starch completely taken out of them. There is a hazy atmosphere rising from the straw bed of the river which runs at the bottom of the omnibus; and the atmosphere settles on the window-panes and the lungs of the passengers, intercepting the view of the distant cad, and making all the insides cough. Every umbrella is a tributary to this portable new river, which is generally about two feet deep, those two feet being your own, and it affords most pleasant angling to any gentleman who may happen to let a sixpence fall in for the purpose of ascertaining its depth. A broken window behind your back sometimes increases the comfort. The cushion under the open window is, of course, saturated through, so that you have the sensation of sitting on a wet sponge. Altogether you enjoy a most delightful sitz-bath, without paying anything extra for it, until the Gampy old lady opposite, with the moist baby in her arms, gets out, and gives you an opportunity of crossing over and changing partners. The miseries of an omnibus on a wet day do not stop here: every sense is put to the torture. The hearing fares just as badly as any other. You may have your ears bored with seven different kinds of coughs, all running through your head at the same time. On certain occasions you can fancy the omnibus must be Shillibeer's-there being inside nothing but the coughing. There is a particular omnibus cough, which, like an alarum, when once it goes off is most difficult to stop. It has been known to start at Hammersmith and not to stop till it has reached the Bank; as you hear it booming behind the folds of an immense woollen handkerchief, it sounds anything but like the voice of a comforter. POETS' GRAVES. Chaucer was buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, without the building, but removed to the south aisle in 1555; Spenser lies near him. Beaumont, Drayton, Cowley, Denham, Dryden, Rowe, Addison, Prior, Congreve, Gay, Johnson, Sheridan, and Campbell, all lie within Westminster Abbey. Shakspere, as every one knows, was buried in the chancel of the church at Stratford, where there is a monument to his memory. Chapman and Shirley are buried in St. Giles' in the Fields; Marlowe in the churchyard of St. Paul's, Deptford; Fletcher and Massinger in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, Southwark; Dr. Donne in Old St. Paul's; Edmund Waller in Beaconsfield churchyard; Milton in the churchyard of St. Giles's, Cripplegate; Butler in the churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden; Otway, no one knows where; Garth in the church at Harrow; Pope in the church at Twickenham; Swift in St. Patrick's, Dublin; Savage in the churchyard of St. Peter's, Bristol; Parnell at Chester, where he died on his way to Dublin; Dr. Young at Welwyn, in Hertfordshire, of which place he was the rector; Thomson in the churchyard at Richmond, in Surrey; Collins in St. Andrew's church, at Chichester; Gray in the churchyard of Stoke-Pogeis, where he conceived his Elegy; Goldsmith in the churchyard of the Temple church; Falconer at sea, with "all ocean for his grave; Churchill in the churchyard of St. Martin's, Dover; Cowper in the church at Dereham; Chatterton in a churchyard belonging to the parish of St. Andrew's, Holborn; Burns in St. Michael's churchyard, Dumfries; Byron in the church at Hucknall, near Newstead; Crabbe at Trowbridge; Coleridge in the church at Highgate; Sir Walter Scott in Dryburg Abbey; Southey in Crossthwaite church, near Keswick Shelley "beneath one of the antique weed-grown towers surrounding ancient Rome;" and Keats beside him, "under the pyramid, which is the tomb of Cestius." ; THE WORLD. After Sir Walter Raleigh. THIS foolish world doth wink And, when it thinks, it thinks Its piety's a screen Where vice doth hide; Its charity's a bait To catch a name ; Its learning's empty talk; Its pleasures all are blind, Its treasures are a kind Lust moves it more than love,- Its best ambitions have A grovelling aim. Oh! cure our moral madness,— Show us that Vice brings sadness, And teach us in the hour EDWIN WAugh. WHAT TABLE-TALK SHOULD BE. Table-talk, to be perfect, should be sincere without bigotry, differing without discord, sometimes grave, always agreeable, touching on deep points, dwelling most on seasonable ones, and letting everybody speak aud be heard. During the wine after dinner, if the door of the room he opened, there sometimes comes bursting up the drawing-room stairs a noise like that of a tap-room; everybody is shouting in order to make himself audible; argument is tempted to confound itself with loudness, and there is not one conversation going forward but six, or a score. is better than formality and want of spirits, but it is no more the right thing than a scramble is a dance, or the tap-room chorus a quartette of Rossini. The perfection of conversational intercourse is when the breeding of high life is animated by the fervour of genius.