"Their last letters to me from Whalefish Islands, the day previous to their departure from them, inform me that they have taken on board provisions for three years on full allow ance, which they could extend to four years without any serious inconvenience; so that we may feel assured they cannot want from that cause until after the middle of July 1849; it therefore does not appear to me at all desirable to send after them until the spring of next year."

It is a remarkable fact, and one particularly cheering at this moment, that the Polar expeditions have been attended with a singularly slight loss of life. Out of nine despatched to the Arctic regions, which employed six hundred and nine officers and men, only seven persons died from causes directly or indirectly connected with the expeditions, although these were absent from England an average period of three years.

There is, probably, more danger to be apprehended from the well-known energy and zeal of the parties, than from any other cause. Franklin left our shores feeling that the eyes of the civilized world were on him, and that it was hoped and expected he would accomplish what our most learned hydrographers regard as feasible, although failure has characterized so many attempts to pass from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean round the North coast of America. Captain Fitzjames, in the last letter received from him, expresses a hope that he may be sent home through Siberia from Behring's Strait; and adds, "Get through I firmly believe we shall; "nor, as we well remember, was he the only one of the party who indulged in this expectation.

To compare great things with small, the position of Franklin and his party is much like that of an Alpine traveller who aspires to surmount some peak untrodden by the foot of man, that lifts its rocky crest from out of pathless snows and glaciers many thousands of feet above the vale. His track is cagerly and anxiously followed by aching eyes, longing to see the intrepid adventurer's flag wave on the dizzy point. He knows this, and is well aware that if he succeeds his fame will be heralded abroad. Will he abandon his enterprise as long as

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
To scorn delights and live laborious days.

Nor will Franklin abandon the struggle with mighty icebergs and thick-ribbed ice, as long as the smallest chance of obtaining the much-desired prize remains. It is recorded, that when attempts were made to dissuade Sir Martin Frobisher from engaging the discovery of a North-west passage, he answered, "It is the only thing in the world that is left yet undone, whereby a notable mind might be made famous and fortunate."

Let us hope, however, that the effort may not be rashly prolonged. If the leaders were youths instead of veterans grown old and wise, we might almost sy in the icy regions of the Polar seas, we should tremble for the fate of the long absent party, but the case is otherwise; and we are warranted, therefore, in hoping, nay, more, in excepting, that the autumn of 1849 will restore the gallant band, headed by Sir John Franklin, to their native country. The Great Chief, as the Indians fondly called

him who was with Nelson amidst the thunders

of Trafalgar, and withal is so gentle as not to crush a stinging fly-an act of forbearance remembered for years by the Indians,t-is too dear to Englishmen to be suffered to perish amidst frozen seas; and when we contemplate the helping and willing hands now stretched forth to relieve him, we have no fears for the result.-Fraser's Magazine.

During the early portion of my residence in Paris, I lived in a court of cloister-like appearance, which is formed by two rows of lofty houses. It is called the "Passage Violet." Close by, separated from us only by a projecting house, a stream of human beings was perpetually pouring along the winding "Rue du Faubourg Poissonière," but the Passage Violet was as still and as solitary as a desert island. Even the summer sun, which in Paris is so prodigal and beneficent, would not have much to do with the Passage Violet; it paid us a short half-hour's visit in the morning, about the same time as the old-clothes man, and the organ-grinder, and was then seen no more during the whole day. But that visit was a welcome one; if I was sitting at breakfast, and the first ray fell upon my book or my paper, it immediately dispelled "the blues" which had cast their shadows, reflected from the dark buildings around, over my soul. I opened the window, looked across to my old friend and neighbor Venedey, who there indited his brilliant "Correspondence" for several of the German papers, and prepared to go out. In the meanwhile the organ droned forth its melancholy tones; the old balladsinger coughed and began with a loud voice, Le Dieu des bons gens:

66

the

Il est un Dieu; devant lui je m'incline,
Pauvre et content, sans lui demander rien,
De l'univers observant la machine,
J'y vois du mal, et n'aime que le bien.

