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THE 
 
 DRAWING-ROOM ALBUM, 
 
 AND 
 
 ^ampanion for ttt 3$ottl)foir) 
 
 AN ELEGANT LITERARY MISCELLANY, 
 
 ILLUBTR4TEI> WITH BEAUTIFUL ENGRAVINGS ON 8TEBU 
 
 " Bttdi and flowers begin the year, 
 " Song and tale bring up the the rear." 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 .PUBLISHED BY THOMAS HOLMES, 
 
 Ch'eat Book EstablisJiment, 
 76, ST. PAUL'S CHUECH-YAED. 
 
W. ' Slaiw, frinler. I, Ivy iAlit PaternosU-r lUvs 
 
ftO 
 
 HER ROYAIi HIGHNESS, 
 
 THE 
 
 ^ttttit^^ at W^mt, 
 
 
 
 AH A FEkVENT HOMAGE TO HER MANY PUBLIC AND PRIVATE VIRTUES, 
 
 THE 
 
 "DRAWING-ROOM ALBU M." 
 
 IS MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY THE PUBLISHER. 
 
 012 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The "Drawing Room Album," has hitherto held so prominent a place in the estimation of 
 all the lovers of elegant Literature, that it is hardly thought necessary to offer any remarks by 
 way of preface, except most gratefully to thank its numerous patrons for the favourable recep- 
 tion it has always met with ; and to observe, that in order to reap the benefit of such 
 continued favor, the present Volume has been produced with no ordinary care and attention : 
 to use its own words — 
 
 " Much money has been freely spent, 
 " In giving me accomplishment ; 
 " In short no effort has been wanting 
 " To make me perfectly enchanting." 
 
 The class of books called " Annuals," unfortunately have been thought to have ref - ce and 
 possess interest only at the moment, — ^but there is no description of works of light reading so 
 really well worthy of being perused and examined, at all times, as the majority of them are ; 
 
 " Ay, a bit bookie o' ane's ain writin', a poem perhaps, or a garland o' ballants and sangs, with 
 twa three lovin* verses on the fly leaf, by way o' inscription."— Bcrns. 
 
 The Illustrations are all of a superior class, and it is hoped that no one of its contemporaries 
 has, upon the whole, a greater claim upon public favor. 
 
 It should be observed, that the work is also printed on a smaller size, — the prose part being 
 published separately, and called " The Magnet ;" while the poetry assumes a small neat form 
 for the pocket, or reticule. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Adieu 1 
 
 The Last Letter " 
 
 Good Nature 2 
 
 Approach of Night " 
 
 Close of a Good Life 3 
 
 Pleasures of the Country " 
 
 The Lute 4 
 
 The Discovery ^ " 
 
 Chatsworth 5 
 
 Time " 
 
 Alfred " 
 
 The Festival of Flowers 6 
 
 Authorship <• 
 
 The False Accusation 7 
 
 Goodwood 9 
 
 Style of Living in Sweden 10 
 
 Pope iu his Romantic Retreat " 
 
 Home , . " 
 
 A Summer Vision 11 
 
 Time «• 
 
 The Lake of Como 12 
 
 A Tale of Real Life 13 
 
 The Jew's Love of Jerusalem 10 
 
 Devotees and the Relics 20 
 
 Mountain Mary " 
 
 Marriage .... «« 
 
 A Reverie of Arcadia 21 
 
 Locks of Hair •« 
 
 Descriptions of Morning 22 
 
 Ode written in Winter " 
 
 Character of a Young Lady " 
 
 Wolsey '8 Advice 23 
 
 Pa-e 
 
 Duelling i3 
 
 Sympathy " 
 
 Music " 
 
 Song in Cymbaline " 
 
 Irwan's Vale , " 
 
 The Happy Peasant , '24 
 
 Shepherd's Song " 
 
 Innocence 25 
 
 Psalm CXLVJ II •' 
 
 Dieppe 26 
 
 Croma " 
 
 Drunkenness 27 
 
 To a Picture of tiveuing, near the Bavarian Alps ... 28 
 
 Go, dig ye a Tomb ! " 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity 29 
 
 To Susannah " 
 
 Inscription for a Bath " 
 
 On the Death of an Infant " 
 
 The Castle of Chillon 30 
 
 Fortitude 32 
 
 Sorrow " 
 
 Forgiveness '* 
 
 Memento Mori " 
 
 Virginia 33 
 
 Solitude *' 
 
 The Battle Field «' 
 
 Sentiment 31 
 
 Minds , " 
 
 An Elegy 35 
 
 Sceptics , ♦• 
 
 Bishop's Auckland Palace 36 
 
 Imaginary Address of Napoleon " 
 
Page. 
 
 The »^y press • • • ^" 
 
 All Evening's Amusement • ■^' 
 
 Singular Instance of Second Sight 
 
 Resignation ^" 
 
 Festivities of Christmas in Sweden 40 
 
 Wolf Shooting 41 
 
 A Woman attacked by Wolves " 
 
 Sabbath Bells 42 
 
 Our Joys " 
 
 Hospital Scene in Potugal " 
 
 Tde Interview 44 
 
 Content 
 
 The Shadow 
 
 The Rainbow 
 
 The Thunder Storm 45 
 
 The White Elephant of Burmah " 
 
 The Crusade 48 
 
 Friendship " 
 
 The Mariner's Dream 47 
 
 Love me, Love my Dog " 
 
 Chocorua'8 Curse 48 
 
 The Mar(£uisa and her Dog 50 
 
 To Mrs. HemaDs *' 
 
 The Splendid Annual 51 
 
 The Young Bride's Farewell 55 
 
 A Lover's Hour " 
 
 Stirling Castle 56 
 
 The Poppy " 
 
 Maxims " 
 
 Fotheringay b7 
 
 Unrenewed Years " 
 
 Wearie'sWell 58 
 
 The Sculptor Lorta *♦ 
 
 Matin Song " 
 
 The Persian Lovers 59 
 
 Rural Picture * *♦ 
 
 Song " 
 
 The Tide at Midnight " 
 
 Page. 
 
 Medicine 59 
 
 A Lament for the Days of Chivalry 60 
 
 Over the Sea ■ 
 
 The Minstrel's Fame " 
 
 ASongofDelos 61 
 
 The Biscayen to his Mistress " 
 
 Elegy 62 
 
 The Bride of Death " 
 
 Windsor Castle 63 
 
 Song 64 
 
 American Taste " 
 
 The Morgue 65 
 
 Stanzas for Music 66 
 
 TheSlaveShip 67 
 
 Charles Cameron 68 
 
 The Slanderer 6tf 
 
 Pleasure " 
 
 The Market Boat 70 
 
 A Mother's Lament over the Grave of a Beloved Son '* 
 
 The Infant Bacchus 7i 
 
 Stanzas 72 
 
 The Auld Man " 
 
 Miss Croker 73 
 
 The Farmer, the Spaniel, and the Cat " 
 
 A Tale of the Spanish Wars 74 
 
 Mary 78 
 
 The Young Mother " 
 
 Arundel Castle 79 
 
 On Taste " 
 
 Song ot Hesperus to Cynthia " 
 
 Song of the Greeks SO 
 
 Stanzas written on the Sea Shore " 
 
 Rosaline 81 
 
 WhereisHe? " 
 
 Abbotsford sa 
 
 Song 87 
 
 The Massacre of Glencoe " 
 
 The Tooth Drawer 88 
 
Jjra-wn. br i.E ChsG. 
 
 En^mvA ty ChsL*. Head) 
 
 %'mm AID H JEW- 
 
THE ADIEU. 
 
 The jwses of love glad the garden of life, 
 
 Though nurtur'd 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 
 
 Till Time crops the leaves, with unmerciful knife, 
 Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu ! 
 
 In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart 
 
 In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
 The chance of an hour, may command us to part 
 
 Or death disunite us, in love's last adieu ! 
 
 Still, Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen 
 breast. 
 
 Will whisper, our " meeting we may yet renew;" 
 With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt, 
 
 Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu! 
 
 Oh, mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth, 
 
 Love twin'd round their childhood his flow'rs as they 
 grew; 
 
 They flourish awhile, in the season of truth. 
 Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 
 
 Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way, 
 Down a cheek, which outrivals thy bosom in hue ! 
 
 Yet, why do I ask ? to distraction a prey, 
 Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 
 
 Oh ' who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 
 
 From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
 There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind, 
 
 The mountains reverberate love's last adieu I 
 
 Now hate rules a heart, which, in love's easy chains. 
 Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew ; 
 
 Despair now enflames the dark tide of his veins, 
 He ponders in frenzy, on love's last adieu ! 
 
 Hovp he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel. 
 His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few ; 
 
 Who laughs at the pang, that he never can feel. 
 And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 
 
 Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast, 
 No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
 
 He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast, 
 The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 
 
 In this life of probation, for rapture divine, 
 Astrea declares that some penance is due : 
 
 From him, who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine. 
 The atonement is ample, in love's last adieu ! 
 
 Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light. 
 Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew. 
 
 His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight, 
 His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 
 
 THE LAST LETTER. 
 
 BT CM&RLES SWAIN. 
 
 They tell me, I am greatly changed, 
 
 From that which I have been ; 
 So changed, it would have passed belief. 
 
 Had they not known — not seen : 
 They tell me my once graceful form 
 
 Is waning — pale and thin — 
 Alas ! these blighted locks scarce speak, 
 
 The deeper blight within !^ 
 
 They tell me in one little month, 
 
 I seem to have lived years ; 
 My ringlets have the shade of age, 
 
 My eyes are worn with tears ; 
 They say the beauteous cheek you praised. 
 
 Now wears a deadly hue ; 
 And, oh, I feel within my breast. 
 
 My heart is dying too ! 
 
 I do not wish to send one pang 
 
 Of sadness to thy soul ; 
 But there are feelings— deep and strong— 
 
 We may not quite control ; 
 I do not — do I love reproach ? 
 
 ! if — forgive — forgive ; 
 
 'Tis woe to think of thee — and die ! 
 'Tis worse than woe — to live! 
 
 My sleep is wild and dark to me. 
 
 My dreams are of the dead ; 
 1 wake— and bless the light of day, 
 
 Though day brings its own dread : 
 The visions and the tongues of home, 
 
 Haunt all my steps with pain; 
 'Till fire is in my aching sight— 
 
 And madness in my brain ! 
 
 This may not — will not — long endure ; 
 
 1 know death's hour is nigh. 
 And, oh ! 'tis all on earth I ask, 
 
 To see thee — ere I die ! — 
 Is it too much for all my tears, 
 
 For all my anguish past. 
 To grant me this — my parting prayer— 
 
 My last — my very last ! 
 
 I_. 
 
G O D-N A T U R E. 
 
 Br MISS H. MORE. 
 
 O ! gentlest blessing man can find! 
 Sweet soother of the ruffled mind! 
 As the soft powers of oil assuage 
 Of ocean's waves the furious rage,— 
 Lull to repose the boiling tide, 
 Whose billows, charmed to rest, subside ; 
 Smooth the vexed bosom of the deep, 
 Till every trembling motion sleep, — 
 Thy soft enchantments thus control 
 The tumult of the troubled soul ! 
 By labour worn, by care oppressed, 
 On thee the weary mind shall rest; 
 From business and distraction free, 
 Delighted, shall return to thee ; 
 To thee the aching heart shall cling. 
 And find the peace it does not bring. 
 
 Ye candidates for earth's best prize. 
 Domestic life's sweet charities ! 
 Oh ! if your erring eye once strays 
 From smooth good-nature's level ways ; 
 If e'er, in evil hour betrayed. 
 You choose some vain fantastic maid,— 
 On such for bliss if you depend, 
 Without the means you seek the end ; 
 A pyramid you strive to place. 
 The point inverted for the base; 
 You hope, in spite of reason's laws, 
 A consequence without a cause. 
 And you, bright nymphs, who bless our eyes, 
 With all that skill, that taste supplies. 
 Learn, that accomplishments, at best, 
 Serve but for garnish in life's feast- 
 Yet still, with these, the polished wife 
 Should deck the feast of human life : 
 Wit a poor standing dish would prove. 
 Though 'tis an excellent remove; 
 Howe'er your transient guest may praise 
 Your gay parade on gala-days. 
 Yet know, your husband still would wish — 
 Good-nature for his standing dish. 
 
 Still in life's calendar you presume 
 
 Eternal holidays will come; 
 
 But in its highest, happiest lot, 
 
 O, let it never be forgot, 
 
 Life is not an Olympic game, 
 
 Where sports and play must gain the fame; 
 
 Each month is not the month of May, 
 
 Nor is each day a holiday! — 
 
 Though Wit may gild life's atmosphere. 
 
 When all is lucid, calm, and clear, 
 
 In bleak affliction's dreary hour. 
 The brightest flash must lose its power, 
 While Temper, in the darkest skies, 
 A kindly light and warmth supplies. 
 
 Divine Good-nature! 'tis decreed 
 The happiest still thy charm should need. 
 Sweet Architect ! raised by thy hands 
 Fair Concord's temple firmly stands. 
 Though sense, though prudence rear the pile. 
 Though each approving virtue smile, 
 Some sudden gust (not rare the case) 
 May shake the building to its base, 
 Unless, to guard against surprise. 
 On thy firm arch the structure rise. 
 
 APPROACH OF NIGHT. 
 
 Shepherds all, and maidens fair, 
 Fold your flocks up : for the air 
 'Gins to thicken, and the sun 
 Already his great course hath run. 
 See the dew-drops how they kiss 
 Every little flower that is ; 
 Hanging on their velvet heads, 
 Like a string of coral beads. 
 See ! the heavy clouds low falling, 
 And bright Hesperus down calling 
 The dead night from under ground; 
 At whose rising, mists unsound, 
 Damps and vapours fly apace. 
 Hovering o'er the gamesome face 
 Of these pastures ; where they come. 
 Striking dead both bud and bloom : 
 Therefore from such danger lock 
 Every one his loved flock. 
 And let your dogs lie loose without. 
 Lest the wolf come as a scout, 
 From the mountain, and ere day. 
 Bear a lamb, or kid away ; 
 Or the crafty thievish fox, 
 Break upon your simple flocks : 
 To secure yourselves from these. 
 Be not too secure in ease; 
 Let one eye his watches keep. 
 Whilst the other eye doth sleep; 
 So shall you good shepherds prove, 
 And for ever hold the love 
 Of our great God. — Sweetest slumbers 
 And soft silence fall in numbers 
 On your eye-lids ! so farewell. 
 Thus I end my evening's knell. 
 
CLOSE OF A GOOD LIFE. 
 
 BY S. ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 And now behold him up the hill ascending, 
 Memory and Hope, like evening stars, attending ; 
 Sustained, excited, till his course is run. 
 By deeds of virtue done or to be done. 
 When on his couch he sinks at length to rest. 
 Those by his counsel saved, his power redressed. 
 Those by the world shunned ever as unblest, 
 At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate, 
 But whom he sought out, sitting desolate. 
 Come and stand round — the widow with her child, 
 As when she first forgot her tears and smiled ! 
 They, who watch by him, see not ; but he sees. 
 Sees and exults — were ever dreams like these ? 
 They, who watch by him, hear not ; but he hears. 
 And earth recedes, and heaven itself appears ! 
 'Tis past! That hand we grasped, alas, in vain ! 
 Nor shall we look upon his face again ! 
 But to his closing eyes, for all were there. 
 Nothing was wanting, and, through many a year, 
 We shall remember with a fond delight 
 The words so precious which we heard to night ; 
 His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows. 
 Like setting suns or music at the close ! 
 
 Then was the drama ended. Not till then. 
 So full of chance and change the lives of men. 
 Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure 
 From pain, from grief, and all that we endure, 
 He slept in peace — say rather, soared to heaven. 
 Upborne from earth by Him, to whom 't is given 
 In his right hand to hold the golden key 
 That opes the portals of eternity. 
 When by a good man's grave I muse alone, 
 Methinks an angel sits upon the stone; 
 Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night. 
 Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly bright; 
 And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear. 
 Says, pointing upwards — That he is not here. 
 That he is risen ! 
 
 PLEASURES OF THE COUNTRY. 
 
 DRTDEN'S VIRGIL. 
 
 How goodly looks Cytorus, ever green 
 With boxen groves ! With what delight are seen 
 Narycian woods of pitch, whose gloomy shade 
 Seems for retreat of heavenly Muses made! 
 But much more pleasing are those fields to see. 
 That need not ploughs, nor human industry. 
 E'en cold Caucasean rocks with trees are spread, 
 And wear green forests on their hilly head. 
 
 Though bending from the blast of eastern storms, 
 
 Though shent their leaves, and shattered are their arms. 
 
 Yet heaven their various plants for use designs — 
 
 For houses, cedars — and for shipping, pines — 
 
 Cypress provides, for spokes and wheels of wains. 
 
 And all for keels of ships, that scour the watery plains. 
 
 Willows in twigs are fruitful, elms in leaves; 
 
 The war, from stubborn myrtle, shafts receives — 
 
 From cornels, javelins; and the tougher yew 
 
 Receives the bending figure of a bow. 
 
 Nor box, nor limes, without their use are made. 
 
 Smooth-grained, and proper for the turner's trade; 
 
 Which curious hands may carve, and steel with ease invade. 
 
 Light alder stems the Po's impetuous tide, 
 
 And bees in hollow oaks their honey hide. 
 
 Now balance with these gifts, the funny joys 
 
 Of wine, attended with eternal noise. 
 
 Wine urged to lawless lust the Centaur's train; 
 
 Through wine they quarrelled, and through wine were biain. 
 
 O, happy! — if he knew his happy state— 
 The swain, who, free from business and debate. 
 Receives his easy food from Nature's hand. 
 And just returns of cultivated land ! 
 No palace, with a lofty gate, he wants. 
 To admit the tides of early visitants. 
 With eager eyes, devouring, as they pass. 
 The breathing figures of Corinthian brass. 
 No statues threaten, from high pedestals; 
 No Persian arras hides his homely walls 
 With antic vests, which, through their shady fold. 
 Betrays the streaks of ill-dissembled gold : 
 He boasts no wool, whose native white is dyed 
 With purple poison of Assyrian pride : 
 No costly drugs of Araby defile 
 With foreign scents the sweetness of his oil ; 
 But easy quiet, a secure retreat, 
 A harmless life that knows not how to cheat. 
 With home-bred plenty, the rich owner bless ; 
 And rural pleasures crown his happiness. 
 Unvexed with quarrels, undisturbed with noise, 
 The Country King his peaceful realm enjoys — 
 Cool grots, and living lakes, the flowery pride 
 Of meads, and streams that through the valley glide, 
 And shady groves that easy sleep invite. 
 And, after toilsome nights, a soft repose at night. 
 Wild beasts of nature in his woods abound ; 
 And youth, of labour patient, plough the ground. 
 Inured to hardship, and to homely fare. 
 Nor venerable age is wanting there. 
 In great examples to the youthful train ; 
 Nor are the Gods adored with rights profane. 
 From hence Astreea took her flight, and here 
 The prints of her departing steps appear. 
 
THE LUTE! 
 
 Music and Beauty! Tell me not 
 
 Some witching tale— some wondrous story : 
 
 And lay the scenes 'neath balmy skies, 
 
 With dames whose dark eyes swim in glory: 
 
 As o'er the lute's electric wires 
 
 Love's hand runs hot as heaven's own fires. 
 