-Leigh Hunt. This 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. NOT SCOPE ENOUGH. SOMETIMES we are obliged to think that the world really must be turned upside down, and that the people in it, like the man in the sign, are condemned to stick fast in the middle while trying to get through. Either there must be a general habit of grumbling, pretty nearly as widely diffused as humanity, or there is something wrong somewhere. Nobody seems to be completely contented where he is, or satisfied of his ability to get where he ought to be. Everybody is jostling somebody else out of his proper place, and unable all the while to find the right one for himself. If you will take anybody's word for it, there is a sort of eternal dog-in-themangerism going on, and just as eternal a complaint about it. The bricklayer at Somerset House, contrasting the work of the clerks with his own, and saying, "happy fellows,-in at ten and out at four,happy fellows,"-was a fair specimen of the average of his fellow-men. We see the fate of others from a distance! they view it with the closeness of self-examination; and while the brightness and beauty come to our eyes, to them the seamy side-the inside is turned outward. When we say "no man is a hero to his valet," we might add, nor to himself; and he who would not adopt the addition, must have such a stock of self-love and conceit, as to incapacitate him for even the pettiest heroism. The most fortunate are like glow-worms, rather exhibiting their light to others, than basking in it themselves. Such is the difference between thinking and feeling, that we are always apt to conceive of the destinies of others as more endurable than our own. One of the most common forms which grumbling and dissatisfaction take, is that of want of proper appreciation. The world does not look upon some people as it should, -it does not treat them with becoming respect,-it does not afford them sufficient opportunities. It snubs, or neglects, or ignores them, or bars them out from their ambition. It is too big for them to be seen in, or they are fixed up in too small a section of it to have room for action. Many an aspiring genius finds himself crushed either by being unable to get into the place he desires to occupy, or out of the place he finds himself located in. Some want a purchase,-others elbow-room; [PRICE 1d. some to pin fate in a corner and catch it,-others to have space enough to kick it before them: the latter is, perhaps, the most common want. The swelling spirits have not room enough-they want more scope. People of this stamp are so common that everybody knows them. From the young gentleman who writes rhyme, supposed to be poetry, when he ought to be casting up accounts,-or the other young gentleman, who practises the violin at home after business hours, and thinks himself a Paganini,-to the would-be philosopher, who makes discoveries of which he is unable to convince anybody. From the huckster who cannot push a roaring trade, to the speculator whose schemes do not take in the market. There are a thousand unfortunates who would make a fortune if they had but a fivepound note, and as many financiers who would pay off the national debt; but the first cannot make the five-pound note to begin with, and the second cannot get called to the councils of her majesty. It is perfectly wonderful to think of the things left undone, which hosts of folks would do if they only had the chance, and almost as vexatious that it is not afforded them. A little while ago, a barber in a country town, to whose operations we submitted, entreated us to try the virtues of a famous wash of his, which was "very cooling to the head, and very cleansing to the hair." We took his recommendation, and tried the experiment. In his gratitude he confided to us the fact, that he seldom or ever got the opportunity of using the preparation on his ordinary customers, for they did not care about such things. Indeed, there was nobody worth mentioning in the town; and he was labouring under the disadvantage of want of appreciation. Warming with his theme, he also added to the particular truth his general im. pression, that, in little places like that, there was nothing to be done,-in fact, "there was not scope enough for a man." Recognising the feeling, we inquired why he did not go somewhere else; and then it came out that he had been somewhere else. Indeed, he had tried his fortune in London, but there were so many that he was lost in the crowd; and in Lincoln, where everybody went to the man who had an old connection. The one place was too large for him, the other did not give him a chance, and so he erected his pole at last where he got a living, but was not appreciated, and had not scope enough. many We cannot help thinking that our dissatisfied barber is a very good illustration of his class. Neither scope enough nor the want of scope exactly suited him; and he did not gain appreciation for want of the qualities upon which favourable notice is bestowed. Such people are little men, who, wanting to be seen, climb up eminences so tall that the height dwarfs them into nothingness. They wish for a pedestal which they are unable to fill, and more room than they can legitimately occupy. The truth is, that a man must do something to gain appreciation before he will be appreciated; he must make opportunities before he can take advantage of them; and he must clear room for himself