Several of the later writers on our colonies,
detailing their voyages, and the incidents
of ship-board and coast-life, mention the
thrilling effect of this song, as it bursts with
passionate force from the crowded decks of
the outward bound; or rises, almost like
a prayer, as the new comers rush forward
to the new land. It is a great gift, that of
stirring, and swaying, the hearts of the
masses; and Charles Mackay has had this gift
lavishly dealt out to him. "The Souls of the
Children," again, is a poem which met with
great success. It was reprinted in a separate
form by desire of certain friends ot popular
education, and above fifty thousand copies
of it were sold, or distributed, among the
people.

Charles Mackay is the poet of commonsense ;
the idealiser of those homely, every-day
truths which go so near to be essential
wisdom. He amplifies with ballads the same
wise, good axioms that other people condense
into proverbs. He is not in the least degree
sentimental, though with abundance of healthy
sentiment; but the words have different
meanings, and most of my readers can
understand the difference. The tone of all his
poetry is manly; his grasp is like the grasp
of a man with muscles hardened by honourable
work. His John Brown is the type of
the ideal working Englishman. He
impersonates the brave, frank, loving, but
insensitive and anti-sentimental Anglo Saxon.
We cannot do better than read him once
again:

A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY.

I.

I've a guinea I can spend,
I've a wife and I've a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown ;

I've a cottage of my own,
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can sit at my door,
By my shady sycamore,
Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
so come and drain a glass
In my arbour as you pass,
And I'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown;

II.

I love the song of birds,
And the children's early words,
And a loving woman's soul, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence,
And the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;

I love the meadow flowers,
And the brier in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave,
And a proud, contented slave,
And a lout who'd rather borrow than he'd toil, John Brown.

III.

I love a simple song
That awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;

But even when I hate,
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me and above, John Brown,
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for human-kind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

IV.

So if you like my ways,
And the comfort of my days,
I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown:
I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;

I've parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep a conscience clear,
I've a hundred pounds a-year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

Is not this a better song for our working-
men than the unseemly parodies, and
something worse, which are not yet wholly
exorcised from the repertory of street songs?
Doctor Mackay has done his part towards
raising the taste of the humbler public, and
elevating and purifying the thoughts which
find expression in song; and so have many
other poets who rank high in the courtliest
drawing-rooms. But it has been given to
Charles Mackay and to Barry Cornwall (who
cannot be too often mentioned in this
connection), to strike deeper down into the
hearts of the people than others have done.

Turning back to street-music—properly so
called—what a run the Ethiopian Serenaders
had! But the "darkies," like everything
else, have had their day: there is a night
for every noon, a nadir for every zenith. I
confess to never having shared in the horror
which it was thought drawing-room good
taste to affect against those poor soot-
begrimed artists, with their striped cottons
and huge linen collars, knocking their
tambourines on their heads, and worn out elbows
and rattling their bones with fifty-horse
power. The soot I shall not enlarge upon;
but the melodies themselves, and the genuine
songs, are very taking and spirited. Lucy
Neil and Mary Blane may stand side by side
with any love laments in the language; and
Old Uncle Ned, too, who went where the