wonderful anomalies presented by the empire, we find a people still unsubdued by the government! The Chinese, taking them generally, are a hard-working race; and the happy insensibility-or rather vitiationof their olfactory nerves, has rendered them very learned in manures of all kinds. Stubble, fish, burnt earth and weeds, oil-cake, bones, shells, old lime, soot, ashes, and, above all, night-soil, are eagerly collected; and the horrible manure tanks of the cities are looked upon by all classes, rich and poor alike, with perfect complacency. Mr Fortune does not mention what is, in reality, a very important element in the fecundity of the fields-the shaving of about a hundred million beards and polls. In short, the state of the manure business alone among this singular people would seem to render it very improbable that they leave any considerable portion of fertile soil in a state of nature.

In general, the personal adventures with which Mr Fortune's narration is varied, are almost precisely similar to those that befell Mr Medhurst, when the pious missionary was traversing the coast, for the purpose of distributing religious books, in spite of the opposition of the authorities, and with or without the consent of the people. In both cases the two gentlemen pursued their several avocations (that of Mr Fortune being the search after new plants) in the face of a sometimes hostile population, and with a coolness which, taken with all the adjuncts of the picture, is not a little amusing. They went where they liked, they traversed towns and villages with equal impunity, they browbeat the mandarins, kept the people in order, and seldom came away without attaining their object. Mr Fortune, however, was on two occasions somewhat roughly handled; although this is not by any means so surprising as the fact of his escaping at all.

The Chinese are not only industrious, but highly teachable. At Chusan 'it was astonishing how quickly they got accustomed to our habits, and were able to supply all our wants. Bread baked in the English mode was soon exposed for sale in the shops, and even ready-made clothes were to be had in any quantity. The tailors flocked from all quarters: a large proportion of the shops near the beach were occupied by them; and they doubtless reaped a rich harvest, although they made and sold every article of dress on the most reasonable terms. Then there were curiosity-shops without number, containing josses or gods carved in bamboo or stone, incense burners, old bronzes, animals of strange forms, which only exist in the brains of the Chinese, and countless specimens of porcelain and pictures. Silk shops, too, were not wanting; and here were to be had beautiful pieces of manufactured silk, much cheaper and better than could be purchased in Canton. The embroidery in these shops was of the most elaborate and beautiful description, which must be seen before it can be appreciated: this the Chinese were making into articles, such as scarfs and aprons, for English ladies.

The shopkeepers in Tinghae supposed an English name indispensable to the respectability of their shops and the success of their trade; and it was quite amusing to walk up the streets and read the different names which they had adopted under the advice and instruction of the soldiers and sailors to whom they had applied on the subject. There were "Stultz, tailor, from London;""Buckmaster, tailor to the army and navy;" "Dominie Dobbs, the grocer;" "Squire Sam, porcelain merchant;" and the number of tradesmen "to Her Majesty" was very great, among whom one was Tailor to Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria, and His Royal Highness Prince Albert, by appointment," and below the name was a single word, which I could not make out for some few seconds- Uniformsofalldescriptions. Certificates from their customers were also in great request, and many of these were most laughable performances. The poor Chinese were never quite at their ease about these certificates, as they were so often hoaxed by the donors, and consequently were continually showing them to other customers, and asking

"What thing that paper talkie; can do, eh?" The answer was probably in this strain-" Oh yes, Fokei, this can do; only a little alteration more better." Poor Fokei runs and brings a pen, the little alteration is made, and it is needless to add that the thing is ten times more ridiculous than it was before.'

The following is a canal adventure:-In China, the canal is the traveller's highway, and the boat is his carriage, and hence the absence of good roads and carriages in this country. Such a mode of conveyance is not without its advantages, however little we may think of it in England; for as the tide ebbs and flows through the interior for many miles, the boats proceed with considerable rapidity; the traveller, too, can sleep comfortably in his little cabin, which is, in fact, his house for the time being.

