with their testimonial. Don't I remember how sundry infatuated people gave L.10,000 to a Railway King, just because he made a great fortune by speculation? Don't I know that in Paris the Minister of the Interior has always on his books a list of nearly 2000 names of candidates for the decoration of the Légion d'honneur ?—and don't I know that an eager and active canvass is always carried on by this crowd of aspirants, each one striving to get the bit of red ribbon before his competitor? And when I read from time to time in the Moniteur that the emperor has been pleased to confer the cross on M. So-and-so, in consideration, &c., &c., I know that, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, there was no other consideration than that of silencing the noisiest or most troublesome claimant. No wonder the Parisians call it the Légion d'horreur.

If everybody is to be distinguished, where is your great man? Not to have a decoration, to be a nobody, must, with the present tendency, come in time to be the distinction. Are our perceptions dwarfed, or is not doing one's duty become so much the rule and practice, that duty honestly done is regarded as the exception, and as especially worthy of applause? Is human praise, after all, of more worth than the voice of conscience? I incline to think not, and I regard the fuss made of late with heroes as an unfavourable sign of the times. I have never heard or read that Cromwell's Ironsides craved for any special marks of distinction; and we all know how they did their duty. If the really deserving do not find within themselves something to animate their sense of duty-to sustain their hope then conscience is dead, and in its stead we must have crosses, stars, and ribbons. Some warriors are distinguished because on a certain day they wore a red coat in a certain place; and some savans because they have ruined their health by useless researches: nevertheless, it is still true, as the Times says, that 'to some honours are given, to others honour.'

TIMBER-BENDING.

ALL woods are more or less flexible, or capable of being bent; but by timber-bending, the giving it a permanent set is meant. The willow is well known in one of its applications to be divided into slender prismatic filaments, and dyed and curled, and used in party-coloured bunches as a summer ornament for our fire-grates; and these strips are also known to be woven into a fabric for ladies' bonnets. The ash is familiar to us, bent into trundling hoops, and measures for dry commodities. The yew appears in the trusty bow; and the lime figures in pill-boxes. We are accustomed to see cheap articles of cabinet-work embellished with a covering somewhat thicker than a shaving or a coat of paint, of choice walnut, maple, rosewood, or Spanish mahogany in the form of veneers, which are applied to curves often of a very complex nature. These, with many more that could be adduced, are familiar examples of the susceptibility of extreme curvature which most woods possess when reduced to thin proportions.

The pliancy exemplified in the thin veneer is carried out, though less extremely, in the laminated arch-rib of many railway-bridges and station-roofs. These curved ribs are composed of a number of thin boards of suitable width, bent over, and closely nailed and bolted to each other, their cross-joints successively overlapping, till any moderate void can be spanned; and that, too, with a structure which is very homogeneous in point of strength. The horseshoe beams of the audience part of a theatre are sometimes formed in a similar manner. The curvatures referred to do not involve the processes belonging to timber-bending; the objects mentioned are mechanical combinations of materials which owe their curvature to the agents employed in their union; but bent timber, properly so called, is solid and single, having its mass reduced to the desired flexure

without the means being apparent. The agency by which this has hitherto been effected is mainly heat, applied either by boiling or steaming; and the method is chiefly practised for ship-building purposes. The average time occupied is an hour for every inch in thickness; the fibres are temporarily softened, and the strength of the timber is permanently, though inconsiderably impaired-that is, per se, but often the reverse by virtue of its new form and position; the wood is at the same time rendered less subject to decay, or to warp or crack. Of the other objects of its application may be mentioned walking-sticks and gig-shafts: the crook of the former is a quick curve, very trying to the longitudinal strength and lateral coherence of the fibres; both of which may occasionally be found injured. To a gig-shaft is given such a curvature, and that not all lying in the same plane, that unless a piece of timber could be found having the proper bend naturally, not only would a very wide plank, but a very thick one, be necessary to cut it out of—a method that would be attended with much waste, and with the more serious evil of cross-wood, where toughness is indispensable.