 Music and Beauty ! Sing me not 
 A song far sweeter than wild honey, 
 Or praise to bards or power to kings, 
 To women rule — to miser's money ; 
 A lyric where love shakes his wings 
 Dove-like, along the lute's soft strings. 
 
 Music and Beauty ! to all climes 
 How dear. From frozen Greenland snowing. 
 To England's happy land: from France, 
 Crushing her grapes, to India glowing : 
 Twin-born delights— they cheer us— charm us. 
 Spell bind us, wile us, witch us, warm us. 
 
 For of all countries and all ranks. 
 
 Music and Beauty come. Whoe'er 
 
 Heard of a land which lacked them Look 
 
 To that deep ravishment of ear, 
 
 The air admiring hangs and mute. 
 
 O'er one glad and triumphant lute. 
 
 Thy will is done. Young Beauty, thou 
 
 Hast wrought thy spell, thy love may lay 
 
 His lute aside — those eyes would mar 
 
 His skill. I heard a poet say 
 
 That Beauty, meek-eyed, sweet and silent, 
 
 Charmed minstrels mute and awed the valiant 
 
 This is the triumph of thy art, 
 
 Proud painter. There man's might lies scattered 
 
 At beauty's feet — he can but gaze 
 
 With soul and senses stunned and fettered, 
 
 While she— her might but half divining. 
 
 Reigns sure as any monarch reigning. 
 
 THE DISCOVERY. 
 
 How first upon the blooming earth. 
 Her yet secure and stainless dwelling, 
 Pandora's hand gave Evil birth. 
 Is now a tale, too old for telling; 
 And how each daughter of her race 
 Pursues the bright example set her, — 
 Zealou.« her mother's path to trace, 
 And fill her precepts to the letter. 
 
 At chains the free-born spirit mocks, 
 Light beams thro" Winter's scowl severest: 
 AndBramah! even thy patent locks 
 Must yield before a female querist. 
 Seals — drawers — envelopes — they who most 
 Their trust in such defences centre. 
 Reckon, for once, without their host, 
 If wife, or friend, or sister enter. 
 
 And Bards may fable as they please. 
 Of eagles' gaze, and looks of lynxes — 
 But what to ladies' eyes are these ? 
 What, to their wiles, the riddling Sphynxes? 
 This two-fold thirst no bosom spares, 
 (Name one, whose acts reufse to shew it ?) 
 First — that each secret may be theirs : 
 And, next — that all the world may know iL 
 
 Thus, in its bitter mood, hath sung 
 That Wit whose hate all worth engages, 
 And Falsehood, with her ready tongue, 
 Retailed the barren jest for ages: 
 But, were the vain assertion sooth. 
 So rife in each satiric season. 
 How readily the voice of truth 
 Might give at once excuse and reason. 
 
 And be the picture Scandal draws, 
 With amplified proportions granted; 
 Alas! how deep and sterna cause 
 That ever needful sense hath planted : 
 The altered look — the studied slight — 
 The promise, scorned as soon as spoken- 
 Love, like the fleeting mists of night — 
 And vows, but uttered to be broken. 
 
 And, caution ! oh, how many a heart 
 A victim to its over kindness I 
 (That last frail shelter thrown apart,) 
 Hath mourned Affection's fearless blindness. 
 And traced its fancied joys in dust. 
 Forsaken, cheerless, ill-requited — 
 And blamed, too late, its childish trust, 
 As hope's last bud fell sere and blighted. 
 
.X' lU ii'i u> JS 
 
 (^^A/^i a^i. fS^Uai 
 
"«»■ 
 
 H' 
 
CHATSWORTH, 
 
 THE SEAT OF THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE. 
 
 Chatsworth House is most beautifully situated, stand- 
 ing near the foot of a steep and well-wooded hill ; beneath 
 which, at a short distance, flows the Derwent. This lovely 
 river runs through the park in a luxuriant valley, bound- 
 ed by the Peak Mountains. At the summit, and on the 
 point of the hill, behind the hall, stands an ancient tower 
 about ninety feet in height, called the Hunting Tower ; 
 from the top of which it was formerly usual for ladies to 
 behold the diversion of hunting. Within a moat, by the 
 river side, is another tower, called the Bower of Mary, 
 Queen of Scots; reported to have been her favourite resort 
 during her stay at Chatsworth. 
 
 Chatsworth Hall was termed, on its completion— and is 
 still considered— the first of the seven wonders of the Peak, 
 thus concisely recorded by Hobbes, the celebrated philo- 
 sopher of Malmsbury, in a Latin verse, of which the fol- 
 lowing is a rude translation :— 
 
 " A wondrous house, high mountain, horrid pit, 
 Two fountains, and two caves. Peak has in it." 
 
 Dr. Leigh, in his Natural History of Derbyshire, thus 
 describes Chatsworth : — " Chatsworth, like a sun in the 
 hazy air, gives lustre to the dusky mountains of the Peak, 
 and attracts a general congress to be spectators of its 
 wonders. The passage to it is of easy ascent ; the gate 
 adorned with several trophies ; the hill composes a stately 
 square ; from which, through a gallery upon stone stairs, 
 you have a prospect of a most beautiful Chapel and 
 Hall, full of choice and curious paintings ; the one con- 
 taining the History of Caesar, stabbed in the Senate ; and 
 the other, a lively and admirable draught of the Resur- 
 rection ; both performed by Signor Vario, that great 
 master of the art. The chambers are noble and great, 
 most richly inlaid with the choicest woods, and compose a 
 very stately gallery ; at the upper end of which is the 
 Duke's closet, finely beautified with Indian paint, and 
 the various figures of birds, as they are drawn by the 
 native Indians. The next curiosity is the gardens, which 
 are very delightful, pleasant, and stately, adorned with 
 exquisite water-works ; as, first, Neptune, with his sea- 
 nymphs, who seem to sport themselves in the waters (let 
 out in several columns), which appear to fall upon the 
 sea-weeds. Second, a pond where sea-horses continually 
 rowl. Third, a tree, exactly resembling a willow, made 
 of copper, of which, by the turning of a cock, every leaf 
 continually distils drops of water, and so lively represents 
 a shower of rain. Fourth, a grove of cypress, and a 
 cascade ; at the top of which stand two sea- nymphs, with 
 each ajar under her arm, from whence the water falling 
 
 upon the cascade, whilst they seem to squeeze the vessels, 
 produces a loud rumbling noise, like the Egyptian or 
 Indian cataracts. Fifth, at the bottom of this cascade is 
 another pond, in which is an artificial rose ; through 
 which, by the turning of a cock, the water ascends and 
 hangs suspended in the air in the figure of that flower. 
 Sixth, there is also another pond, wherein is Mercury, 
 pointing to the Gods, and throwing up water. Seventh, 
 besides these things, there are several statues of Gladia- 
 tors, with the muscles of the body very lively displayed 
 in their dififerent postures. This pile is not completely 
 finished, though the late Duke of Devonshire was con- 
 tinually making additions to it for twenty years ; but, as 
 'tis, 'tis a magnificent structure, and suitable to so great 
 and illustrious a family." 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 BY JOHN ANSTER, LL. D 
 I,.~TIMB. 
 
 Seen through pure crystal, the imprisoned sand. 
 Without a murmur, counts its flowing hour; — 
 The dial's shifting bar of shade ; — the hand 
 Of the hall-clock, that, with a life-like power, 
 Moves undisturbed ; — the equal pulse of Time 
 Throbs on, as beats man's heart in happy health. 
 Not noticed, yet how sure ! with easy stealth, 
 Unwearied in its ministry sublime :— 
 And there are those, to whom the matin lark 
 Proclaims day's duties, or the cock, whose cheer 
 Came sad to panic-stricken Simon's ear, 
 When for a little moment Faith was dark : — 
 Frail heart ! — that still believed, yet shook to hear 
 The storm of Man's vain anger round his bark! 
 
 II— ALFRED. 
 
 Alfred ! — Oh read his tale by Milton told! — 
 In seasons when the change of day and night 
 Doth in our heaven ill separate the light 
 For studious men, — his hands in prayer did fold, 
 By angels seen, — and coloured tapers bright 
 Each lone hour's watch with varying hues record, 
 While Europe's fates, in ample scroll unrolled. 
 Are spread before the mighty island's lord ; 
 And then, and now hath Alfred his reward ! 
 Of all that noble life no hour was lost, — 
 Thoughtful in act, — and active while he prayed. 
 He loved the land for which his vows were paid. 
 Restored to peace a people tempest-tossed, 
 And England is the nation he hath made ! 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF FLOWERS, 
 
 The Mass ! The Mass ! that name brings nigh 
 
 Remembrances of Altars high, 
 
 Of gorgeous tombs, and paintings rare; 
 
 Of Incense stealing thro' the air: 
 
 Devoted looks from all around, 
 
 And bended knees that meet the ground : 
 
 Stained windows, with their magic light, 
 
 And sacred types a goodly sight ; 
 
 The Virgin's looks, divine and mild, 
 
 The image of the holy child. 
 
 The pious prayer and fervent hymn, 
 
 Confession made in ascents dim ; 
 
 The notes of that sweet angel quire, 
 
 And tones so low of heavenly lyre : 
 
 The pealing strains of organ loud. 
 
 The effect on that devoted crowd. 
 
 The Mass it is kept every where. 
 Catholic France, and Britain fair ; 
 In chapel small, — in saintly Rome, 
 And in Cathedrals fretted doom ; 
 On Candia's Isle, and Spanish land, 
 Piccardy's Glens, — and Cyprus' Strand; 
 Whatever road the travellers pass,— 
 The people celebrate their Mass. 
 
 And who can gaze with cold surprise. 
 
 On those young forms before our eyes. 
 
 Each beauteous girl, each lovely face. 
 
 Each humble attitude of grace. 
 
 With banners bless'd, and words of prayer. 
 
 To what they think is holy there : 
 
 Their hearts perchance are pure and free, 
 
 Like ripling waves on summer sea. 
 
 And mingled awe and worship meet 
 
 In pious accents soft and sweet. 
 
 AUTHORSHIP. 
 
 One remembers writing his first Book as distinctly as he 
 recollects the first time he saw the ocean. Like the un- 
 quiet sea, all the elements of our nature are then heav- 
 ing and tumultuous. Restless, insatiable ambition, is on 
 us like a fiery charm. Every thing partakes of the bright- 
 ness and boundlessness of our own hopes. Nature is 
 encircled with a perpetual glory; and the seasons, as they 
 pass on, scatter pearli and diamonds for our abundant 
 fancy. It then seems strange how mortals can avoid being 
 intellectually great ; for irresistible inspiration appears to 
 
 stream in upon the human mind, like the light and heat of 
 the sun. Creation is an open volume of poetry and truth, 
 and it seems as if whoever glanced upon it must read what 
 angels have written there. 
 
 We then feel interested in all the world, and think all 
 the world must feel interested in us ; yet it is not vanjty — 
 it is simply the expansive power of a youthful ambitious 
 mind, measuring its strength by its hopes. We then write 
 because we cannot help it — the mind is a full fountain that 
 will overflow — and if the waters sparkle as they fall, it is 
 from their own impetuous abundance. 
 
 Such are the feelings with which we write at first. 
 Afterward, the cares of the world press heavily on the 
 spirit. The smiles of the public no longer have power to 
 kindle us into enthusiastic energy ; and its frowns fall like 
 a shadow on the rock. We learn that ambition is not 
 always power — that the eager eye may be fastened on the 
 sun, but the weary wing can never reach it. 
 
 The gaol, which once appeared bright in the distance, 
 is despised because another still brighter lies beyond it — 
 and when we know how unsatisfactory that too would prove, 
 if gained, how can it be pursued with eagerness? 
 
 Whoever seeks for fame rolls the stone of Sisyphus. 
 When we have grown old at the task, the sight of young 
 ambition sometimes makes us smile in sad mockery of its 
 hopes; and we feel that imagination has no bitterer curse 
 to bestow upon an enemy. 
 
 But thoughts like these are merely the occasional strug- 
 gles of the giant beneath the mountain he cannot heave 
 from him. In general, the love of quiet rests on the mind 
 like a drowsy spell ; and we are all well content to have for 
 our epitaph that we have lived and have died. Alas, that 
 the proud and weary spirit cannot always rest ! The opal, 
 pale, and cold, and cloudy, as it seems, has a spark of fire 
 for ever imprisoned in its bosom. 
 
 The last book, like the first, may indeed be written be- 
 cause we cannot help it : not that the full mind overflows — 
 but the printer's boy stands at our elbow. We then look 
 to booksellers' accounts for inspiration, hunt for pearls be- 
 cause we have promised to furuish them, an4 string glass 
 beads because they will sell better than diamonds. 
 
 Such is the difference between the first and last of all 
 things the world can give us. We start fresh and vigorous, 
 as if life were a revelry — the game proves to be a battle, 
 hardly worth the winning — and we pause midway tired and 
 disheartened, content to dream ourselves into the realities 
 of death. 
 
 But there are gifts, over which the world has no power. 
 Religious hope, and deep domestic love, can meet no change, 
 except the transfer from a happy earth to a happier heaven. 
 The heart — blessed be God*, the heart never grows old. 
 
THE FALSE ACCUSATION. 
 
 Silence ! forth we bring them 
 
 In their last array ! 
 From love and grief, the freed, the flown— 
 
 May for the bier — make way ! 
 
 " An d is there no hope ? Is death so very near ?" anxiously 
 enquired the unhappy Emily, as she stood watching the 
 last moments of a youth whom I was attending in the capa- 
 city of physician. 
 
 " Alas, none !" I answered ! and at that moment he 
 expired. 
 
 She heaved a deep sigh, embraced the senseless form of 
 the departed Frederick, articulated a few unintelligible 
 words, and fell lifeless in my arms. Poor Emily ! every vir- 
 tue, every attribute of perfection shone in her now heavenly 
 countenance ! I could have for ever gazed upon her angelic 
 face, animated as it once was with so pure a spirit. But 
 other duties imperiously demanded my attention ; therefore 
 gently laying her upon a sofa, I quickly summoned the 
 domestics of the house, that the last sad duties might 
 be paid this ill-fated pair. 
 
 I now hastened from this melancholy scene, filled with 
 adoration at the wonderful ways of Him, who had thought 
 fit, by a multitude of bitter sorrows, to prepare these two 
 most blameless of his creature for the glorious society 
 of Himself. In a few days I was invited to attend the 
 funeral ; when, in one grave, were the remains of both 
 deposited. 
 
 Shortly after this lamentable event, I was made acquainted 
 with the following history. 
 
 Frederick and Emily were cousins of the same age, of 
 dispositions similar, and in situation in life nearly alike. 
 The parents of both resided within a mile of each other. 
 Being always companions and playmates, they had from 
 the first dawn of their infant faculties imbibed a mutual 
 and lasting affection, which ripened to pure and ardent 
 love. 
 
 Frederick BlanJford was the son of respectable parents. 
 His father in former years had been gamekeeper to Lord 
 Baltimore, but had retired upon a small property, and was 
 now in the enjoyment of a farm, of which Frederick took 
 the sole management. He was in his three-and-twentieth 
 year, and about to be united to his cousin Emily, when he 
 was sent by his father for a gun from the neighbouring 
 town, where it had been for repairs. Upon his return, on a 
 fine moonlight night, through a small wood, he was sudden- 
 ly accosted by a large party of men in disguise : in an 
 instant he was surrounded; but turning quickly round, 
 demanded who and what they were ? He got no answer, but 
 heard one of the party say, " That's Master Frederick, son 
 of old Blandford, the game-keeper, down with him, my 
 boys! " Being young and extremely active, he broke from 
 
 them, and set off at full speed across the fields to reach the 
 open road ; but finding his pursuers close at his heels, he 
 turned and fired upon them : he had scarcely discharged 
 his piece, when he was struck on the centre of his face by 
 a stone aimed at him by one of the poachers, which brought 
 him senseless to the ground. The villains then deprived 
 him of his gun, and took him off with them on horseback 
 for nearly ten miles, until they arrived at a small farm-house 
 belonging to an old man named Layton, who resided there 
 with his daughter. When 'they approached Layton's, the 
 party halted, andtalked together for some time. Frederick 
 could hear but little; but distinctly heard the leader of the 
 ruffians say, "Do not hurt the old man: though if you 
 can't get the girl off without, then you must not spare him, 
 boys !" Six of the men immediately broke into the house, 
 Frederick by this time had recovered sufficiently to enable 
 him to stand, although with difficulty, aud was leaning 
 against a wall, his face still streaming with blood, when 
 from the house issued two villains with old Layton's daughter 
 in their arms ; and hurried her on a pillion, where a man in 
 disguise was already sitting. They were making through 
 the yard, when the old man came out exclaiming, " Take 
 all I have, you villains, but leave me my child !" On the 
 instant one of the fellows seized him by the throat, and held 
 him back while the robber of his child gallopped off. The old 
 man now made one desperate plunge, and with a pitchfork 
 struck the villain a blow that laid open his forehead. A shot was 
 now fired which laid the old man stretched upon the ground. 
 While this scene of bloodshed was going on, poor Frederick 
 was ready to faint, and heart-broken that he could not render 
 assistance. Layton was conveyed in-doors, with scarce a 
 hope of life remaining. One of the labourers saw Frederick 
 weak and bleeding, leaning against the wall. To seize and 
 secure him was the work of a moment, for he was ready 
 to drop ; his gun was discovered near the immediate scene 
 of murder. He was dragged into the house, where the 
 poor old man lay extended, with a horrid wound in his neck, 
 from which the blood was copiously flowing. Frederick 
 said a few words, with a view of explaining how he became 
 present at this dreadful scene, when the dying man 
 opened his eyes, and fixing them upon him with a 
 horrid glare, exclaimed, "That's the villain. I marked 
 him! Look at his face! My blood and my child's 
 blood be upon him ?" At these words Frederick Bland- 
 ford fainted with weakness and horror, and for some 
 time remained in a state of insensibility. Upon recovering 
 his senses, he saw in the room several constables and a 
 magistrate, taking down the dying declaration of old 
 Layton. 
 
 The unhappy youth was now pinioned, and conveyed to 
 jail as a murderer. It was not until the following day 
 that the anxious father became acquainted with the fate of 
 his unfortunate son. Upon the arrival of the sad intelligence, 
 he and the broken-hearted Emily immediately set off to 
 
visit him in prison. The swelling of his face completely 
 blinded him. He could not see his poor father, who pressed 
 him to his afflicted heart, and felt the scalding tears as they 
 fell upon his cheek. But when he heard the faint voice of 
 his Emily he exclaimed, " Oh father I — my Emily I 
 am innocent .'" "I hope so, Frederick," replied the 
 father. "By my God, I'll swear it !" uttered the distracted 
 girl, throwing herself round the neck of her unhappy cousin. 
 The melancholy answer of his father seemed to strike deep 
 into the soul of Frederick, as betraying a doubt; •' O yes, 
 my father, I am innocent!" was all his fevered tongue 
 could utter; when his parent comforted him by saying, 
 " I believe you, my son." 
 
 In a few days it was reported that one of the villains had 
 turned king's evidence : this was true, and the informer 
 no other than James Rodder, a notorious bad character, 
 and a bitter enemy to old Mr. Blandford. This scoundrel 
 had some time before been obliged to fly the country, for 
 poaching on Lord Baltimore's estate. Upon his examina- 
 tion before jthe magistrate, he gave a similar account to 
 that of old Layton, swearing that Frederick alone was 
 the man who fired the fatal shot. This wretch was sent 
 down to the jail, to await the trial at the ensuing assizes. 
 
