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LY JOURNAL OF POLITICS, LITERATURE AND NEWS, _

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EDWARD WHELAN]

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Literature.

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SELECTED FOR THE EXAMINER.

TO ONE I LOVE.

Thou art drooping on thy stem, my flower, Like the lily on: the wave ; A spirit breath hath passed thro’ thee, * That presageth the grave.

The light sleeps in thine eye, my flower, Just waiting to be woken,

The sweet word, dreaming on thy lips, Will soon in Heaven be spoken.

Thou art preparing forthe skies, my floyer, Thy mother’s smile doth call,

Her warble kiss, upon thy lips, Bids thee forsake us all.

Thou art trembling into tife, my flower, Chou art fading from our view, loved and Joving ones must lose

j > } . » most kind and true.

And

A friend

A blessing beamed from thee, my flower, When all my soul was dark,

Thy look drew forth my truest truth As steel from flint, the spark.

I bless thee, dear and "T'was thine for aye

And when we give thee

my £ U0

hack to Heaven,

u wilt not love us less.

Aa AX.

POETRY ON THE RAILWAY.

tens's Household Words.)

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If [succeed in the object 1 have proposed to myself in this paper, [ shall consider that [ am entitled to the gratitude of all poets, present and to come. For I shal) have found them a new subject for verse: a discovery, I submit, as important mi ’ a hew motive power, a new

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as that of a n etal, or of leasure, a new pattern for shaw's, a new colour, or a pew

No menter of the tuneful craft; ne gentle-

y .

oer os 8. e.rong Crink.

man whose eyes are in the habit.of rolling in a fine frenzy ; |

imental young lady with an album will deny that the whole preser

no sent :( domain of poetry is used up :—that it has been surveyed, travelled over, explored, ticketed, catalogued, clas- sified, and analysed to the lat inch of ground, to the last petal of the last flower, to the last blade of grass. Every

Poetical abject has heen worn as threadhore os Sir John Uutler’s stockings. The sea, its biucness, depth, vastness, raininess, freedom, noisiness, calmgess,/darkness and bright- ness; its weeds, and waves, and finny denizens; its laughier, wailings, sighing:, and deep bellowirgs; the ships that sail, and the boats that dance, and the tempests thut how] over it; the white winged birds that skim over its billows; the great

whales, and sharks, and monsters, to us yet unknown, that disport themselves in its lowest depths, and swinge the scaly horrors of their folded tails in its salt hiding places; the mermaids that wag their coral caves ; tho sirens t ‘homs farther than plum- met ever sounded; the jewels and gold that lie hidden in its caverns, measurcless to man; the dead that it is to give up: | all appertaining to it, have been «ung dry

hese thousand years. _We heard the roar of its billows in e first line of the Iliad, and Mr. Sharp, the comic singer, vill sing about it this vc ry night at the Tivoli Gardens, in mnection with the Gravesend steamer, the steward, certain

jasins, and a boiled leg of mutton.

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As for the Sun, he has had as many verses written about him as he is miles distant from the earth. His heat, bright- ness, roundness, and smiling face ; his incorrigible propensi- ties for getting up im the east and going to bed in the west; his obliging disposition in tipping the hills with gold, and bathing the evening sky with erimson, have all been sung. Every star in the firwament has had a stanza ; Saturn’s rings have all had their posies, and Mars, Bacchus, Apolle, and Virorum, Lave all been chanted, As for the poor ill-used Moon, she has been groung ou every barrel-organ in Par- nassus since poetry existed. ™ Her pallid complexion, chastity or lightness of conduct, treacheroug, contemplative, or secre- tive disposition, her silver or sickly smile, have all¢een over- celebrated in verse. An everything else belonging to the sky—the clouds, murky, purple, or silver lined, the hail, the rain, the snow, the rainbow, the wind in its circuits, the fowis that fy, and the iasects that hover — they have all had their poets, and too many ef them.