Hitherto, by the processes in use, curvatures of short radius have only been accomplished in slender materials; those obtained in large timbers have been but of long radius; and it has been customary to consider, looking at the structure of the material, that little more could be achieved. It appears, however, that in America a timber-bending company is in existence possessing patent processes by which are effected curvatures hitherto undreamed of; and that a company is now forming in the British metropolis, having for its object the purchasing patent-rights for the United Kingdom, and for the selling of machines, and granting of licences upon payment of a royalty. The following is the substance of their statement, sanctioned by reports from Mr George Rennie, Mr Fairbairn, Dr Hooker, and other scientific and practical men :

The present power of bending timber is exceedingly limited and expensive, and the product very unsatisfactory. Those parts of the wood where the curvature is greatest, are rendered invariably the weakest. All woods, English or foreign, of almost any size, can, by the new process, be bent to any form, angle, or curve, with the most conclusive results. The fibres are not in any way injured. The wood becomes almost impervious to damp and insect. Its density is increased, rendering it less liable to take fire. Its strength is enhanced, at least 75 per cent., at the very point where most required. It matters not whether the wood be cross-grained, knotty, seasoned, or new: the crossgrains are thrown into right angles; the knots are compelled to follow the impulse of the bending; and the juices are forced out of the cells of the wood, the cavities filled up by the interlacing fibres. Seasoning thus going hand in hand with condensation, the locking up of capital while timber is undergoing the necessary changes, will be obviated. As additional strength is gained, so, in proportion, will the size of timbers used be reduced. Time will be saved that is now spent in searching for woods suitable for carrying out particular designs. The present expensive method of cutting out and shaping timber will be superseded; and a saving of three-fourths of the material be effected. The machinery is so simple and cheap, that it can be acquired by persons of the most moderate means.

The results mentioned are stated to be obtained by end-pressure. It may be inferred, from the condensing and the interlacing of the fibres, that this is accompanied by lateral pressure, and with machinery of a kind which is adaptable to any degree of curvature.

In the consideration of this subject, the various stiffness of the different woods should be borne in mind, and also their various tensile strength. In a

series of well-known woods, the former varies from 44 to 126, oak being 100; and the latter ranges from 5928 to 17,200 pounds per square inch of section. The promoters of the English company exhibit, among a variety of examples, one carriage-wheel having the felloes cut out of straight-grained, and another having them formed of bent wood. In the former, only a certain quantity of the fibres extend uncut from spoke to spoke, and part of the wood is crossgrained; in the latter, the whole of the fibres follow, uncut, the curvature of the wheel. They also exhibit a horseshoe chair-back, ready for the chisel: here, if we take the length of the wood as 43 inches, its breadth 2, the radius to the outside of the curve 8, and the arc three-fourths of a circle, terminated at each end with a short curve of reverse flexure, we find that the length is, on the inner side, compressed to 40 inches, and on the outer extended to 452. It is therefore not surprising that inwards from the neutral line, and especially towards the inner face, the juices should be squeezed out of the capillary tubes, and the fibres knuckle into or interlace themselves in them; or that outwards from the neutral line, and especially towards the outer side, the fibres should be brought more compactly together. The parts subjected to the severest trial would seem to be the outward portion of the outer half, where the tensile strain approaches its utmost intensity.

Should the soundness of the conclusions arrived at be established, and the practical and economical elements be put on a liberal and accessible basis, a new era will dawn over the entire range of arts in which wood plays a prominent part, and as distinctive a variety in architecture be initiated as that originated by the ferrovitreous palace in Hyde Park.

IDOLS.

WONDER not because the heathen Make them gods of wood and clayHold we not as blind an error

E'en in this most Christian day? Thou dost nurse, O man benighted, Idol-worship dark as they!

Ere thou sneerest at the savage,

Make a search within thy breast.

Pierce the veil of self-delusion;

Search-be brave! spare nought the test! Search within that inner temple

Where thy Maker placed His shrine-
Well for thee if ne'er polluted
By some graven thing of thine:

If there thou find such idol standing,
Know it for a base usurper;
Raise thine arm, and strike it down.

If thou, with a world-warped vision,
Look at human praise or blame,
Pointing all thy best endeavours
To a day-remembered name;
If thou seek this earth's distinctions,
Honours, and the pride of place,
And wouldst use the necks of brethren
For thy passage in the race;
If thou to thy franker spirit

Dost a deep and paltry wrong,
And, to suit the hour's opinions,
Tune thy teaching or thy song:
Tremble! thou hast raised an Idol
Moloch-like, most fierce and blind-
Day by day its false dominion
Shall deceive and sway thy mind.

