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LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY JAMES GRANT, AUTHOR OF "RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS," "THE GREAT
METROPOLIS," "PORTRAITS OF PUBLIC CHARACTERS," &c.

No. 46. NEW SERIES.]

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1841.

[PRICE TWOPENCE.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Illustrations of Humanity. No. XLVI.-Street Tumblers 230 | Literary and Moral Gems. Selected by a Lady for the Fatal Sensibility. A Tale of the Affections. Founded

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London Saturday Journal.-No. VII.
Luminous Appearance of the Sea
ORIGINAL POETRY:--The Crusader
Varieties

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ILLUSTRATIONS OF HUMANITY.

No. XLVI.-STREET TUMBLERS.

THE Street Tumblers are a curious class. Nobody knows any thing of them in private, and it is doubtful whether they know any thing of any body, except in the capacity of spectators of their tricks and evolutions. They may with peculiar propriety hum over to themselves the well-known couplet,—

"We care for nobody,

And nobody cares for us."

Where or in what manner they live, is to us an impenetrable mystery. They are never to be seen or heard of, except in the pursuit of their very arduous and very inadequately rewarded calling. When we say inadequately, let us not be understood as meaning to convey the idea that their vocation is a reputable one, or one which of itself ought to be encouraged. We simply mean, that the few half-pence which are thrown to them at the close of every hour's exercise of their muscular powers and singular dexterity, must, when divided among the three or four who usually form the party, be barely sufficient to procure for them the means of subsistence. And if this be so in the most propitious weather with which they are favoured, what must be their doom during the lengthened tracts of bad weather, which are so common in our unkindly climate-weather so unfavourable, that even if they were to persist in the performance of their feats, nobody would pause in the streets to witness them.

The performances of some of these Street Tumblers are exceedingly clever. They do with the greatest seeming ease, things which the spectators would have regarded as impossible, a moment before witnessing their performance. We have often seen a few ragged ragamuffin jugglers playing their tricks in the streets, and feeling most grateful if the spectators rewarded them with a few half-pence, quite as dexterous as others of the fraternity contemporaneously "starring" it in splendid theatres, and obtaining half-a-crown or eighteen pence a head, from the spectators.

It requires, we understand, and as will be easily believed, a long course of close and assiduous training, to qualify for appearing to advantage as a Street Tumbler. Many years are necessary for the purpose; and the cases are numerous in which after years of constant application to the art, persons fail of acquiring that proficiency in it which would afford them any chance of obtaining even the miserable livelihood which is to be earned by such a mode of life.

DEATH OF GENERAL MOORE AT
CORUNNA.

No military commander ever fell more nobly or more honoured than Sir John Moore, who perished on the field of Corunna in 1809, and whose last moments exhibited a scene perhaps as affecting as was ever witnessed around the death-bed of a dying soldier. He fell in the moment of victory, when he had turned at bay upon those ruthless

invaders who were pouring upon his devoted soldiers in overwhelming masses, led on by Soult and Napoleon himself, and who were prepared, in the language of their Emperor, "to drive those English leopards into the sea." The disastrous retreat from Salamanca was accomplished, the bay of Corunna was in sight, but the transports were battle against whatever odds, to insure the safe embarka. a day too late, and Moore was obliged to turn and risk a tion of his troops. The battle was fought and won, the French were defeated and driven back, but the success was dearly purchased, for the gallant Moore and many of his brave companions were left to slumber on the heights of Corunna.

While earnestly watching the result of the fight, and the gallant advance of his division of Highlanders near the village of Elvina, Sir John Moore was struck on the left breast by a cannon-shot. The shock threw him from his horse with violence: he rose again in a sitting posture, his countenance unchanged, and his stedfast eye still betrayed a sensation of pain, but in a few moments, when fixed upon the regiments engaged in his front. No sigh he was satisfied that the troops were gaining ground, his countenance brightened, and he suffered himself to be taken to the rear. He was placed in a blanket and carried by some Highland soldiers towards Corunna. Then was seen the dreadful nature of his hurt; the shoulder was shattered to pieces, the arm was hanging by a piece of skin, and the muscles of the breast torn into long strips. As the soldiers placed him in the blanket, his sword got entangled, and the hilt entered the wound. Captain Hardinge, a staff-officer who was near (now Sir Henry Hardinge,) attempted to unbuckle it, but the dying man stopped him, saying, "It is as well as it is, I had rather it should go out of the field with me;" and in that manner, so becoming a soldier, Moore was borne from the fight. Captain Hardinge in vain attempted to stop the effusion of blood with his sash; it flowed fast, and the torture of his wound increased, but such was the unshaken firmness of his mind, that those about him judging from the resolution of his countenance that his hurt was not mortal, expressed a hope of his recovery. Hearing this, he looked stedfastly at the injury for a moment, and then said, “No, Hardinge, I feel that to be impossible. Report to General Hope that I am wounded and taken to the rear." Several times he caused his attendants to stop and turn him round, that he might behold the field of battle; and when the firing indicated the advance of the British, he discovered his satisfaction, and suffered the bearers to proceed. The soldiers had not carried Sir John Moore far, when two surgeons came running to his aid. They had been employed in dressing the shattered arm of Sir David Baird; commander, generously ordered them to desist, and hasten who hearing of the disaster which had occurred to his to give him help. But Moore, who was bleeding profusely, said to them, "You can be of no use to me, go to the wounded soldiers to whom you may be useful," and he ordered the bearers to move on. But as they proceeded, he repeatedly made them turn round to view the battle, and to listen to the firing; the sound of which becoming gradually fainter, indicated that the French were retreating.