 The neighbours of the two families of Frederick and 
 Emily deeply sympathized with them in their melancholy 
 situation ; for no one who ever knew the former entertained 
 a single doubt of his innocence. 
 
 A few days previous to the trial coming ou, he was per- 
 mitted pens, ink, and paper, and he wrote a whole account 
 of his sad case. His father procured the aid of an eminent 
 council from London. The assizes commenced, and the 
 villain Rodder persisted in his story, adding that young 
 Garrard, from the neighbouring county, was the man that 
 ran off with old Layton's daughter, and had never been 
 heard of since. The evidence of this wretch prevailed and 
 weighed against poor Frederick's plain-told tale. The 
 gun'acknowledged to be his, just discharged, was found on 
 the spot ; the shot by which the poor man met his death 
 corresponded with those remaining in Frederick's belt. 
 The wound inflicted by the old man upon the face of the 
 fellow who seized him, and his dying declaration— all 
 tended to fix the guilt upon young Blandford. The ver- 
 dict of " Guilty" was pronounced amid the cries and shrieks 
 of his VFretched relatives. Frederick heard it unmoved, 
 but with uplifted eyes he seemed to look to his merciful 
 God with hope and confidence. Immediately after his 
 condemnation, old Mr. Blandford set off for the estate of 
 Lord Baltimore, earnestly supplicating his Lordship to use 
 all his interest to procure a respite for a few days, but to 
 no effect; the judge's report was so strong against the 
 probability of the young man's innocence, that this favour 
 was denied. 
 
 The plain statement of facts which Frederick had drawn 
 up^the excellent character be had always maintained for 
 
 integrity — the all-pathetic appeal of poor Emily — together 
 with the knowledge Lord Baltimore possessed of the infa- 
 mous mode of life which Rodder had long pursued, induced 
 him to offer one hundred guineas reward to any of the men 
 concerned in the murder and outrage at old Layton's, who 
 would come forward and declare the whole truth ! Imme- 
 diately this proclamation became known and talked of in 
 the jail, Jacob Rodder (who was allowed the run of the 
 prison-yard) was detected in attempting to escape; in 
 consequence of which, he was closely confined and 
 watched. Of this event Frederick instantly informed his 
 father, whose suspicions against Rodder became much 
 strengthened ; he communicated this fact with prompt 
 dispatch to Lord Baltimore, and a respite of fourteen days 
 was granted to the condemned youth. 
 
 This time had expired save but one day, and every 
 preparation made for the final scene of this unhappy 
 tragedy. The next morning Frederick Blandford was to 
 die for murder, and his aged and afflicted parents lo be 
 deprived of an industrious and affectionate son. To depict 
 the heart-rending anguish of his cousin Emily is impossible 
 —■it would be to harrow up from the depths of misery each 
 particle of its composition. 
 
 On the eve of that awful day Garrard was apprehended, 
 who confessed before Lord Baltimore, and the judges 
 assembled, the whole truth. Rodder, upon hearing of 
 Garrard's open declaration, was taken in strong fits, which 
 never left him until death closed his miserable eyes. In 
 his frenzy he accused himself of murder, and often would 
 ask if poor innocent Mr. Blandford had yet suffered. 
 This villain expired at the very hour that was to have been 
 the last in this world to Frederick Blandford. 
 
 The unhappy but innocent youth was now liberated and 
 conducted back by his fond father and devoted Emily to 
 his once happy dwelling. They again thought of seeing 
 and long enjoying days of peace ; but, alas ! these were 
 gone for ever! Without any visible illness, Frederick 
 day by day wasted ; his handsome face was disfigured for 
 ever; his tall and manly form was in a short time reduced to 
 a mere skeleton. Emily was his constant attendant — but 
 death, alas I had marked him for his own. Not one unkind 
 word ever passed his lips — not one complaint against his 
 manifold sufferings. The only smile that played upon his 
 lip during this sad and heavy time, was at that moment in 
 which he surrendered up his spotless soul into the hands of 
 his Creator. The rest of this melancholy drama is already 
 told. " Peace be to their memory !" 
 

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GOODWOOD 
 
 Is situated in the parishes of Boxgrove and West 
 Hampnett, in the county of Sussex. The front of the 
 building has a handsome and imposing efifect, having a 
 singular outline, tending to the semi-octagonal, or oriel 
 form, and a centre 166 feet long, and two wings, each 106 
 feet, forming a total of 378 feet. The wings recede in an 
 angle of 45 degrees, and at all the corners are very bold 
 and handsome circular towers, which have the cornice 
 extended round them, and an upper story with parapet 
 and flat domed roof. In the centre is a light and very 
 graceful portico and loggia, of six Doric columns below, 
 and six Ionic above, with good entablatures and a 
 surmounting balustrade ; the wings are diiferently orna- 
 mented. The apartments are both numerous, and of the 
 most magnificent description. The Paintings include 
 specimens of some of the best masters; and in the New 
 Biliard Room there are about thirty, the principal of which 
 is the celebrated Darnley Picture, of eminent antiquarian 
 and historical interest, 7 ft. 4 in. by 4 ft. 6 in., inscribed 
 
 "tRAGICA ET LAMENTABILIS INTERNECIO SERKNISSIMI 
 HENBICI SCOTORUM REGIS." 
 
 Two corresponding paintings on this subject were 
 executed by the same artist for Matthew, Earl of Lennox, 
 the Earl's father. One passed, by marriage, into the 
 Pomfret family, and, having been presented to Caroline, 
 Queen of George II, is now in Kensington Palace. The 
 other, which had been given by the Earl to his brother, the 
 Lord of Aubigny, and, on the extinction of the ancient 
 dukedom, had passed with that castle into the hands of 
 the present family, was brought from thence by the third 
 Duke of Richmond, and deposited at Goodwood. 
 
 The artist's name is written in the Kensington picture 
 alone ; his christian name is Levinus, but the other has 
 been variously read Vogelariut and Venetianus. 
 
 It is not our intention at the present time to enter 
 into that minute, historical, and descriptive account which 
 this painting intrinsically merits. A copious and very 
 ingenious MS. account, drawn up by Vertue, is in the 
 library at Goodwood. In addition to the principal design, 
 there are minor accompaniments, in the shape of medallions 
 or Relievi, depicting various circumstances of the tragical 
 deed ; and in one part of the painting is a compartment, 23 
 inches by 17, exhibiting a very elaborate and faithful 
 representation of the battle of Carherry Hill, where Mary 
 separated herself from Bothwell, and surrendered to the 
 confederated Lords. 
 
 The body of the painting represents a chapel, the tomb 
 and effigies, with all the religious and heraldic accompani- 
 ments of the time, erected to the memory of the murdered 
 Darnley, before which are kneeling the Earl and Countess 
 of Lennox, the young king, afterwards James I., and his 
 
 brother. Various Latin inscriptions are inserted, invoking 
 Justice and Vengeance; and the picture itself was painted 
 a very short time after the murder, as a memorial to the 
 youthful prince, and an incitement to retribution, as if they 
 had said 
 
 *'exoriare aliquis, nostris ex ossibus, ultob!" 
 
 The effect, though interesting, is melancholy, and it is 
 obvious that it was executed under circumstances of recent 
 passionate grief. Of the circumstances of the original 
 transaction, it is unnecessary for us to speak, and it is a 
 subject on which we should feel pain, as we are strongly 
 inclined to compassionate the hapless Mary, the character 
 of whose husband, Darnley, is here, doubtless with a par- 
 donable parental feeling, egregiously flattered. We fear, 
 however, she was not innocently ignorant of the act of 
 Bothwell; and what can palliate premeditated murder, 
 whether by treachery, or vested under the name of a duel ? 
 — bloodshed will have its vengeance, and the earth cannot 
 hide its cry. Still, all that can be said should be said in 
 behalf of this most unhappy queen — ill-used almost from 
 her cradle to her grave — early thrown, with the dangerous 
 attractions of exquisite beauty, and with the giddiness and 
 inexperience of a child, amidst factions of savage and 
 ambitious men, without a guide or friend; and whose 
 crimes, if they were so, were repaid by years of persecution 
 and bereavement, and closed, by an unjust death, from the 
 cold and artful hypocrisy of a sister, which was nobly 
 endured, and her chequered career terminated with 
 virtuous and Christian hope. She has sufi'ered enough : — 
 Requiescat in pace ! 
 
 Amongst other pictures in this room are a beautiful 
 recumbent Venus, playing with a squirrel, 7 feet by 5 feet, 
 an undoubted Titian; Mary de Medici, widow of Henry IV., 
 and mother of the beautiful but wayward queen of Charles I. 
 of England, a fine portrait; full-length portraits of George 
 III. and his queen, by Allan Ramsey; a fine head of Robert 
 Bruce, the friend of Wallace and hero of Brannockburn ; 
 Madam de Montespan ; several other fine portraits, 
 including one of Lord Anson, whose ship, the Centurion, 
 forms one of three sea pieces, by Allin ; some fine small 
 paintings, in the Flemish style ; four views on the Rhine ; 
 "^oxUaHi Sophonisb a Anguisciola ; a female Italian artist, 
 one of two which this young lady painted herself, and 
 presented to Rubens and Vandyke, 3 feet 7 by 3 feet 6, 
 playing on a spinnet, and attended by her nurse. This is, 
 par eminence, the loveliest portrait in the house ; the 
 beautiful and clear-coloured face, with Madona hair, 
 relieved by a close-fitting dark dress, and very fine chiaro 
 scuro, form one of the happiest effects that can easily be 
 witnessed. 
 
t 
 
 STYLE OF LIVING IN SWEDEN. 
 
 The upper classes in Sweden are very hospitable, and 
 keep, I may almost say, open honses all the year round ; for 
 no stranger or acquaintance, even if unasked, ever knock 
 at their doors without meeting a hearty welcome. As their 
 style of living, however, (I here more particularly speak of 
 the country, for in Stockholm and other large cities it may 
 vary a little,) is very different from ours » « » » 
 
 At an early hour in the morning, while yet in bed, coffee 
 is usually served up, without any accompaniment in the 
 shape of bread and butter. At nine or ten comes breakfast ; 
 prior to this, every one has the option of helping himself at 
 a side-table to a glass of brandy and a snack of something 
 
 piguante a provocative, as it were to the appetite. 
 
 The breakfast itself consists of a variety of hot dishes and 
 wine ; it is, in fact, a regular dejeund d la fourchette, and 
 is as substantial a meal as a dinner. 
 
 At one or two, the usual hour in Sweden, the dinner itself 
 is announced, and this is preceded, as at breakfast, by 
 another dram, in which custom the ladies not unfrequently in- 
 dulge themselves. At this, as at all other meals, the several 
 dishes, after being first carved, are, with appropriate 
 vegetables, &c. handed round by one at a time. Should 
 any particular dish, however, not please the palate of a 
 person, he must wait until the next in succession makes its 
 appearance, as it is quite contrary to etiquette to be helped 
 to any thing else that may happen to be on the table. If 
 the courses be numerous, which is often the case, and the 
 party large, this meal may last a very long while. Occa- 
 sionally, there is a good deal of wine drank at table, but 
 none afterwards, tor the gentlemen retire at the same time 
 with the ladies, which is usually within a very short 'period 
 of the termination of the dinner. Grace is always said both 
 before and after meals. Coffee is now served up in the 
 drawing-room, after which the gentlemen retire to other 
 apartments, that they may indulge themselves either with a 
 nap or a pipe, or probably with both one and the other. 
 At four or five o'clock sweetmeats, fruits, punch, &c, are 
 handed round; and at six, tea, truly denominated tea-water, 
 is introduced. 
 
 In England, where we usually dine at a late hour, we 
 sometimes take a slight luncheon about the middle of the 
 day ; but the Swedes, from breakfasting at nine or ten o'clock, 
 and dining at one or two, have little occasion for such 
 refreshment ; they have therefore reversed the thing, and 
 instead of a nooning, they not unfrequently indulge them- 
 selves, about six or seven o'clock, with what they call an 
 after-nooning. This, however, usually only consists of a 
 dram, and a little bread and butter, &c. 
 
 At nine or ten comes supper, preparatory to which the 
 usual glass of brandy is not forgotten : another meal, when 
 the table again groans under the weight of hot dishes, and 
 among the rest of other good things, joints of meat. This, 
 
 like the dinner, often lasts a long time; when it is finished, 
 however, bed-candles are forthcoming, andevery one retires 
 to rest. 
 
 The Swedes use much sugar and other sweets in their 
 cookery; I have seen a turbot served up with sweet sauce. 
 They frequently mix sugar in their wine, and beer, &c. Of 
 butter, also they make abundant use ; meat, fish, and 
 vegetables, may often be seen almost floating in it. 
 
 POPE IN HIS ROMANTIC RETREAT; 
 
 HAYLEY PARK, WARWICKSHIRE. 
 
 He sate in his own loved bowers, 
 While the summer-moon's soft light 
 
 Was bathing the roses and jessamine flowers. 
 That bloomed through the noon of night! 
 
 The spirit of Nature benignly had blest 
 
 The scene and the season with beauty and rest. 
 
 Before him a bright lake lay, 
 
 And a fruitful valley smiled ; 
 And beyond, in the moonbeam's glancing ray, 
 
 Were the polished glaciers piled; 
 And the splendour of million worlds was lent 
 To the face of the dark-blue firmament. 
 
 And not the charm alone 
 
 Of visible Nature was there; 
 For the mind's high triumphs and beauties shone 
 
 Even more divinely fair : 
 After years of labour, the patient sage 
 In rapture gazed on the perfect page- 
 He had linked his humble name 
 
 With that of the mighty dead ; 
 And already he felt the rich wreath of Fame 
 
 On his throbbing temples shed ; 
 The splendid circle was round them twined. 
 And he reigned a king in the realms of mind*. 
 
 Home — There is something inexpressibly touching in the 
 story of Ishmael, the youth who was sent into the wilderness 
 of life with his bow and his arrow, "his hand against every 
 man, and every man's hand against him." Even in our 
 crowded, busy, and social world, on how many is this doom 
 pronounced ? What love makes allowances like house- 
 hold love ? God forgive those who turn the household altar 
 into a place of strife ? Domestic dissension is the sacri- 
 lege of the heart. 
 
 'Q 
 
A SUMMER VISION. 
 
 Oft in the days of bright July, 
 
 When the parched earth is brown and dry, 
 
 And the hot noon-day's sun looks down 
 
 Upon the dusty, barren town, 
 
 And scorching walls, sun smitten, glare— 
 
 And stifling is the breezeless air, 
 
 And, through the day, flows all around 
 
 A ceaseless tide of wearying sound. 
 
 And busy crowds with restless feet, 
 
 Pass up and down the burning street, 
 
 I sit in some still room apart, 
 
 And summer visions fill my heart 
 
 Visions of beauty, green and cool — 
 
 The water-lilly's shadowy pool; 
 
 The untrodden wood's sequestered shrine 
 
 Where hides the lustrous columbine, 
 
 And leaves astir for ever make, 
 
 A breezy freshness through the brake 
 
 I think of some old country-hall. 
 With carved porch, and chimneys tall. 
 And pleasant windows many a one. 
 Set deep into the old, gray stone. 
 Hid among trees so large and green 
 'Tis only dimly to be seen. 
 I think of its dusk garden-bowers. 
 Its little plots of curious flowers. 
 Its casements wreathed with jessamin. 
 Flung wide to let all odours in, 
 And all sweet sounds of bird and bee, 
 And the cool fountain's melody. 
 
 I think of the mountains still and gray. 
 Stretching in summer light away. 
 Where the blue, cloudless skies repose 
 Above the solitude of snows ; 
 Ofgleaning lakes, whose waters lie 
 In restless beauty sparklingly; 
 Of little island-nooks of rest 
 Where the grave heron makes her nest ; 
 And wild cascades with hurrying roar. 
 Like the wild tumult of Lodore— 
 Lodore ! — that name recalls to me 
 Visions of stern sublimity, 
 And pastoral vales, and lonely rills, 
 And shepherd people on the hills,— 
 And more — old names of men unknown 
 Save on their mouldering church- yard stone, 
 Or to some mountain-chronicler 
 Who talketh of the days that were;— 
 For, in gone years, they of my race 
 Had, 'mong the hills, their dwelling-place. 
 
 In an old mansion that doth stand 
 As in the heart of fairy-land. 
 Then mountains, lakes, and glorious skies 
 Lived in their children's memories. 
 There tended they, in evening-hours. 
 Their garden's antiquated flowers. 
 And, on the Skiddaw mountain gray 
 They gambled through the sunny day,— 
 Blest summer revellers ! and did float 
 On Keswick Lake their little boat ! — 
 
 Let Mammon's sons with vissage lean, 
 Restless and vigilant, and keen. 
 Whose thoughts but to buy and sell, 
 I n the hot oiling city dwell ; 
 Give me to walk on mountains bare. 
 Give me to breathe the open air, 
 To hear the village-children's mirth. 
 To see the beauty of the earth — 
 In wood and wild, by lake and sea 
 To dwell with foot and spirit free ! 
 
 TIME, 
 
 Where are the heroes of the ages past ? 
 
 Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones. 
 
 Who flourished in the infancy of days ? 
 
 All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame 
 
 Exultation, mocking at the pride of man, 
 
 Sits grim Foryetfulness. The warrior's arm 
 
 Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; 
 
 Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze 
 
 Of his red eye- ball. Yesterday his name 
 
 Was mighty on the earth — to-day, 'tis what ? 
 
 The meteor of the night of distant years 
 
 That flash'd unnotic'd. — 
 
 Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt. 
 
 Moves on our being. We do live and breathe. 
 
 And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. 
 
 Where are concealed the days which have elaps'd ? 
 
 Hid in the mighty cavern of the past. 
 
 They rise upon us only to appal 
 
 By indistinct and half-glimps'd images. 
 
 Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 
 
 The good man's hope is laid, far, far beyond 
 
 The sway "of tempests, or the furious sweep 
 
 Of mortal desolation. He beholds. 
 
 Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 
 
 Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves 
 
 Of dark Vicissitude. 
 
 KIKKE WHITE. 
 
 11 
 
THE LAKE OF COMO. 
 
 The Lake of Como, the Lacus Larius of the ancients, is 
 upwards of thirty miles long, and between two and three 
 miles broad. It is divided into two branches, one of which 
 leads directly to the town of Como, while the other, called 
 the Lake of Lecco, discharges the Adda, and communicates, 
 by means of that river and its canals, with Milan. The 
 borders of the lake are lofty hills, covered with vines, 
 cbesnut, walnut, and almond trees, and enlivened with 
 numerous villages. The temperature is mild, and not only 
 the inhabitants of Milan, but numerous strangers, amongst 
 whom are many English, retreat to the delightful villas 
 with which the lake is surrounded. Like its neighbour 
 the Benacus, the Lacus Larius is subject to tempests, 
 which sometimes render its navigation dangerous. 
 
 In consequence of the lake being fed by the melting of 
 tfae snow on the neighbouring mountains, the water is 
 higher in summer than in winter. 
 
