THE BLIND BOY.
FROM A SPECIMEN OF PRINTING IN RELIEF, FOR THE
USE OF THE BLIND".

THE bird, that never tried his wing,
Can blithely hop and sweetly sing,
Though prison'd in a narrow cage,
Till his bright feathers droop with age;
So I, while never bless'd with sight,
Shut out from heaven's surrounding light,
Life's hours, and days, and years enjoy,
Though blind, a merry-hearted boy.
That captive bird may never float
Through heaven, or pour his thrilling note
'Mid shady groves, by pleasant streams
That sparkle in the soft moon-beams;
But he may gaily flutter round
Within his prison's scanty bound,
And give his soul to song, for he
Ne'er longs to taste sweet liberty.
Oh! may I not as happy dwell
Within my unillumined cell?
May I not leap, and sing, and play,
And turn my constant night to day?
I never saw the sky, the sea,
The earth was never green to me:
Then why, Oh, why should I repine
For blessings that were never mine?
Think not that blindness makes me sad,
My thoughts, like yours, are often glad.
Parents I have, who love me well,
Their different voices I can tell.
Though far and absent, I can hear,
In dreams, their music meet my ear.
Is there a star so dear above
As the low voice of one you love?
I never saw my father's face,
Yet on his forehead when I place
My hand, and feel the wrinkles there,
Left less by time than anxious care,
I fear the world has sights of woe,
To knit the brows of manhood so.
I sit upon my father's knee:
He'd love me less if I could see.
I never saw my mother smile:
Her gentle tones my heart beguile.
They fall like distant melody,
They are so mild and sweet to me.
She murmurs not-my mother dear!
Though sometimes I have kissed the tear
From her soft cheek, to tell the joy
One smiling word would give her boy.
Right merry was I every day!
Fearless to run about and play
With sisters, brothers, friends, and all,
To answer to their sudden call,
To join the ring, to speed the chase,
To find each playmate's hiding-place,
And pass my hand across his brow,
To tell him I could do it now!
Yet though delightful flew the hours,
So pass'd in childhood's peaceful bowers,
When all were gone to school but I,
I used to sit at home and sigh;
And though I never long'd to view
The earth so green, the sky so blue,
I thought I'd give the world to look
Along the pages of a book.

Now since I've learn'd to read and write,
My heart is fill'd with new delight;
And music too,-can there be found
A sight so beautiful as sound?

Tell me, kind friends, in one short word,
Am I not like that captive bird?

I live in song, and peace, and joy,
Though blind, a merry-hearted boy.

PARK BENJAMIN, OF BOSTON, N. AMERICA. * See Saturday Magazine, Vol. IV., p. 206.

THE DEAL-BOATMEN.

THERE exists, on the shores of Deal, a breed of amphibious human beings, whose peculiar profession it is to rush to the assistance of every vessel in distress. In moments of calm and sunshine, they stand listlessly on the shore, stagnant and dormant, like the ocean before them: but when every shopkeeper closes his door, when the old woman, with her umbrella turned inside out, feels that she must either lose it or be lifted by it off the earth; when the reins of the mail-coachman are nearly blown from his hand, and his leaders have scarcely blood or breeding enough to face the storm; when the snow is drifting across the fields, seeking for a hedge-row against which it may sparkle and rest in peace; when whole families of the wealthy stop in their discourse to listen to the wind rumbling in their chimneys; when the sailor's wife, at her tea, hugs her infant to her arms, and, looking at its father, silently thanks heaven that he is on shore ;-THEN has the moment arrived for the Deal boatmen to contend one against another, to see whose boat shall first be launched into the tremendous surf. As the declivity of the beach is very steep, and as the greased rollers over which the keel descends are all placed ready for the attempt, they only wait a moment for what they call "a lull," and then, cutting the rope, the bark, as gallantly as themselves, rushes to its native element.

The difficulty of getting into deep water would amount sometimes almost to an impossibility, but that word has been blotted from their vocabulary; and although some boats fail, others, with seven or eight men on board, are soon seen stretching across to that very point in creation which one would think the seafaring man would most fearfully avoid-the Goodwin Sands. To be even in the neighbourhood of such a spot, in the stoutest vessel, and with the ablest crew that ever sailed, is a fate which Nelson himself would have striven to avoid; but that these poor nameless heroes should not only be willing, but eager to go there voluntarily in a hurricane, in an open boat, shows very clearly, that, with all his follies and all his foibles, man really is, or rather can be, the lord of the creation, and that within his slight frame there beats a heart capable of doing what every other animal in creation would shudder to perform. The lion is savage, and the tiger is ferocious, but where would their long tails be, if they were to find themselves afloat with English boatmen ?

