way imperceptibly into the mind, and, in time, most seriously affects its natural activity and vigour. It presents itself not in the form of a disease, but rather as a panacea, so that its votaries are many and firm. Truly a most pleasant and withal most profitable mode of existence is that of the Day-dreamer. Spurning the dull every day scenes of life, his imagination soars aspiring to fairy lands, and realms where all things are bright and happy; what if his speculations be somewhat extravagant, what if they do transgress the bounds of reason and the dictates of common sense,-are they the less pleasing on that account? Oh, surely not. Now, what is the consequence of this. He that is a dreamer cannot think deeply. His mind has been by habit indolent, and his imagination too restless to remain fixed long on any one subject. On occasions when forced to apply his thoughts to a serious matter, he finds himself as it were thrust from his proper element; he is impatient and annoyed, and can ill restrain his mind from relapsing momentarily into its own ideal world. He finds himself at the best but a vain conjecturer, and that those whimsical fancies, over which he had so long gloated, were but the baneful usurpers of the seat of sound and profitable meditation.

There are many who feed their vanity by conjuring up bright and dazzling visions of the future-who waste hours in framing countless ambitious schemes and devices for advancement in life. But in thus an. ticipating the end, how lamentably do they forget the means. Alas, that they should have thought so little, in all their pleasing vagaries, of that steep and rugged track up which we all must clamber would we mount the same height which they, in their morbid zeal, aspire to. Meanwhile, what is more natural than that they should become disgusted with their actual condition-with the tedious and unchanging present? What is more calculated than such a state of mind to bring on a feverish and restless anxiety to anticipate that bright future, and realise those high-flown aspirations? The imagination of some goes so far as to place a diadem on their brows, and invest them with regal dignity. Why, Sir, the very madman-he who sits shackled in his solitary cell, with a crown of straws on his head, and a rush for his sceptre is scarcely more insane than are these men in such like moments. Eidolophilos, a friend of mine, is most passionately devoted to castle building his architectural designs are endless in variety, and no doubt do great credit to his ingenuity. Of their especial nature I am not often acquainted, but they must be mighty indeed, for they are the all-engrossing objects of his attention. Many a time have I watched him apparently engaged deeply in reading, but it is astonishing how rarely he turns a page over,-perhaps not once in an hour. Of late he has become remarkably absent, insomuch so that strangers have more than once taken him to be deaf and dumb,

:

though in truth he labours under neither of these afflictions. So careless is he in walking, that his meditations have been often interrupted by a sudden collision with a wall or lamp-post-an effective, but it must be owned a disagreeable, mode of recalling his scattered senses. When in a talkative vein, he will impart to me some of the impracticable schemes and idle whims with which his mind is stocked, and will at times recount with all the earnestness of truth, the most improbable adventures in which he himself has been deeply concerned. He has dwelt so long upon the idea, that at last the shadow has become substance with him; for I am convinced that he has persuaded himself that what he utters is unexaggerated truth.

I could enlarge upon this subject, but that I have no wish to depart from my original intention, and my "few remarks" would in that case be lengthened into an essay or treatise, I will therefore wish you a farewell for the present. Yours,

SIGMA.

How gladly wouldst thou yield thy breath

Resolved in air.

Alone-ah me!-all hope for ever

Thou must resign;

Decay that is restored never,

False one, is thine.

H. G. K.

PHYSIOLOGY OF CABMEN.

I THINK it is Bolingbroke who has observed, that there were few studies which he found more captivating, as well as improving, than that of any particular class of men, who have become so not so much from any accident of birth or breeding, as by some caprice of fortune, or some eccentricity of disposition, forcing them to follow some pursuit which at once marks them out from among their fellow-men, and stamps their character with an impress all its own.

The dictum which the Ethician laid down respecting Templars, Mamelukes, or stoic philosophers, seems to me to apply with peculiar propriety to the remarkable class of men whom I am here going to notice. Philosophers of daily life, they have sacrificed to their object all those little agrémens which give the charm to existence. Not for them the lettered ease of the savant-the contemplative far niente of the sage -the mild but narrow practicality of the gourmand—the glorious immortality of the successful warrior; yet, as each of these classes is stamped with the indelible characteristics of its pursuit, so is the law of men who occupy their business in great thoroughfares.