 On the eastern side of the lake is situated the Pliniana, 
 a villa belonging to a Milanese nobleman, and supposed to 
 be the site of one of Plinys beautiful residences on the 
 borders of Lacus Larius. He has himself described the 
 situation of two. " We are pretty much agreed, likewise, 
 I find, in our situations ; and as ycur buildings are carrying 
 on upon the sea coast, mine are rising upon the site of the 
 Larian Lake. I have several villas upon the borders of 
 this lake, but there are two particularly in which 1 take 
 most delight, so they give me most employment. They 
 are both situated like those at Baioe : one of them stands 
 upon a rock, and has a prospect of the lake, the other 
 actually touches it. The first, supported as it were by the 
 lofty buskin, I call my tragic, the other as resting upon the 
 humble rock, my comic villa. They have each their 
 particular beauties, which recommend themselves to me so 
 much the more, as they are of different kinds. The former 
 commands a wider prospect of the lake : the latter enjoys 
 a nearer view of it. This, by an easy bend, embraces a 
 little bay ; the promontory upon which the other stands 
 forms two. Here you have a straight walk extending along 
 the banks of the lake; there a spacious terrace that falls 
 by a gentle descent towards it. The former does not feel 
 the force of the waves ; the latter breaks them : from that 
 you see the fishing vessels below : from this you may fish 
 for yourself, and throw your line from your chamber, and 
 almost from your bed, as from a boat. It is the beauties, 
 therefore, these agreeable villas possess that tempt me to 
 add to them those which are wanting.'' 
 
 The resemblance of the Pliniana to either of these 
 descriptions has been questioned by Mr. Eustace. Some 
 writers have supposed that one of the villas which Pliny 
 possessed, in the neighbourhood of Como, occupied this 
 site ; but, though he had many in the vicinity of the lake, 
 he yet describes only his two favourite retreats, and the 
 
 situation of the Pliniana corresponds with neither. The 
 one was, it seems, on the very verge of the lake, almost 
 rising out of the waters, and in this respect it resembled 
 the Pliniana. 
 
 The attachment which Pliny felt for his Larian villas, 
 and the longing desire which, amidst the bustle of Rome, 
 he experienced to visit those delightful retreats, are 
 beautifully expressed in one of his letters to Caninius, 
 " How is my friend employed ? Is it in the pleasures of 
 study or in those of the field ? Or does he unite both, as 
 he well may, on the banks of our favourite Larius? The 
 fish in that noble lake will supply you with sport of that 
 kind, as the surrounding woods will afford you game : while 
 the solemnity of that sequestered scene will, at the same 
 time, dispose your mind to contemplation. 
 
 Whether you are engaged with some only, or with each 
 of these agreeable amusements, far be it that I should say 
 I envy you, but I must confess I greatly regret that I 
 cannot also partake of them, — a happiness I long for as 
 earnestly as a man in a fever for drink to allay his thirst, 
 or for baths and fountains to assuage his heat. But if it be 
 not given to me to see a conclusion of these unpleasant 
 occupations, shall I never at least break loose from them ? 
 Never, indeed, I much fear ; for new affairs are daily 
 rising, while the former still remain unfinished : such an 
 endless train of business is continually pressing upon me 
 and rivetting my chains still faster." — In a small court at 
 the back of the villa Pliniana rises the celebrated ebbing 
 and flowing spring, which has been described by both the 
 elder and younger Pliny. It rises from the rock about 
 twenty feet from the level of the lake, into which, after 
 passing through the under story of the villa, it pours itself. 
 The following description of it, from the letters of the 
 younger Pliny, is inscribed in Latin and Italian upon the 
 walls of the villa: "There is a spring which rises in the 
 neighbouring mountain, and, running among the rocks, is 
 received into a little banqueting room, from whence, after 
 the force of its current is a little restrained, it falls into the 
 Larian luke. 
 
 The nature of this spring is extremely surprising : it 
 ebbs and flows regularly three times a day. The increase 
 and decrease are plainly visible, and very amusing to 
 observe. You go down by the side of the fountain, and 
 while you are taking a repast, and drinking its water, 
 which is extremely cool, you see it gradually rise and fall. 
 If you place a ring or any thing else at the bottom when it 
 is dry, the stream reaches it by degrees, till it is entirely 
 covered, and then gently retires : and if you wait, you may 
 see it thus alternately advance and recede three successive 
 times.'' The rising and falling of the water is said to be 
 affected by the direction and force of the wind, and at the 
 present day the fountain presents the same phenomena 
 described by Pliny. 
 
 li 
 

A TALE FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 " This is the story of my life — 
 I've felt the loss of child — of wife — 
 Of friends — of fortune — every joy 
 Which God can give, or man destroy." 
 
 " I have lifted the painted veil which men call life." 
 
 It was in the summer of 1820 I returned to my native 
 laud, after a sojourn of three years in South and North 
 America. To the New World I had emigrated, in the 
 joyful hope of turning the scale of disappointment and 
 misfortune, to which, for the seven previous years, my 
 destiny had wedded me. I need not add a seven years of 
 my spring of life, when I state, that on my regaining the 
 merry shores of England, I had not completed the twenty- 
 fifth anniversary of my birth. Time, we are told by all 
 philosophers, is the sole medicine for grief — yet there are 
 regrets which must endure while we exist. 
 
 While absent from the land of my birth— the repository 
 of all I held dear — the home of my aged parents — my friends 
 in woe or weal — my numerous sufferings I endured with pati- 
 ence, buoyed up with the anticipation that my anxious thirst 
 for independence might yet meet success. Time, thought I> 
 will bring a balm, the nectareous draught of which will 
 enable me to forget past sorrows, and bid me hail with glad' 
 ness a visitation of happiness. 
 
 At such a distance from my native country — among a 
 people, I may say, by instinct, as also by education, hostile 
 towards the English — it will be believed, after suffering 
 under deceit and the most cruel disappointments, I became 
 doubtful whether fondly to link my affections to the world — 
 or upon the grave. The loveliness of earth saved me from 
 despair, and the known mercy of Providence inspired me 
 with hope. 
 
 While thus between hope and fear, I received a letter 
 from my father, transmitting me the means of returning 
 home. I lost no time in my equipment ; and when again 
 upon the dark blue sea, and a favourable wind wafting me to 
 my native isle,I turned from all past recollections with eager- 
 ness, to drink in the balmy sweetness the future prospects 
 now opened to my view. Nor were these hopes groundless. 
 The return, the reception, were alike — both happy ; my 
 long absent friends were before me in tears and smiles — 
 thrilling kisses pressed my lips, aad the arms of affection 
 were around me. Such are the endearments of home, that 
 well may I say- 
 That wheresoever our footsteps roam, 
 There is no resting-place like home. 
 
 In the autumn of the same year I visited Hastings, where 
 I had not been many days before I met a lady, a long 
 esteemed friend of my family, and one intimately acquainted 
 
 with me from my youth. With the same kindly feeling 
 which she manifested on my departure to seek my fortunes 
 in a foreign land, did she now greet me on my return from 
 my unsuccessful toils ; and with equal warmth did this good 
 'ady impress upon me the necessity of my utmost exertion to 
 obtain for myself a place in society, by independence, 
 naming to me the wide and open field — "marriage." In vain 
 did I declare my never-to-be-altered determination of singly 
 bearing my misfortunes, and not to add a sharer to my des- 
 tinies, " Could I," 1 would often say, " see the coast of suc- 
 cess clearly before me, willingly would I make a wife a parti- 
 cipator in it; but the future with me is too gloomy — it 
 forebodes more of the rocks and shoals of this life, than 
 of its even common vicissitudes. No, no ! my dear lady," 
 oft was my reply—" it cannot, cannot be !" But too soon, 
 alass ! I broke my resolution. 
 
 By this lady I was solicited to be her escort to the 
 theatre, to which, like a true lady's knight, I readily ac- 
 ceded. 
 
 The play was King Lear, and well, well, shall I remem- 
 ber it, Kean threw all his energy into the part, and that 
 which was mere representation of our immortal bard, in his 
 hands became reality. In one of the boxes near the stage 
 sat a most beautiful woman, in all the possession of bloom- 
 ing youth. Her whole attention seemed absorbed in the 
 tragedy; her left arm rested upon the box, while her right 
 hand was applying her handkerchief to the drying up the 
 tears caused by the pathetic display this tragedy pourtrays : 
 so agitated seemed her young heart, that it appeared to me 
 she felt every word of the drama spoke audibly, some 
 annunciation which she could not interpret, and every 
 burst of applause seemed to disclose a sight she dare aot 
 look upon ! 
 
 The interest I took in this young creature became 
 manifest to the scrutinizing glance of my more aged com- 
 panion ; she taxed me with it, but far from discouraged my 
 feelings, which I found growing into something beyond 
 curiosity. 
 
 When this tragic drama had concluded, and the busy 
 scene of some ridiculous farce had commenced, I succeed- 
 ed in meeting the eye of my fair incognita, and discovered 
 from her ungloved hand that she was unmarried. No 
 gentleman, save a younger brother, was of her party, and 
 therefore my persuasive fancies told me she was free. 
 Animated with fresh hope, that on the morrow I should see 
 her in the promenades, I, with my lady friend, left the 
 theatre. 
 
 On the following morning I arose early. My dreams 
 and every waking thought had been fixed upon one object. 
 How to obtain an interview I knew not ; to her name I 
 was a stranger — her family, her connexion, were alike 
 foreign to me. When I thought of her beauty, her splen- 
 did appearance, my aching heart sickened in despair. I 
 felt a terror I could not reveal even to myself — ^my pulse 
 
 13 
 
beat quickly. That I was interested in this fair unknown, 
 I felt certain ; but at all events, thought I, I must leave 
 off sighing and thinking, for sure enough I can derive no 
 good from it ; besides it is meet my countenance should 
 assume a more cheerful expression, if I wish for success in 
 my now conceived plan of obtaining not only a knowledge 
 of my incognita, but also an interview. 
 
 After partaking of breakfast, and completing my toilet — 
 to the latter, I must confess, I paid more than ordinary 
 attention— I sallied forth into the public walks to seek the 
 object of my thoughts — but to no purpose ; and again 
 becoming pensive, I turned my steps towards the more 
 retired part of the beach, where in a few seconds I saw her 
 lovely form rising from a bench. I followed her, and upon 
 my coming up to the place where she had been seated, I 
 discovered she had left her parasol. Eagerly did I bare it 
 to its owner, and, on its presentation, observed the good 
 fortune chance had thrown in my way, which, together 
 with some passing compliment, was acknowledged by a 
 smile and slight inclination of the head. During this 
 momentary interview I had an opportunity of viewing her 
 personal appearance. She was remarkably handsome, of 
 tall but slender stature, to which her finely turned figure 
 was in strict accordance. There was intelligence in the 
 piercing glance of her large blue eye, and a smile of 
 mixed gaiety and pensiveness sat upon her lip. Her 
 complexion was of a delicate paleness, without any other 
 colour save that which is diffused upon the cheek by the 
 influence of some passing emotion. 
 
 From this hour did she become the very idol of my soul 
 — of my existence. I followed her, at a distance, to the 
 library, and from the librarian ascertained my fair lady's 
 name. She was passing the season at Hastings with her 
 family, with whom afterwards I constantly met her in the 
 public walks. I now felt a most ardent attachment, and 
 daily frequented each place of resort, for the purpose of 
 enhancing my own gratification — my whole soul I had 
 surrendered to her. To conceal my attachment I could 
 not, nay, was determined would not, from the objeet of my 
 adoration. 
 
 In the ardour of my feelings I was incapable of admit- 
 ting the least alloy of cold, calculating precaution, but 
 came to the immediate determination, having repeatedly 
 attracted her attention, of writing to her, soliciting permis- 
 sion to address her, could I be so fortunate as to obtain an 
 introduction. 
 
 Thus hastily did I despatch the first messenger of love. 
 Daily after, I saw her in company with her mother ; yet 
 no reply came to my note. Again I wrote, apologizing 
 for my former freedom in addressing a lady to whom I was 
 unknown, yet urging in the all strong language which love 
 dictates, for the honour of an interview, that I might the 
 more fully declare my sentiments and the honourable 
 
 integrity of my proposals. To this letter, like my first, I 
 received no answer. 
 
 I now wandered out, I scarce knew whither, until I 
 found myself pacing the very street wherein resided my 
 enchantress. I saw her at the window reading my letter, 
 I met her glance ; and the smile of recognition it contain- 
 ed, told me all my fondest hopes would be realized : I 
 returned this salutation with respect, but evident earnest- 
 ness. In an instant all my former misfortunes seemed 
 trivial, compared with the coming deluge of joy : " hap- 
 piness,'' said I, " is again restored to my dwelling, and 
 fortune is yet willing to mark me out for her own." 
 
 The impatience of my nature would not let me rest — I 
 counted the minutes, the hours, as though the time would 
 never come that I might again see my beloved. After 
 dinner I took a stroll on the beach, full of thought— one 
 moment looking back upon the tumultuous life I had 
 already passed — then to dwell upon its chances for the 
 future. Thus fearfully calculating upon probabilities, I 
 pensively took my seat upon the very bench I had first 
 met my beautiful enchantress, whose lovely form still 
 wandered on my mind. In a few seconds my own sweet 
 love was before me, and alone. Not having received any 
 reply to my letters, I felt great timidity in approaching 
 her, and before I could bring my mind to act upon any 
 fixed plan — I was at her side, offering a thousand apologies 
 for my freedom in writing to her. 
 
 " You must excuse," said she, " my answering your 
 letters, yet I feel highly flattered by the expressions they 
 contain, and I must confess that you have not been alto- 
 gether unobserved by me." 
 
 I now endeavoured to learn from her the names of some 
 of her friends, in the hope of finding one through whom I 
 might obtain a formal introduction ; but neither within the 
 sphere of her or my connexion, could we discover any 
 equally known to us both. 
 
 It became now no difficult task to perceive, by the inter- 
 chstage of conversation, that a mutual feeling of interest 
 existed. I assured her of the hope I cherished, at a 
 future day, of being admitted by her friends into that 
 earthly paradise her society alone could create. She 
 smiled, and by the expressiofl of her large blue eye, told 
 me such a hope was not the most foreign to her own heart. 
 
 Our conversation now turned upon the fineness of the 
 evening, and I observed, " In spite of the symptoms of 
 coming desolation, there are few recreations more de- 
 lightful than a walk in the country at the close of autumn, 
 though it indeed scarcely presents a tithe of its wonted 
 beauty ; and yet, with all the appearance of external 
 dreariness, there is a moral beauty in the scene." 
 
 "You are happy in the view you have taken of this sea- 
 son of the year," observed my fair companion; "your 
 idea coincides with mine. The contrast betwixt the 
 
 14 
 
 
youthful freshness of spring, and the matron graces of 
 autumn, to some minds may be of too sombre and gloomy 
 a character ; but to me I must confess the waning year is 
 rich in associations that are not the less agreeable for the 
 tinge of melancholy that surrounds them." 
 
 " Indeed," said I, " there is such union in our thoughts, 
 that I trust I may not be foiled in the anticipation of often 
 having the pleasure of conversing with you upon this and 
 other subjects." 
 
 "OyesI" she hastily replied; but at the same instant 
 checking herself, observed, "I was about to say how different 
 is the situation of the labourer in the country and in Lon- 
 don — the toil of both may be hard, but the many long 
 hours an artisan must pass in the tainted close atmosphere 
 of a crowded city, must be miserable, compared with the 
 countryman, surrounded by every thing that is rural and 
 inviting — and after his daily toil to have time and health 
 to trim his own garden and superintend the cultivation of 
 his small property. Well might Thomson exclaim, 
 
 • Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough.' " 
 
 " And well," replied I, "might Pope say, 
 
 ♦ Happy the man, whose highest care 
 
 A few paternal acres bound, 
 Content to breathe his native air. 
 
 In his own ground: 
 Whose floclis with milk, whose fields with bread. 
 
 Whose herds supply him with attire. 
 Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 
 
 In winter fire.' " 
 
 We had now approached to within a few doors of my 
 Ellen's home; when receiving from her a pledge of meet- 
 ing me the following evening, I took my leave. 
 
 I now returned to my hotel, and, after taking some 
 refreshment, retired to rest. 
 
 « « * • • « 
 
 -with 
 
 My fortune and my seeming destiny 
 
 She made the bond, and broke it not with me." 
 
 The following and every succeeding day we contrived to 
 meet: our intimacy grew quickly into mutual love. In 
 one of our walks, after I had made known to my Ellen my 
 situation in life, she informed me, with true delicacy of 
 feeling, that she was one of a large family, and though her 
 father was by the world reputed a man of property, yet 
 she felt assured her portion would not exceed a thousand 
 pounds, and perhaps not that, if she married without his 
 consent. I entreated her to let me see her father, doubting 
 not, from the respectability of my family, though myself 
 without fortune, he would not withhold his sanction, when he 
 saw how mutual was the affection we entertained for each 
 other. Her argument, founded upon prudence and a latent 
 fear on my part lest my family should object to our union, 
 
 induced me to consent for the present to conceal our 
 attachment, and even knowledge of each other. 
 
 In afew weeks my beloved Ellen returned to town, where 
 again, through the medium of her servant, we had daily 
 opportunities of seeing each other, and which lasted uninter- 
 ruptedly for six months. — At the expiration of this period, 
 being slightly indisposed, she was ordered change of air. 
 Lodgings were taken for her in the vicinity of London, 
 where she remained for some time, accompanied by her 
 younger sister and her maid. Here was I enabled 
 constantly to be in the society of my devoted love. So 
 ardent and so sincere became our attachment, that to 
 prevent the possibility of being parted by any unlucky 
 discovery, I proposed a secret marriage." 
 
 "When we love,*' said I, "it is our aim and conclusion 
 to make the object a part of ourselves ; therefore, my dear 
 Ellen, forgive me if I propose our immediate marriage." 
 
 Her generous and devoted heart heard my proposal with 
 godlike feeling. "Yes, Adolphus," she replied, " I do 
 tenderly worship thee, and to call thee by the endearing 
 name of husband will be the bliss of paradise." 
 
 From my Ellen's being under age, we were compelled to 
 be married by bans — the progress of publishing which, 
 having expired, I pressed to my bosom one of God's fairest 
 works, one of the best of his creatures, as my lawful wife. 
 Just as we were entering the porch of Fulham church, to 
 solemnize that grand compact, marriage, my Ellen observed 
 to me, with an expression of such intense feeling, and with 
 a look that seemed to read my most inmost thoughts — " If, 
 Adolphus, I should ever become insane, never let me be 
 placed in a lunatic asylum ; but you, my Adolphus, will 
 watch over me." 
 
 " By my God I swear it ! and never will I forsake thee, 
 my beloved creature !" was my instant reply to this strange 
 question. 
 
 Having now become possessed of each other, and united 
 by a love no human being could dissever, we had to use 
 our utmost caution to prevent a discovery, until I was in a 
 situation to take my wife home. Two months of suspense 
 had scarcely passed, when by an anonymous letter her 
 father was made acquainted with his daughter's marriage. 
 Neither of our families had the slightest knowledge even of 
 our acquaintance, yet by both, immediate pardon was 
 granted. The small fortune I now received enabled me to 
 enter as a junior partner in a mercantile establishment. 
 
 In my family, my Ellen was beloved — in hers I was 
 with equal sincerity respected. 
 