Is there anything new im poetry, I ask, to be said about Love? Surely that viand bas been done to rags. it with every variety of dressing. Love and madness; love and smiles, tears, folly, crime, ianoeenee and charity. We have had love in a village, a palace, a cottage, a camp, a prison. anda tub. We have had the lov waymen, lords and lad Loves of the Ange Cunning was evea g, science of mathewaties into the service of Poe and to sing about the loves of ardent tangents, oscillation, cissoids, conchoids, the square of the hypothenuse, asymptotes, parabolas, and conic sections — in short, all the Loves of the Triangles. us the Loves of the Plants, and imgthe we had the loves of granite rocks, argillaceous strata, noduled flints, blue clay, silica, chertz, and the limestone formation. We have had ia connection with love in poetry hearts, spells, wrath, despair, withering smiles, burning tears, toses, posies, pearls and other precious stones; b} hopes, beaming eyes, misery, wretchedness, and unutterable Woe. It is too much. Everything is wornout. The whole of the flower-garden, from the brazen sunflower’ to the timid violet, has been exhausted long ago. AJ} the birds in the world could never sing so loud or so long as the poets have sung about them. ‘The bards have sung right through Lem- priere’s Classical Dictionary, Buffon’s Natural History, Malte Byun’s Geography (for what country, city, mountain, or streai, remains unsung), and the B Every hero, and almost We have had the poeticg gination, aud Frien Wishee, the Falla

sighs, ighted

aphie Universelle, every er has had his epie. ’al Pleasures of Hope, Memory, Lma- ndehip ; likewise the anity of Human cies Of Hope, and the Triumphs of Temper.

CHARLOTTETOWN, PRIN

a Ee ARE 2 at rrer

tut!ls and com) their tresses in its!

Chis is true Liberty, when Free-born Men, having to advise the Public, mav speak free——Ev

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l'The heavenly muse has sung of man's first disobedience, and ‘the mortal fruit of’ the forbidden tree, that brought death into , the world and all our woes. The honest muse has arisen and ;sung the Man of Ross. All the battles that ever were

fought—all the arms and all the men—have been celebrated |

in numbers. Arts, commerce, Jaws, learning, and our old nobility, have had their poet. Suicide has found a member ‘of the Court of Apollo musical and morbid enough to sing ,self-murder; and the Corn Laws have been rescued from | Blue Books, and enshrined in Ballads. Mr. Pope has called upon my lord Bolingbroke to awake, and “ expatiate free | over all thfs scene of man;” and the pair have, together, _ passed the whole catalogue of human virtues and vices in re- \view. Drunkenness has been sung; so has painting, so has The Grave has been sung. The earth, and the waters under it, and the fearsome regioy under that; its *‘ adamantine /chains and penal fire,” its “ever burning sulphur uncon- | sumed,” its “ darkness vistble,” its burning marl and sights of terrer. We have heard the last lays of 2!l the Last Min- )strels, and the Last Man has had his say, or rather his song, under the auspices of Campbell. The harp that once hung

io Tura’s halls has not a string left, and nobody cught to play |

upon it any more. ‘

| ‘Take instead, oh ye poets, the wires of the Electric Tele- ) graph, and run your tuneful fingers over those chords. Sing the poetry of Railways. But what can there be of the poe- tical, or even the picturesque, element in a Railway? Trunk-

lines, branch-lines, loop-lines, and sidings; cuttings, embank- ‘ments, gradients, curves, and inclixes; points, switches, sleepers, frog-signals, and turn-tables; locomotives, break- | vans, buffers, tenders, and whistles ; platforms, tunnels, tubs, _goods-sheds, return-tickets, axle-grease, cattle-trains, pilot-

engines, time-tables, and coal-trunks : all these are eminently

prosaic matter-of-fact things, determined, measured and ‘maintained by line and rule, by the chapter and verse of printed regulations and bye-laws signed by Directors and allowed by Commissioners of Railways. Can there be any )poetry in the Seeretary’s office; in dividends, debentures, |serip, preference-shares, and deferred bonds? Is there any | poetry in Railway time—the atrociously matter-of-fact system of calculation that has corrupted the half-past two o’clock of the old Watchman into two-thirty? Is Bradshaw poetical ? Are Messrs. Pickford and Chaplin and. Horne poetical ? _ How the deuce (IL put words into my opponent's mouths) are you to get any poetry out of that dreariest combination of |Straight lines, a railroad: — straight rails, straight posts, | straight stations, and straight termini.

As if there could be anything poetical about a Railroad!