'The canal, after leaving Shanghae, leads in a northerly direction, inclining sometimes a little to the west; branches leading off in all directions over the country. Some very large towns and walled cities were passed on our route, at one of which, named Cading, we halted for the night just under the ramparts. I spread out my bed in my little cabin, and went to sleep rather early, intending to start betimes with the tide next morning, and get as far as possible during the ensuing day. But, as my countryman says,

"The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft aglie," and I awoke during the night by the cool air blowing in upon my head through one of the windows of the boat, which I had shut before I went to rest. I jumped up immediately and looked out, and through the darkness I could discern that we were drifting down the canal with the tide, now coming in contact with some other boat, which had been fastened up like ourselves for the night, and now rubbing against the branches of trees which hung over the sides of the canal. I lost no time in awaking my servant and the boatmen, who rubbed their eyes with astonishment, and exclaimed that some robber must have boarded us. This had never struck me before; but when I called for a light, I found that all my clothes, English and Chinese, were gone. Our visitor, whoever he had been, after taking possession of all that the cabin contained, cut the rope by which we were fastened, and shoved us off into the centre of the canal, along which we had drifted a considerable way before I awoke. Fortunately for me, the few dollars I had with me were in my Chinese purse beneath my pillow.'

The winter habits of the people are worth noticing. As the winter approached, the weather became extremely cold, and in December and January the ice on the ponds and canals was of considerable thickness. The most attractive shops in the city now were the different clothing establishments, where all articles of wearing apparel were lined with skins of various kinds, many of them of the most costly description. The very poorest Chinese have always a warm jacket or cloak lined with sheep-skin, or padded with cotton, for the winter; and they cannot imagine how the Europeans can exist with the thin clothing they generally go about in. When the weather was cold, I used always to wear a stout warm greatcoat above my other dress, and yet the Chinese were continually feeling the thickness of my clothes, and telling me that surely I must feel cold, Their mode of keeping themselves comfortable in winter differs entirely from ours: they rarely or never think of using fires in their rooms for this purpose, but as the cold increases, they just put on another jacket or two, until they feel that the warmth of their bodies is not carried off faster than it is generated. As the raw, damp cold of morning gives way to the genial rays of noon, the upper coats are one by one thrown off, until evening, when they are again put on. In the spring months the upper garments are cast off by degrees; and when the summer arrives, the Chinese are found clad in thin dresses of cotton, or in the grass-cloth manufactured in the country. In the northern towns the ladies some

times use a small brass stove, like a little oval basket, having the lid grated, to allow the charcoal to burn and the heat to escape; this they place upon their tables, or on the floor, for the purpose of warming the hands and feet. Nurses also carry these little stoves in their hands under the feet of the children. Such, however, is the thickness and warmth of their dresses, that it is only in the coldest weather they require them. Little children in winter are so covered up, that they look like bundles of clothes, nearly as broad as they are long; and when the padding is removed in warm weather, it is difficult to imagine that you see before you the same individuals.'

We must conclude with what Mr Fortune calls offerings to the gods.' The periodical offerings to the gods are very striking exhibitions to the stranger who looks upon them for the first time. When staying at Shanghae, in November 1844, I witnessed a most curious spectacle in the house where I was residing. It was a family offering to the gods. Early in the morning the principal hall in the house was set in order, a large table was placed in the centre, and shortly afterwards covered with small dishes filled with the various articles commonly used as food by the Chinese. All these were of the very best description that could be procured. After a certain time had elapsed, a number of candles were lighted, and columns of smoke and fragrant odours began to rise from the incense which was burning on the table. All the inmates of the house and their friends were clad in their best attire, and in turn came to ko-tou, or bow lowly and repeatedly in front of the table and the altar. The scene, although it was an idolatrous one, seemed to me to have something very impressive about it; and whilst I pitied the delusion of our host and his friends, I could not but admire their devotion. In a short time after this ceremony was completed, a large quantity of tinsel paper, made up in the form and shape of the ingots of Sycee silver common in China, was heaped on the floor in front of the tables; the burning incense was then taken from the table and placed in the midst of it, and the whole consumed together. By and by, when the gods were supposed to have finished their repast, all the articles of food were removed from the tables, cut up, and consumed by people connected with the family.

