ART AND LITERATURE

Wellington Independent, Volume I, Issue 23, 18 June 1845, Page 4

ART AND LITERATURE

YOUNG ENGLAND.

♦Of the disposition and dimensions of Y°»"g England, one has a rather more distinct and definate idea than of' Young France' or Young Germany:' and at this very moment, not tor once so ill-timed and intolerable, tne united voices of those sons of freedom, my landlady s nine lively, spirited, frolicsome delightful little dailings, convey to my mind the most animated sense of his identity. Yes, it is Young England, in his habit as he squalls I As he squalls, fa Is, calls, and balls—as he laughs, bellows, shrieks, and squeaks—as he stamps, tumbles, jumps, crashes, and smashes—plying, vigorously and simultanously, his lungs, heels, toes, and hands —as he clatters at the w : ndow, kicks at the door, knocks over the ink-stand, tugs off the tablecloth, sweeps down svyarms of glasses, breaks headlong through ceilings, tramples on tender toes, pokes out eyes with toasting-forks, flattens noses with family bibles, chokes himself with sixpences, weakly and absurdly presented to the little monster as bribes for quietness—hides in a sly corner some small article of indispensable necessity to his doting attendant —drops out of the window the very thing of all others he was never to touch—makes his sisters' lives miserable—fills his papa's mind with sad apprehensions for the future—almost breaks his mama's heart once every day—and is, now and always, the sweetest, deareat, most d?lightful, charming duck of a child—a darling little love of an angel sentenced to be affectionately eaten up at least once an hour, and to have a piece rapturously bitten out of his rosy cheek every minutes —the pride of its fathers soul, and the, joy of its mother's foud and nurturing breast —a pretty cherub, a love-bird, and a poppet —and lastly, in the expressive language of the nursery, which no language beside has endearing epithets to equal, a ducksydiddly!

' Yes, this must be Young England ! Young England all- the land over. Before he could speak a word of English, I knew the young plague. 1 know him still by his sobs and by his screams, and by his peg-tops, and by the stamp of his feet overhead; his small, tiny, tremendous, never-tiring feet, which clatter incessantly as if restless with internal iron—iron that had entered into his sole —or as if shod, like Don Gusman'e statue, with rtal marble. * * *

Powers ot deafness defend me; what a cry was there! In the name of Niagara, with its torrents of tears, and its sky-rending roar, what can be the matter with its little human imitator, Young England ? Why his heart will burst with | its overcharge of grief—his cheeks crack—his j eyes will be fairly washed out of his head. What can be the matter? 'Hurgh! hurgh! urgh! J ugh! oo J' * * How the anxious trembling, doating mother questions her sobbing darling— what has happened to him? who has hurt him? did he fall down? what was it that cerrifiedhim? and he is tenderly searched all over to see whether that careless Charlotte had not placed a cruel pin somewhere to run into his dear, sweet flesh. No—no such thing; and as the hysterical emotion subsides: the little bits of broken words creep out, and supply the solution to the mystery. ' Ugh, ugh, oo! I offered Fanny one of my apples, and she took it —00-00!' * * My landlady took her nine small innocents to the play on one occasion, an actor of her acquaintance having given them some orders. A terrible noise of weeping and nashing of teeth they made, the play being a ' deep' tragedy, and the performer, who had bountifully bestowed upon them the free admissions, being sentenced m the last act to death. The eldest of the innocents was dreadfully affected by this catastrophe. The soothing system was tried by her mama but m vain,—the little mourner would not be comforted. The reality of the scene overcame her; and it was quite absurd to keep nudging and crying 'bush.' With a burst of affliction, heard m the. centre of the pit, she exclaimed — On, they are going to put him to death! he'll never give us any more orders I' * * Thun derbolts and penny-trumpets-what a mingling of the roar and the squeak! Young England is gomg-it up stairs. * • All the tuneful nine are jumping and jabbering, screaming, tearing smashing, crashing, laughing, crying; and at once-all at once! * • Only Young England! Why nmust be Young Europe at the least, with those wild youhg dogs Asia, Africa, and America, barking at his heels, and the pup Australia yelping feebly in the distance! How miraculous I lne ceiling has not yet come down—no more does my landlady—no, nor any semblance of a servant. How should they !-how answer a bell which they can't hear ? St Paul's set tolling on the staircase would be a thing inaudible As to hearing oneself speak, I can hardly see myself write. And yet there are but nine of them! What then must be the roar and commotion in that building of a forty-Babel power - a preparatory Seminary, dedicated to young England! Some French writer has given ex pression to the joy he feels when ever he hears a child cry ; because as, he remarks, it is then sure to be taken out of the room. • * Now audibly in the midst of the wild dissonance and uproar, 1 can catch the mild, pleasing, affectionate twang of the maternal vuice-the fond accents of ray landlady herself, like the seamusic of the note of Mother Gary calling to her pretty chickens in the storm. What does he say ? 'Ah, my sweet babes, so you are all mer-ry-making together; I thought, as I came up stairs I could hear your voices'' Dear young middle-aged lady! J t was only a mother-3 a tond owe, too-who could havesaid that. She could just hear her cherubs fluttering their tiny wings, as she came upl What fine ears a mother's heart has! Smash-crash! That wSa sound ot glass. Master Tom, the top.'pSr has and the top itself has flown through a large pane into the street, falling 3 destrucuveforce uponthe large family pi" wS he baker, board on head, was just Iffgfng to tJl°f\ A w d n T» ? hat a Bhout Hfts up the roof of the house! what pealaof ecatacy cele-

brate the exploit! But.the soft voice of ~ landlady is not quite drowned either—' ling boy, , it says, ' what charming spirits vn* ha,ve! but don't break the windows, i» case tl draught should give you cold.' . Ule