Up! while yet thou canst resist;
Bring thy darling work to ruins-
Raise thine arm, and strike it down.

If thou, with a worse ambition,
Give thy hopes to sordid gain,
Wed to toil, so that the future
Bring thee crops of golden grain;
Know, poor soul! to this thine Idol
Kings and magi bowed of old,
Yet it is accursèd, treacherous,
And most worthless, though of gold.
It will press its glittering finger
On thine heart; the evil spell
Shall benumb all generous feelings

Which, like blessings, there should dwell.
Wilt thou be its slave, O Christian?
Kneel not in its blighting shadow-
Raise thine arm, and smite it down.
Woman, in whose soul's closed chamber
Is a shrine, revered alway,
Wo to thee, poor, fond fanatic,

For thine Idol is of clay!
Thou hast painted it with colours
Lent by Love's delusive eyes,
And in stolen hours of worship

Hast given thy heart in sacrifice!
Dost thou dare to raise an image
Earth-born, to a hallowed shrine?
Ah, remove it-or thy boldness
May provoke a Hand divine
(Wise in judgments) which thy treasure
From its standing-place may wrench,
And leave a heap of burning ashes
For thy streaming tears to quench.
Come-be patient! In the creature
Thou wert losing the Creator:
Raise thine hand, and bring it down.
Brethren, from all erring worship

Keep we our heart-temples free-
Lay the strong axe to the basis
Of our false idolatry.

Some, perchance, have served a lifetime
To a Dagon, huge and vain,

And their hearts have brought with labour
Every stone which marks his fane.
They have fed him with the incense

Of unnumbered hopes and fears;
Courage! wound this social despot,
And how shrunk his size appears!
Strike! heed not the falling rubbish
Or the subtile dust which blindeth,
Strike with vigour-lay him low!
M. A. D.

'FROEBEL'S GARDENS FOR CHILDREN.'

Since the appearance of the above article in No. 136, we have ascertained that the Kindergärten of Froebel were tried in 1851 at Hampstead, near London, and that since then they have met with considerable success at Grove House, Kentish Town. The directors, Mr and Mrs Ronge, have published A Practical Guide to the English Kindergärten, and this is now in the list of books issued by the Committee of the Council of Education. In 1854, Mr and Mrs Ronge established an Institution for the training of teachers, young ladies, and nurses, and in consequence of this publicity given to the system, various Kindergärten have been established by ladies, and the form of education introduced into the nurseries of distinguished families in Belgravia and other aristocratic quarters. Finally, a monthly journal was commenced by Mr Ronge in May last, to serve as the expositor and chronicle of the new system.

NOTICE.

COMMUNICATIONS are requested to be addressed, as formerly, to 339 HIGH STREET, EDINBURGH.

Printed and Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by JAMES FRASER, 14 D'Olier Street, DUBLIN, and all Booksellers.

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE

No. 145.

AMUSEMENTS OF THE MOB. Ir is a vulgar superstition that the regular theatre is the resort of all classes of society: that the aristocracy are in the boxes and stalls, the shopocracy in the pit, and the mobocracy in the gallery; and that thus the general heart of the country is reached at the same moment by the pathos or humour of the scene-one touch of nature making the whole world kin. Much might be said on the composition of the crowd entering these several divisions of the house; but we have at present to do only with the gallery, and there, we undertake to say, is not to be found, at least in any considerable strength, the mob or mass of the lower and working classes. And why? Simply because they can't afford a shilling. Many a decent workman, comprehended in the mob-a designation we use in no invidious sense-would be glad to take his wife and children now and then to the regular play: but the idea of his spending four or five shillings on a single evening's amusement is too wild to be entertained except as a waking dream. He may go himself, however, once or twice in his early life, meeting few of his own class, and staring curiously at the crowd of miscellaneous nondescripts in which he finds himself engulfed-servants of both sexes-sailors provincials-adventurers; but feeling all the while that he is himself a stray visitor, and by no means in his own place of amusement. What, then, is the resource of such men at those times when mind and body alike demand recreation? How do the mothers of our toilingclasses indulge sometimes in an evening's forgetfulness of their cares? What plan does the fast youngster of the same degree fall upon to do the handsome thing to his sweetheart? It is our present purpose to explain this, to raise the curtain before the amusements of the mob; and in doing so we feel satisfied that we shall give our readers new and interesting information, that we shall disclose in this phase of the private life of the masses of London much that is healthy and hopeful, and even in the midst of matters that provoke a smile give rise to grave and even solemn thought.