The Deal boatmen often incur these dangers without any remuneration, and in vain; and half-a-dozen boats have continually to return, their services after all not being required. So long as a vessel can keep to sea, they are specks on the occan, insignificant and unnoticed; but when a ship is drifting on the sands, or has struck, then there exists no object in creation so important as themselves. As soon as a vessel strikes the sand, the waves in succession break upon as they strike and pass her. Under such circumstances, the only means of getting her afloat, is for the shore-boat to come under her bows and carry off her anchor; which being dropped at some distance to windward, enables her to haul herself into deep water. To describe the danger which a small open boat experiences, even in approaching a vessel to make this attempt, is beyond the power of any painter; in fact, he has never witnessed it, and quite certain that, though he should paint, to use a even were he to be granted the opportunity, it is sailor's phrase, "till all was blue," the artist would himself look ten times bluer than his picture.

Of all the most unwieldy guests that could seek

for lodging in a small boat, a large ship's anchor is perhaps the worst; either to receive or to get rid of it is dangerous in the extreme. Even in a calm, take it by which end you will, it is an awkward customer to deal with; and though philosophers have said "what is borne willingly is always light," yet if an anchor weighs sixteen or eighteen hundred weight, carry it which way you will, in a gale of wind, it is heavy. When a vessel, from bumping on the sands, has become unable to float, its last and only resource is to save some of the crew, who, lashed to a rope which has been thrown aboard, are one by one dragged by the boatmen through the surf, till, the boat being able to hold no more, they cut the only thread on which the hopes of the remainder had depended, and departing with their cargo, the rest are left to their fate.

One of the Assistant Commissioners of the new Poor Law Amendment Act, who lately visited Deal, for the purpose of inquiring into the condition of this meritorious but distressed body of men, thus describes his interview with one of them.

"Having previously learnt that George Phillpotts was one of the most respectable, most experienced, as well as most daring of the Deal boatmen, we sent a messenger for him, and in about twenty minutes the door of our apartment opened, and in walked a short, clean-built, mild-looking old man, who, in a low tone of voice, very modestly observed that he had been informed we wished to speak with him.

"At first we conceived that there must have been some mistake, for the man's face did not look as if it had ever seen danger, and there was a benevolence in it, as well as a want of animation in his small blue eyes, that appeared totally out of character with his calling. His thin white hair certainly showed that he had lived long enough to gain experience of some sort, but until he answered that his name was Phillpotts, we certainly did think that he was not our man.

"Well, George, what shall it be?" we said to him, pointing to a large empty tumbler on the table. He replied that he was much obliged, but that he never drank at all, unless it was a glass of grog or so about eleven o'clock in the morning; and strange as it may sound, nothing that we could say could induce him to break through this odd arrangement. As the man sat perfectly at his ease, looking as if nothing could either elate or depress him, we had little difficulty in explaining to him what was our real object in wishing to know exactly how he and his comrades were faring. On our taking up a pencil to write down his answers, for a moment he paused, but the feeling, whatever it was, only dashed across his mind like the spray of a sea, and he afterwards cared no more for the piece of black lead, than if it had been writing his epitaph.

"In answer to our queries, he stated that he was sixty-one years of age, and had been on the water ever since he was ten years old. He had himself saved, in his lifetime, off the Goodwin Sands, rather more than a hundred men and women; and on this subject, no sooner did he enter into details, than it was evident that his mind was rich in pride and selfsatisfaction. Nothing could be more creditable to human nature, nothing less arrogant, than the manly animation with which he exultingly described the various sets of fellow-creatures, of all nations, he had saved from drowning. Yet on the contra side of his ledger, he kept as faithfully recorded the concluding history of those whose vessels, it having been out of his power to approach, had foundered on the quicksands only a few fathoms from his eyes.

In one instance, he said, that as the ship went down, they suddenly congregated on the forecastle like a swarm of bees; their shrieks, as they altogether sunk into eternity, seemed still to be sounding in his ears.