 It would be monotonous and too uninteresting to lead 
 my reader through the scenes of domestic happiness, and 
 uninterrupted bliss, that attended the earlier months of 
 our union. I believe the following lines, had they been 
 written at that period, would often have been repeated by 
 us both : 
 
"Part from thee ! never— no, my pale, sweet flower. 
 The wealth of worlds would bribe my heart in vain. 
 Though 'twere to give thee up for one short hour — " 
 
 An increase of happiness was now about to be rendered 
 to our already contended home, my beloved wife was in 
 daily expectation of becoming a mother ; often and often 
 did we picture to our delighted imaginations the future 
 scenes of domestic bliss. 
 
 The period of her accouchement arrived, and after con- 
 siderable danger and much protracted pain, she presented 
 me with a daughter. As soon as I was permitted to enter 
 the chamber of my Ellen, and while standing eying her as 
 she caressed her infant, she thus addressed me : " Is she 
 not worthy all my fears ?" — then after a pause added, 
 " With this sweet child at my side, and thee as its father, 
 may we not defy the whole world? — here is happiness, 
 which, with God's will, must render us blessed for ever!" 
 
 On visiting the bedside of the young mother the follow- 
 ing morning, "O my Adolphus," she said, "my mind 
 during the night has been occupied with such beautiful 
 thoughts, upon the double situation I now hold, of mother 
 and wife.— O my dear husband, it is a dear link to earth," 
 she exclaimed, " to love and be beloved ; and will you not 
 sympathize with the beating bosom and anxious heart of a 
 fond mother? — to see our little innocent raise its rosy 
 lips, appealing to us by her smiles, as perfectly as though 
 its tongue were fledged with words !" 
 
 " O yes ! yes, my beloved wife," I replied, " thy husband, 
 and the father of thy child, will ever sympathize with thee. 
 — O my Ellen, it was thy dear self alone that inspired my 
 aflfections ! Now thou hast indeed kindled a fresh claim, 
 even were it wanting, in me. — Yes, my dear wife, I will 
 hold thee close to my heart, I will cling to you in our 
 brighter days, and watch over thee with increased fond- 
 ness in our declining years. In health I will be the par- 
 ticipator of thy joys — in sickness I will press thy pale lip 
 to mine ; and while mine arm hath strength, I will hold 
 thee to my bosom, and repay thee, with my love, all I owe 
 thee." 
 
 Finding the fatigue of conversation, and the emotion 
 caused by this ebullition of her feelings, were overpowering, 
 I begged her to be composed, assuring her I would again 
 see her on my return from the city. 
 
 "God bless you," was her reply. "And pray, my 
 husband, to God to bless our child, with a heart of purity, 
 of holiness !" 
 
 " When evening comes, the glory of the mom, 
 The infant child's a clod of clay." 
 
 On my return from the city, I was greatly distressed to 
 learn from the nurse, that the mother and her infant were 
 
 much indisposed, particularly the latter. Previously to 
 the arrival of the doctor, the child had been seized with 
 convulsions, which baffled all the skill of medicine, and ere 
 midnight had closed the passing day, our little infant, our 
 fondest hope, had ceased to breathe. Thus in one short 
 day was the abode of the fond and anxious mother and her 
 new born babe, converted into the chamber of death. To 
 describe the deep anguish of the recent happy parent would 
 be more than the hand can pen, or the head conceive. 
 While I stood weeping at the bedside of my distressed 
 Ellen, she thus addressed me, " Adolphus, my dear hus- 
 band — they would not let our child live — do you remember 
 only yesterday how we doted upon our darling? — poor little 
 thing ! I heard it cry. — O my dear husband, I will bear 
 this extremity of sorrow for thy dear sake, if it surpasses 
 not the strength of human forbearance." 
 
 I felt my wife now loved me more tenderly than ever. 
 I addressed a few words of comfort to her, and in some de- 
 gree the voice of sorrow was hushed in her heart. 
 
 The great excitement she had undergone, by this time 
 had completely exhausted her, and she sunk into a quiet 
 and peaceful repose. During her sleep, which lasted above 
 an hour, I was left to my all-absorbing thoughts ; though 1 
 knew my wife possessed a strong mind, yet I equally well 
 knew the instinctive feeling of her nature, which, together 
 with her bodily weakness, I much feared would be the 
 prelude to a severe illness. My anticipations became too 
 fully verified — the subsequent two years and more, health 
 was a stranger to our once happy dwelling. My wife's 
 continued sufferings, her nervous excitement, and constant 
 depression of spirits, rendered her an alien to society. 
 Medical practitioners became now the constant inmates of 
 our house ; and though much she wished me not to debar 
 myself of recreative pleasure, yet such was the devotedness 
 of my attachment and determination to be to her in sick- 
 ness the same true friend / had been to her in health, 
 rivetted me to her chamber. Those of my readers who 
 may discover i\i& proi)rice personee in this tragedy of real 
 life, will bear me out in the extreme sufferings she under- 
 went, and the constant and unremitting affection I ever 
 entertained for this devoted partner of my existence. 
 
 After her partial recovery we proceeded to France, and 
 at our return met the congratulations of friends upon my 
 Ellen's comparative restoration to health. 
 
 From this period, and for some months in succession, 
 we had little need of the doctors, and once more our faded 
 hopes revived. The promise of another offspring was 
 again the subject of our conversation and the object of our 
 most fervent wishes. 
 
 The time came, and after forty-eight hours intense 
 suffering my poor wife blessed me with a son — alas J for 
 why ! But the inscrutable wisdom of Providence we dare 
 not impugn! The morn welcomed in the birth of our 
 second child — ^for the evening's twilight to waft its spirit to 
 
 16 
 
4 
 
B 
 
the realms above ; — thus were our regenerated hopes alas ! 
 blasted. To describe the misery of the again deserted 
 chamber, would be but to recapitulate my Ellen's former 
 sorrow, to depict the bitter feelings of dispair — to paint in 
 vivid colours a heart almost instigated to madness, and 
 to harrow up the very essence of misery. Yet in all 
 this scene of domestic affliction a tear upon my cheek 
 would at once disarm my anxious wife of all her grief. 
 
 To dispel my sorrow now became her principal care. 
 Often in my solitary hours have I thought, that woman was 
 bom to grace and smooth the rugged path of life ! To 
 render me happy, and the endeavour to bear the appearance 
 of it herself, was her sole and only thought— the advance- 
 ment of this one endearing sentiment was the prized object 
 of her existence, and its successful termination would have 
 been to her a rich reward. My afflicted wife became less 
 capable, by the delicacy of her frame, from following even 
 the domestic pursuits of her house. The sorrow she 
 endured few scarcely knew — for often when welcoming me 
 with smiles, has her poor heart been nigh to break. 
 
 » • • • Happiness ! 
 
 But no '.not yet — 'twas Heaven's decree 
 
 That I should mt-et more misery — 
 
 Hermit's Stoet. 
 
 » 
 
 The melancholy events mentioned much tended to 
 diminish the health of my poor wife, it had already made 
 sad inroads upon her shattered constitution. Her spirits 
 became so dreadfully depressed, that often would she say 
 to me, "O my dear husband! truly hast thou performed 
 thy pledge, made at the altar of our God. Yet soon shall 
 I bid thee farewell, to join our children in heaven. 
 To-morrow we meet again, and another to-morrow will 
 come also — and I shall be no more seen." 
 
 I was now recommended again to try change of scene, 
 but neither it, nor the skilful aid of our medical advisers, 
 could avert the melancholy catastrophe. Insanity, that 
 saddest of our God's visitations, was now added to her 
 already bitter cup of woe. Her blanched cheek, long pale 
 with sickness — her pensive look — her lip which still fondly 
 smiled — all seemed as though her bewildered mind would 
 say, that / had not been unkind, but that 'twas unkindness 
 had robbed her of her mind's peace. 
 
 So rapidly increased my now unfortunate yet ever 
 beloved wife's disorder, that it became necessary to remove 
 her from my dwelling, to prevent the possibility of self- 
 destruction, which she had more than once attempted, and 
 to place her under the care of proper attendants ; but not 
 in a receptacle for insane persons. No — her request, made 
 on our wedding day, and my compliance, I had not 
 forgotten — every comfort, in her deplorable situation, was 
 by me administered. A faithful and kind-hearted house- 
 
 keeper, with two female attendants, versed in the mode of 
 treating diseased minds, were carefully selected by me, and 
 placed in a house of my own, under the sole direction of a 
 most excellent and amiable physiciEfn. 
 
 Often did I muse to my now lonely self; and when I 
 reflected on the night I first saw my Ellen in tears, at the 
 tragedy of King Lear, little did I imagine to see that 
 dreadful malady raging under our domestic roof. 
 
 Eight mouths passed, and no abatement took place in 
 her wretched situation. Yet in all her sorrows, my Ei.en 
 did not forget her husband; as the following letter will 
 adduce. She was not permitted to write, yet she contrived, 
 in secret, to pen the following lines : 
 
 " O Adolphus ! your wife's miserable end will ere long 
 take place. It would be some alleviation, were I to see 
 you again. Whatever they may say of you in the world, to 
 me my wretched self, you have been a kind and indulgent 
 husband; you have, by your conduct to your lost wife, 
 ruined yourself. May the prayers of the righteous ascend 
 in your behalf. When I told you I had no power in 
 myself, I told you true ; the Almighty dispossessed me. 
 Adolphus ! I am lost ; worms and animals are to visit me 
 this night, and to destroy my body, ere life is extinct, — 
 Yet my dying words I send you — gratitude, I deeply owe 
 to you. O how I have loved you ! And could I recall the 
 time I have passed, those moments, alone with you, were 
 happy. Farewell — farewell! Let me be drowned — but 
 they come to bury me alive. 
 
 " Your wretched and affectionate wife, 
 
 " Ellkn." 
 
 After the receipt of this letter, I could not believe my 
 afflicted wife was insane. But alas the symptoms were too 
 evident; for the next day she would not see me, and her 
 violence alarmed her attendants. Over twelve months did 
 this all-calamitous scene extend, when I again received a 
 letter which left not the shadow of a doubt of her complete 
 recovery. Immediately did I hasten to Dr, P — , who 
 instantly proceeded to ascertain the truth of her apparent 
 sudden recovery ; by him I forwarded a letter of rejoicing, 
 stating that on the morrow I would again see my beloved 
 Ellen. 
 
 Upon the doctor's return, he told to my all eager and 
 listening ear, that my fondest hopes were realized ; to 
 verify which, he handed me the following letter. In haste 
 I broke the seal, and read as follows : 
 
 " Thursday. 21st July, 1830. 
 ' Can it be possible, dearest and best of men, that you 
 
 17 
 
will again see your poor wife? — shall she, will she, be 
 allowed to live with you ? Adolphus ! your kind, 
 affectionate letter, has raised my heart from the depth of 
 misery to the realms of bliss. May the blessed hope, so 
 raised, be realized ! I once, dearest, made you happy, and 
 I feel now confident, give me but the trial, and I will use 
 my every effort to do so again. • * 
 
 '• bless that hand which dictated your letter this morn- 
 ing ! The world will be now to us as nothing; for so will 
 I act to you, that I will defy the world. Your picture I 
 never will part with, it shall be my companion for ever. 
 In all the misery I have endured, for the last twelve 
 months, and before, your image, your kindness, has never 
 ceased to be the theme of my conversation, and the occu- 
 pant of my thoughts, even amidst ideas the most horrid 
 that human being could possess. Come to me, to your wife 
 —and O let me see you — think how I shall feel 1 Come 
 then, my dearest, and transplant me from misery to bliss ! 
 — Delay not, dearest, best of men I — Bless you, dear, dear 
 Adolphus, and thank God for having preserved thy 
 
 "Ellen." 
 
 " Hope revived, 
 
 But soon, alas! the magic spell was done." 
 
 The following morning I once more beheld and received 
 into my arms my beloved wife. The scene I shall never 
 forget But 0, the change the past year of sorrow had 
 wrought upon the person and countenance of my poor 
 Ellen ! how truly did it portray the intensity of misery her 
 mind had suffered ! The pensive melancholy of her eye 
 soon rekindled into the brightness of joy, when I convinced 
 her I had again come to live with her. Now was our 
 paradise regained, and all recollections of the past vanish- 
 ed like snow before the noonday sun ; — the past seemed 
 but as a dream told. 
 
 Our peace of mind, our future prospects, nay, our very 
 hopes, all now bore the semblance of a continued and 
 uninterrupted scene of joy. Six days had we consumed in 
 the most endearing and domestic bliss. The happiness 
 which shone on the pure complexion of my Ellen, evinced 
 the joy of her heart ; her bright eye glittered amid her 
 thick ringlets, till every curl was edged with gold. 
 
 On the seventh day from her recovery, at the earnest 
 request of my beloved Ellen, I took her to town. We 
 visited the various exhibitions, &c., and a happier forenoon 
 I never spent. Shortly after our return home, having 
 finished dinner, my love, under some pretence, left the 
 room; and scarcely had two minutes elapsed ere I heard a 
 heavy noise. I immediately flew to the chamber of my 
 Ellen ; and, O God ! what was my horror to behold the 
 lifeless body of my beloved wife ! On the instant arrival 
 
 of medical aid, the melancholy truth of her having taken 
 poison was preceptible. All professional skill was now 
 useless ; the vital spark had fled, and her pure spirit flown 
 to the regions of our blessed Saviour. I stood for some 
 time motionless, viewing the remains of that beloved being, 
 whose beauty and splendour had so often shed a lively 
 brightness in society. *' God !" exclaimed I, " what a 
 contrast she now is to the lovely being thou created her!" 
 Her eye — that eye I had never seen equalled, and which 
 so intensely remains in my memory — was now closed for 
 ever, to re-wake only to witness the pure, solemn, and 
 beautiful serenity of heaven ! 
 
 O, gentle reader ! on this scene I cannot, dare not dwell. 
 Her life ebbed away in gentle imperceptibleness, and my 
 Ellen ceased to suffer. To her remains, with affection 
 overwhelmed with suffering, did I pay the last sad tribute 
 of faithful attachment, and consigned her to a resting-place 
 free from those hopes and fears which, in her short sojourn 
 in this world, rendered her so truly miserable. Upon the 
 stone that marks her bed of rest, are these words written — 
 
 Here lies a hapless one. 
 That lived— that loved— w dead . 
 • * • ♦ * 
 
 I now became 
 
 •• Like one lost in a thorny road, 
 
 That rends the thorns, and is rent with the thorns. 
 Seeking a way and straying from the way ; 
 Not knowing how to find the open air. 
 But toiling desperately to find it out." 
 
 Thus far did misfortune and the bitter lot of life follow 
 me. The seven years previous to the commencement of 
 this narrative could equally unfold a tale abounding with 
 the most trying vicissitudes. But of all my sorrows, this 
 last sad stroke was the downfall of my hopes. Now, alas ! 
 did I contemplate alone my changed condition: — 
 bereft of child — of wife — of home I 
 
 By this time it had become necessary to acknowledge 
 the many letters of condolence I had received. From one 
 only shall I make extract ; it was from the father of my 
 EUen. 
 
 «< Mrs. and myself most sincerely and affectionately 
 
 condole with you on this most sudden and melancholy 
 event, alike distressing to us as yourself. And it is the more 
 so, as we anticipated from late accounts the termination of 
 that delusion with which it had pleased Providence to 
 afflict our departed relative. To the will of the Almighty 
 it is our duty to submit. Be assured, my dear Sir, ue are 
 both sensible of the kindness which you have ever evinced 
 to our departed daughter, such as will remain long, long 
 in my memory. ♦•****Iam well aware of your 
 irreparable loss ; time alone, and the reflection of having 
 
 18 
 
done your duty as an affectionate husband, will be your 
 best consolation." 
 
 I had scarcely had time to collect my scattered thoughts, 
 and look into my financial concerns, ere the pressing 
 demand of creditors was made upon me. My poor Ellen's 
 late illness had cost me above eleven hundred pounds. 
 In the emergency of the case, and with the view of obtaining 
 time, I applied to my father-in-law for temporary assist- 
 ance. I obtained it not; but, in reply to my application, 
 received a letter, stating, that as all relationship had ceased 
 between us, so had all my claim upon him. Hurt at this 
 cold, calculating caution from a man who had witnessed 
 and acknowledged my unerring and uniform conduct to his 
 afflicted daughter, my heart shuddered at the unfeeling- 
 ness of a world through which I had yet many years to 
 struggle. Hope thus baffled in a channel where I had a 
 double claim, my mind became distracted, and willingly 
 would I have closed my eyes upon the ingratitude of the 
 world, to have re-opened them in that kingdom where my 
 wife now reposed in peace. 
 
 To add to my all-accumulated catalogue of misery, I was 
 summoned, at this period, to attend the funeral of an 
 endeared and fond mother, inflicting another pang on my 
 almost bankrupt heart. Thus arrived that moment of my 
 existence when I could have exclaimed with our Saviour, 
 " When will this bitter cup pass from me ?" but could 
 scarcely, from frenzy, add, " O Lord, thy will, not mine, be 
 done." Disconsolate and alsne — not even a timid hope to 
 nurse in silence — every ray of future happiness now 
 extinct — not even a relict of my former days, save what a 
 memory pregnant with misery could afford, rendered my 
 anguish too oppressive. The unceasing and unrelenting 
 demand of creditors added to the more unfeeling conduct 
 of those whose aid ought to have been voluntary, dispos- 
 sessed me of nerve ; I became enervated and neglectful of 
 business, and in a few months, from severe mercantile 
 losses, I quitted with disgust a scene fraught with hearts of 
 lifeless mass, that flutter and float, and will for ever, on 
 the sea of life. Yet in my solitude, one regret will be ever 
 extant in my pensive thoughts — the sorrow that in my fall 
 a truly valuable and venerated father, and other branches 
 of a united family, have been too deeply sufferers. But 
 even amid sorrows such as mine, to live in their esteem is 
 yet a blessing rendering life desirable. 
 
 Such, alas ! has been 
 
 " • • • the story of my life — 
 I've felt the loss of child — of wife — 
 Of friend— of fortune— every joy 
 Which God can give, or man destroy." 
 
 And thus, " I have lifted the painted veil which men 
 call life." 
 
 THE JEW'S LOVE OF JERUSALEM. 
 
 The missionary Wolff met at Jerusalem with some 
 aged Jews, who came from Poland to die there. One of 
 them said to him, " It is not pleasant now to live in 
 Palestine, but it is pleasant to die in this land, and all of 
 us here have come to die in the land of Israel." 
 
 Returning from a stranger land, 
 We come, a feeble, aged band, 
 To linger out life's fading hours, 
 Beside our ruined Salem's towers ; 
 Where once exulting myriads trode 
 To throng the fame of Judah's God, 
 With trembling pace her exiles creep. 
 Lean on the way-worn staff, and weep. 
 
 The spicy breath of Lebanon 
 Our welcome sighs, and passes on ; 
 We stand on Olivet's ascent. 
 Where royal David weeping went. 
 Behold yon spot, profaned by foes, 
 'Twas there our beauteous Temple rose; 
 But not a vestige, not a stone. 
 Tells where Jehovah's dwelling shone ! 
 
 Unmeet it were for us to dwell 
 
 Where Pagan hymns through Zion swell 
 
 And day by day, with callous eye, 
 
 Gaze on her faded majesty. 
 
 And view the gorgeous mosque arise, 
 
 Where blaz'd her holiest sacrifice. 
 
 Beneath the crescent's impious prid<> 
 
 It is not meet that we abide. 
 
 But, oh ! how pleasant 'tis to die 
 Where Israel's ruin'd glories lie ! 
 How sweet to bid her children's bones 
 Blend with the dust of Salem's stones ! 
 Her's is the mould beneath them spread, 
 And her's the sod above their head. 
 E'en the cold worm with slimy coil. 
 Is welcome, bred in Judah's soil. 
 