Every day I heard the same song, and still I loved to hear it. I thought of him who wrote it, Beranger. What a blessing for a nation to possess a poet who speaks to all classes of the community, who invites the poorest and the meanest to the feast which he prepares, a feast for the enjoyment of which one thing only is needed, a human heart. And blessed is the poet who speaks especially to poor, and tells them, that for them too life still has hope and joy; who encourages the heavily laden to bear their burden cheerfully. Beranger, thought I, thy world is but a narrow one, but it is beautiful; thy song is a small one, and, like the Alpine horn, has but few notes; but they are clear and pure, and are equally well adapted to the dance and to the battle-field; they can chant the glory of the emperor or sing the charms of Lisette. Beranger, out of France thou art but little un

derstood; thou art, like champagne, of exclusively French growth; but here, where all sing thy songs, the porter and the pensioner, the student and the grisette, here one learns to know and to love thee.

Such thoughts frequently came across me, while the organ was playing in the court; and the other inhabitants of the Passage Violet seemed to feel the influence of Beranger no less than myself. The tailor's apprentices who were at work in the basemment joined in the chorus, and the little grisette who sewed in the attic of the opposite house wrapped a sous in a large piece of white paper and threw it at the feet of the old balladsinger.

One morning, while I was under the benign influence of the sunshine, the "Dieu des bons gens," and my breakfast, Venedey entered my room, and asked if I would accompany him to pay a visit to Beranger, at Passy. Beranger in his cottage! a far more pleasant sight than Victor Hugo in the chamber of peers, and I heartily thanked my friend for his offer. At Paris it is a singular piece of good fortune to be able to make the acquaintance of any one who enjoys the celebrity of Beranger. For as every travelling Englishman and German endeavors to force an entrance into the company of celebrated men, they have been obliged to deny themselves to strangers altogether. Victor Hugo lives within triple, impregnable walls; Lamenais gives cards of admission (laisez passer) to his friends; and it is so difficult to gain admittance to the presence of George Sand, that a French writer, who wished to see the authoress of Leila, was obliged to disguise himself as a chimneysweeper.

It was on a beautiful morning that we passed along the Boulevards on our way to Passy. In front of the coffee-houses fashionable young men sipped their coffee; carriages and wagons rolled by and between them, like some strange monsters; huge omnibuses painted in the most glaring colors; troops of soldiers passed along with drums beating, tricolor flags fluttering, and bayonets glittering in the sun; pedestrian tradesmen proclaimed aloud the wares which they had for sale; peasant-girls offered their freshest bouquets; dressmakers tripped along with their japanned band-boxes, and old gentlemen led their sick poodles, for a walk, by red ribands. We

passed through the gardens of the Tuileries, where the orange blossoms scented the air, and all the children of Paris appeared to be pursuing their sports. The white marble statues stood out in bold relief from the dark foliage of the chestnuts, and the fountains gushed, and seemed to whisper that they had enough to do to wash out all the blood which had flowed upon this spot.

Thus we reached the Champs Elysées, the green wood within the walls of Paris, whose avenues are thronged by bearded horsemen and amazons in long flowing habits. Once without the walls of Paris, we soon reached Passy, which is built on the side of a gentle acclivity; it wears the appearance of a poorer faubourg, and has small houses and narrow ill-paved streets. The best thing which Passy possesses is the view of the immense "Champ de Mars," which stretches along on the opposite bank of the Seine.

We stopped at one of the small houses, and knocked at a door which was on a level with the street. Several voices bade us enter, and we soon stood within a small cheerful room, through the open window of which green vine leaves were peeping in. A good-humored old gentleman, with a velvet cap upon his head, was sitting at a table, with a hearty breakfast

and a bottle of wine before him. An old lady, whose wrinkled face still bore the traces of former beauty, sat opposite to him, and a young man was reading a newspaper aloud. The old man was Beranger; the lady was she who in her younger days had been celebrated as Lisette; the young man was one of the editors of the Nationel, who sought aid and counsel from the old poet.

It is almost unnecessary to give a description of Beranger, whose face, as he is represented in portraits, is familiar to every one. I will only say that the medal of David d'Angers presents a perfect likeness of him. A hearty old man with a good-humored countenance, he had the appearance of a farmer who is contemplating the fields which he has sown with corn, and finds the promise of a harvest less rich than he had hoped, but yet enough to reward him for his toil. His fine head with its full expansive brow was crowned by a few locks of silvery hair; a sarcastic smile now and then played around the corners of his mouth, but soon gave way to an expression of sincere philanthropy and benevolence.

Thus Beranger stood before us in the lowly chamber in which he lived. The vine leaves hung around the window, and as they moved in the scarcely perceptible breeze, their changing shadows played upon the walls; altogether

it was a sweet picture of peace and tranquil enjoyment.