Before he reached Corunna, it was almost dark, and Colonel Anderson met him, who seeing his general borne from the field of battle for the third and last time, and steeped in blood, became speechless with anguish. Moore pressed his hand, and said in a low tone, " Anderson, don't leave me." As he was carried into the house, his faithful servant François came out, and stood aghast with horror; but his master said quickly, " My friend, this is nothing."

He was then placed on a mattrass on the floor, and supported by Anderson, who had saved his life at St. Lucia;

while some of the gentlemen of his staff came into the room by turns. He asked each as they entered, if the French were beaten, and was answered in the affirmative. They stood around, the pain of his wound became excessive, and deadly paleness overspread his fine features; yet with unsubdued fortitude he said at intervals; "Anderson, you know that I have always wished to die in this way; I hope the people of England will be satisfied, I hope my country will do me justice!"

Here his

"Anderson, you will see my friends as soon as you can; -Tell them every thing-say to my mother—" voice faltered, he became excessively agitated, and not being able to proceed, changed the subject.

"Hope! Hope !" (Sir John Hope, who succeeded to the command, afterwards the Earl of Hopetown,) "I have much to say to him; but cannot get it out. Are Colonel Graham" (of Balgowan, now Lord Lynedoch,) “and all my aides-de-camp safe?" At this question, Colonel Anderson, who knew the warm regard of the General towards the officers of his staff, made a private sign not to mention that Captain Burrard (a very promising young officer, son of Sir Harry Burrard) was mortally wounded.

Moore continued-"I have made my will, and have remembered my servants. Colborne (now Sir John Colborne,) "has my will and all my papers." As he spoke these words, Major Colborne, his military secretary, entered his room. He addressed him with his wonted kindness; then turning to Anderson, said, “Remember you go to Willoughby Gordon" (Sir James Willoughby Gordon, secretary to the Duke of York,) "and tell him it is my request, and I expect he will give a lieutenant-colonelcy to Major Colborne; he has been long with me, and I know him to be most worthy of it." He then asked the major, who had come last from the field, "Have the French been beaten ?" He assured him that they had on every point. An expression of pleasure passed over his face. "It's a great satisfaction for me to know that we have beaten the French. Is Paget in the room?" On being told he was not, he added, "Remember me to him, he is a fine fellow." This was the Hon. Brigadier Paget, who had commanded during the retreat the reserves of cavalry with much gallantry, afterwards Sir Edward Paget, and a Lieutenant-general. Though visibly sinking, he said, "I feel myself so strong, I fear I shall be long in dying.-It's great pain."

Every thing François says is right, I have great confidence in him." He thanked the surgeons for their attendance. Then seeing Captains Percy (Hon. Captain Percy, son of the Earl of Beverley) and Stanhope (son of Earl Stanhope) two of his aides-de-camp, enter, he spoke to them kindly, and repeated to them the question, "If all his aides-de-camp were safe."

became silent.

After a pause, Stanhope caught his eye, and he said to him, "Stanhope, remember me to your sister," (the Lady Hester Stanhope, niece to William Pitt.) He then Death approached rapidly, and the spirit at length departed, leaving the bleeding body an oblation offered up to his country. He was buried the same evening by the officers of his staff, and, wrapped in his military cloak, was left in the citadel of Corunna. "The guns of the enemy paid his funeral honours, and Soult, with a noble feeling of respect for his valour, raised a monument to his memory."

The death of Sir John Moore has furnished the subject of a poem of extraordinary beauty, the author of which was long unknown. It was at first attributed to Campbell, and others, but has now long been known as the production of the Rev. Mr. Wolfe of Ireland, a poet whose compositions were few, and who died young.,

We give the three finest of the stanzas :—
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

FATAL SENSIBILITY.