before he can find scope enough. And that is precisely what men do who rise to eminence. There is plenty of quackery in the world, for high-sounding names little things,-numerous trumpets blown loudly about paltry doings,-multitudes of little men in great places; but after all, if a man can do a thing well, it generally turns out that he is allowed to do it; and most men who have greatness in them, contrive to let somebody know it and to elbow a place for themselves in the throng. When anybody grumbles that he has not scope enough, and that he is not appreciated, it will be a tolerably safe rule to come to one of these conclusions, either that he has not patience to wait, or industry enough to work for his opportunity, or that the utmost scope would be useless, or any amount of appreciation ill bestowed. Those who leave names behind them for posterity to regard with reverence and admiration, make their places instead of finding them, and win appreciation instead of suing for it. The strongest minds now, as the strongest hands formerly did, take, by virtue of their own force, rather than receive as gifts, the rewards that fall to their share. The world may be slow, or dull, or unwilling to recognise their merits; but they depend on themselves, not on it, and carve out their own path to wealth or fame. One of There may, it is true, be exceptions to that rule, but the vast majority of the histories of the men who mount upwards, show that success is not dependent on chance, but on ability, self-dependence, and strong-will. As a cork comes to the surface of the water in virtue of its buoyancy, so they succeed as the result of their own natures. Perhaps as many win reputation in spite of unfavourable circumstances, as by the aid of a happy fortune. the richest merchants of the city of London boasts that he came up from the country a poor, shoeless, ragged boy, and held horses in front of the Exchange, where he now alights from his own carriage. Bianconi, the great car proprietor of Ireland, whose wealth is almost fabulous, produced at a grand dinner some time since, a small mean-looking wooden box, with shoulder straps, and told the guests that that was among his most treasured possessions, for it was the box he carried when he came into the country a poor Italian image-boy; and, opening the lid, he exhibited the remains of his stock of images. Turner, one of the first of English landscape painters, who died lately, was the son of a barber, near Covent Garden. Faraday, the first of our chemists, was a bookbinder's boy. Adams, the young astronomer, who became famous by his calculations respecting a new planet, is the son of a small Cornish farmer. Richter's first library was composed of manuscript volumes copied by his own hands, when he was too poor to pay for his food; and Stephenson, the deceased great engineer, was a working navigator. Instances almost without number, and of the same character, might be adduced; but these may be sufficient to tell the grumblers, that the men who succeed as often rise above fortune as they are lifted up by the fickle goddess; that instead of complaining, they act; instead of telling us what they could or would or might do, they do it. That they do not find their positions ready-made, but have to make them -that they do not seek for undeserved appreciation, but set themselves to work to command it; and in whatever confined situations they are first placed, ultimately clear a space around them, and get scope enough to do their work in and exhibit its results. A PEEP AT THE HILLS IN INDIA. OUR officers in India are frequently employed in labours of a highly peaceful and civilizing character, all tending to develop the resources of our great intertropical empire, and to make us better acquainted with its topography and its inhabitants. The most arduous are surveys of heretofore unvisited or little known districts, and in the course of these there occur, at times, incidents of adventure which give a charm to the dry work of triangulation; and illustrations of manners and habits and of natural history are met with, which either supply us with new facts or confirm the old ones. It is very rarely that reports of these surveys find their way into popular works; such as do appear are published in local scientific journals, or in government records; and as some of these are now before us, we think a page or two may be worthily spared for a brief summary of progress here and there in the land of Brahma. Last year [1851], Capt. Sherwill, of the artillery, undertook a survey of the Rajmahal Hills, a wild district, which, although skirted by the Ganges and the mail road from Calcutta to Benares, has been but little visited by travellers, who, had they ventured to turn aside, would have found themselves well repaid for their trouble. The region has a history not a little interesting, as a few words will explain. It is inhabited at present by two tribes, distinct from each other in character and language. The hillmen were redoubtable warriors at one time, and by dint of prowess and poisoned arrows successfully foiled the attempts made for their subjugation, and maintained their right