It was the period of the first meeting of the Prussian assembly, which was in a great measure engrossing public attention at Paris; and, after the first compliments had passed, we immediately fell into political conversation. "What are the news from Germany?" asked the old man; "what is Berlin doing? what is the first nation of the world about?"—" The first nation of the world!" exclaimed Venedey, "that is a title which Frenchmen can give only to France."- Beranger smiled : "By no means; the first nation of the world are undoubtedly the Germans. I hear it, and read it everywhere. The orators of Berlin say so every day, and even the French newspapers tell us that Germany is on the point of presenting a sublime spectacle to mankind. We Frenchmen are quite set poor aside, and the only question is, whether Germany will permit us to continue to be the second nation of the continent."By the ironical tone in which you speak," replied Venedey, "it is easy to see that you are conscious of still being the first nation and that you cannot reconcile yourself to the idea of any other people being equal to you, advancing, as it were, in the same line.

The ironical expression disappeared from Beranger's face. Pardon," he cried, "an

old man who cannot divest himself of the re

collections of old times. I assure you, however, that there is no one who more sincerely wishes to behold the two most civilized nations of the continent advancing hand in hand towards the attainment of that liberty which they both stand so much in need of."

The conversation was continued and became warm. A German idealist and a Frenchman of the school of Voltaire were engaged in argument, but their discussion was free from bitterness, like a quarrel between two old friends. The personal appearance of the old songster is full of animation, and the vigor of his language and even the tone of his voice produced such an effect upon me that I frequently forgot to follow the course of the discussion, and only admired the old man who had written so many beautiful songs and thus added to the happiness of so many men. life passed before my mental vision. I saw him, goblet in hand, boldly singing against the restoration, until his name was upon every tongue, and the youth of France shouted around him with delight. Then came another picture. Beranger sat in his dungeon in "La Force," and gazed through the iron grating upon the life and bustle of the streets. there came again a hot day; a black confused

His

And

mass of human beings, half enveloped in smoke, defended the barricades, and the songs of Beranger were the Marseillaises of the day. The last picture was the most lasting of all. The victory of the revolution of July had been gained; the wishes of the old poet seemed to have found their accomplishment. Bourbons and Jesuits were expelled, and a citizen-king sat upon the throne. But he who was once called "the best of republics," bitterly disappointed the hopes of France, and of all her patriots none regretted more than Beranger that he had been so weak as to feel enthusiasm for Louis Philippe. Then for the first time the aged poet lost his good humor, and he withdrew from the society of his former associates, who had been decorated with orders or been made ministers of state. He published his "Dernières Chansons," and became silent.

I do not remember to have met with a matter- | of-fact description of Lord Mayor's Day. Some years ago, the late Mr. Theodore Hook published a famous story, called "The Splendid Annual," in which he depicted, as he only could have done it, the glory of the Lord Mayor when he took possession of his office, and the grandeur thereunto attached, ending with a capital account of the indignities he endured when he sunk the mayor in the citizen at the conclusion of his reign. Every year the papers come out with long lists of the viands provided upon the occasion; the quantity of tureens of turtle, "each containing three pints;" the number of dishes of potatoes, "mashed and otherwise;" the bottles of "sherbet," which I take to be the Guildhall for "Punch;" the plates of biscuits, and the removes of game; enough in themselves to have emptied all the West India ships, Irish fields, Botolph Lane warehouses, ovens, preserves, and shops gennerally, ever known or recognized. And they also tell us how the Lord Mayor went, and how he came back; how he was joined on his return, at the Obelisk in Fleet-street, by all the noble and distinguished personages invited to the banquet at Guildhall; and what were the speeches given. But they omit the commonplace detail; and as this is something that is sought after, now-a-days, whether it relates to a

visit to a pin-manufactory, a day in a coal-mine, or a dinner in the city, I venture to give a report. And I beg to state that this is intended more for the amusement of my friends in quiet country nooks and corners who hear occasionally by a third day's paper of what is going on in our great world of London—rather than for those who know city dinners by heart, and can look back through a long vista of many years, at the sparkling splendor of Guildhall, as on our retreat from Vauxhall we cast a last glance at the Neptune, at the end of the walk, ever spouting out amidst his jets and glories.