A TALE OF THE AFFECTIONS. FOUNDED ON FACT.

CHARLES ENFIELD was the son of a respectable manufacturer, who resided in a small town in the north of England. He had early imbibed a great love for reading, and this promising trait in his character continued to exert an influence increasing with his years. His mind naturally was of a peculiarly sensitive cast, and his feelings so intense and acute, that his friends and acquaintance, while they duly sympathised with him, could not avoid very often wondering at the excessive depression of spirits into which he was plunged upon the slightest unkind word or look of censure. This natural sensibility was heightened by the refined sentiments he had imbibed from his ardent love of study. He was much addicted to poetry, and was himself no very indifferent poet. It was his greatest enjoyment on a summer evening, when the duties of his father's business allowed, to wander in the fields, apostrophising as he walked, the various objects of nature which came under his observation; and jotting down the results in a little book which he carried on these occasions for the purpose. On his return from these walks he would retire to his room, and become so absorbed in the thoughts which had presented themselves during his rambles, that few things could be found of weight enough to withdraw him from his depth of studious application.

If there was any other sentiment which possessed a greater hold of his mind and heart, than that which has just been mentioned, it was love for his parents. He would forsake his most favourite pursuits, however deeply he might be engaged in them, at their slightest bidding, to minister even in the smallest possible degree to their comfort or pleasure. This love was fully returned by his affectionate parents, who had no other offspring on whom to bestow their regard: their every thought and hope was centred in their studious boy.

He was now eighteen, and a great acquisition in his father's business; but his parents observed with concern, the devastating inroads which his excessive application to study exerted on his health. He became daily less able to endure the toil which his occupation entailed; and in proportion as his physical weakness increased, his nervous system became disordered-his morbid sensibility was augmented-and he became peevish and irritable to strangers, though nothing could influence him to one unkind word, or appearance of dissatisfaction towards the beloved and revered authors of his existence. His parents endeavoured to dissuade him from assisting in the business till his health had been fully re-established; but no inducement could prevail with him to leave, as he said, the father to toil alone, that the son might eat of the bread of idleness.

His mother now became confined to her bed by sick

ness. The studies and poetical pursuits of Charles were immediately thrown aside, and he became engrossed with the care and attention which the situation of his afflicted parent required. He sat at her bedside as often as his other duties would permit, and watched with the most unremitting anxiety every change in her features which might predict a favourable alteration in her malady, or indicate a relapse. She daily grew worse, and it was deemed expedient to call in the aid of a physician. He came, and pronounced the sufferer's disease to be dangerous in the extreme. "He would not," he said, "hold out hopes which might in the end prove fallacious; and he thought it best that the relatives of the patient should be prepared for the worst."

The anxious Charles, who had not dared personally to hear the doctor's opinion, lest by his excessive sensibility he might be led to offend him by some extravagant burst of feeling, waited with breathless suspense at the door of the sick chamber, till he should be acquainted with the result. When he heard the groan with which his father received the doctor's communication, he could no longer contain himself, but rushing into the room, he threw himself upon his knees, and seizing the physician's hand, begged him to ease his fears, and say that his parent would live. "Come, come," said the humane doctor, tenderly raising Charles from the ground, "you must not yield to this excess of anxiety. You should consider that you will still have a father to comfort and support under his affliction. But Providence may yet ordain

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Speak it not, speak it not!" he cried despondingly. "You would cheat me into the hope that she will live, but it is in vain. My father's heart-breaking sigh confirms my apprehensions. Mother, mother," he exclaimed, hastily approaching the bed on which she lay, "must you depart from me for ever?-shall I hear your voice no longer call me son?-shall blessings cease to flow from the heart which now beats warm? Speak to me, mother, while yet you may,—speak, and bless me.”

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Charles," faintly said the sufferer, "do not give way to such despairing grief. Providence may kindly grant that I shall yet remain with you; do not, therefore, add pain to your poor father's heart, by unreasonable sorrow!" "Young man," said the doctor, "I charge you to abstain from exciting the invalid by your extravagant demeanour; I can already perceive its baneful effects. The patient cannot bear the mere exertion of speaking, therefore thus to agitate her, must be attended by the most dangerous consequences."

"But she is dying, she is dying!" he exclaimed, wildly. "See! she grows paler each moment. But one embrace, my mother;-oh, bless me! bless me!" The sufferer stretched out her hands to her son, which he eagerly clasped and kissed with fervour; then folding her in his arms, he wept in anguish. She pressed him fondly to her breast, and feebly articulated a blessing upon him; when suddenly relaxing her hold she fell back in a

swoon.