At the same time, however, that as a class they possess their public features, it cannot be denied by those who have studied the subject, that every individual possesses, in a greater or less degree, his own little private peculiarities. But this is not the view of the subject which we are going to take; and although the fact cannot be denied, that the chivalrous bonhommie of the driver of the smart Brougham, the honest bluntness of the authorized railway-station officer, and the rakish upto-every-thingness of the cosmopolite who works a Hansom, are as much distinguished from one another, as they are from the ancien régime manners of the hackney-coachman, or the blushing freshness of the artist on the new three-containing apparatus; yet this branch of the subject is too varied, too delicate in its minute ramifications, for us to do more than glance at it, to suggest it as a profitable subject for private contemplation.

No, it is their peculiar isolation from the rest of their species that will present the most entertaining and profitable subject for our present

remarks. From the moment that they embrace this career, they seem to give up at once their private feelings-their position in society. Who, let me ask, ever heard of a cabman's wife or children? it would be too ridiculous to ask who ever saw them. We question very much whether they have any names. Peculiarities of age or appearance they have little or none; the cabman is never an aged man, but we never heard of a young one. What they were before, what becomes of them afterwards, we never could ascertain; suffice it, however, to say, that the demise of a cabman is to be placed in the same category as a dead donkey, and a quaker with a wooden leg. They are so much alike, that it is only by seeing three or four together that we are enabled to distinguish one from another; and if a new face ever is seen among the fraternity, it quickly loses its own character, and assimilates itself to that of its order. We have never, however, met with any satisfactory theory on the subject, and we think it would be presumptuous to hazard one. They may be, as some have supposed, promoted watermen; they may be gentlemen's servants or coachmen out of place. An attentive study of the subject, however, more and more confirms us in the notion that, whatever station the blind goddess may at first throw them into, the mau born to be a cabman will never be any thing else. Like the poet, the cabman "nascitur non fit.”

The subject, by the way, of watermen, though perhaps an inferior one, is nevertheless well entitled to our notice; but time and space, those imperishable limits of mundane attempts, forbid our embarking on this vast field of speculation. It has already been hinted that they have been supposed to be in a probationary state, for initiation into the duties and honours of a charioteer. There are, however, objections to this theory, inasmuch as the waterman is generally, to all appearance, as old if not older than the cabmen he attends. On the whole, therefore, we are inclined to think them a distinct but kindred species.

Such then are some (though but a few) of the peculiarities of this remarkable body. Were there any reasonable prospect of solving the vexata quæstio of where they lived when they were at home, when they go to bed, and by what means they contrive to obtain the food necessary for animal sustenance, we might be tempted to investigate it; but there is not. For our own part, we think—but this is only matter of conjecture-that they live chiefly on beer. This at any rate is the only nutriment we have ever seen them take. Finally, it must be confessed that they are a living problem-a standing miracle. The same, indeed, might be said of their horses, except that they seldom stand still, and are frequently unable to stand at all.

ST. AUSTIN AND SON, PRINTERS, HERTFORD.

THE

HAILEYBURY OBSERVER.

Liberius si

Dixero quid, si fortè jocosius, hoc mihi juris

Cum venia dabis.

Hor. Lib. 1. Sat. iv. 103.

NOVEMBER 27, 1844.

A TALE OF REAL LIFE.

IN one of those sequestered homesteads, which make Devonshire and the whole West of England so remarkable for its beautiful scenery, lived an old farmer, named John Westwood. John had served in the army, but being severely wounded at Albuera, he obtained a crutch and a pension, and retired to spend the remainder of his days in Cadwell, the peaceful village which gave him birth. At the period, the event of which we are now relating, Westwood was a widower, his wife having died about a year before, leaving him two sons and a daughter; and, from that hour, John Westwood, from being one of the most jovial and light-hearted of human creatures, became gloomy, morose, and sullen; he neglected all his affairs, and neither the kind offices of his neighbours, nor the affectionate attentions of his children, could rouse him from the mental torpor into which he had sunk since his bereavement.

William, his eldest son, exerted himself in every way to cheer his father, but being repulsed in all his efforts to rouse him, he endeavoured, by zealously cultivating their little farm, and undertaking the entire management of their affairs himself, to avert the ruin which seemed to threaten them, and he toiled incessantly to save his father and little sister from the workhouse. A good and steady lad was William Westwood; and it would be well if such noble exertions were better appreciated, and more fully rewarded, in this free and happy country.

John, the younger son, had been, as is usually the case, the pet of both parents, and from injudicious indulgence was a most hardened young scape-grace, a truant at school, and an orchard robber at home; not all the warnings of his gentle mother, nor the advice and example of his elder brother, could prevent him from associating with dissolute companions; and the consequence was, that Master John, at the age of sixteen, had learnt to catch a pheasant and wire a hare, as well as the most

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