452

LONDON HOMES.

In her preface to the little volume, which bears the above suggestive title, Miss Sinclair says that she attended, this year, the numerous May meetings, held in London, and "was greatly surprised to observe that the worst attended of all these assemblages was one to improve the condition of the London Poor. Scarcely more than fifty spectators assembled in the room, while more speakers appeared on the platform, than listeners on the benches." And now we have got the Cholera amongst us.

In the Spring we discoursed briefly upon this subject of “telescopic philanthropy "-the philanthropy which, ranging out into illimitable space, goes in search of benighted and suffering myths, but will not condescend to bestow a glance upon the palpable misery at its own doors. And now in Autumn; we are again forcibly reminded of the same subject.

It is not a pleasant subject at any time. It is especially unpleasant now that the Cholera, like a great noiseless serpent, is stealing into our streets and beginning to twine itself around the Laocoons of our great Metropolis. When last that dread visitor came coiling itself at our door-steps, we began to arouse ourselves from the apathy in which we were sunk, to acknowledge our negligence and to promise that we would do better. And now that it is again creeping amongst us we are tremulously doubting whether we have done better.

The London Poor, says Miss Sinclair, number sympathisers by scanty tens--but Borioboola-gha, by hundreds or thousands. A mission to some inhospitable and, for aught we know, some fabulous island in a distant sea, is a great matter to stir the hearts of people who come up from remote provincial localities, in the merry month of May, and crowd the benches in Exeter Hall, whilst strange-looking gentlemen on the platform make long orations in behalf of interesting savages with unpronounceable names, and sit down in an oleaginous glow, which is mistaken for celestial ichor. Now, in one view of the case, at all events, it must be acknowledged that there is something very disinterested in such charity as this. The bettered condition of the inhabitants of Borioboola-gha can certainly have no effect upon the temporary welfare of the people of the British isles. It little matters what sort of houses these interesting savages inhabit; what kind of diet they affect (human flesh or other)-or what kind of garments (if any) they wear. Humanly speaking, whilst serving others, these sympathisers and subscribers do not serve themselves. If they are afraid, therefore, of mixing up any leaven of selfishness with their charity, they can hardly do better than subscribe through their telescopes. But we very much doubt whether any one of them ever takes this view of the question.

No; we fear that these sympathisers, upon the "omne ignotum pro magnifico" principle, utterly ignore the fact that "charity begins at home," and close their eyes against all the misery, all the ignorance, and all the vice which lie reeking at their own doors. It is a great thing, doubtless-God forbid that we should think otherwise!-to turn heathens into Christians-savages and barbarians into civilized men. But it is not a condition of such meritorious performance that the recipients of our bounty, whether in the shape of bibles or broad-cloth, should have black faces and painted bodies and wear human skulls for honorary decorations. We have heathens to be converted-savages to be reclaimed-in those not very remote regions of Lambeth and Westminster-the one of which is believed to be the head-quarters of the English Church, and the other of the British Parliament. The blackness of their faces may not be even skin-deep; but their ignorance and their heathenism-their misery and their vice-cannot be exceeded in the worst parts of Borioboola-gha.

All this has been said before, by ourselves among others; but seemingly said to so little purpose, that seeing the matter is a weighty one, we might be excused for repeating it, even if we had, at the present time, no especial reason for the repetition. But we recur to it now, because it has been brought anew to our attention, partly by Miss Sinclair's little volume, upon "London Homes," and partly by something, infinitely less welcome-the dreaded approach of the Cholera. It was said, when the pestilence which walketh in darkness was last amongst us, that if it should ever appear again in the great Metropolis of England we should be better prepared for its reception. Whether the anticipation was a just, or an erroneous one, will probably soon be put to the test. It is certain that a temporary impulse was given to the cause of domestic philanthropy, and that whilst the great danger stared them in the face, men acknowledged that they had failed in their duty to their neighbours (and to themselves) by not taking heed of the condition of the poor by whom they were surrounded. They were told by competent authorities, and they were not slow to believe, that their own negligence had rendered London a very hot-bed for the growth and diffusion of the plague-that if they had bethought themselves more of improving the sanatory condition of all those narrow streets, those pestilent lanes and alleys, those back courts and pent-up yards, wherein the poor do herd and congregate, wanting air, wanting light, wanting pure water, amidst filth and foul odours, amidst feverish exhalations and curses of all kinds too horrible to mention, the great scourge, coming from its far-off Oriental home, would not have dwelt so long or busied itself so destructively amongst us. All this DIVES heard and believed. He believed and trembled. Then he began to promise great things. Let but the plague once pass away from his doors, and he would be up and doing. Nay, he would begin at once. He would subscribe his money. He would observe a solemn fast. He would bend down in an attitude of profoundest humiliation before the Lord of the pestilence, in whose hands are the issues of life and death. Doubtless, he was

sincere at the time, as men under the influence of a great panic are sincere; and he meant what he said. But the terror passed away. The angel of death spread its wings and took flight from our shores, leaving tears and lamentations, the wail of the widow and the orphan behind it. And what then? Did DIVES keep his promise? Miss Sinclair says that in the month of May, when meetings are held in London, for the promotion of all kinds of religious and benevolent objects, the only one which created little interest and attracted few attendants was a meeting for the improvement of the condition of the London Poor.