"She is dead! she is dead!" he shrieked, and fell senseless on the floor. Restoratives were administered, and he shortly revived, but did not utter a sound. He stared vacantly at those around him, and attempted not to resist being conveyed to his room, where he was laid upon the bed in the hope of inducing him to sleep, which the physician thought might promote his recovery.

In the mean time his mother revived from the swoon into which she had fallen, and had sunk into a deep slumber, from which she awoke so much better, that the doctor held out strong hopes of her entire recovery.—But how was it with her son?

His father passed the night watching by the bedside of

the unhappy Charles. In the morning the physician called to ascertain how matters were proceeding, and was told that his young patient was a maniac! The supposed death of his mother had produced such a terrific shock on his too sensitive mind, that reason failed under its influence, and became an utter wreck.

Some months elapsed, and the furious paroxysms of Charles's malady subsided into a comparative calm; but his intellect remained wholly clouded. His mother recovered her former health, though her spirits sustained a severe depression from the knowledge of her son's misfortune. He would sit in his room repeating portions of his little poems, and singing the simple airs his mother had taught his infancy. At other times he would call wildly on her to come and ease the burning fever which op presssed his brain, and seemed to wonder why she did not appear. He did not recognise any one in the house, though his parents often tried to recall his remembrance of their persons.

"Charles," said his mother one day, as she sat by his bedside, "my dear Charles, can you not remember me? It is your mother who now speaks to you-your fond and anxious mother who now grasps your hand, and encloses you in her embrace."

"Who speaks?" he cried, while his eyes wandered vaguely over the apartment. "I heard the word mother pronounced by a voice so sweet, I could fancy it was an angel uttered it. But, no, no, no," he said quickly, "there are no angels here-this is earth, and all is mortal. No seraph dwells where death abides! Death!" he repeated slowly, "he has torn her from me! He knew my love, and thought to crush my heart's bright joys for ever; but he has not conquered! No; she lives-yet not on earth.-I must go to her! Farewell, farewell," and he attempted to rise from his bed. His mother gently detained him, and the impression which had impelled him to the action quickly vanished from his mind, and his former state of apathetic indifference returned.

The humane physician who had attended the mother in her illness, never failed in his daily attendance on the unhappy son, in whose fate he took a melancholy interest. He perceived some traits in the nature of his malady, which filled him with strong hopes that by extreme care and assiduous attention in treating the different stages of the disease, he might be enabled to effect its cure.

It happened at this time, that a young girl who had been the playmate of Charles in his early years, but who had, when at the age of twelve, been taken by her parents to the continent, came over to England with her family. Lucy Arden, for such was her name, had, though so young when she parted from Charles, felt as if she had been torn from a brother, when she was compelled to bid him farewell. The vivid impressions which his affectionate endearments had made on her young heart, time could not efface. On the contrary as she increased in years, they strengthened and became so acute in their nature, that her thoughts ceased to dwell with interest on any other subject than that of her early friendship. She was the daughter of a prosperous merchant, who had acquired an ample fortune by long years devoted to the toils of business. He had lately become aware of the attachment which mutually subsisted between Charles Enfield and his daughter, and though he could have wished that his Lucy's affections had been bestowed on one of more promise in the way of worldly prosperity, yet his wife possessed influence over him sufficient to induce him not to crush the hopes of the poor girl, of whom she was doatingly fond, by marrying her to another with whom, she said, she might be miserable for the rest of her life.

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With various hopes and fears agitating her breast, Lucy landed on her native shore, her mind and heart wholly engrossed with the ever present day-dream of her existence. The first visit she made on her return to her native town, was to the house of the Enfields. With a beating heart she arrived at the well-known dwelling, and soon found herself seated with Mrs. Enfield on the parlour sofa, eagerly inquiring as to Charles and his father. Who shall attempt to describe the bitter shock of disappointed hope that fell upon her too sanguine heart, when she heard of the calamity which had befallen her early playmate? She wept long and fervently, and her aged companion attempted not to intrude upon the sacredness of her grief by any effort at consolation, which she felt would be abortive. shall not dwell upon the harrowing scene. Suffice it that the young mourner dared not venture to look upon the wreck of the noble-hearted boy with whom she had so often conversed, in all the happy confidence and innocent delight of childish affection,-affection which had ripened into a maturer and more fervent sentiment, and had given rise to hopes which now seemed crushed for ever. Lucy had from childhood possessed too much of that refined sensibility which we have seen formed so characteristic a feature in the disposition of Charles, and bore a great resemblance to him in the bias of her mind and general pursuits, which may account in a great measure for the ardent attachment which had arisen in their breasts for each other, and the intense fervour with which their hearts had been knit together. Charles had never forgotten her; her image had been ever present to his heart; and though he never spoke of her even to his most intimate friends, he inwardly mourned each hour of separation, which formed an engrossing theme for the effusions of his genius.