Chear Gusto the great fine art critic and judge of litera- tare say this with a sneer, turning up his fine Roman nose meanwhile. Poetry on a Railway! cries Proseycard, the man of business—nonsense! There may be some nonsensical verses or so in the books that Messrs. W. H. Smith and Sons sell at their stolls.at the different stations; hat Pootry on or in the Railway itself — ridiculous? Poetry on the Rail! echoes Heavypace, the commercial traveller—fudye! I travel fifteen thousand miles by railway every year. I know every line, branch, and station in Great Britain. I .never |saw any poetry on the Rail. And a crowd of passengers, directors, shareholders, engine - drivers, guards, stokers, station-masters, signal-men, and porters, with, 1 am ashamed to fear, a considerable proportion of the readers of House- hold Words, seem, to. the ears of my, mind, to take up the ery, to laugh scornfully at the preposterous idea of there being possibly any such a thing as poetry connected with se matter- _of-fact an institution as a Railway, and to look upon me in | the light of a fantastic visionary.

| ButT have tied myself to the stake; nailed my colours _to the mast ; drawn the sword and thrown away the scabbard; |in fact, I have written the title of this article, and must abide the issue.

Take a Tunnel — in all its length, its utter darkness, its dark coldness and tempestuous windiness. To me a Tunnel | is all poetry. To be suddeniy snatched away from the light | of day, from the pleasant companionship of the fleecy clouds, | the green fields spangled with fiowers, the golden wheat, the | fantastically changing embankments,— now geological, now | floral, now rocky, now chalky; the hills, the valleys, and the

winding streams; the high mountains in the distance that know they are emperors of the landscape, and so wear purple

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) graze so conteutedly, unweeting that John Hinds the butcher }is coming down by the next*train to purchase them for the slaughter-house ; the little lambs that are not quite up to railway - trains, their noise and bustle and smoke, yet, and

behind them; the sententious cattle that munch, and lazily watch the steam from the funnel as it breaks into fleecy rags of vapour, and then fall to munching again ;—to be hurried from all these into pitehy obscurity, seem to me poetical and | picturesque in the extreme. It is like death in the midst of life, a sudden suspension of vitality—the gloom and terror of _the grave pouncing like a hawk upon the warmth and cheer-

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of that dark and gloomy tunnel —the whirring roar and 'seream and jar of echoes, the clanging of wheels, the strange Voices that seem to make themselves heard as the train rushes

‘horror, you should travel iu a third-class carriage.

To the first and second class passengers the luxury of lamplight is

| they are enabled dimly to desery their fellow-travellers ; but | for the third class voyager darkness koth outer and inner are

‘are borne invisibly on our howling way, dreadful thoughts 'spring up in our minds of blindness; that we have lost our ‘sight for ever! Vainly we endeavour to peer through the darkness, to strai | outline—be it ever so dim—of a human figure ; one thin bead of day upon a panel, a ledge, a window-sill, or a door. Is | there not matter for bards in all this ?~in the length of the tunnel, its darkness and clamour; in the rage and fury of | the engine eating the strong heart, burnt up by inward fire like a man consumed by his own passioris; in the seemingly | exerlasting duration of the deprival from light and day and ‘life; but a deprival which ends at last. Ah, bow glad and | weleome that restoration to sunshine is! We seem to have lee a sore and us sickness, and to be suddenly -and

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CE EDWARD ISLAND, MON

jmusic. Poems have been written oa the Art of Poetry. |

robes right imperially ; the silly sheep in the meadows, that |

n our eyes to desery one ray’ of light, one’

graciously permitted to rise from a bed of pain and suffering, |

RIPIDES.

ae oe

pp

‘and enter at onee into the enjoyment of the rudest health,

with all its comforts and enjoyments, with all its cheerful pleasures and happy forgetfulness of the ills that are gone, ‘and unconscious nescience of the ills that are to come, and that must come, and surely.