 Soon shall these weary frames of ours 
 Dissolve like Salem's crumbling towers; 
 Her outcast tribes no longer come 
 To greet her as their hallowed home; 
 But sadly joy to lay their head 
 Beneath hor foe's insulting tread ; 
 To fall by her they could not save ; 
 Their glory once, and now their grave ! 
 
 -,. 
 
 19 
 
DEVOTEES AND THE RELICS. 
 
 Put — ^but oh ! despise them not, 
 
 For thine is a resplendent lot. 
 
 Wealth, ease, and freedom hast thou known ; 
 
 'Mid boundless knowledge hast thou grown : 
 
 From land to land thy feet have trod, 
 
 To mark the ways of man and God : 
 
 To give thy spirit scope and might ; 
 
 To find, to choose, to do the right. 
 
 But they — though born among the hills 
 
 Where Nature speaks and Freedom thrills. 
 
 Yet could not raise their heads to share 
 
 The awful wisdom hovering there. 
 
 Life's pressing cares, life's daily need, 
 
 The Sire of all to them decreed; 
 
 And priestly arts, traditions old, 
 
 Have bound their spirits, fold on fold. 
 
 Oh shame ! oh pity ! that the base, 
 
 Heaven's gladsome light — heaven's glorious grace, 
 
 With felon hands should dare control. 
 
 And feed upon the human soul. 
 
 These — these — the evil power have felt ; 
 
 To stocks and stones have trembling knelt ; 
 
 And poured the spirit's prayer forlorn 
 
 To things which are a very scorn. 
 
 Weak is the judgment — weak and wrong ; 
 
 But oh, the heart ! the heart is strong ; 
 
 That — nature's strong-hold — has withstood 
 
 All creeds, all follies, — simply good : 
 
 That, on the forms low bending there 
 
 Has stamped devotion's living air. 
 
 Their faith may err ; yet shall its wing 
 
 To heaven their trusting spirits bring. 
 
 Like their own mountains wrapt in cloud. 
 
 Their nature, dimmed but never bowed. 
 
 Shall stand in patience firm as they. 
 
 Till bursts the gloom~andall is day. 
 
 MOUNTAIN MARY. 
 
 By raven rock where roars the stream, 
 
 Meand'ring down yon dingle, 
 Where from the chinks of Wallace* cave 
 
 The oozing droppers tingle, — 
 I sat and woo'd the fairest maid 
 
 I ever call'd my deary ; 
 To screen the blast, the sloe-shrub shade 
 
 Bloom'd round my Mountain Mary. 
 
 A sun-beam glinted down the glen. 
 And shew'd the furze in bio&som ; 
 
 So from the folds of Mary's robe 
 
 Glinted her lily bosom. 
 The ev'ning star, at setting sun, 
 
 Shone o'er the heights of Breary ; 
 So from her jetty ringlets shone 
 
 The eyes of Mountain Mary. 
 
 I've seen her, down yon green hill's brow. 
 
 At dewy eve descending, 
 The milky flocks all gazing round — 
 
 The little lambs attending. 
 Did not my heart with rapture swell? 
 
 And what could make me dreary ? 
 When, 'mid the brachens in the vale, 
 
 I met my Mountain Mary. 
 
 Thrice have the sun's faint beams oblique 
 
 Scarce clear'd the southern mountains,— 
 Thrice has the steely breath of frost 
 
 Enchain'd the bubbling fountains; 
 And thrice the humble blue- bell bloom'd 
 
 By yonder yew-copse dreary, 
 To deck the turf that wastes the shroud 
 
 Of my sweet Mountain Mary. 
 
 How brightly shone the morning beam ! 
 
 No eye could reckless view it! 
 What had the noontide radiance been. 
 
 Had the dire Fates allow'd it? 
 Dark, deep, and drear the tempest blew — 
 
 She droop'd, all pale and weary; 
 Now lonely I the dingle view. 
 
 Bereft of Mountain Mary. 
 
 Foud memory to this heart is dear — 
 
 Fancy the past beguiling; 
 Fond Memory brings my Mary near. 
 
 And fancy shews her smiling. 
 I may forget dear Friendship's ties. 
 
 Which oft have made me cheery-- 
 I may forget all other loves, 
 
 But not my Mountain Mary. 
 
 Marriage. — Sir Thomas More compares a man going 
 to be married to one who puts his hand into a sack, in the 
 hope of drawing out a single eel from among a hundred 
 vipers. " It is a hundred to one," adds he, " but he will 
 pick out a viper." Lord Bacon maintains a directly con- 
 trary opinion, and asserts, " that in this marriage sack, the 
 eels would be in the ratio of a hundred to one of the 
 vipers." Perhaps, after all, the eels and the vipers are 
 mingled in nearly an equal proportion, and all we have to 
 do, is to make the best choice we can. 
 
 20 
 
Djrawn'bT f' T ^^ 
 
 U. I. iija 
 
 /y 
 
 ^^yM^^yzyi/' . ^&^^^'- 
 
A REVERIE OF ARCADIA. 
 
 And where they happy, who of old did dwell 
 
 In this fair world of changeless flowers and skies ? 
 
 Whose life flowed calmly on as poets tell: 
 Did no immortal hopes or yearnings rise. 
 
 On their strong wings to bear the eternal soul, 
 Bid her these listless joys of earth despise. 
 
 And spurn the narrow world that would her flight con- 
 trol? 
 
 They knew no crimes; they had no mad desires, 
 No burning hopes, to wear the wasted frame 
 
 With the fierce bickering of incessant fires; 
 One day rolled on in peace — another came 
 
 As glad, as bright, as holy as the last; 
 
 The sons in quiet lived, as lived their sires. 
 
 And sank in gentle sleep, when their long life was past. 
 
 Were they then happy? Did no stronger mind 
 Rise in its daring, high beyond the rest, 
 
 And mourn their briefer scope to earth confined. 
 Deeming itself, with all its longings, blest 
 
 Far more than they, who knew no wish nor pain. 
 Nor lifted to the stars their eager quest. 
 
 Nor ever did to Heaven of worlds unknown complain? 
 
 They had their gods and temples ;— but their gifts 
 Were calmly offered up with grateful hearts : 
 
 They knew not that full prayer the soul that lifts 
 Towards the Eternal, when from earth she parts. 
 
 Driven from all mortal trust, and crushed with woe. 
 First with faint flight — then like an eagle, starts 
 
 Far above tears and guilt ! — that rest they could not 
 know ! 
 
 Their Arcady was blooming all the year, 
 
 The earth poured ever forth new fruits and flowers : 
 
 Look at this Eden ! They were dwellers here ! 
 Unworn by toil they lived through sunny hours : — 
 
 Were they not harppy ? Does their record say. 
 
 That they have mourned amid these laughing bowers ? 
 
 Or has their memory faded quite away? 
 
 Aye, there are records— of a man who dared 
 
 To storm high Heaven, and pluck down living fire : 
 
 Thus was the boundless might of mind declared; 
 Thus did the god-like to brave deeds aspire ! 
 
 Erewhile I deemed these shepherds less than men. 
 Who lived in sloth without one bold desire. 
 
 But here, once more, 1 know our daring race again. 
 
 What, though swift ruin came ? Arcadian bliss 
 Was man's no more — Arcadian idleness ! 
 
 A noble spirit rues not joys like this, 
 
 But through life's hottest tumults on will press. 
 
 Happier, in all his fight with grief and crime, 
 If once his aid a sorrowing soul may bless. 
 
 Than if in drowsy ease he lived through countless time! 
 
 W. B. C. 
 
 LOCKS OF HAIR. 
 
 FROM AN ALBUM IN WHICH ARE PLACED THE HAIR OF 
 RELATIVES. 
 
 Bi/ George Emerson, 
 
 When parents fancy they can trace. 
 
 Much beauty in their infants' face. 
 What gives those claims increasing grace? 
 
 Young Locks of Hair. 
 
 When ringlets wildly o'er the brow. 
 
 Flaunt to the winds — they quickly know. 
 New pleasures, and more proudly show 
 
 The Locks of Hair. 
 
 With rapture they are quite elate. 
 
 But if Death spoils their happy state. 
 What yields a balm to soothe their fate ? 
 
 Sweet Locks of Hair! 
 
 The lover's language — often vain— 
 Is urged, in many a fervent strain, 
 To his fair maid, that he may gain 
 
 A Lock of Hair. 
 
 When friends must visit distant parts. 
 
 They interchange to ease their hearts. 
 And check the tear that often starts. 
 
 Their Locks of Hail. 
 
 Though gone the Locks — the tear of pearl 
 
 Falls o'er the aged Lover's curl. 
 Or when friends meet they'll all unfurl 
 
 Those Locks of Hair. 
 
 When soul from body takes its flight, 
 
 What gives surviving friends delight. 
 When viewed by day, express'd by night ! 
 
 Their Locks of Hair. 
 
 Then keep, dear girl, those relics dear. 
 
 When we are gone drop the fond tear. 
 And think our guardian spirits near, 
 
 Those Locks of Hair. 
 
 2' 
 
DESCRIPTIONS OF MORNING. 
 
 OLD POETS. 
 
 ■Now 'gins the mora 
 To open to the earth heaven's eastern gates. 
 Displaying by degrees the new-born light ; — 
 The young day's sentinel, the morning star. 
 Now drives before him all his glittering flock, 
 And bids them rest within the fold unseen ; 
 Till with his whistle Hesperus calls them forth. 
 Now Titan up and ready, calls aloud, 
 And bids the rolling hours bestir them quick, 
 And harness up his prancing, foaming steeds, 
 To hurry out the sun's bright chariot : 
 O, now I hear their trampling feet approach ! 
 Now, now, I see that glorious lamp to dart 
 His nearer beams, and all bepaint with gold 
 The over-peeping tops of highest hills. 
 
 Hawkins. 
 Aurora, see, puts on her crimson blush, 
 And with resplendent rays gilds o'er the top 
 Of yon aspiring hill ! the pearly dew 
 Hangs on the rosebud's top; and knowing it 
 Must be anon exhsd'd, for sorrow shrinks 
 Itself into a tear. The early lark, 
 With other winged choristers of the morn 
 Chanting their Jinthems in harmonious airs. 
 
 Lewis Sharp. 
 The rosy-fingered morn did there disclose 
 
 Her beauty, ruddy as a blooming bride ; 
 Gilding the marigold, painting the rose ; 
 
 With Indian chrysolites her cheeks were dyed. 
 
 Baron. 
 Now morn, her rosy steps i' the eastern clime 
 Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl. 
 
 Milton. 
 The purple morning left her crimson bed. 
 And donn'd her robes, of pure vermilion hue ; 
 Her amber locks she crown'd with roses red, 
 In Eden's flowery gardens gather'd new. 
 
 * • • • « 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 ODE WRITTEN IN WINTER. 
 
 While in the sky black clouds impend. 
 And fogs arise, and rains descend. 
 And one brown prospect opens round 
 Of leafless trees and furrowed ground ; 
 Save were unmelted spots of snow 
 Upon the shaded hill-side show ; 
 While chill winds blow, and torrents roll ; — 
 The scene disgusts the sight, depresses all the soul. 
 
 Yet worse what polar climates share — 
 Vasrc regions, dreary, bleak, and bare ! — 
 There, on an icy mountain's height. 
 Seen only by the moon's pale light, 
 Stern Winter rears his giant form, 
 His robe a mist, his voice a storm : 
 His frown the shivering nations fly. 
 And hid for half the year in smoky caverns lie. 
 
 Yet there the lamp's perpetual blaze 
 Can pierce the gloom with cheering rays ; 
 Yet there the heroic tale or song 
 Can urge the lingering hours along ; 
 Yet there their hands with timely care 
 The kajak* and the dart prepare, 
 On summer seas to work their way. 
 And wage the watery war, and make the seals their prey. 
 
 Too delicate ! reproach no more 
 The seasons of thy native shore- 
 There soon shall Spring descend the sky, 
 With smiling brow and placid eye ; 
 A primrose wreath surrounds her hair, 
 Her green robe floats upon the air; 
 And, scattered from her liberal hand. 
 Fair blossoms deck the trees, fair flowers adorn the land. 
 
 SCOTT, 
 
 CHARACTER OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 BT sib W. DAVENANT. 
 
 She ne'er saw courts, yet courts could have undone 
 
 With untaught looks, and an unpractis'd heart ; 
 Her nets, the most prepar'd could never shun, 
 
 For nature spread them in the scorn of art 
 She ni ver had in busy cities been ; 
 
 Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor e'er allay'dwith fears; 
 Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin ; 
 
 And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears. 
 
 Quintessence of English Poetry. 
 
 * A Greenland fishing-boat 
 
 ., 
 
 22 
 
FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 wolsey's advice. 
 
 -Thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
 
 And when I am forgotten, as 1 shall be. 
 
 And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention 
 
 Of me must more be heard — say I taught thee — 
 
 Say WoLSEY, that once trod the ways of glory, 
 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 
 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; 
 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 
 
 Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me : 
 
 Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away Ambition; 
 
 By that sin fell the Angels ; how can man, then, 
 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? 
 
 Love thyself least : cherish those hearts that hate thee : 
 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty : — 
 
 Still in thy right-hand carry gentle peace ; 
 
 To silence envious tongues, " Be just and fear not:" 
 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy Country's, 
 
 Thy God's, and Truth's: then, if thou fall'st, Cromwell ! 
 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. 
 
 DUELLING. 
 
 Your words have took such pains, as if they laboured 
 
 To bring manslaughter into form, set quarrelling 
 
 Upon the head of valour ; which indeed 
 
 Is valour misbegot, and came into the world 
 
 When sects and factions were but newly born : 
 
 He's truly valiant, that can wisely suffer 
 
 The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs 
 
 His outsides ; to wear them like his raiment, carelessly. 
 
 And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, 
 
 To bring it into danger. 
 
 If wrongs be evils, and enforce us kill, 
 
 What folly 'tis to hazard life for ill! 
 
 ♦ STMPATHT. 
 
 Ariel. If you now beheld them, your aiffections 
 
 Would become tender. 
 
 Prospero. Dost thou think so, Spirit? 
 
 Ari Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 
 Pkos, And mine shall. 
 
 Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 
 Of their afflictions; and shall not myself. 
 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, 
 Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art ? 
 Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick. 
 Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury 
 Do I take part: the rarer action is 
 In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent, 
 The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
 Not a frown further.— 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 That strain again ; — it had a dying fall ; 
 — ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet South, 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
 Stealing, and giving odour ! — 
 
 SONG IN CTUBBLINB. 
 
 Hark ! hark 1 the lark at Heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those Springs 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies; 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes; 
 With every thing that pretty bin:* 
 
 My lady sweet arise ! — 
 Arise! arise ! 
 
 • Is. 
 
 IRWAN'S VALE. 
 
 Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale. 
 My infant years where fancy led ; 
 
 And soothed me with the western gale 
 Her wild dreams waving rouud my head. 
 
 While the blithe blackbird told his tale. 
 
 — Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 The primrose on the valley's side, 
 
 The green thyme on the mountain's head. 
 
 The wanton rose, the daisy pied. 
 The wilding's blossom blushing red ; 
 
 No longer I their sweets inhale. 
 
 — Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 How oft, within yon vacant shade. 
 Has evening closed my careless eye I 
 
 How oft, along the banks I've strayed. 
 And watched the wave that wandered by ! 
 
 Full long their loss shall I bewail. 
 
 — Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 Yet still, within yon vacant grove, 
 To mark the close of parting day ; 
 
 Along yon flowery banks to rove , 
 
 And watch the wave that winds away. 
 
 Fair fancy sure shall never fail; 
 
 Though far from these and Irwan's vale' 
 
 LANGHORNE. 
 
 23 
 
THE HAPPY PEASANT 
 
 The peasant, innocent of all these ills, 
 With crooked ploughs the fertile fallow tills. 
 And the round year with daily labour fills ; 
 From hence the country markets are supplied : 
 Enough remains for household charge beside, 
 His wife and tender children to sustain. 
 And gratefully to feed his dumb deserving train. 
 Nor cease his labours, till the yellow field 
 A full return of bearded harvest yield — 
 A crop so plenteous as the land to load, 
 O'ercome the crowded barns, and lodge on ricks abroad. 
 Thus ev'ry several season is employed. 
 Some spent in toil, and some in ease enjoyed. 
 The yeaning yews prevent the springing year : 
 The laded boughs their fruits in autumn bear : 
 'Tis then the vine her liquid harvest yields, 
 Baked in the sunshine of ascending fields. 
 The winter comes ; and then the falling mast 
 For greedy swine provides a full repast : 
 Then olives, ground in mills, their fatness boast. 
 And winter fruits are mellowed by the frost. 
 His cares are eased with intervals of bliss ; 
 His little children, climbing for a kiss. 
 Welcome their father's late return at night; 
 His faithful bed is crowned with chaste delight. 
 His kine with swelling udders ready stand. 
 And, lowing for the pail, invite the milker's hand. 
 His wanton kids, with budding horns prepared, 
 Fight harmless battles in his homely yard : 
 Himself in rustic pomp, on Holy-days, 
 To rural pow'rs a just oblation pays, 
 And on the Green his careless limbs displays. 
 The hearth is in the midst: the herdsmen, round 
 The cheerful fire, provoke his health in goblets crowned. 
 He calls on Bacchus, and propounds the prize: 
 The groom his fellow groom at buts defies, 
 And bends his bow, and levels with his eyes. 
 Or, stript for wrestling, smears his limbs with oil, 
 And watches, with a trip his foe to foil. 
 Such was the life the frugal Sabines led : 
 So Remus and his brother god were bred. 
 From whom the austere Etrurian virtue rose; 
 And this rude life our homely fathers chose. 
 Old Rome from such a race derived her birth, 
 (The seat of empire, and the conquered earth) 
 Which now on sev'n high hills triumphant reigns. 
 And in that compass all the world contains; 
 Ere Saturn's rebel son usurped the skies. 
 When beasts were only slain for sacrifice. 
 While peaceful Crete enjoyed her ancient lord. 
 Ere sounding hammers forged th' inhuman sword. 
 
 Ere hollow drums were beat, before the breath 
 Of brazen trumpets rung the peal of death, 
 The good old god his hunger did assuage 
 With roots and herbs, and gave the golden age. 
 
 DRYDEN's VIRGIL. 
 
 SHEPHERD'S SONG. 
 
 BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOW. 
 (1590). 
 
 GoHE, live with me, and be my love. 
 And we will all the pleasures prove, 
 That hiU and valley, dale and field. 
 And all the craggy mountains yield ! 
 
 There will vie sit upon the rocks, 
 And see the shepherds feed their flooJcs, 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 
 There will I make thee beds of roses. 
 With a thousand fragrant poesies ; 
 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle. 
 Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool. 
 Which from our pretty lambs we'll pull ; 
 Slippers lined choicely for the cold; 
 With buckles of the purest gold. 
 
 A belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
 With coral clasps, and amber studs :— 
 And if these pleasures may thee move. 
 Then live with me, and be my love ' 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
 For thy delight each May-morning: — 
 If these delights thy mind may move 
 Then live with me, and be mv love .' 
 
' \«VI.,»\U. AMY HO!3SAHr St JANKi, 
 
 l/3mdan, ■puHlishKl Aug* 1'.'1834 by Simpkin it Marshall- Stationers Co-cxM k. J.WStcvcasJO.UerbirStroet "Kmg"s Cross. 
 