'On another occasion, when at Ning-po, having been out some distance in the country, it was night, and dark before I reached the east gate of the city, near which I was lodged in the house of a Chinese merchant. The city gates were closed, but two or three loud knocks soon brought the warder, who instantly admitted me. I was now in the widest and finest street in the city, which seemed in a blaze of light, and unusually lively for any part of a Chinese town after nightfall. The sounds of music fell upon my ear-the gong, the drum, and the more plaintive and pleasing tones of several wind instruments. I was soon near enough to observe what was going on, and saw, at a glance, that it was a public offering to the gods, but far grander and more striking than I had before witnessed. The table was spread in the open street, and everything was on a large and expensive scale. Instead of small dishes, whole animals were sacrificed on the occasion. A pig was placed on one side of the table, and a sheep on the other; the former scraped clean in the usual way, and the latter skinned. The entrails of both were removed, and on each were placed some flowers, an onion, and a knife. The other parts of the table groaned with all the delicacies in common use amongst the respectable portion of the Chinese-such as fowls, ducks, numerous compound dishes, fruits, vegetables, and rice. Chairs were placed at one end of the table, on which the gods were supposed to sit during the meal, and chop-sticks were regularly laid at the sides of the different dishes. A blaze of light illuminated the whole place, and the smoke of the fragrant incense rose up into the air in wreaths. At intervals, the band struck up their favourite plaintive national airs; and altogether, the whole

scene was one of the strangest and most curious which it has ever been my lot to witness.'

We have a strong notion that these are not offerings to the gods, but to the ghosts. The Chinese are very attentive to their defunct friends, sending them liberal supplies of money, furniture, &c. (manufactured of gilt paper), and occasionally giving them grand entertainments similar to the above. There is one feast of the dead, in particular, to which all those destitute ghosts are invited who have no living relatives to take care of them. It occurs once a-year, by lamplight, and presents, as may be supposed, a most extraordinary scene.

Mr Fortune's error, if it be one, is caused by his habit of generalising. The above is a superstition of Buddhism, the least considerable of the three Chinese sects, but the only one which appears to have come in our traveller's way. His remarks on religion, therefore, must be understood to apply only to a small portion of the people. In like manner, his account of the warm clothing, and cheap and comfortable living, of the very poorest Chinese,' is so utterly at variance not only with || the statements of former writers, but with the context of the recent history of the country, that it must be taken as referring to some special localities. Perhaps it is not irrelevant to such points to mention, that in three years spent among one of the most universally educated nations on the face of the earth-where the whole country is thrown into a periodical tumult, resembling a general election in England, by the public examination of the schools - Mr Fortune never once happened to detect a single Chinese in the act of reading!

DAVIE CAMPBELL.

AN INCIDENT OF THE LAST WAR.

A NUMBER of years ago, there lived in the small village of Duddingston, near Edinburgh, a family named Campbell, consisting of a man and his wife, who were considerably beyond middle life, and their only son, a boy of fourteen years of age. The Campbells had retired on a trifle realised in trade, and their only care now centered in their child, David. Davie, as they called him, was not an ill lad, but he was a little flighty and wilful, as most only sons are, from over-indulgence. In particular, it was somewhat grievous that he manifested a poor taste for learning, and greatly preferred playing with mimic boats on Duddingston Loch to attending the parish school. The truth was, Davie's young imagination had been fired with the ambition of being a sailor, in consequence of listening to tales of sea-life related by old Sandy M'Taggart, now a jobbing gardener in the village, but in former days a mariner on board the British fleet.

Of course, like all boys who go crazy about a sea-life, Davie Campbell knew nothing of the hardships of the profession, and only looked to the supposed pleasures of sailing about the ocean, and seeing strange and distant parts of the globe. Accident effected what his parents never would have permitted. In company with old Sandy, he went on a little pleasure voyage on the Firth of Forth, and on landing at night at Leith, they were seized by a pressgang, and taken on board a war vessel lying in the roads. In the morning, when the age of Sandy was ascertained, he was dismissed; but Davie, it can scarcely be said against his will, was entered on the ship's books.

