Alas, the young children! they are seekingDeath in life, as best to have!They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,With a cerement from the grave.Go out, children, from the mine and from the city—Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do!Pluck your handfuls of the meadow cowslips pretty—Laugh aloud to feel your fingers let them through!But the children say—"Are cowslips of the meadowsLike the weeds anear the mine?12Leave us quiet in the dark of our coal-shadows,From your pleasures fair and fine."For oh!" say the children, "we are weary—And we cannot run or leap:If we cared for any meadows, it were merelyTo drop down in them and sleep.Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping—We fall upon our face, trying to go;And underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,Through the coal-dark underground—Or, all day, we drive the wheels of ironIn the factories, round and round."All day long, the wheels are droning, turning—Their wind comes in our faces!Till our hearts turn, and our heads with pulses burning,And the walls turn in their places!Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling—Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall—Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling—All are turning all the day, and we with all!All day long, the iron wheels are droning—And sometimes we could pray—'O ye wheels' (breaking off in a mad moaning)Stop! be silent for to-day!'"Ay! be silent! let them hear each other breathing,For a moment, mouth to mouth;Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathingOf their tender human youth;Let them feel that this cold metallic motionIs not all the life God giveth them to use;Let them prove their inward souls against the notionThat they live in you, or under you, O wheels!Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,As if Fate in each were stark!And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,Spin on blindly in the dark.Now, tell the weary children, O my brothers!That they look to Him, and prayFor the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,To bless them another day.They answer, "Who is God that he should hear us,While this rushing of the iron wheels is stirr'd?When we sob aloud, the human creatures near usPass unhearing—at least, answer not a word;And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)Strangers speaking at the door.Is it likely God, with angels singing round him,Hears our weeping any more?"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember;And, at midnight's hour of harm,Our Father, looking upward in the chamber,We say softly for a charm.13We say no other words except our Father!And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,He may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,And hold both within his right hand, which is strong.Our Father! If he heard us, he would surely(For they call him good and mild)Answer—smiling down the steep world very purely—'Come and rest with me, my child.'"But no," say the children, weeping faster;"He is silent as a stone,And they tell us, of his image is the masterWho commands us to work on.Go to!" say the children; "up in heaven,Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find!Do not mock us! we are atheists in our grieving—We look up for HIM—but tears have made us blind."Do ye hear the children weeping and disproving,O my brothers, what ye teach?For God's possible is taught by his world's loving—And the children doubt of each!And well may the children weep before ye—They are weary ere they run!They have never seen the sunshine, nor the gloryWhich is brighter than the sun!They know the grief of men, but not the wisdom—They sink in the despair, with hope at calm—Are slaves, without the liberty in christdom—Are martyrs by the pang without the palm!Are worn as if with age; yet unretrievinglyNo joy of memory keep—Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly—Let them weep—let them weep!They look up with their pale and sunken faces,And their look is dread to see;For you think you see their angels in their places,With eyes meant for Deity."How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation!Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,Trample down with a mail'd heel its palpitation,And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants!And your purple shows your path—But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence,Than the strong man in his wrath!"

LETTER TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, ESQ

Respected Christopher,

As an appendage to the "Whippiad," so happily rescued from the fate designed for it by its author, to be embalmed in the never-dying pages of Maga, the following jeu d'esprit, connected with its hero, may not be unacceptable, especially as both productions were generally attributed to the same pen. A note on the line—

"And cuckoo mingle with the thoughts of Bell,"

towards the end of the first canto, alludes to "a young lady of singular elegance and personal accomplishments," to whom Dr Toe's attentions were supposed not to have been unacceptable. This elegant and accomplished young lady, however, (a certain Miss Bell H–,) is said to have eventually jilted the Doctor, and married her footman; a circumstance which gave rise to the following stanzas:—

'Twixt footman John and Dr ToeA rivalship befell,Which of the two should be the BeauTo bear away the Belle!The Footman won the Lady's heart,And who can blame her?—No man.The whole prevail'd against the part:'Twas Foot-man versus Toe-man.

By the way, Christopher, your compositor has "misused the queen's press most damnably" in the quotation from Coriolanus prefixed to the second canto, where he converts the "Great Toe of the Assembly" into its "Great Foe." Rap his knuckles with your crutch, old Gentleman; and tell him, too, that the "Shawstone's party" he speaks of was a very jolly symposium, given by a very hearty fellow of the name of "Rawstorne," whose cognomen stands sic in orig.

Thine ever.My dear Christopher,Erigena.

Brazenose Quad., July 15, 1843.

THE REPEAL AGITATION

No popularity does, or can exist which is not liable to collapses. Two-fold infirmity, alike for him who judges, and for him who suffers judgment, will not allow it to be otherwise. Sir Robert Peel, a minister more popular by his tenure of office than any whom this generation will perhaps again behold, has not been able to escape that ordinary trial of human prosperity. Suddenly a great cloud of public danger has gathered around him: upon every path there were seen to lie secret snares: no wisdom could make an election amongst them absolutely safe: he made that election which comparison of the cases and private information seemed to warrant: and immediately, of his own supporters many are offended. We believe it to be a truth, one amongst those new truths whose aspiring heads are even now rising above our horizon, that the office of first minister, either for France or England, is becoming rapidly more trying by the quality of its duties. We talk of energy: we invoke the memories of Pitt and of Chatham: "oh, for one hour," we exclaim, of those great executive statesmen—who "trampled upon impossibilities," or glorified themselves in a "vigour beyond the law!" Looking backwards, we are right: in our gratitude we do not err. But those times are past. For Sir Robert Peel no similar course is open. Changes in the temper of the age, changes in the constitution of public bodies, absolute revolutions in the kind of responsibilities by which a minister is now fettered, forbid us to imagine that any raptures of national sympathy will ever crowd forward to the support of extreme or summary measures, such as once might have been boldly employed. That style of aspiring action presumes some approach to unity in public opinion. But such unity we shall hardly witness again, were a hostile invader even landed on our shores.