"Once, after witnessing a scene of this sort, during a very heavy gale of wind, which had lasted three days, he stretched out to the southward, thinking that other vessels might be on the sands. As he was passing, at a great distance, a brig, which had foundered two days before, with all hands on board, its masts being, however, still above water, he suddenly observed and exclaimed, that there was something like lumps' on the foremast, which seemed to move. He instantly bore down upon the wreck, and there found four sailors alive, lashed to the mast. With the greatest difficulty he and his crew saved them all. Their thirst (and he had nothing in the boat to give them) was, he said, quite dreadful. There had been with them a fifth man, but his heart had broken; and his comrades, seeing this, had managed to unlash him, and he fell into the breakers.

"In saving others, Phillpotts had more than once lost one or two of his own crew; and in one case he explained, with a tear actually standing in the corner of each eye, that he had lately put a couple of his men on board a vessel in distress, which in less than ten minutes was on the sands. His men, as well as the whole crew, were drowned before his eyes, all disappearing close to him. By inconsiderately pushing forwards to save his comrades, his boat got between two banks of sands, the wind blowing so strong upon them that it was utterly impossible to get back. For some time the three men who were with him insisted on trying to get out. But,' said Phillpotts, who was at the helm, 'I told 'em, my lads, we're only prolonging our misery, the sooner it's over the better! The sea was breaking higher than a ship's mast over both banks, but they had nothing left but to steer right at their enemy.

"On approaching the bank, an immense wave to windward broke, and by the force of the tempest was carried completely above their heads; the sea itself seemed to pass over them, or rather, like Pharaoh, they were between two. How we ever got over the bank,' said Phillpotts, who, for the first time in his narrative, seemed lost, confused, and incapable of expressing himself, I can tell no man!' After a considerable pause, he added, 'It was just God Almighty that saved us, and I shall always think so.'" [QUARTERLY REVIEW.]

THE RUINS OF LAUNCESTON CASTLE,
CORNWALL.

THE town of Launceston, from whence the castle takes its name, is situated on the main road that runs through the centre of the country of Cornwall, on the borders of Devonshire, about 214 miles from London, and 84 from the Land's End. It is an extremely ancient town, and the date of it foundation is unknown; in former times it was called Dunheved. The manor of Launceston belonged, from time immemorial, to the Earls of Cornwall, whose chief seat was at Launceston Castle. It was taken from the native earls by William the Conqueror, and given to his half-brother, Robert de Morton, whom he made an Earl of Cornwall. It remained attached to the earldom, until Cornwall was erected into a Duchy, when it was annexed to the duchy by act of parliament.

On account of the strength of its position, the

castle became an important post during the civil war. At the commencement of hostilities, it was in the hands of the parliament; but, on the approach of Sir Ralph Horton with the king's forces, the commander quitted the town, and fled. During the remainder of the war, it was frequently taken and retaken by the opposite parties, until, in the month of March, 1646, the garrison was surrendered, by Colonel Basset, to the parliamentary general, Sir Thomas Fairfax. During the interregnum, the castle and park were sold at public auction, but on the restoration of King Charles the Second, Sir Hugh Piper had a grant of the castle as lessee, and was made constable and keeper of the gaol; it continued in this family until the year 1754. At the present time, the Duke of Northumberland is lessee of that part of the property on which the ruins stand.

The Castle of Launceston is, perhaps, one of the oldest in England, and appears to have been in a very ruinous state, even as far back as 1337. An official survey at that time, describes "A hall with two chambers; a smaller hall called the Earl's chamber, with another chamber, and a small chapel adjoining; a larger chapel, another small hall, a few other rooms, and two prisons: there were two rooms, also, in the tower or the keep, but much out of repair." In 1602, the ruins consisted of "a decayed chapel in the base court, a large hall for holding the shire assizes, the constable's dwelling-house, and the common gaol." In 1650, only one old tower remained in tolerable preservation, which was used as a prison. There are now scarcely any remains of the Castle, except the keep, which has been described by Leland, as "the strongest, though not the biggest, he had ever seen in England." From the massive nature of the building, and the entire absence of Saxon ornament, it is supposed to have been built by the ancient Britons.

When the Act of Parliament passed, (in the year 1540,) for abolishing the privilege of sanctuary, except in churches and church-yards, Launceston was

one of the eight towns which were sanctuaries for life, for all criminals, excepting such as had been guilty of the deepest crimes, which are enumerated in the act: this mischievous privilege has since that time been entirely abolished, except in some few places in the kingdom, which still afford a protection to the debtor from arrest.

REMAINS OF ONE OF THE GATEWAYS OF THE CASTLE.