Foremost in the exhibitions to which a penny serves as a passport, stand what we may call the shop-shows -a name they deserve, because they either stand in the rear of shops, or occupy the place of the shop itself, having driven the shopkeeper and his goods from the area. These are found in all parts of London except the west end. In the districts of Wapping and Redcliff they are apt to smack of a marine flavour, with a most ancient and fishlike smell, growing gradually more refined as they extend towards Temple Bar and beyond. Their outward manifestations are a dirty

PRICE 11d.

You

window-frame, a written placard or a fiery-coloured cartoon, or both, and an open door with a square yard of saw-dusted floor. See! within yon doorway lounges a sallow semi-animate sexagenarian, in costume half beef-eater half beadle, which contrasts fiercely with the dreamy face and lacklustre eye of the wearer. read his history at a glance. He is all that is left of Fitzbowler's company, who, in the days of their glory, when the drama was, traversed the length and breadth of England, and levied willing contributions from an admiring world, and led the jolliest life in it-who came to London once a year, and reaped a golden harvest at Bartlemy fair-who were a name and a fame in the land till, unhappily, their light was all at once extinguished, and their sun set in darkness. For Fitzbowler got embroiled with Justice Grind, who mulcted him in penalties, and tormented him so much that he took to drinking and not paying his way. Then, Bartlemy fair was abolished, and the company, in spite of desperate attempts to cling together, was broken up; and there was a general wreck; and Fitzbowler died; and with such remnants of the properties as he could snatch from the creditors, our semi-animate friend rushed off to London, and ensconced himself in that little den at the corner of Alligator Alley, to drink the cup his fate should mix for him. Happily, the cup is filled pretty often with Barclay's entire; for Varty Slim (so our friend is called), though he is often seen sitting lone and lorn, like Marius amid the relics of former greatness, is wiser than the gloomy Roman; and instead of indulging in desperate thoughts, sets his wits to work to turn the penny-and turns it. Out of the three wax-figures which used to stand guard behind Fitzbowler's pay-table, he can manufacture any person of note, from monarch to murderer, whom it will pay to exhibit; out of the few drops and wings that escaped the general overthrow, he can make up a very pretty scene of any kind whatever; and out of some small ragamuffin rolling in the kennels of Whitechapel, he can manufacture a Phenomenon' in double-quick time. And, dead-alive as Varty looks, if you come by on a Saturday night, when the gas-lamps are flaring-when he has invested a penny in clean saw-dust-when the causeway is crammed with a gaping multitude-then you shall see the old fire in his eye, and hear the old bold voice thundering 'Now's your time, ladies and gentlemennow's your time, to see the wonderful performances of the Little Phenomenon and the wax-work figures, with the Death of Nelson, all for a penny.' And if you will deposit the said penny at the door, you shall see the wax-work and the Phenomenon's performance in the tumbling and balancing line, and hear Varty himself,

after he has bolted the door for the occasion, sing the Death of Nelson with a vehemence that threatens to rend the foundations of his old frame to atoms.