to shoot and plunder the dak runners and other wayfarers. The authorities at length resolved on trying another line of policy-conciliation instead of fighting; the chiefs were invited to feasts, treated generously, and sent home with presents. Mr. Cleveland, a young man in the Civil Service, was then deputed to follow up the favourable impression that had been made. He went among them unarmed, and almost unattended, and by a judicious exercise of kindness and authority, and bestowal of gifts, he had the happiness of thoroughly reclaiming them from their savage and murderous habits in the course of a few years. They became guides instead of robbers, and from among them was raised a regiment of first-rate archers, who in time learned to be excellent musketeers and loyal soldiers. Even after the lapse of more than sixty years, Mr. Cleveland's name is still revered among them;-a memorial not less honourable than that recorded on his tomb, dated 1784, which the Peace Society will perhaps be tempted to cite as an argument in their own favour. "Without bloodshed," runs the inscription; "or the terrors of authority,-employing only the means of conciliation, confidence, and benevolence, he attempted and accomplished the entire subjection of the lawless and savage inhabitants of the jungleterry of the Rajmahal Hills." The next measure was to prescribe the limits of their territory; and to prevent disputes with their neighbours, large pillars of masonry were set up on the lines of demarcation. The hillmen, however, making it a point of honour to dwell only on the heights, despised the Damin-e-koh, or skirt of the hills, a district comprising some 1300 square miles; whereupon the Goverment permitted a wandering race, the Sonthals, to settle on the neglected lands on payment of a small tax. These Sonthals are as industrious and persevering as the hillmen are the reverse; and in the history of progress there are few events more noteworthy than their reclamation of a region which but a few years ago was covered by dense jungle, tenanted by noxious beasts and reptiles. In 1838, the land-tax amounted to 2,000 rupees, the population being about 3,000, living in forty villages. But year after year the agent apointed as collector and administrator found an increase; and in 1851, the sum received was nearly 44,000 rupees, while the inhabitants, by immigration and the natural process, had multiplied to 83,000, and the villages to 1,473; three hundred of the latter paying no tax,-the three years' grace allowed after breaking ground and starting a settlement not having expired. Such had been the industry of the people that 254 square miles were under cultivation. The Sonthal appears to be not less expert in the use of the axe than the Yankee, and when once he gets to work among the trees he soon makes a spacious clearing; and it is not a little remarkable to find him adopting the same means for the destruction of the larger trees as the backwoodsman of the United States, viz., by girdling, or cutting a deep notch round the whole circumference. But in one respect the Sonthal shows his superiority; he leaves some of the best trees standing singly or in groups, thus giving a park-like appearance to the settled country. If he wishes to preserve a patch of jungle or grass, he makes use of the signal adopted by street pavers in England-a wisp of straw tied to a bamboo pole or a tree, and his neighbours obey the intimation with scrupulous fidelity. He clears away wild animals, too, as effectually as he does the timber; and is as dextrous with his bow as the Kentuck with his rifle. He swears by "the tiger's skin ;" but such is his regard for truth, that it is said to be unpardonable to put him on his oath his statements are always to be relied on, a striking contrast to the notorious lying disposition of the Bengalis. Free and independent, he will be no man's servant, and if coercion be attempted, he pushes further into the jungle, and sets to work with his accustomed diligence to clear a patch and establish a new home. We now see why Capt. Sherwill found so much to interest him in the country and the people. He could never be weary of admiring the beauty of the one and the industry of the other. He found the Sonthals active in body and cheerful in temperament, taking great pride in their children, and exhibiting great propriety of conduct, except at their weddings and dances: the latter are held in the place of sacrifice, -an open plain outside of every village. "A lofty stage," says the captain, "is erected, upon which a few men seat themselves, who appear to act as guides or masters of the ceremony; radiating from this stage, which forms the centre of the dance, are numerous strings, composed of from twenty to thirty women, who holding each other by the waistband, their right shoulders, arms, and breasts bare, and their hair highly ornamented with flowers or with bunches of Tusser silk, dyed red, dance to the maddest and wildest of music, drawn from monkeyskin covered drums, pipes, and flutes, and as they dance, their positions and postures, which are most absurd, are guided and prompted by the male musicians, who dance in front