The Press.
London, England, 1857-08-22 00:00:00

Dorman Newman, at the King's Arms, in the
Poultry), we could find no passages in it to
justify the allusions.
We place the foregoing poem before our
readers as a literary and historical puzzle, and
we should be glad to see it explained.
Here is a capital piece which •has long been
a favourite of ours. To some of our readers it
may be new, and we shall extract it entire
SMOKING SPIRITUALISED.

!AZT I.

This Indian weed, now withered quite,
Though green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay ;
All flesh is hay :
Thus think,land smoke tobacco.
The pipe so lily-like and weak,
Does thus thy mortal state bespeak;
Thou art e'en such,—
Gone with a touch :
- - -

_
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,
And thou behold'st the vanity
Of worldly stuff,
Gone with a puff:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soul defiled with sin ;
For then the fire
It does require:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
And seest the ashes east away,
Then to thyself thou mayest say,
That to the dust
Return thou must : _ _

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
PART 11.
Was this small plant for thee cut down?
So was the plant of great, renown,
Which Mercy sends
For nobler ends: _

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

Doth juice medicinal proceed
From such a naughty foreign weed?
Then what's the power
Of Jesse's flower ?
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
The promise, like the pipe, inlays,
And by the mouth of faith conveys,
What virtue flcws
From Sharon's rose :

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
In vain the unlighted pipe you blow,
Your pains in outward means are so,
Till heavenly fire
Your heart inspire :
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
The smoke, like burning incense, towers,
So should a praying heart of yours,
With ardent cries,
Surmount the skies :

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
Mr. Bell prefixes the following statement
to it :
This old poem was long ascribed, on apparently suffi-
cient grounds, to the Rev. Ralph Erskine, or, as he desig•
need himself, " Ralph Erskine, V.D.M." The peasantry
throughout the north of England always call it " Erskine's
song," and not only is his name given as the author in
numerous chap-books, but in his own volume of " Gospel
Sonnets," from an early copy of which our version is
transcribed. The discovery, however, by Mr. Collier, of
the First Part in a MS. temp. Jac. 1., with the initials
G.W. affixed to it, has disposed of Erskine's claim to the
honour of the entire authorship. G.W. is supposed to be
George Withers, but this is purely conjectural, and it is
not at all improbable that G.W. really stands for W.G., as
it was a common practice amongst anonymous writers to
reverse their initials. The history, then, of the poem
seems to be this : that the First Part, as it is now punted,
originally constituted the whole production,being complete
in itself; that the Second Part was afterwards added by
the Rev. Ralph Erskine, and that both parts came subse-
quently to be ascribed to him, as his was the only name
published in connection with the song. The Rev. Ralph
Erskine was born at Monilaws, Northumberland, on the
15th March, 1085. He was one of the thirty-three chit•
dren of Ralph Erskine of Shieldfield, a family of repute,
descended from the ancient house of Marr.
The following is new to us, and is certainly
pretty. It is called

THE GARDEN GATE.

The day was spent, the moon shone bright,
The village clock struck eight;
Young Mary hastened, with delight,
Unto the garden•gate;
But what was there that made her sad ?
The gate was there, but not the lad,
Which made poor Mary say and sigh,
" Was ever poor girl so sad as I?"
She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck nine ;
Which made poor Mary sigh, and say,
"You shan't, you shan't be mine !
Yon promised to meet at the gate at eight,
You ne'er shall keep me, nor make me wait,
For I'll let all such creatures see,
They at'er shall make s fool of me :"

HE PR

She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck ten;
Young William caught her in his arms,
No more to part again :
For he'd been to buy the ring that day,
And 0 ! he had been a long long way ;
Then, how could Mary cruel prove,
To banish the lad she so dearly did love?
Up with the morning sun they rose,
To church they went away,
And all the village joyful were,
Upon their wedding-day :
Now in a cot, by a river side,
William and Mary both reside;
And she blesses the night that she did wait
For her absent swain at the garden-gate.
We doubt whether " The Old Man's Song "
could be appreciated by " the peasantry ":
If I live to grow old, for I find I go down,
Let this be my fate in a country town :
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate;
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.
In a country town, by a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distanoe on whioh I may look;
With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile,
May I govern, &c.
With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more
Of the best wits that lived in the age before;
With a dish of roast mutton, not venison or teal,
And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal.
nay I govern, dsc.
With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor,
And remnants of latin to welcome the vicar;
With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine,
To drink the king's health in as oft as I dine.
May I govern, dm.
It is a "jolly " production, and Mr. Bell i f
right in conjecturing it to be the original o
" The Downhill of Life."
Of " The Lincolnshire Poacher " Mr. Bell
says :
This very old ditty has been transformed into the dialects
of Soluersetehire, Northamptonshire, and Leicestershire ;
but it properly belongs to Lincolnshire. Nor is this the
only liberty that has been taken with it. The original
tune is that of a Lancashire air, well known as " The Man-

cheater Angel;" but a florid modern tune has been salmi-
toted. " The Lincolnshire Poacher " was a favonrite ditty
with George IV., and it is said that he often had it sung for
his amusement by a band of Berkshire ploughmen. He
also commanded it to be sung at his harvest-homes, but we
believe it was always on such occasions sung to the "play-
house tune," and not to the genuine music.
In the first canto of " Childe Harold " there
is the following stanza, the latter part of which
is obscure to many readers :
Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,
Others along the safer turnpike fly ;
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some wend to Ware,
And many to the steep of Highgate hie.
Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ?
'Tis to the worship of the solemn horn,
Grasped iu the holy band of mystery,
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,
And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.
Mr. Bell explains at length the curious cere-
mony of " swearing in at Highgate," and gives
the verses used on the occasion. The piece is
curious, but we have not room to extract it.
The harvest-home songs in the volume have
rather disappointed us ; and we think that on
the whole the matter of the volume does not
belong to "peasant minstrelsy," but it con-
tains some choice popular and national pieces,
and is one of the most curious volumes of
English verse published for a long time.