Penny-showmen of the Varty type are not so numerous as they once were; the race is dying out, and the way of life which produced them has not the attractions it formerly possessed. Overstep the saw-dust in another place, and you shall find yourself in the presence of a marine monster, perhaps pickled, perhaps-fresh, we were going to say, but that would be a mistake. Now it is a porpoise netted off Gravesend-now a young grampus from lower down the river-now it is the old mermaid, manufactured on the Barnum principle, half cod-fish, half monkey; and now it is a lusus naturæ, in the human shape, which ought to be in Surgeons' Hall -or it is the tattooed head of a New Zealander. Try it again, and you find yourself one of a company listening to the vocal delusions of a ventriloquist, holding an animated conversation with an angry person shut up in a cupboard, and who further entertains you with a hornpipe, danced on the table by the figure of a British sailor nine inches high, whose legs are personated by the fingers of the performer. Try it once more, and you are pointed to a seat in front of a neat curtain, behind which you hear the tones of a concertina tolerably played. By and by, when the seats are nearly full, the curtain rises, and an artificial landscape is revealed, in which what seems to be real water is streaming along a distant meadow, and cascading over rocks in the foreground, with the precise noise that accompanies the dashing of water. Then the scene changes to a wild sea-coast, where the billows roll darkly in the distance, and the breakers, with their heavy, dull sound, surge madly on the shore. It changes again for the last time, and you have a mountain water-fall imitated to the life-the exhibition concluding with an explanation of the manner in which the really striking illusion is effected—namely, by using smooth globules of crystal in the place of water, and throwing a strong light upon them. Try it yet once more, and, shut up with a dozen companions in a room as dark as pitch, you are in presence of the pennypanorama, with a monster lens as big as the crown of your hat your own peculiar property for the time being. The subject of the panorama is the Crimean war, and at the first peep through the lens you are regaled with a view of the landing at Eupatoria, and the whole British and French fleets; then comes the battle of the Alma, followed by the Balaklava charge, the battle of Inkermann, and, finally, the storming of Sebastopol, with the retreat of the Russians across the harbour. The exhibition is illustrated by a brief history of the war from some invisible lecturer, who winds up his lecture in ten minutes exactly, when the traps fall behind the lenses-and you have had your pennyworth -and shouldn't grumble.

windows, the only contents of which are a written placard in each announcing the bill of fare. A few feet within the door, sits a girl in a kind of watch-box, who receives our penny, and gives us a square tin find ourselves in a long dark chamber, in company check. We go with the multitude, and in a moment with some 150 youth of both sexes, not five per cent. of them over twenty years of age, and considerably more than half under fifteen. Some are mere children, and we are in danger of stumbling over them in the gloom. At the further end of the room, in the left-hand corner, a single spur of gas projecting from the broken plaster of the wall sheds its light upon a little deal counter, furnished with bottles of gingerbeer, with a pile of triangular sections of that pale unctuous compound known and relished by omnivorous boys as 'spotted dog'-with another pile of those broad black gingerbread-drops designated 'jumbles'- and with a gambling-board of a curious and novel device. Behind the counter stands a free-and-easy, dramaticlooking lad of eighteen, dripping like a Niobe, but with perspiration-for the place is hot as an oven-and of refreshments and croupier at the gaming-board. He active in the discharge of his double calling as dispenser draws corks, he washes the one glass, he sells a pennyworth of spotted dog or a farthing jumble, he gives change, and bawls: 'One, one! who'll make two? Two, two! who'll make three? Three! who'll make four?' and so on, till all who are willing to risk their money have deposited their stakes in his hand, and the game commences. The game is played on a long board pierced with holes for the reception of marbles shot from a given spot by the players. Each hole counts for a certain number, and he who gets the most wins the whole stakes. To prevent a good shot from having a better chance than a bad one-which, in the Cockney's view of all such matters, would be unfair-a number of pins rise perpendicularly from the board, and bar the direct passage to the holes; in consequence of this, the ball has to be shot to the head of the board, rebounding from which it rolls slowly through a labyrinth of pins, now in this direction, now in that, and, frequently escaping all the numbers, returns void. If, in returning, however, it passes a narrow passage barely wide enough to admit it, and strikes a bell, the player scores the highest number. As may be imagined, the game is sufficiently exciting, and the passage of each ball, as it bobs on this side and that, is anxiously watched amid clamours and vociferous expletives that defy description. While contemplating the game, we cannot help speculating on the character of the company. Not a few of them are boys employed in the working establishments which abound in the neighbourhood; but a round number of the males, though we hesitate in declaring the fact, are unmistakably of the class which, to be as courteous as we can, we shall denominate appropriatives.' The spirit of mirth and rollicking fun, however, prevails among them all, and of hospitality too-for we notice that when the game is done, the winner disburses the proceeds of his luck in payment of a feast, of which all the players partake -so that a serious inroad is made upon the pyramids of pudding, and jumbles, and the liquids.