of, and facing the women. The musicians also throw themselves into most ludicrous positions, shouting, capering, and screaming like madmen; and as they have tall peacock feathers tied round their heads, and are very drunk, the scene is a most extraordinary one. The women chant as they dance, and keep very good time in their dancing, by beating their heels on the ground. The whole body of dancers take about one hour to complete the circuit of the central stage, as the progressive motion is considerably retarded by a constant retrogressive one. Relays of fresh women are always at hand to relieve the tired ones." The captain and his party were objects of great curiosity; the inhabitants everywhere turned out to see them pass. Many of them appeared to hold the elephant in great reverence, for the women knelt down and touched the foot-tracks left by the animal with the heads of their children. Whenever a crowd became too inquisitive or troublesome, a show of beginning to sketch their likenesses never failed to put them to immediate flight; and it was no small relief and amusement to the travellers to avail themselves of this expedient. The villages are described as well-built, generally one long street of homesteads, each surrounded by a living-fence, and tenanted by several generations of the same family; and on either side of the road a row of trees which serve a double purpose,—they give shelter, and their pungent bark is used as a condiment. There is no lack of agricultural implements of a rude construction; nor of poultry; nor of pigs, in well-kept sties; nor of cattle; the whole conveying an impression of comfort and well-doing rarely met with. At the village of Burwa the captain witnessed a pleasing instance of courtesy. "Amongst the party of lookers-on," he relates, was a very pretty young Sonthal girl; she did not belong to this place, but had just arrived on a visit from her own village; and as she recognised many of her old friends, she saluted them in the following manner :-running up to her newly-discovered friend, she threw herself down on her knees and laid her head upon the feet of the saluted; who in return stooped down, and spreading her two hands over the kneeling girl carried them, with the tips of her fingers turned in towards the palm of the hand, to her own head, where she held them until the pretty visitor rose from her kneeling position, when they immdiately commenced talking, examining each other's bracelets, hair-combs, and other ornaments. This general salutation was repeated to each female acquaintance in rapid succession." The number of bracelets worn is perhaps the standard of respectability among the Sonthals, as a balance at one's banker's is with us; for most of the women wear from ten to twelve pounds weight of brass or bell-metal rings on their arms and legs, and one was seen with thirty-two pounds! On entering one of the hill villages in the course of his route, only one of the four hundred inhabitants was visible, all the others had hid themselves; and, extraordinary as it may seem, none of them had ever seen a white man or elephant before. By the distribution of a few presents, however, the captain succeeded in luring them from their hiding-places, and overcoming their terrors. The hill-men complain of the encroachments of the Sonthals, who are continually pushing their way into the neglected valleys, and in some instances, have advanced a little way up the slopes. In this, they are favoured by the policy of the government, as the agent is always ready to grant leases of the uncleared lands; and it is not difficult to foresee a great spread and increase of the industrious race. Already they have several markets which are attended by traders from Bengal; and the natural resources of the country are so great as to promise further development. Coal has been found ¡n many places, and there are large deposits of the rarer stones, chalcedony and agate, the latter being found at times in balls a foot in diameter. Among the vegetable productions, the Strychnos, or nux vomica tree is frequently met with, its deadly fruit hanging in rich golden clusters. Boats are built for the conveyance of produce down the rivers in the spring, immediately after the hurpa, or bore, which follows the first fall of rain in the hills, and rushes with terrific violence down the dry bed of the stream, driving a thick cloud of sand before it, and sweeping away men and cattle. From November to February, the climate is perfectly healthful, as the atmosphere is quiescent during those months; but no sooner does the wind begin to blow in March, than fever breaks out and carries off numbers of the population. In some places ruins of ancient buildings are seen, as mysterious as the ruined cities of Central America, but, like them, telling of a long-perished race far superior to the present. Another of Capt. Sherwill's expeditions was to the Kurrukpore Hills, a much smaller and lower range than the Rajmahal, the highest not exceeding eleven hundred feet, but presenting many interesting features. The object was to visit the sources of the Mun and Anjur, two minor affluents of the Ganges, which were said