Whenever I pass through a tunnel I meditete upon these things, and wish heartily that I were a poet, that 1 might tune my heart to sing the poetry of railway tunnels. I don't know whether the same thoughts strike other people. I suppose they do,—I hope they do. It may be that I muse more on tunnels, and shape their length and blackness, and coldness and noise, to subjects fit-to be wedded to immortal verse; because I happen to reside on a railway, and that almost every morning and evening througheut the week [ have to pass through a tunnel of prodigious length,—to say the truth, nearly as long as the Box Tunnel on the Great Western Railway. Morning and night we dash from the fair fields of Kent,—from the orchards and the hop-gardens, —from the sight of the soble river in the distance, with its boat and barges and huge ships, into this Erebus, pitch dark, nearly three miles long, and full of horrid noises. Some- times 1 travel in the*lamp-lit carriages, and then T find it poetical to watch the flickering gleams of the sickly light upon the strouded figures, muffled closely in railway rugs and mantles and shawls,—the ladies, who cower timidly in cor- |ners; the children, who, half-pleased, half-frightened, don’t seem to-know whether to lauga or cry, and compromise the matter by sitting with their mouths wide open, and inces- santly asking why it is so dark, and why there is such a noise. Sometimes, and [ am not* ashamed to confess, much more frequently, I make my journey in the poor man's carriage —-the «‘ parly,” or third class. In that hamble “parly” train, believe me, there is much more railway poetry attainable than in the more aristocratic compartments. ‘otal darkness, more noise (for the windows are generally open, and the reverberation consequeutly much greater,) more mocking voices, more mystery, and more romance. I have even gone through tunnels in those vile open standing- up cars, called by an irreverent public “ pig-boxes,” and seemingly provided by railway directors as-a cutting re- proach on, and stern punishment for, poverty. Yet I have drunk deeply of railway poetry in a “ pig-box.” There is something grand, there is semething epic ; there is something really sublime in the gradual melting away of the darkness into light; in the decadcuce of total eclipse and the glorious restoration of the sun to his golden rights again. Standing up in the coverless car you see strange, dim, fantastic, changing shapes above you. The daylight becomes irriguous, like dew upon the stream from the funnel, the roofs of car- riages, the brickwork sides of the tunnel itself. But uothing is Gefined, nothing fixed; all the shapes are irresolute, fleeting, confused, like the events in the memory of an old man. The tunnel becomes a phantom tub-—a dry Styx— the train s changed into Uharon’s boat, and the ewgine- driver into the infernal ferryman. And the end of that awful navigation must surely be Tartdtus. so, you fancy yourself in the boat, as Dante and Virgil were in the Divine Comedy; ghosts cling to the sides, vainly re- penting, usclessly lamenting ; Francesca of Rimini floats des- pairing by; far off, miagled with the rattle of wheels, are heard the famine-wiung moaus of Ugolino’s children. Hark to that awful shrilly, hideous, prolonged yell—a scream like that they say that Catherine of Russia gave on her death- bed, and which, years afterwards. was wont to. haunt the memories Of those that had heard it. Lord be good to us! there iz the scream again: it is the first scream of a lost spirit’s last agony; the cry of the child of earth waking up into the Ever and Ever af pain; it is Facinata screaming in her sepulchre of flames -— no, it is simply the railway whistle as the train emerges from the tannel into sunlight again. The ghosts vanish, there areno more horrible sights and noises, no flying sparks, no red lamps at intervals like demon eyes. I turn back to the “ pig box,” and look at the arched entrance-to the tunnel we have just quitted. I seemed to fancy there should be an inscription over it bidding ali who enter to leave Hope behind; but instead of that there is simply, hard by, a placard on a post relative to cattle straying on the railway.

A railway accident! Ah, poets! how much of poetry could you find in that, were you so minded. Odes and bal- lads. sapphics, alcaics and dactylics, strophes, chorusses and semichorusses might be sung — rugged poems, rough as the rocky numbers of Ossian, soothing poems, “ soft pity to in- fuse,” running “ softly sweet in Lydian measure” upon the woes of railway accidents, the widowhoods and orphanages that have been made by the carelessness of a driver, a faulty

that scamper nervously away, carrying their simple tails engine, am unturned “ point,” a mistaken signal. Think of

| the bride of yesterday, the first child of our manhood, the |last child of our age; think of the dear friend who has been absent for years, who has been estranged from us by those | whispering tongues that poison truth, and is coming swiftly along the iron road to be reconciled to us at last. Lhink of these torn from us by a sudden, cruel, unprepared-for death ; think of these, falling upon that miserable battle-field, with-

We have | fulness of life. Many an,ode, many a ballad cou!d be written | out glory, without foes to fight with, yet with fearfuller,

gkastlier hurts, with more carnage and horror in destruction than you could meet with even on those gory Chersonean battle-fields after storms of shot and shell, after the fierce