INNOCENCE. 
 
 Still, at the new-moon's joyous birth, 
 Raise, Phidyle, thy hands from earth; 
 With incense and with spicy showers 
 Propitiate the Eternal Powers ! 
 
 Then constant on thy bending vine 
 Clear skies and fostering suns shall shine ; 
 Nor tempest's angry scowl descend, 
 The harvest's joyous hopes to rend ; 
 
 No mildew, in the vernal night. 
 The year's young promise rudely blight, 
 And Autumn's noxious clouds in vain 
 Shall hover o'er thy fleecy train. 
 
 From Algidus's snowy head, 
 Or Alba's hilly pastures, led, 
 Where Pontiff's altars proudly gleam. 
 The victim pours his crimson stream. 
 
 Thee no rich offering befits. 
 Since Heaven a lowlier pledge permits 
 On guiltless hands the blessing lies 
 More than the costly sacrifice ! 
 
 For myrtle wreaths, and rosemary. 
 Thy household gods will smile on thee. 
 Though mortals all their store dispense, 
 The gift best loved is Inmocbmce. 
 
 PSALM CXLVIII. 
 
 Alleluia ! cheerly sing 
 Praises to the Heavenly King; 
 To the God supremely great. 
 Alleluia in the height. 
 
 Praise him, arch-angelic band. 
 Ye that in his presence stand; 
 Praise him, ye that watch and pray, 
 Michael's myriads in array. 
 
 Praise him. Sun, at each extreme. 
 Orient streak and western beam; 
 Moon and stars of mystic dance. 
 Silvering in the blue expanse. 
 
 Praise him, O ye heights that soar. 
 Heaven and heaven for evermore ; 
 
 And ye streams of living rill 
 Higher yet and purer still. 
 
 Let them praise his glorious name, 
 From whose fruitful word they came ; 
 And they first began to be 
 As he gave the great decree. 
 
 Their constituent parts he founds 
 For duration without bounds ; 
 And their covenant has sealed. 
 Which shall never be repealed. 
 
 Praise the Lord on earth's domains . 
 Praise, ye mutes, that sea contains; 
 They that on the surface leap, 
 And the dragons of the deep. 
 
 Battering hail, and fires that glow, 
 Streaming vapours, plumy snow ; 
 Wind and storm, his wrath incurred, 
 Winged and pointed at his word. 
 
 Mountains of enormous scale. 
 Every hill, and every vale; 
 Fruit trees of a thousand dyes. 
 Cedars that perfume the skies 1 
 
 Beasts that haunt the woodland maze, 
 Nibbling flocks and droves that gaze ; 
 Reptiles of amphibious breed. 
 Feathered millions formed for speed. 
 
 Kings, with Jesus for their guide. 
 Peopled regions far and wide ; 
 Heroes of their country's cause, 
 Princes, judges of the laws. 
 
 Age and childhood, youth and maid,' 
 To his name your praise be paid ; 
 For his Word is worth alone 
 Far above his crown and throne. 
 
 He shall dignify the crest 
 
 Of his people, raised and blest ; 
 
 While we serve with praise and prayers. 
 
 All in Christ his saints and heirs. 
 
 23 
 
DIEPPE. 
 
 The dull, flat monotony of the French coast, is the subject 
 of general remark on the approach of it from the sea, and is 
 strongly contrasted with the bold, craggy, and precipitous 
 aspect of that of England. This feature applies to almost 
 every portion of the opposite continent ; and, with the ex- 
 ception of the short range of hilly land on which stands its 
 once-important fortress, Dieppe partakes of the general 
 characteristic. To the English visitor, however, it has some 
 claim to peculiar interest. 
 
 The castle is finely seated on the crest of a lofty eminence, 
 which completely commands the town, and forms a beauti- 
 ful feature in the local scenery. It is of great antiquity, 
 and was a post of no inconsiderable value to the English 
 during their possession of Normandy ; by whom in a great 
 measure it was rebuilt, or, at least, enlarged. It varies 
 little from the general style of the numerous strong-holds 
 which a few centuries ago, studded the French coast. The 
 castle is surrounded by a high rampart, protected at the 
 angles by circular towers, originally introduced into the 
 prevailing military architecture by the Crusaders; each 
 tower crowned by a conical roof of a much more modern 
 date. It is only by personal influence with the authorities 
 that access can be obtained to the castle, and the splendid 
 view from it will well reward the curiosity of the visitor. 
 The marine scenery is busy and beautiful; and that towards 
 the land, rich and varied, spreading over a vast extent of 
 well-cultivated country. 
 
 The enormous crucifix on the quay is the first object which 
 especially attracts notice, on approaching Dieppe from the 
 sea; and from the bustle which every where prevails, the 
 stran<^er is impressed with an erroneous idea of the extraor- 
 dinary commercial activity of the port. In truth, it is 
 chiefly indebted for its prosperity to its intercourse with 
 England; although its merchants may claim the distinction 
 of having first imported Elephants* teeth into Europe, from 
 Africa, about 1554, The town has all the external appear- 
 ances of great antiquity. The houses are chiefly of stone, 
 with high slanting roofs and over-hanging narrow and filthy 
 streets ; and there are two churches, one of them dedicated 
 to St. Jacques, finished, but in very bad taste, partly in the 
 highly-enriched Gothic style of the fourteenth century. 
 The head dress of the female inhabitants of Dieppe is 
 singularly curious, and has prevailed uninfluenced by 
 fashionable modifications, from a very early period : it con- 
 sists of a pasteboard frame, about half a yard high, the 
 lower part covered with silk, in many instances edged with 
 gold or silver lace ; above this is an enormous lappet of 
 muslin, and the whole presents an appearance extremely 
 picturesque. The neighbourhood of Dieppe is celebrated in 
 historical recollections, from its having been the scene of 
 the battle in which Henry IV. defeated the duke of May enne. 
 
 CROMA, (from Ossian.) 
 
 The king commands my fleet, with flowing sail, 
 
 Directs its course to lovely Inisfail, 
 
 And safely moors in Croma's sounding bay 
 
 Where Crothar, Fingal's friend, maintains his sway. 
 
 But aged, blind, distressed, sunk in woe, 
 
 Attack'd by ruthless Rothmar as a foe ; 
 
 His call the ready aid of Fingal draws, 
 
 And Ossian lands to vindicate his cause 
 
 With these glad tidings tuneful bands I sent. 
 With Morven's sons to Crothar's halls I went; 
 Amid his father's arms the Chief we found. 
 His eyes had fail'd, involv'd in night profound ; 
 Around his staff his hoary locks were spread. 
 And on his bosom lean'd his careful head. 
 How soon he heard our forces move along, 
 Of other times he humm'd the solemn song, 
 Rose from his seat, and trembling grasp'd my hand, 
 And welcomd me with blessings to his land, 
 
 " Ossian," he said, " mine arm has lost its force. 
 My feet have fail'd in the rapid course — 
 
 could I wield the steel of beamy light 
 
 As when at Strutha Fingal rul'd the fight,— 
 Fingal of mortal man the highest name ; 
 But Crothar wanted not his share of fame ; — 
 E'en he with praise bestow'd the bossy shield. 
 Which Crothar bore as lightning through the field. 
 There hangs the trophy which I proudly bore, 
 But Crothar's eyes can see it now no more ; 
 Strong as thy father's cau'st thou lift the steel, — 
 Thy brawny arm let sightless Crothar feel," 
 
 1 reach'd to him mine arm — quick rose his sight — 
 Fast flow'd the tear adown from either eye : 
 
 " Though strong, my son — thy father's stronger far, 
 Excells in strength the strongest sons of war; 
 Now let the feast within my halls be spread. 
 And let the song provoke the warlike deed : 
 Great is the man who deigns our feast to share, 
 A far fam'd Hero, Croma's son is here." 
 
 The feast is spread, and harps of sweetest sound 
 Strive to excite the joy of all around ; 
 But inward grief forbade the mirth to glow, 
 And bitter drops of sorrow darkly flow ; 
 Stopt was each voice — the mirthful music dies, 
 And Crothar's bosom heaves with piercing sigh — 
 But not a tear falls from his sightless eyes — 
 His tale of woe, with seeming firmness given, 
 Was like the moon-beam on the cloud of Heaven. 
 
 " While sorrow dimly dwells on every face. 
 Dark is our feast to mighty Fingal's race. 
 But no sad darkness dwells in Crothar's breast — 
 When my brave friends sat smiling round my feast. - 
 
 26 
 
Within my hall the stranger sung with joy, 
 Dear to my soul when bloom'd my lovely boy ; 
 But, like the meteor of the gloomy night. 
 He fell, and falling left no gleam of light: 
 He boldly dar'd to fight a father's strife — 
 He bravely died to save a father's life. 
 
 " Rothmar had heard the chief of Fromla's race. 
 Mine eyes had fail'd, mine arms had found their place ; 
 Against my age arose his haughty pride — 
 He fought, he conquered, and my people died : 
 I seized my arms with heart oppress'd with woe. 
 But what, alas! could sightless Crothar do? 
 
 for the days, I said, when strong I stood, 
 Days when I fought and won in fields of blood; 
 When lo ! my son returned from the chase. 
 Fair Favergarmo, last of all my race. 
 
 As yet he had not prov'd the spear and shield, 
 For youth deny'd to reap the bloody fieVd; 
 But from his eye-balls dart the martial fires, 
 To match the brave bis ardent soul aspires. 
 
 At my unequal steps his sigh arose, 
 As his warm heart with filial ardour glows. 
 " Why, my father, why these weighty arms, 
 Hast thou no son to shield thee from alarms ; 
 A manly strength I now begin to know, 
 
 1 swing thy sword, and I have bent thy bow; 
 O let me meet fierce Kothmar, and engage. 
 With Croma's youth the utmost of his rage ; 
 Why should my father such a suit control, — 
 grant the wishes of my ardent soul." 
 Charm'd with my darling youth, I thus begun; — 
 And thou shalt meet him, sightless Crotha's son; 
 But let the bravest fight beside thine arm. 
 
 And aid thy youth, and guard thee in alarm. 
 That I may hail the tread of thy return, 
 And be not left a childless sire to mourn. 
 
 He march'd, he met, he fought the daring foe — 
 He fell — to me the cause of ceaseless woe. 
 Again is Rothmar's battle drawing near, 
 To shake at Croma's walls his bloody spear. 
 
 Hence be the feast, I said; I seized my shield; 
 The deathful sword, and heavy spear I wield ; 
 My heros saw the lightning of mine eyes. 
 And round their chief a gallant host arise : 
 To meet the foe we camped on the heath. 
 And long'd for morn to dare the deeds of death. 
 The early dawn display'd its cheering beam, — 
 A vale appears, where fiows a rushing stream; 
 Along its banks dark Rothmar's army lies, 
 But seeing us with shouts they quickly rise. 
 We fought — and long the tide of battle roared. 
 Till Rothmar fell beneath my vengeful sword ; 
 Then o'er the heath his scatt'ring anny flew — 
 With bloody haste my conqu'ring troops pursue. 
 
 The setting sun vermillioned all the land, 
 When Rothmar's head I gave to Crothar's hand; 
 The aged felt the armour of his foe. 
 And dawning joy assumes the place of woe. 
 
 Now to the hall the joyful people haste, 
 The harp resounds, and makes the mirthfi'l feast ; 
 Five hoary bards, amidst the ardent throng. 
 In Ossians praise pour forth the mirthful song; 
 Full of the theme they chant the mirthful lay, 
 And mirth and triumph wing the hours away. 
 With joy the heart of Croma's sons expand. 
 For peace blooms o'er a lately bleeding land. 
 No daring foe since gloomy Rothmar's fall 
 Assaults, or Croma's tribe, or Croma's wall. 
 
 I rais'd the song to Favergarmo's shade. 
 When low in earth the lovely youth was laid; 
 Crothar, though then suppress'd the mournful moan, 
 But search'd the wounds of his beloved son ; 
 Full in the breast he found the deathful place. 
 And conscious pride illumes his aged face. 
 To Ossian, full of joy, the aged came, 
 O King of spears, my Hero fell with fame : 
 In dastard flight he yielded not to breath. 
 But, daring danger, met the pointed death. 
 
 Happy are they iu early youth who die — 
 Short is their day, but their renown is high ; 
 Within their halls no feeble sneering bands 
 Mark with derisive smile their trembling hands ; 
 The Virgin's secret tear for them is shed. 
 And songs embalm their memory when dead. 
 
 Not so the aged, withering away 
 The deeds forgotten of their youthful day; 
 Neglected and in secret how they die. 
 No sons express for them the grateful sigh ; 
 Carelessly laid along the deathful bier, 
 Their stone of fame is placed without a tear. 
 
 happy they in blooming youth who die, 
 Short is their day, but their renowu is high. 
 
 Drunkenness. — Young men are generally introduced 
 to this vice by the company they keep ; but do you carefully 
 guard against ever submitting yourself to be the companion 
 of low, vulgar, and dissipated men ; and hold it as a maxim 
 that you had better be alone than in mean company. Let 
 your companions be such as yourself, or superior; for the 
 worth of a man will always be rated by that of his company. 
 You do not find pigeons associate with hawks, or lambs 
 with bears; and it is unnatural for a moral man to be the 
 companion of blackguards. 
 
 St 
 
TO A PICTURE OF EVENING, NEAR THE 
 BAVARIAN ALPS. 
 
 BY MISS M. A. BROWNB. 
 
 Evening and Sunset ! — what a thousand dreams 
 
 Are those two spell-words to my heart recalling ; 
 The ripple of my native mountain streams, 
 
 The quiet home, whereon the dews were falling; 
 And leaves without were drooping 'neath their power. 
 
 And hearts within were closing like the flower; 
 And the low murmur of the evening prayer 
 
 Stole from the casement, till the passer by 
 Might deem it was the jessamine blossoms there. 
 
 Breathing a deeper and more fervent sigh 
 Unto His praise, who hung them on their stems, 
 Like pearls on diadems ; 
 
 But oh, sweet picture ! where I fix mine eye 
 
 Until it fills with tears, unbidden springing, 
 Why, like to a remembered melody, 
 
 Are vague sweet voices in my spirit ringing, 
 At sight of thee ? Thou art not like my home, 
 
 Nor the dim quiet haunts of leafy gloom 
 VThere once I dwelt ! — The holy evening hour 
 
 Is the sole, slender clue for memory : 
 But she is like the lightning in her power; 
 
 And, though it is so slight, it still may be 
 The link to guide to the electric chain. 
 
 That thrills through heart and brain. 
 
 The painter in a hallowed hour did trace thee, 
 
 Thou bright creation of his wondrous art! 
 And time may dim thy colouring and efface thee. 
 
 But cannot blot thine image from my heart : 
 Nor the broad river, that to the pure sky 
 
 Looks up with all the calmness of an eye. 
 Through which a great and holy soul is shining — 
 
 The scattered sheep, the overshadowing trees, 
 And the far mountains, 'neath the Sun's declining. 
 
 Looking like waves of the dark troubled seas. 
 Stayed in one moment by the power of God, 
 Bursting from his abode 
 
 In Heaven, like sunshine! — Picture ! thou hast borne me 
 
 Away from my first thought of mine own fate ; 
 I feel, though grief from many a tie hath torn me. 
 
 While such scenes are, I am not desolate ! 
 In such an hour as this my spirit catches 
 
 The light of loveliness, until it matches 
 Almost in glory the resplendent burst 
 
 Of sunset on the world; when, from some cloud. 
 The Day-God droppeth, as a spirit nurst 
 
 Ou earth for Heaven breaks from its fragile shroud ! 
 
 My thoughts are too extatic to be glad. 
 Too holy to be sad. 
 
 Vast hill ! this strain of mine will never reach you — 
 
 Yet want it not — a thousand sweeter far. 
 If ye could understand, would surely teach you, 
 
 That you might teach your children ,what ye are : 
 Made only to be loved in liberty — 
 
 Fit only to be trodden by the free ! 
 The peasant maiden's song, in timid tone. 
 
 Hath floated 'midst you oft on eves like this ; 
 And bolder strains have burst from many a son, 
 
 Who knoweth what the right of Nature is : 
 May still your echoes Freedom's voice prolong. 
 Poured in a glorious song ! 
 
 GO, DIG YE A TOMB! 
 
 Go, dig ye a tomb! for the joys of the earth are 
 
 More frail than the vanity foredoom'd of yore; 
 
 Youth has nought but wild passion, and middle age care. 
 
 And the ripeness of years is a fate to deplore : — 
 
 Hot, hot and evanishing all our first pleasures. 
 
 Which yield to the struggle of life and its gloom. 
 
 And then, to complete what the earth counts its treasures 
 
 Come the pains of decline — oh ! go, dig ye a tomb ! 
 
 Go, dig ye a tomb ! though the magic of loving 
 Gives to earth its sole gleam of a transient bliss. 
 Though a moment may pass, perfect happiness proving — 
 'Tis the moment the kiss lasts — it dies with the kiss. 
 What though all heaven swells in the bosom you cherish ; 
 Though no Persian rose like that sigh's fond perfume ; 
 That bosom so beauteous is form'd but to perish. 
 And that sigh to a groan change* — Dig ye a tomb I 
 
 Go, dig ye a tomb ! but be honour'd in story. 
 Let the trumpet and laurel illustrate your fame ; 
 On the blood-streams of battle establish your glory, 
 And bid dying gasps your high triumphs proclaim, — 
 With the hurras of victory mingling proudly — 
 Oh ! how the soul beats in its poor mortal room ! 
 But the hour is at hand ; let it rise e'er so loudly, 
 The applause is unheard; and ye sleep in the tomb ! 
 
 Go, dig ye a tomb ! yet for wealth are ye panting? 
 Have ye bound the dull power in your chains as a slave, 
 Till luxury pants to invent what is wanting — 
 Death strikes, — can ye car'y your gold to the grave ? 
 No! youth, age, love, glory, and wealth, are the dreaming 
 Of idiot dreams that our short span consume; 
 Existence is only a flash hardly gleaming 
 On thy dark edge, eternity ! Dig ye a tomb ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 2» 
 
H 
 
 ^ 
 
 s 
 
 p c S 
 
 ^ 
 

 HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A BATH. 
 
 3 
 
 
 When Jesus, by the Virgin brought, — 
 
 WHITEHEAD. 
 
 
 
 (So runs the law of Heaven), 
 
 
 
 
 Was offered holy to the Lord, 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, approach. — Has medicine failed? 
 
 
 
 And at the altar given ; 
 
 Have balms and herbs essayed their powers in vain ? 
 
 
 
 Simeon, the just and the devout. 
 
 Nor the free air, nor fostering sun prevailed 
 
 
 
 Who frequent in the fane 
 
 To raise thy drooping strength, or soothe thy pain ? 
 
 
 
 Had for his Saviour waited long, 
 
 Yet enter here. Nor doubt to trust thy frame 
 To the cold bosom of this lucid lake. 
 
 
 
 But waited still in vain ; 
 
 
 
 Came Heaven-directed, at the hour 
 
 Here health may greet thee, and life's languid flame 
 
 
 
 When Mary held her son ; 
 
 Even from its icy grasp new vigour take. 
 
 
 
 He stretched forth his aged arms, 
 
 
 
 
 While tears of gladness run: 
 
 What soft Ausonia's genial shores deny. 
 