What a dreadful blow was this to the Campbells! Their only hope in life vanished. As soon as they came to their senses, they set off to Leith to make inquiries as to the ship, and, if possible, to bring home their son. Their excursion was useless. The ship was gone, and no one could tell whither. What a melancholy evening was that in the once happy cottage! The demon War had carried off its victim. But a long succession of melancholy days followed: three years elapsed, and yet not one word was received from the lost son. Had the unhappy pair possessed a reasonable knowledge of the

world, they might have found means to discover whether Davie was in the land of the living, and in what vessel he was rated. But they were simple in manners, and had little knowledge of business. Oppressed with their feelings of bereavement, they seem to have considered that no other means of discovering their lost son was open to them but that of personal inquiry. Confirmed in this idea, they actually at length set off on a pilgrimage in quest of their boy.

We are writing of an incident which occurred when the process of travelling was considerably different from what it is at present. The notion of the Campbells was, that they would somehow get intelligence of their son in London, and to the metropolis, therefore, they bent their way; taking places in a wagon, which was to perform the journey in little more than a fortnight. The way was long and dreary; but love and hope imparted a ray of cheerfulness to the travellers, and at last, with unabated determination, they arrived in the vast metropolis. Fortunately, the wagoner was an honest man, and before he left them, he saw them comfortably housed in a respectable though humble inn in the city, where they might recover from their fatigue before they commenced their search on the morrow. Scarcely had the itinerant venders of milk, watercresses, and other necessaries and luxuries commenced their daily cries, than the old couple sallied forth, supporting each other's steps; and, by making numerous inquiries, at last found their way down to the river's side. Here, to their inexpressible disappointment, they discovered only a crowd of small schooners, brigs, and cutters, for it was in the neighbourhood of Billingsgate; and even they could discern that such were not the craft they could hope to find their son on board. They were told, however, that larger ships were moored lower down the river; so, after returning to their inn to breakfast, they once more set out in their search.

This time they reached a part of the river below the Tower of London, where the docks are now to be found. Here they saw a number of large ships; but when they asked if any of them were king's ships, some people laughed at them, others thought them silly, and scarcely deigned an answer; nor for a long time could they obtain any information to guide their proceedings. At last a seaman, who was standing on the quay chewing his quid, turned round as they were making inquiries of some other persons, and in good honest Scotch asked them what they wanted, telling them that the chances were that those they spoke to did not comprehend a word they said. The old people, highly delighted at finding a countryman, and one who appeared willing to assist them, were not long in explaining their

wishes.

'If your son has gone on board a man-of-war, you will not find him here,' replied the honest sailor. You must seek for him at Portsmouth or Plymouth; but to tell you the truth, I don't see that you have much chance of finding him. A hundred to one that you may have to travel half round the world before you fall in with him. However, if you are determined to look after him, go down to one of those ports, and make inquiries on board all the ships there, and perhaps you may find some one who knows him.' So good did this advice appear to Campbell and his wife, that they determined to follow it, and thanking the Scotch sailor for his kindness, they immediately returned to their inn.

On making inquiries, they found that the Portsmouth van, which was to start the next morning, was full, but that there was one about to set off for Southampton-a town, they were told, on the sea close to Portsmouth; and as their geographical knowledge was not very extensive, they fancied that they were as likely to find their son at the one place as at the other. So eager were they to proceed, that on the same evening they commenced their journey.

In those times coaches occupied the best part of twenty-four hours in performing the journey between

London and Southampton, and light vans, as they were called, upwards of two days; so that the patience of the old couple was tried considerably before they reached the latter town. Eagerly they hurried down to the water's edge to look for a king's ship; but not one was to be seen in the harbour. Mournfully they stood gazing on the lovely expanse of the Southampton water; for they were strangers in a strange land, and there was no one to help them. Those were stirring times: there were few idlers on the quay to answer their questions; so they once more turned their steps to the inn where the van had deposited them. Here they found the driver, who, having a friend just about to start with his wagon for Poole, recommended them to go by it, as he affirmed that they were there more likely to find ships than at any other port.