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es of pirates, high. | through the tunnel,—now in passionate supplication, now in assaults of the bayonet’s steel, and the trampling of the ies, shepherds and shepherdesses; the fierce anger and loud invective, now in an infernal chorus of horses, and the stroke of the sharp sword. There are bards 's aud the Loves of the New Police.’ fiendish mirth and demoniac exultation, now in a loud and to wail over the wartior who falls in the fray, for the horse od enough to impress the abstruse long-continued though inarticulate screech — a meaningless | and his rider blasted by the scarlet whirlwind. There are try and Love ; | bow! like the ravings of a madman, To understand aud tears and songs for the dead that the sea engulfs, to cradle axioms, postulates, appreciate a tunnel in its full aspect of poetic and picturesque | them in its blue depths till Time and Death shall be no more.

There are elegies atl epitaphs and mourning verses for those that sleepin the churchyard, that haye laid their heads upon

Doctor Darwin gave | by the gracious favour of the Directors of the Company la turf, that eat their salad from the roots, that dwell with conomy of vegetation | condescendingly extended; and in passing through a tunnel! worms and entertain creeping things in the cells and little

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chambers of their eyes. There is poetry even for the | murderer on his gibbet; but who cares to sing the railway

darts, | provided — darkness so complete and so intense, that as we victims? who bids the line restore its dead ? who adjurates brave? They are,

the engine to bring back the true and a killed, and are buried ; the inquest meet; the jurymen give the'r verdict, and forget all about it two days afterwards. Somebody is tried for manslaughter and acquitted, for, of course, there is nobody to blame! It is all over, and the excursion train, crammed with jovial excursionists, swcet- hearts, married couples, clubs of gay fellows, laughing children, baskets of prog, bottles of beer, and surreptitious, yet officially connived at, pipes; the engine dressed in ribbons, the stoker—oh, wonder !—in a clean shirt; the excursion train, I say, rattles gaily over the very place where, a month sinee, the accident took place 3 over the very spot where the earth drank up blood, and the rails were violeutly wrenched ond twisted, and the sleepers were ensanguined. and death and havoc and desolation were strewn all around,

DAY, JULY 16, 18

You think |

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UBLIS

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oo.

[EDITOR ax P

HER

| and the wild flowers in the embankment were scalded with the steam from the shattered boiler.

Can you form an idea, e of a haunted line? Suppose the same excursion train I was speaking of to be on its way home, late at night, say from Cripplegate-super-mare or Bullington Wells, Kverybody has enjoyed himself very much—the children are tired, but happy. The bonnets of the married ladies have made their proper impressions upon the population of Cripplegate-super-mare, and they are satisfied with them, their husbands and themselves. The /married gentlemen have found out of what the contents of ithe black bottles consisted—they smoke pipes openly now, qnite defiant, if not oblivious, of bye-laws and forty-shilling fines. Nobody objects to smoking—not even the asthmatical

old gentleman in the respirator ard the red comforter—not even the tall lady, with the severe countenance and the green umbrella, who took the mild fuir man in spectacles so sharply | to task this’ morning about the mild cigar which he was \timidly smoking up the sleeve of h’s poncho, Even the guards and officials at the stations do not object to smoking, 'Gne whiskered individual of the former class, ordinaril y the terror of the bumble third-class passenger, whom he, with — fierce contempt, designates as “ you, sir,” and hauls out of the carriage on the slightest provocation, condescends to be satirical on the smoke subjeet; he puts his head in at the window, and asks-the passengers “ how they like it—mild or full flavoured?” This is a joke, and everybody, of course, laughs inmensely, and goes on smoking unmolesied. Bless me! bow heartily we can laugh at the jokesof people we are ufraid of, or want to cringe to for a purpose.

