SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS
Reading edition
LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES.
BY T. CAMPBELL.
On England's shore I saw a pensive hand, With sails unfurl'd for earth's remotest strand, Like children parting from a mother, shed Tears for the home that could not yield them bread; Grief mark'd each face receding from the view, 'Twas grief to nature honourably true. And long, poor wand'rers o'er th' ecliptic deep, The song that names but home shall bid you weep; Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above In that far world, and miss the stars ye love; Oft, when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn, Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn. And, giving England's names to distant scenes, Lament that earth's extension intervenes. But cloud not yet too long, industrious train, Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain: For has the heart no interest yet as bland As that which binds us to our native land? The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth, To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth. Undamp'd by dread that want may e'er unhouse, Or servile misery knit those smiling brows: The pride to rear an independent shed, And give the lips we love unborrow'd bread; To see a world, from shadowy forests won, In youthful beauty wedded to the sun; To skirt our home with harvests widely sown, And call the blooming landscape all our own, Our children's heritage, in prospect long. These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong. That beckon England's wanderers o'er the brine, To realms where foreign constellations shine; Where streams from undiscovered fountains roll, And winds shall fan them from th' Antarctic pole. And what though doom'd to shores so far apart From England's home, that ev'n the home-sick heart Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recross'd, How large a space of fleeting life is lost: Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, But jocund in the year's long sunshine roam, That yields their sickle twice its harvest home. There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring. The grey-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round, Shall walk at eve his little empire's bound, Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn, And verdant rampart of Acacian thorn, While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales, The orange-grove's and fig-tree's breath prevails; Survey with pride beyond a monarch's spoil, His honest arm's own subjugated soil; And summing all the blessings God has given, Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven, That when his bones shall here repose in peace, The scions of his love may still increase, And o'er a land where life has ample room, In health and plenty innocently bloom. Delightful land, in wildness ev'n benign, The glorious past is ours, the future thine! As in a cradled Hercules, we trace The lines of empire in thine infant face. What nations in thy wide horizon's span Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man! What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam. Where now the panther laps a lonely stream. And all but brute or reptile life is dumb! Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come, Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, And creeds by charter'd priesthood's unaccurst; Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd flags, Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags; Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares, Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs, For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire. And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire; Our very speech, methinks, in after time. Shall catch th' Ionian blandness of thy clime; And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies } Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes, The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine, Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine; Unborn the hands—but born they are to be— Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee } Proud temple domes, with galleries winding high, So vast in space, so just in symmetry, They widen to the contemplating eye, With colonnaded aisles in lone array, And windows that enrich the flood of day O'er tesselated pavements, pictures fair, And niched statues breathing golden air, Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy swell, Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell; But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, And organs blow their tempests of sweet sound. Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal, How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll Ev'n should some wayward hour the settler's mind Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind, Yet not a pang that England's name imparts, Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts; Bound to that native world by nature's bond, Full little shall their wishes rove beyond Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams. Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams. How many a name, to us uncouthly wild, Shall thrill that region's patriotic child, And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's chords, As aught that's named in song to us affords! Dear shall that river's margin be to him, Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb. Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers, Or twin'd his tame young kangaroo with flowers. But mere magnetic yet to memory Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, The bower of love, where first his bosom burn'd, And smiling passion saw its smile return'd. Go forth and prosper then, emprizing band; May He, who in the hollow of his hand The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind's sweep, Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep!
New Monthly Magazine.
SMALL TALK AND SMALL ACCOMPLISHMENTS, OR HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF AGREEABLE.
Conversation, like a shuttlecock, should not be suffered to remain with one person, but ought to pass in turn to all. But as few people think for themselves, so few people talk for themselves, and a colloquial monopoly is as common and as disagreeable as any other. Yet when we observe how much these rattles are caressed, 'tis wonderful there are so few. Talent is by no means indispensable, and is the more valuable in proportion as it is flimsy or superficial. The great art lies in the choice of a subject. Let it be some liaison in the beau monde—the appearance of a new singer or actress—the detail of a recent duel, with particulars and embellishments, and your fortune is made at once. Do not affect any thing like a literary character, for scholars are reckoned bores. The only matters of this sort with which you can safely meddle are the fashionable novels—satirical poems—the magazines, and newspapers (eschewing the political articles as vulgar). It is absolutely necessary to be familiar with the names of all the editors in town, and these can easily be picked up from any of the tatterdemalions who prowl about police offices for the purpose of reporting the trials at a penny per line, which is, in most cases, exactly a penny per line too much. You must drop the complimentary Mr., and say, "A. of the Chronicle and I—the last time I saw B. of the Globe—C. of the Spectator told me t'other day," and so on. Of course it is not of the slightest consequence whether you ever saw one of the parties. You must also affect to be intimate with the theatrical lions, and be aware of the true state of all managerial squabbles for the season. Swear you have dined a dozen times with Sontag. En passant, the idea of a singer's patronizing a nation wholesale, as she has done in the case of the Silesians, is rather too good. Be indignant with Price for forfeiting Ellen Tree three several times in the sum of thirty pounds, and suppress the fact of his having remitted the penalty in the two first instances. Assume a mysterious air of "I could if I would," when Miss Love's elopement is mentioned, and state with heroic confidence that the Vesuvius scene in "Masaniello" at Astley's beat Drury by thirteen bricks and two ounces of Greek fire. You must pretend to know the salaries of all the employés in every establishment, and be able to describe the plot of every new piece the moment it is underlined. You can obtain sufficient information to enable you to pass muster on this subject any evening at the Garrick's Head. It would be of great service if you could contrive to be seen in conversation with a respectable actor now and then. You must have seen every sight and exhibited at every exhibition in town, and be able to discuss their several merits or demerits with a "learned spirit." A knowledge of the principal nobility—by person at least—is a sine qua non, for how else should you be able to recount the names of those you saw in the Park on Sunday last? Keep a list of the ages and portions of as many young ladies as possible, and be cautious how you dispose of your information on this score. These, I think, are the principal topics; and the best advice I can give is, "Never be quiet: speak on ad infinitum."
The man who inwardly digests these rules will be a treasure at any dinner party. The awful silence which prevails on the removal of the tablecloth—and an awful silence it surely is—will be dispelled. No ordinary man thinks of speaking, except in monosyllables, till he gets a little "elevated," and then he speaks nonsense as a matter of course. You must keep sober—for people will occasionally get "mellow," even in good society—and this you will easily manage to do by thinking of the immense superiority you will thus secure on joining the ladies in the drawing-room. You will be able to hand some blushing fair her coffee without pitching cup and contents into her lap, and stoop to pick up her fan or handkerchief without incurring the risk of breaking your nose. Should quadrilles be proposed, you will also be able to avoid those little dos-à-dos accidents which are by no means agreeable, and be qualified to pronounce, with tolerable certainty, which is your own partner.
Sharpe's Magazine.