Autobiography of Lutfullah, a Mohamedan
Gentleman. Edited by Edward B. East-
wick, F.R.S., F.S.A. London: Smith, Elder,
and Co.
AN original autobiography, quaintly written
in English by a Mohamedan gentleman, who
details " his transactions with his fellow-
creatures," interspersed with remarks "on
" the habits, customs, and character of the
" people with whom he had to deal," pos-
sesses at least the charm of novelty. But
Lutfullah has greater claims to our considera-
tion; his autobiography details the events of
a life sufficiently varied to be interesting, and
exhibits the author as a shrewd observer of
' events, as an acute tactician in the conduct of
his own affairs, and as an able and agreeable
writer. Then, again, his book, ably edited,
abounds in all the charm and spirit of that
mixture of enthusiasm, good sense, and sim-
plicity so peculiar to Orientals, while it is
especially interesting and instructive to us, in

825

detail, as illustrating in some degree the
nature of the regard felt for the English by
the natives of Hindostan.

Lutfullah, with a pedigree told on the title-
page as tracing direct up to Adam, was born
in Malwa, in 11402. His ancestors were men
of saintly consideration, and had enjoyed
special privileges and a fine property till
within a hundred years of his birth, when, by
one of those abrupt changes of rule at that
period common to all India, his family was
plundered by the Marattas and brought to
beggary—to use his Eastern metaphor, " the
" light of day was withdrawn, and the shadows
"of night had gathered round them " How-
ever, in course of time his grandfather amassed
a little money, and at length the most impor-
tant event in our hero's career occurred—he

was born. As a boy, Lutfullah passed his
youth like most boys; he played tricks at
home till ho was sent to school, and then con-
tinued them there. He used, he tells us, to
put frogs into the ladies' work-baskets, and
enjoyed their screams much when the frogs
jumped out. He set fire one day to the beard
of a venerable old soheik, for which he was
flogged by his master, and into whose coffee
next he put a powerful purgative out of re-
venge ; and he tells us with much gusto that,
upon seeing the old gentleman suffering
" strange qualms," he took his leave from
school that day with " the tear of sorrow " in
one eye and " the light of satisfaction " in the
other. Before the boy is ten years of age his
father dies, and then the old story of domestic
life is repeated. His mother marries a man
who illtreats her boy, and the young Lutfullah
takes wing one night for Agra. After a series
of adventures, in which he falls into the hands
of a Thug, spends a year with a robber-band
of Afghans and Bheels, and then studies medi-
cine for another twelvemonth or so, the young
Lutfullah at length obtains an appointment in
the British service, as special postmaster of
Dharampuri, near :dhow. The necessity for
the appointment ceasing in a few months,
Lutfullah proceeded to Nlllow to render up
his accounts and resign his office ; while en
route an incident common enough in India
occurred, but it is so graphically told that we
select it as a fair specimen of our author's
descriptive powers :

The darkness of the evening, on account of the cloudy
weather, came on with rapidity ; and I advised that each
man should, alternately, lead the way, with a burning log
of wood in his hand to scare off the ravenous beasts, as
was usual when charged with the post. Being out of the
service, my words were not only disobeyed. but actually had
no longer any weight with them. They ridiculed my fears,
and said," Pray come on quietly, if you wish to accompany
us ; if not, you may return and do as you like." This was
the first insult that pierced through my heart, and I never
spoke to any of them again.
It was about eleven o'clock at night, when fatigue of the
much and the cool of the night rendered my brain heavy,
and my feet unwilling to move ; but I strolled on still with
the people. The moon sometimes extended ber calm
splendour over us, and sometimes was overshadowed with
dark clouds. Suddenly, upon the left side of our road, a
crackling was heard among the bushes: all of us were
alarmed, and in an instant a tiger, rushing out of the
jungle, pounced upoit the one of the party that was fore-
most, and carried him off in the twinkling of an eye. The
rush of the animal, and the crush of the poor victim's bones
in his mouth, and his last cry of distress, " Ho hai !"
involuntarily re-echoed by all of us, was over in three
seconds ; and then I know not what happened, till I re•
turned to my senses, when I found myself and companions
lying down on the ground, as if prepared to be devoured by
our enemy, the sovereign of the forest. I find my pen
incapable of describing the terror of that dreadful moment.
Our limbs stiffened, our power of speech ceased, and our
hearts beat violently, and only a whisper of the same " Ho
hai !" was heard from us. In this suit) we crept on all-
fours for some distance back, and then ran for lite, with the
speed of an Arab horse, for about half an hour, and fortu-
nately happened to come to a small village of about fifty
huts, into which we rushed, heedless of the barking of the
dogs, which roused the inhabitants, who, taking us to be
a gang of robbers, hooted and shouted with all their might
to drive us away.

The rush of the tiger, the appalling " Ho hai !"
of the poor coolie, the crush of his bones, the
crackle of the jungle as the tiger bounds in
with his victim, and then the terrified and in-
voluntary whispers of the men crouched on all-
fours and repeating the/cry, is a perfect word-
painting.
And now a fair career was about to open to
the young Lutfullah, for, tired of his roving
life, he became moonshee or teacher of Hin-
doostane to a British officer. He first lived
for a few months " under the generous protec-
tion " of Lieut. McMahon, " a tall, thin young