Surely a merrier excursion train as this was never due at the Babylon Bridge station at eleven-thirty. Funny stories are told. A little round man, in a grey coat, and a hat like a sailor’s, sings a comic song seven miles long, for he begins it at one station, and ends it at another seven miles distant. A pretty, timorous widow is heard softly joining in'the chorus of “tol de rel lol.” A bilious man of melancholy mien, hitherto speechless, volunteers a humorous recitation, and promises feats of conjuring after they have passed the next station., Sirangers are invited to drink out of strange hottles, and drink. Everybody is willing to take everybody’s children on his knee. People pencil down addresses by the lamplight, and exchange them with people opposite, hoping that they shall become better acquainted. The select clubs of jolly fellows are vory happy—they even say, “ vrappy.” There is laughing, talking, jesting, courting and tittering. None are silent but those who are asleep. Hurrah for this jovial excursion train, for the Nor-Nor-West by Eastern Railway Company, its cheap fures, and admirable manage: ment !

Suppose. that just at the spot where this allegro train now is, there oceurred the great accident of last July. You re- member, the excursion taain, through some error, the cause of which was unfortunately never discovered}, ran into the luggage train; the driver and stoker of the former were dashed to pieces—thirty-three persons were killed or wounded. Suppose some iman of poetical temperament, of fantastic imagivation, of moody fancies, were in the carriage of this merry train to-night, looking from the window, communing with the yellow moonlight, the light cluads placidly floating along the sea of heaven, as if safe of a sure anchorage at last. He knows the line, he knows the place where that grim accident was—he muses on it—yes; this was the spoi, there laid the bodies.

Heavens and earth! suppose the line were haunted! See, from a siding comes slowly, noiselessly along the rail the | Prantom Train! There is no rattle of wheels, no puffing and blowing of the engine, only, from time to time, the engine whistle is heard in a fitful, murmuring, wailing gust of sound; the lamps in front burn blue, sickly lambent flames leap from the funnel and the furnace door. The carriages are lamplit too, but with corpse candles. The carriages themselves are mere skeletons—ihey are al] shattered, dislocated, ruined, yet, by some deadly principle of cohesion, they keep together, and q through the interstices of their cracking*ribs and framework you may see the passengers. Torrible sight to see! Some have limbs bound up in splinters, some lie on stretchers, but

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they have all faces and eyes; and the eyes and the faces ; f together with the phantom guard with his lantern, from : which long rays of ghastly light proceed; together with the be phaatom driver, with bis jaw bound up ; the phantom stoker, ¥ who'stokes with a mattock and spade, and feeds the fire as z thouglt he were making a grave; the phantom commercial ©

travellers wrapped in shrouds for railway rugs; the pair of lovers in the first-elass coupe, looked in the same embrace of death in which they were found after the accident, the stout old gentleman with his head in his lap, the legs of the man the rest of whose body was never found, but who still has a face and eyes, the skeletons of horses in the horse-boxes, the stacks of coffins in the luggage-vans (for a}l is transparen‘, and you can see the fatal verge of the embankmcut beyond, through the train), All these sights cfhorror flit continually past, up and down, backwards and forwards, haunting the line where the accident was. ;

But, ah me! these are, perhaps, but silly fancies after all. Respectability may be right, and there may be no more poetry in a railway than in my boots. Yet I should like to find poetry in everything, even in boots. I am afraid rail- ways @re ugly, dull, prosaic, straigat ; yet the line of beauty, honest Hogarth tells us, is a curve, and curves you may oceasionally find oa the straightest of railways—and where beauty is, poetry, you may be sure of it, isnot far off. I am, not quite sure but you may find it.in ugliness too, if there be anything beautiful in your own mind.

LOUIS XIV.

« He watched over all, arranged the smallest details, and yet never compromised his dignity. He was always able to invest himself with a glory, which made others Jook upon him as a sort of providence. He had the secret of accomplish- ing a great deal in a calm, dignified manner, without pomp or display. His physical powers were finely developed ; and _So majestic and imposing was his air that those who addressed him must first accustom themselves to his appearance, not to |beoverawed. None knew better than he how to preserve his ‘dignity, and how to maintain a certain manner, which made ‘him appear great, while it kept others at a distance. He ‘himself’ observed a minute and strict etiquette ; and by this ‘means prevented that familiarity to which he would otherwise | have been exposed, especially by his great fondness for the ‘society of women. We have some curious and chfracteristic | details on this subject. ‘* He never,’ says St. Simon, * passed is hood or bonnet without raising his hat, even to the chamber-

maids, knowing them to be such, as often the case at Marly ; to ladies he entirely removed his hat, but to a greater or less distance; to titled men he half removed it, either

POR Se ; <—