DIVES sick, is one person. DIVES sound, is another. The fear of death passes away, and with returning security comes back the stony heart. Is this well, DIVES? Nay, is it wise? The pestilence gone to-day, may return to-morrow. There is an old proverb about shutting the stable-door. When the Cholera, with all its terrors is among us, DIVES bethinks himself of sanatory measures, and commiserates the condition of the poor. The town ought to be better drained;-no doubt of it. Those wretched back-streets, and hungry alleys within a stone's throw of his capacious mansion-streets and alleys of which he has heard, but which he has never seen-ought to come down and be re-placed by others, into which the light and air should be admitted freely, and nothing foul should ever accumulate; nothing noxious ever be engendered.

Yes, DIVES, you are sure to be too late, if you only think about doing good to others when danger threatens yourself. These London homes-homes such as Miss Sinclair has described in her story, a story written with the best of objects, and full of the best of feeling-exist at all times amongst us. The evil is always weltering around our doors. The time to combat it is always the present time. To wait till the Cholera comes, is to wait until filth and foul air are irresistible, and the dwarf, which we might have crushed, has grown into a rampant giant. Think of the matter, DIVES, to-day; not because the Cholera is creeping in amongst us, but because it is to-day; think of it to-day, to-morrow -every day; this year, next year, every year, until the homes of the London poor cease to be not only a disgrace, but a scourge to the London rich. Think of it for your own sake, for your wife's sake, for your children's sake, if not for the sake of the poor whom ye have always with you." And let it not be set down against you any longer, that when the pestilence was coiling itself around you, you feigned humility and penitence; you pretended to recognise your short-comings, and you promised the Almighty to remain no longer neglectful of your duties to the poor; but that when He listened to your prayers, and smote no longer, and took the cup of trembling out of your hands, you forgot your promises, waxed proud and indolent again, and faring sumptously every day your self, forgot that there was hunger and nakedness, fever and filth, everywhere around you, in those vile dens and pestilent rookeries, which, in the daily life of thousands upon thousands, take the place of LONDON HOMES.

66

REVIEWS.

THERE AND BACK AGAIN IN SEARCH OF BEAUTY.
Augustus St. John. 2 vols. 1853.

66

By James

Of the principal books of travel, as Lady Tennison's and Mrs. Colin Mackenzie's, we have already spoken in detail. We must not omit, however, to speak of Mr. St. John's very pleasant volumes, under the quaint title of "There and Back again." The book has many of the characteristics to which we referred in our recent notice of Mr. St. John's "Isis." It is equally picturesque. There is the same impulsiveness about it; there is the same bright colouring; but it is less sensuous. Mr. St. John left his wife and children, and set out from Lausanne, by the diligence, in "search of beauty." Before he is half through his first volume he tells us, that he' chanced upon a young lady going to church, who called forth an involuntary exclamation of "Oh, Dio santo!" Never, since or before," he says, "have I seen beauty so perfect. No Madonna ever painted by Raffaelle, no Aphrodite ever sculptured by the Hellenic chisel could equal it." After this he should have turned back; he went in search of beauty, and he had found it. It is well, however, for the reader that he did not. Mr. St. John went on; and he has given us two as pleasant volumes as we could care to read on the beach on a September day. There is altogether a dreaminess, a delightful unreality about the book which pleases us greatly. It may all be truth to the letter, but it reads like something more attractive than plain matter of fact. At all events, it is, as we said of "Isis,” a link between the real and the ideal, and it leads us, by no very abrupt transition, into the legitimate domains of Fiction.

RAYMOND DE MONTHAULT, THE LORD MARCHER. A Legend of the Welsh Borders. By the Rev. R. W. Morgan. 3 vols. 1853. Mr. Morgan's "Raymond de Monthault" is a "Legend of the Welsh Borders" during the time of the Lord Marchers, and it is a very graphic picture of the period. But the period is one of which we have no great desire to be thus vividly reminded. Mr. Morgan candidly admits, and if he did not, he would have abundantly proved,-that those good old times, or, as more correctly they ought to be called, young times, were exceedingly bad times. Those mediæval barbarians were not by any means a pleasant race of men. They had the butcher-stamp upon them, and smelt of the shambles much too strongly for our taste. They were thieves and murderers upon a large scale, and had nothing better to recommend them than physical hardihood and brute courage. Such as they were, however,

VOL. XXIV.

"Content as men-at-arms to cope
Each with his fronting foe,"

I J

Mr. Morgan has described them with remarkable power, and what we may at least presume to be fidelity. The vraisemblance at all events is perfect. There is a rugged grandeur about the work which appeals forcibly to the imagination. There is an Ossianic obscurity · a mistinessa remoteness-which greatly enhances the effect, and makes it, in parts, almost sublime. The supernatural terror of the catastrophe is not out of keeping with the antecedents of such a work. The "dignus vindice nodus" is not to be disputed. If Mr. Morgan's romance does not achieve popularity, it will not be owing to any want of power, or any want of skill in his treatment of the subject. Time was when "Raymond de Monthault" would have made a reputation. Those good Titanic pictures of the Lord Marcher and Jarl Bronz are not unworthy to be hung up beside the best of those in "Ivanhoe." But the taste of the age has changed since Scott wrote his fictions, and the historical romance has well nigh lost its attractions. This, at least, is our belief; and we look with peculiar interest to the result of the present publication, as the amount of success it achieves will very fairly indicate the soundness or unsoundness of our estimate of the popular taste. "Raymond de Monthault" is an historical romance; but unlike the majority of these works, the scenes which it describes have been little trodden by the novelist-the men and the times are but little known. There is nothing hackneyed or worn-out in it, as in those oft-repeated tales in which the Raleighs and Buckinghams, the Rochesters and Montroses, the Marlboroughs and Walpoles, figure in such wearying profusion. It is altogether something genuine and original, written with a strong hand by one full of his subject; and if it does not command an audience it will not be, as we have said, for want of intrinsic merit.