While Lucy remained with Mrs. Enfield, the physician was announced. Mr. Enfield had previously seen Lucy, and immediately a thought occurred to him, which he hastened to communicate to the doctor. He received him apart from his wife and her visitor, and in course of their conversation relative to the unhappy Charles, he acquainted him with the affection which had subsisted between Lucy and his son, and that she had just returned from the continent after an absence of many years; ending by asking his advice, whether or not an interview between them would be attended by beneficial results. The good doctor stood for some time as if absorbed in thought. At length he said, "that many instances had occurred to him in his practice, of the most happy effects being produced in patients similarly afflicted to his son, by the prevailing current of thought being turned aside by some new and powerful stimulus to the feelings. Something strikes me," he said, "that if we can but contrive to bring them together, her familiar features and the sound of her voice may work a happy change.-We can but try. Of this I am certain, that no positive harm may be apprehended from the experiment." They now joined the two females, and the doctor introduced the subject he had just been discuss ing. When Lucy became aware of the importance which was attached to the attempt, she at once resolved to prepare her heart as well as she could, for the terrible trial it would have to undergo; and voluntarily proposed that on the morrow she would visit him, and endeavour to recall his remembrance of the days they had passed together.

The unhappy Charles lay awake on his pillow, tossing to and fro, singing wildly; now talking incoherently, and anon subsiding into an apathetic stupor. His parents and the doctor were seated beside him, the latter anxiously watching the features of his patient. All at once there arose a strain of music, as if from a guitar or harp, which

was followed by a sweetly plaintive voice, which warbled the following little ballad.

Come, come away to yonder vale,
Where murmuring streamlets flow;
We'll pull the pretty heather bell,
And hand in hand we'll go.

We'll stray where wild birds build their nests,
Where butterflies disport;

We'll be the woodman's merry guests,
While forest breeze we court.
We'll woo the zephyr's balmy breath,
And tread the palmy lea;
We'll list what village maiden saith,
When lovers kneel and pray.
We'll carol with the soaring lark,
When rises day's bright king;
We'll roam where honest watch-dogs bark,
And nightingales do sing.

When weary swains their toils forsake,
When shepherd tunes his reed,
When Luna sleeps upon the lake,

We'll tread the verdant mead.

Then come away to yonder vale,

Where murmuring streamlets flow;
We'll pull the pretty heather bell,

And hand in hand we'll go.

When the unseen minstrel commenced this simple lay, the invalid started at the sound, and raised himself in the bed. As it proceeded he listened with breathless attention, and seemed wholly subdued by the soothing sweetness of the air, and which he seemed to recognise. His looks beamed with delight, his breast heaved tumultuously, and tears started into his eyes. Gradually he relaxed his erect position, and at the conclusion of the air, he was discovered to have fallen into a deep sleep. The physician ordered a profound silence to be observed, till he should again awake; and pronounced it to be a happy symptom.

About an hour after, the invalid awoke, and passing his hands over his eyes, as if to banish the excessive heaviness which hung upon them, he looked around him with a bewildered stare.

"Where am I?" he exclaimed at length; 66 was it then but a dream? I thought an angel stood before me, as if it were the spirit of one I had somewhere seen or dreamt of. She sung to me sweet songs of childhood's hours. I knew the strain-but the words, I could not comprehend their meaning-my mind could not divine their import.It is strange, very strange."

At a signal from the doctor the song was again renewed. The invalid suddenly raised himself up in the bed, and looked around with wondering pleasure. As the air proceeded, he evinced emotions of the most intense delight. His features brightened into a radiant smile-his lips quivered his frame shook convulsively, and as the song concluded he uttered the word Lucy, and sunk back exhausted on his pillow.

The doctor gently administered restoratives, and giving a signal, Lucy approached from behind a screen, where she had been the concealed auditor of all that had passed. With feelings not to be described, she had schooled her heart to give utterance to an air the words of which forcibly recalled to her recollection the days of her happy childhood.

Raising the poor invalid in his arms, the physician whispered the word Lucy in his ear. He slowly opened his eyes, and fixing them upon the form of Lucy, who stood weeping before him, he exclaimed, with a sudden vehement burst of joy, "It is no illusion-it is she herself!it is my long lost Lucy!" Here he caught sight of his weeping parents;-"My father! my mother too; I dreamed

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