But we are wishing to go to a place called Portsmouth or Plymouth, where the big ships come,' said old Campbell.

'And Poole is on the way there,' answered the rascally wagoner, who, provided he got his fare, cared little for the inconvenience to which the old couple might be put. The result, at all events, was, that to Poole they went. Poole is a town in Dorsetshire, on the coast, close to Hampshire, and from it the high cliffs of the Isle of Wight at the entrance of the Solent are clearly seen. A river with low mud banks flows past it, but is not navigable for vessels of any size; so that when the anxious parents hurried down to the quay, they were again doomed to suffer the bitter pangs of disappointment.

Thinking that the nearer they got to the sea, the nearer they should be to him whom they sought, they walked on to the very end of the wharf extending along the side of the river, their eyes wandering over the blue shining waters of the Channel, now rippled over only by a gentle summer breeze from the north. While standing there, they were accosted by a fisherman whose boat was made fast to the quay.

'What are you looking after, master and mistress?' he asked.

'We want to find our son, sir-our only son-who is in some king's ship; but though we have already wandered many a weary mile, we have not yet met with any one who can tell us where he is to be found,' answered the dame.

'Well, it's no easy job you will have to find him among the hundreds of ships in the navy,' said the fisherman. But if you want to go on board a king's ship, there's one now just coming out by the Needle Passage, and mayhap you will find your son on board of her. Now, if you will give me ten shillings, I will run you alongside of her with this breeze in no time.'

'And is that truly a king's ship?' exclaimed the old people together, looking towards the spot to which the fisherman pointed. Heaven be praised if we should find our son on board of her!'

'There's no doubt about her being a king's ship, and a fine frigate to boot,' answered the fisherman; and in that respect he spoke the truth, though his only object in inducing them to embark was to get their money. Without for a moment considering the expense, and forgetting all their fears of the water, they cagerly took their seats in the boat, which was only just large enough to bear them safely; and the fisherman, loosening his sails, ran down the river, and shaped his course so as to cut off the frigate, which was standing closehauled along the coast.

The frigate seen by our old friends was the San Fiorenzo, commanded by Sir Harry Burrard Neale, and was now on her way from Portsmouth to Weymouth to receive on board his Majesty King George III., of whom Sir Harry was most deservedly an especial favourite. The king was at that time residing at Weymouth, to enjoy the benefit of sea-air, when he constantly made short excursions on the water on board the San Fiorenzo. As Sir Harry was pacing the quarter-deck, conversing kindly with some of his officers, he observed,

It will not delay us long,' observed Sir Harry partly to himself; so heave the ship to, Mr- and we will see what it is they want.'

The main-topsail was accordingly thrown aback, and in two minutes more the boat with the old Campbells was alongside. A midshipman then hailed them, and asked them what they wanted.

Speaking both together, they endeavoured to explain themselves.

'What is it the people in the boat want?' asked Sir Harry.

They are a man and a woman, and as far as I can make out, sir, they are asking for their son,' replied the midshipman.

'Let them come on board, and we will hear what they have to say,' said the kind-hearted captain; and with some little difficulty old Campbell and his wife were at length got on deck, and conducted aft to Sir Harry.

For whom are you inquiring, my good people?' asked the captain.

'Our bairn, sir; our bairn!' answered the mother. For many a weary day have we been looking for him, and never have our eyes rested on his face since the fatal morning when he was carried off from Leith.' 'What is his name?' inquired Sir Harry. 'David, sir; David Campbell. He was called so after his father,' answered the old dame.

'We have a man of that name on board,' observed the first lieutenant to the captain. He is in the watch below.'

'Let him be called on deck,' said Sir Harry; and we will see if these good people acknowledge him as their

son,'

The name was passed along the deck below, and in a minute a fine active youth was seen springing up the main-hatchway. A mother's eye was not to be deceived. It was her own Davie. It is-it is my ain bairn!' she cried, rushing forward to meet him; and regardless of the bystanders, before the youth had recognised her, to his utter astonishment she clasped him in her arms, and covered his cheek with kisses.