My earliest recollections of Lord Mayor's Day are connected with my scholarship at Merchant Taylor's. The school was once called "Merchant Tailors';" but I remember some eighteen years ago, when instruction in writing was first introduced there, and we had copies to do, with the name of the establishment as our motto, that our esteemed head-master, "Bellamy," (for "Reverend" or Mr." were terms alike unknown to us) altered the orthography. "How will you have Tailors' spelt, sir?" asked Mr. Clarke, who had come from the Blue-Coat School (if I remember aright) to teach us our pot-hooks and hangers. "With a y, most certainly," was the answer of the "Jack Gull;" for Bellamy (that I should live to write his name thus lightly, and so treat

translation was "Nine tailors make a man."

But I humbly beg pardon, all this time I am forgetting Lord Mayor's Day. It was to me a great holiday. I had some kind friends in Bridge-street, Blackfriars, who always invited me, on that festival, to join their party; and from their windows, over the little court that runs from the above-named thoroughfare, into Bride-lane, I first beheld the pageant. I look back upon those meetings now with very great pleasure; enough, I hope, to excuse my dilating upon them in these few lines. None of the parties which, as a floating literary man upon town, I have since been thrown up with, have ever equalled them in unstrained fun and honest welcome. I can recall vividly the crowd in the street; the only parallel to which I ever saw was from the roof of Newgate, previous to an execution; for a mob is not particular as to the object of its assembling. The visitors, and above all, the girls, at the windows above; the laughter that the pieman caused when he was pushed about by the crowd; the hard time the applewoman had of it when she unadvisedly ventured into the middle of the street, with the pertinacity of a half-price pit fruit-vender; the impudent boy who had got on the lamp-post and actually made faces at the policeman, knowing that he was beyond his power; the fortunate people, who, having possession of the door-step, looked down upon their fellows; and above all, the lucky mob, whom it was the fashion in after times, before the misery of Europe put them at a discount, to call the people," who had carried the obelisk by storm, and perched themselves upon every available ledge; all these things, I say, I can recall, and wish I could look at them again with the same feelings of fresh enjoyment; before it was so constantly dunned, and hammered, and reviewed, and bawled into my ears, that "purpose" was the end of all observation.

Well, the crowd jostled and swayed, and quarrelled and chafed, and at last the proces

ment was difficult to determine. flag waving about amidst an ocean of hats, and an active gentleman on horseback riding backwards and forwards to clear the way. Then the flag stopped, until more flags came up from where, goodness only knows- and waved about also. Then the sound of a distant band was heard, only the bass notes falling on the ear, in that unsatisfactory strain that reaches you when a brass band is in the next street; and at last there did appear to be an actual movement. Large banners that nearly blew the men over, preceded watermen, and "companies," and all sorts of bands played various tunes as they passed under the windows, until they were lost up Ludgate Hill, until at length came the "ancient knights." They were the lions of the show. I had long wondered at them from their "effigies" in a moving toy I had of the Lord Mayor's Show, which my good father had made for me when quite a little boy; and henceforth they were always the chief attraction. I can now picture their very style of armor, their scale surtouts and awe-inspiring helmets, which reckless spirits have since called brass "blancmange moulds;" the difficulty they had to sit upright; the impossibility it would have been for them to have stood a course "In the name of Heaven, our Lady, and St. George," in the lists. But they were very fine. And then came the carriages, so like other toys I bought at the fair, in a long box, where the coachman had a curly goose's feather in his hat, and the horses dazzled with Dutch metal; then came other bands, and the huzzas, and the mob again. It was all very delightful: and nothing ever moved me so much, not even the processions in The Jewess when I first saw it. And it was very proper too. Now I am writing this very paper in the depths of the country. A wood fire is flashing upon the wainscot panels of my vast bedroom, which are cracking, from time to time, with its heat. The air without is nipping, and frosty, and dead still. A fine old hound who has chosen to domicile himself with me for the night is lying on the rug, like a large dead hare, dreaming fitfully of by-gone chases; and nothing is heard but the wheezing turret-clock that sounds as if it had not been oiled since the Reformation. It is impossible to conceive anything more opposite to a sympathy with civic festivity than this picture: but yet I look back to New Bridge-street, and Lord Mayor's Day, with the greatest gratification. I do not call the pageant "slow" or absurd. I only think if the spirit that would suppress it, with our other institutions, had been allowed to run wilful riot abroad, where would our homes and