to rise from the ground in hot springs. On this route the party had to wade for miles through rice-fields up to their knees in water, to swim mountain torrents, to bivouac amid pouring rain, and find themselves on awaking in the morning imbedded in a layer of thin mud. In three days the source of the Mun was reached, a considerable number of springs spouting up from the base of a hill, all, with one exception, at a temperature of 145 degrees, the exception being two degrees hotter. Their united waters running from the slope formed at once a small and rapid stream, in which the party enjoyed the luxury of bathing, with power to change the temperature at pleasure by approaching or removing from the source. Certain curious phenomena were observed: at 147 degrees the water contained no signs of animal or vegetable life; but at 145 degrees, a green slimy moss was found growing on the hard hornstone rocks, while trees, shrubs, ferns, and grasses, flourished luxuriantly at 130 degrees, and sent their roots down into the warm current. In 120 degrees, the larvæ of the libellula, or dragon-fly, was abundant; and a large lizard that had been scared from the jungle, dashed through the same part of the stream, apparently in great agony. Numerous frogs, and shoals of a very small silvery fish were swimming about in 114 degrees, enjoying their hot life; "but upon being driven up the stream into a higher temperature, they showed great distress; at 117 degrees, they darted about wildly; at 119 degrees, they died instantly." The rice-fields, irrigated by the hot stream bore most bountiful crops; and the natives in pursuing their labours, would wade through the water where it was unbearable to European feet. The party encamped for a night on the summit of the highest hill, and after dark set fire to a large heap of jungle which they had cleared away, and which in consequence of the rain, could only be coaxed into burning by one of the party sacrificing a clean dry shirt to kindle it with: the blaze was visible at a distance of seventy miles. While clearing their way, they came upon several large webs of the epeira spider, remarkable for their strength and size. The central net in which the creature lay in wait, was five feet in diameter; and with the surrounding web and stretcher lines, extended from ten to twenty feet; and of such strength as to make it difficult to force a passage. In one, eight young spiders were busily devouring the remains of a bird, which had become entangled, and was as completely enveloped in web as unwary bluebottles are by spiders in our tamer climate. The old spider made fight against the intruders, but was captured at last, and bottled as a fit subject for a museum. Red and black in colour, armed with powerful mandibles, and with legs spanning six inches, his appearance was truly formidable. Seeing a native eat ants with great relish, Capt. Sherwill was reminded of an incident in which the mata, or large biting red ant played a conspicuous part; and with this we close our notice of his exploration: "In a house where I once resided," he states, "on the banks of the Ganges, I was much troubled with a numerous nest of hornets that had taken up their abode in the thatch immediately over the entrance door. I was recommended by the natives to try the effects of the mata, a nest of which was accordingly brought and put into the thatch. As each hornet arrived and settled, he was immediately seized by the ants, several to each leg-others mounted on his back-and in a few seconds and after a violent struggle he fell dead to the ground; but whether stung or bitten to death, I could not observe. In a couple of hours the ground was strewed with hundreds of hornets, and before the evening the nest was destroyed. I have seen a full grown chameleon killed in a few minutes by these ferocious insects; the poor creature had been, together with his cage, put in the sun at the foot of a tree, from which the ants descended, attacked the animal, and killed him." * * * VOICES FOR PROGRESS.* IN looking through this little volume we find rather more rhyme than poetry. Mr. Ker means well, and is very ardent in his expressions, but his thoughts are commonplace. A healthy desire to do good pervades his pages, and this is a redeeming characteristic in a young writer, for most juvenile aspirants devote their chief attention to "loves," and "doves," and "flowers," and "bowers." Poetry requires something more than moral statistics and metrical preaching; take the following lines for instance :There's not a deed beneath the sun Performed, but what's by action done, And the more the will is fain to do, The easier is the task got through! Then, if there be a thing to gain, Which you would own, Begin at once for to attain, Ere the chance be flown. Here is nothing beyond the average of sing-song platitudes; and the information that "action is deed," seems unusually superfluous. We give another instance of the "good meaning" we allude to, without the executive minstrel power to properly display it : Oh practice then both night and day, *Voices for Progress, and other Poems, By Thomas Forster Ker. Houlston and Stoneman: London. |