Little more need be said. The Poole fisherman was dismissed, and old Campbell and his wife were allowed to remain with their son till the ship again sailed from Weymouth. Satisfied that their son was well and happy, they returned with contented hearts to their cottage at Duddingston, where young David some time after paid them a visit, and employed his time so well, before he again went to sea, in learning to write, that they never again had to remain long in suspense as to his welfare.

Sir Harry Burrard Neale used frequently to narrate the extraordinary circumstance of the old couple, without the slightest clue to guide them, discovering their long-lost son on board his ship. Indeed the incident is so strange, that unless vouched for by some such authority, it could not possibly be believed.

BÉRANGE R.

THE title of The Burns of France' has been given to Béranger, and delightedly accepted by him; but, with all due respect for the French poet, we must protest against it as inappropriate. Burns and Béranger are distinctly dissimilar in their works, and also in their genius. The one is a peasant-poet, the other a mechanic-poet; the one belongs to the country, the other to the town; the one appertains to the world and to time, the other to a nation and an epoch. Burns wooed

his Egeria in glens and groves; Béranger in streets and cafés. The pabulum of Burns's youthful genius was ballads and heroic stories; that of Béranger the French classics. Burns was disturbed only by the small polemics of rural society; while Béranger, from his very boyhood, was jostled by the stupendous events of the Revolution, the Empire, and the Restoration. Notwithstanding this difference, however, they both drew their inspiration from nature; they are both men of the people;' and they are both regarded with almost idolatrous affection by their countrymen.

Burns appeared at a time when he was required by the human mind. The cycle had gone round, and another great poet came to civilise and refine the spirits of men, by giving new forms and fresh energy to ideas of the beautiful and the true. Béranger was called forth by the requirements of his class and nation. The time had come when the whole social system was to be stirred up from the bottom, in order that the PEOPLE, for the first time in France, might struggle into their natural and appointed place. But the people had as yet no poetry. There was no music in the national literature which could awaken the echoes of the heart. Hence Béranger was necessary. He was the bard of the republic, whose province in the Revolution was to cast down the lofty rhyme,' and open Parnassus to the vulgar.

Béranger has always been found difficult to translate; and as years flow on, the difficulty will increase. To understand him, we must understand the epoch, the manners, the men; and when these become matters of history, their poet, too, will belong to the past. This, however, is a great destiny. It is only a master-mind which can identify itself with the age it belongs to, and enshrine itself for ever in its annals. But let us not be understood to say that there are none of the songs of Béranger which will live, and which deserve to live, independently of their epoch. There are many in this category, although they do not amount to any considerable proportion of his works; and it should be recollected that their eventual influence upon French literature will be still more important than the personal achievements of the individual.

We have pleasure in noticing a new translation of the songs of Béranger by Mr Anderson of Glasgow,* who has happily approached the spirit of the original, and, as respects previous versions, .effected some improvements in point of taste. The only specimen we can afford room for gives a good idea of the style and spirit of the poet; but we copy it likewise for another object.

THE OLD VAGRANT.

Well, in this ditch I reach at last,

Old, weak, and tired, my closing day;
Folks say I've drunk, then hurry past;
Good! there's no pity thrown away.
Yet some across their shoulders glance;
Others a mite or two have thrown:
Nay, hasten on, you'll miss the dance;
Old vagrant, I can die alone!

Yes; here, of age, they'll say I'll die;
For hunger never kills of course.
How often for the workhouse I

Have sighed as for a last resource!
But filled each hospital I found,

So poor the people now are grown.
Ne'er nurse had I but the cold ground;
Old vagrant, there I'll die alone!

In youth, the artisans I prayed
For leave a useful craft to learn.
We are but half employed,' they said;
With us thy bread thou canst not earn.'
Ye rich, who still Go, work,' repeat,
Scraps from your board you gave, I own;
Stretched on your straw my sleep was sweet:
I curse not, but I die alone.

* Lyrical Poems by Pierre-Jean de Béranger; Selected and Translated by William Anderson. With a Biographical Notice by the Translator, revised by the Poet. Edinburgh: Sutherland and Knox. 1847.