 May Zembla give. Then boldly trust the wave ; 
 
 
 
 . With holy joy upon his face 
 
 So shall thy grateful tablet hang on high. 
 
 
 
 The good old father smiled. 
 
 And frequent votaries bless this healing Cave. 
 
 
 
 While fondly in his withered arms 
 
 
 
 
 He clasped the promised child. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And then he lifted up (o Heaven 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 
 
 An earnest, asking eye : — 
 
 
 
 
 '• My joy is full, my hour is come, 
 
 As the sweet flower which scents the morn, 
 
 
 
 Lord, let thy servant die ! 
 
 But withers in the rising day ; 
 
 
 
 " At last my arms embrace my Lord, 
 Now let their vigour cease ; 
 
 Thus lovely was my Henry's dawn. 
 
 
 
 Thus swiftly led his life away. 
 
 
 
 At last my eyes my Saviour see. 
 
 And as the flower, that early dies. 
 
 
 
 Now let them close in peace ! 
 
 Escapes from many a coming woe, 
 
 
 
 " The Star and Glory of the land 
 
 No lustre lends to guilty eyes. 
 
 
 
 Hath now begun to shine; 
 
 Nor blushes on a guilty brow ; 
 
 
 
 The morning that shall gild the globe 
 
 
 
 
 Breaks on these eyes of mine !" 
 
 So the sad hour that took my boy. 
 
 
 
 LOGAN. 
 
 Perhaps has spared some heavier doom ; 
 Snatch'd him from scenes of guilty joy. 
 Or from the patgs of ill to come. 
 
 
 
 TO SUSANNAH, 
 
 He died before his infant soul 
 
 
 
 ON HER B I R T H-D A Y. 
 
 Had ever burnt with wrong desires; 
 
 
 
 From the Dutch. 
 
 Had ever spurn'd at Heaven's controul 
 Or ever quencb'd its sacred fires. 
 
 
 
 Think not I shall deck thy hands 
 
 
 
 With a silken riband gay 
 
 He died to sin, he died to care. 
 
 
 
 On thy happy natal day ; 
 
 But for a moment felt the rod ; 
 
 
 
 For I know thou hat'st the bands, 
 
 Then, springing on the viewless air. 
 
 
 
 Yes, the shew of slavery. 
 
 Spread his light wings, and soar'd to God. 
 
 
 
 Nor expect a wreath from me ; 
 
 
 
 
 For the colours on thy cheek 
 
 This — the blest theme that cheers my voice, 
 
 
 
 And thy breath of fragrance (ne'er 
 
 The grave is not my darling's prison ; 
 
 
 
 Flowers gave forth a breath so fair!) 
 
 The "stone" that cover'd half my joys 
 
 
 
 Of themselves a wreath can make. — 
 
 Is " rolled away," and "he is risen." 
 
 
 
 But the pure, the virtuous truth 
 
 
 
 
 Of thy undesembling youth. 
 
 
 
 
 E'en far better garlands owns — 
 
 
 
 
 Virtues are the noblest crowns! 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 •iJ 
 
THE CASTLE OF CHILLON. 
 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
 And thy sad floor an altar— for 'twas trod. 
 Until his very steps have left a trace, 
 Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 By Bonnivardl— May none those marks efface! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God.— Br eon. 
 
 The Castle of Chillon can never be viewed without ex- 
 citing the noblest associations — those to which liberty and 
 genius give birth. The names of Bonnivard the martyr of 
 freedom, and of Byron, her martyr and her laureate, have 
 consecrated the scene. With the prisoner of Chillon are 
 connected feelings no less in unison with the writer's early 
 and deplored fate than with the sublime and beautiful 
 scenery around. The greatest of our modern poets is 
 known to have passed some of the happiest days of his 
 brief and chequered existence in the vicinity of Chillon. 
 Passionately fond of sailing, the lake afforded him the full 
 indulgence of this taste, combined with that character of 
 scenery he from a boy most admired, and with the sort of 
 leisure and social enjoyment he always best loved. It was 
 here he first formed some of his most agreeable connexions, 
 in particular with the Shelleys, and several distinguished 
 strangers and foreigners, whom he ever afterwards con- 
 tinued to esteem. 
 
 In this retirement too, his health was said to have 
 rapidly improved; he had every thing around him calcula- 
 ted to give scope to a genius like his, and to those "fitful 
 moods and fancies" by which he was always so liable to be 
 surprised. He had here even formed habits of regular 
 study and exercise ; he had solitude and society at his 
 command; and his mind and manners evidently partook 
 of the beneficial change. Such, at least, is the opinion of 
 those who there knew himin the zenith of his genius, when 
 engaged in writing the third and fourth Cantos of his 
 ' Childe Harold,' and that admirable embodying of " the 
 spirit and the power" of captivity in his "Prisoner of 
 Chillon." 
 
 It seems to have been his object in this exquisitely 
 pathetic and beautiful poem to analyse the nature and efi'ect 
 of solitary confinement on the human mind. He makes us 
 feel its encroachments hour by hour, and day by day, upon 
 the victim's heart: w« breathe another atmosphere; "the 
 common sun, the air, the sky," become eclipsed from our 
 view, as if, by this intense and fearful vision, the enthusi- 
 ast of liberty burned to hold up " tyranny' to the everlast- 
 ing abhorrence of mankind. 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ' 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art. 
 For there thy habitation is the heart. — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind, 
 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consigned— 
 To fetters, and the damp vaults dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
 And freedoms fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
 The subject was doubtless first suggested by the singu- 
 larly wild and gloomy yet picturesque appearance of the 
 Castle from the lake on approaching near the town of 
 Villeneuve. From this point of view Lord Byron most 
 frequently must have beheld it, and there, probably, he 
 conceived the idea of investing it with a fame that will en- 
 dure when not a stone shall be left uncovered by the 
 surrounding waters. 
 
 The style of architecture which the castle exhibits is that 
 of the middle ages : its aspect is gloomy and low, and there 
 is nothing very striking, far less pleasing, about it, when 
 divested of its surrounding scenery and associations. It is, 
 in short, a strong, low fortress, built on a rock emerging out 
 of the lake, and only connected with the shore by means of 
 a drawbridge, or rather platform, for the accommodation of 
 its visitors. On one side there rises to view the delightful 
 Clareus, and upon the other is seen the town of "Villeneuve. 
 Not far from the latter the river Rhone pours itself into the 
 lake. Almost immediately opposite rise the rocks of 
 Meillerie, a name too celebrated, perhaps, in the romantic 
 descriptions of Rousseau. The scene of^his well-known 
 romance is there, the catastrophe of which is laid at a 
 spot nearly adjoining the Castle. Beneath its walls are 
 situated the dungeons, excavated in the solid rock, below 
 the level of the waters. In these were buried alive numbers 
 of state prisoners, particularly during the long and san- 
 guinary conflicts between the ancient dukes of Savoy and 
 the citizens of Geneva,, the latter of whom were often 
 consigned to captivity. The cells now seen there, exten- 
 sive as they appear, were once filled with thes e victims of 
 political strife. In one part is placed a beam of oak, 
 roughly hewn and blackened by age, formerly used as a 
 block on which many of those executions so disgraceful to 
 the times, and for which this Castle was so remarkable, 
 repeatedly took place. 
 
 The large arched vault aoove is supported by seven 
 pillars, and to some of these iron rings are still fastened, 
 intended for the purpose of restraining the wretched 
 inmates within the limits allotted to them by their gaolers. 
 In the hard pavement are left many traces of the footsteps 
 of the prisoners. 
 
 Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod :— 
 
 and doubtless among others by Francois Bonnivard, one 
 of the boldest and most persevering assertors of Geneva's 
 liberties, imprisoned there for a space of six years. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three, 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do— and did my best-^ 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 30 
 
The two younger at length fell victims: the free spirit 
 efthe hunter first pines within him, and he dies; next the 
 youngest and most loved. The passage in which the fate 
 of the last is related is exquisitely beautiful; the most 
 masterly, with one exception, in the entire poem. 
 
 But he, the favourite and the flower, 
 
 Most cherished since his natal hour, 
 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 
 The infant love of all his race, 
 
 His mart) red father's dearest thought. 
 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 
 Less wretched now, and one day free : 
 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 
 Was withered on the stork away. 
 
 Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 
 In any shape, in any mood. — 
 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 
 Strive with a swol'n convulsive motion, 
 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of sin, delirious with its dread; 
 
 But there were horrors, this was woe 
 
 Unmixed with such — but sure, and slow; 
 
 He faded, and so calm and meek, 
 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
 
 So fearless, yet so tender — kind. 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind. 
 
 After this event the poet supposed Bonnivard to lose all 
 sense of his sorrows in stupor and delirium. When again 
 restored to a consciousness of his lot, he hears near him the 
 note of a bird. This trivial and natural little incident, 
 with its effect upon the captive's mind, is admirably em- 
 ployed to heighten the beautiful and pathetic picture. 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 It was the carol of a bird ; — 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard. 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise, 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to their wonted track; 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 I saw the glimmer ot the sun, 
 Creeping as it before had done. 
 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perched as fond as tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon ine tree 
 A lovely bird with azure wings, 
 A song that said a thousand things, 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ' 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more; 
 It seem'd like me to want a mate. 
 But was not half so desolate. 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again. 
 And, cheering from my dungeon's brink 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free. 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
 But knowing well captivity. 
 Sweet bird ! — I could not wish for thine ! 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 For, — Heaven forgive that thought! the while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile — 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me : 
 But then at last away it flew. 
 And then 'twas mortal — well 1 knew, 
 For he would never thus have flown. 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 L one as the corse within its shroud, 
 Lone as a solitary cloud. 
 
 If this be a truly poetical and correct, no less than an 
 appalling picture of the sorrows of a captive's heart, the 
 following will be found equally true in point of local and 
 descriptive interest. The traveller gazing around him 
 from the walls of Chillon, will not fail to recognize the 
 scenery described by the delighted Bonnivard when he is 
 represented as obtaining a view of it from his prison. 
 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 To my barred windows, and to bend 
 
 Once more upon the mountains high, 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 1 saw them— and they were the same. 
 
 They were not changed like me in frame; 
 I saw their thousaud years of snow 
 
 On high — their wide, long lake below, 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er chan nel'd rock and broken bush; 
 
 I saw the white walled distant town, 
 And whiter sails go skimming down: 
 
 31 
 
And then there was a little itie 
 
 Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view : 
 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 
 But m it there were three tall trees. 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 And on it there were young flowers growing 
 
 Of gentle breadth and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall. 
 
 And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
 
 And then new tears came in my eye, 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 
 I had not left my recent chain; 
 And when I did descend again, 
 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a lieavy load. — 
 
 When at length the prisoner is set free, it seems to him 
 like a mockery rather than a blessing; he had become 
 familiar even with the reptile inmates of his den, and felt 
 the pressure of his chain like the hand of a friend. 
 
 My very chains and I grew friends. 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regained my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 In making Bonnivard the hero of his poem. Lord 
 Byron has not attempted to sketch, with correctness, the 
 history or the character of the patriot. " When the fore- 
 going poem was composed," he observes, in a note " I was not 
 suflSciently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
 have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt to 
 celebrate his courage and his virtues. 
 
 FoETiTUDE is the fairest blossom that springs from a 
 noble mind, and with conscious innocence for its support, 
 may defy the wrongs of a malignant and unjust world, to 
 deprive it of internal peace. 
 
 Sorrow and disappointment humanize the mind ; and the 
 only lasting and true pleasure the soul can feel arises from 
 benevolent actions. 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 BT THE BBVEBEND DR. CRABBB. 
 
 " But, tell me, Ellis, didst thou then desire 
 To heap upon their heads those coals of fire ?'* 
 
 "If fire to melt — that feeling is confest: 
 If fire to burn — I let that question rest. 
 But if aught more the sacred words imply, 
 I know it not;— no commentator I." 
 
 " Then didst thou freely — from thy soul — forgive ?" 
 
 " Sure, as I trust before my Judge to live; 
 
 Sure, as I trust his mercy to receive; 
 
 Sure, as his word I honour and believe ; 
 
 Sure, as the Saviour died upon the tree 
 
 For all that sin — for that poor wretch and me. 
 
 Whom never more, on earth, will I forsake or see !" 
 
 MEMENTO MORI. 
 
 We start to see our neighbours fall. 
 And feel a trembling dread ; 
 
 Yet still we haste at pleasure's call 
 Unmindful of the dead. 
 
 Like as a keel that parts the wave 
 
 And leaves no trace behind. 
 Eager, tho' God the warning gave, 
 
 We chase it from our mind : 
 
 Or the swift arrow sent on high. 
 
 That nu imprassion makes. 
 The soul immers'd in sensual joy. 
 
 At death no warning takes. 
 
 Oft business, noise, and empty show. 
 
 Concur to make us blind. 
 If we are sometimes touch'd with woe. 
 
 We soon a lenient find- 
 Haste to the tombs — learn to be wise, 
 
 And bear thou home this line 
 Inscrib'd where each honest rustic lies,- 
 
 The next grave open'd may be thine. 
 
 A King may confer titles, but it is personal merit, and 
 acknowledged worth alone, that gives a man any claim to 
 respect. 
 
 32 
 
Z-iit^yT/y 
 
 t>^«>^€?^^^?2« 
 
 *&»' tz^ifZa<X>^^ 
 
VIRGINIA. 
 
 If I were like thee, lovely child, 
 
 As happy and as gay, 
 I would not care where splendour smilM, 
 
 Nor seek ambition's way. 
 
 The gather'd flowers that round thee lie 
 
 Are still in sweets array'd; 
 But mine Vere gather'd but to die, 
 
 And only bloom'd to fade. 
 
 So light thy fairy footstep bounds, 
 
 It scarce awakes the air ; 
 To after years the echo sounds, 
 
 To tell what change is there. 
 
 For soon the honey dews are past. 
 That life's first blossoms fill : 
 
 Ah why, when pleasures fade so fast. 
 Should sorrow linger still ! 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 BY JAMES EDMISTON. 
 
 Give me solitude awhile. 
 
 From the tumult of the earth ; 
 
 I would some short hours beguile 
 With a dream of higher birth ; 
 
 Thoughts all radiant and bright. 
 
 As the seraph's wings of light. 
 
 On this bank, where forest- rose 
 Weaves a shelter from the heat,— 
 
 Where the woodbine round it grows, 
 And the green turf forms a seat, 
 
 Will I sit and sing away 
 
 This so cloudless summer's day : 
 
 * 
 
 While the brook beside me sounds. 
 Gently murmuring along. 
 
 And the deer starts up, and bounds, 
 Waken'd by my forest song, — 
 
 And the birds, from tree to tree, 
 
 Make their wild wood minstrelsy. 
 
 Ah ! methinks, this world how fair, 
 Were it but from sin refined I 
 
 Man how free and happy there. 
 Were he pure as God is kind ! 
 
 But the breath of sin has past 
 
 O'er it like a poison blast. 
 
 Lovely still, some happy hours 
 Beam between, to glad us here ; 
 
 And these forest-thicket bowers 
 Almost void of ill appear, 
 
 Smiling as if nought had been 
 
 Here to mar the lovely scene. 
 
 Yet, how many forms of harm, 
 
 R'en these green-wood coverts bear! 
 
 Well the deer starts with alarm. 
 Well the wild bird shuns the snare ; 
 
 And within the flowery brake 
 
 Lurks the evil-venomed snake. 
 
 THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 The last pale gleam of day 
 
 Had pass'd from earth away. 
 And waned beyond the fountain and the flood, — 
 
 Where o'er the field of fight. 
 
 Fast fading into night. 
 The sun that rose in beauty set in blood. 
 
 From morn to noon had played 
 
 The ruthless cannonade,— 
 And now the battle field was lost and won ; 
 
 Though still amid the gloom, 
 
 Came back with hollow boom. 
 The rolling thunder of the ' random gun.' 
 
 Then 'mid the dim night-fall, 
 
 The bugles rung recall, 
 Deem'd by the vengeful victors all too soon,— 
 
 Who saw the foe retire 
 
 Beneath the parting fire 
 Of sullen Tollies pealing by platoon. 
 
 The moon rose round and red 
 
 Above the plunder'd dead, 
 That in their gory wounds all shroudless there 
 
 Were stiffening seen to lie, 
 
 With faces to the sky. 
 All wan and ghastly, glimmering in her glare. 
 
 And winds were loaded then 
 
 With moans of dying men. 
 Mingled with wild hoarse voices from afar, 
 
 Upon the ear that fell 
 
 Like chorus sent from hell,— 
 Curses, and shrieks and laughter, — such is war! 
 
 33 
 
SENTIMENT 
 
 It is the fashion in this philosophic day to laugh at 
 Romance, and cut all acquaintance with sentiment; but I 
 doubt whether these same philosophers are not making 
 themselves ' too wise to be happy,' Wordsworth has called 
 'fancy the mother of deep truth,' and perhaps the time will 
 come when the learned will acknowledge that there is more 
 philosophy in Romance, than their sagacity has dreamed of. 
 Mysterious aspirations after something higher and holier — 
 the gladness of fancy that comes upon the heart in the 
 stillness of nature — impatience under the tyranny of earth- 
 born passions — and the pure and joyous light of truth, 
 reflecting its own innocei.t brightness on a corrupted and 
 selfish world — all these belong to the young and the 
 romantic. What does increase of years and knowledge 
 teach us? It teaches us to seem what we are not — to act 
 as if the world were what we know it is not — and to be 
 cautious not to alarm the self-love of others, lest our own 
 should be wounded in return. And is this wisdom? No. 
 I do believe the young mind, that has not reasoned itself 
 into scepticism and coldness, stands nearer heaven's own 
 light, and reflects it more perfectly, than the proud ones 
 who laugh at its intuitive perceptions. Do not all the 
 boasted results of human research and human philosophy 
 vary in different ages, climates, situations, and circum- 
 stauces? Are not the deep, immutable, and sacred 
 sympathies, that bind mankind in the golden chain of 
 brotherhood, instinctive ? Yes, I do believe the influences 
 of a better world are around youthful purity, teaching it a 
 higher and more infallible morality than has ever been 
 taught by worldly experience. Man must wander from 
 the school of Nature before he can need to look for his 
 duties in a code of ethics. 
 
 The Egyptians had a pleasant fancy with regard to the 
 soul. They thought that the minds of men were once 
 angelic spirits, who, discontented with their heavenly home, 
 had passed its boundary, drank the cup of oblivion suspend- 
 ed half-way between heaven and earth, and descended to 
 try their destiny among mortals. Here, reminiscences of 
 what they had left would come before them in glances and 
 visions, startling memory into hope, and waking experience 
 into prophecy. Various philosophers have supposed that 
 our souls have passed, and will yet pass, through infinite 
 modes of existence. It is a theory I love to think upon. 
 There is something beautiful in the idea that we have thus 
 obtained the sudden thoughts, which sometimes flash into 
 life at the touch of association, fresh as if newly created, 
 yet familiar as if they had always slumbered in the soul. 
 How the beautiful things of creation arouse a crowd of 
 fitful fancies in the mind. Is not the restlessness produced 
 by their indistinct loveliness strangely like a child's 
 puzzled remembrance of its early abandoned home? 
 
 But all this is not to the point. My question is, not how 
 
 romantic ideas came into the soul — but whether it be true 
 wisdom to drive them thence ? 
 
 Observation of the world will convince us that it is not 
 wise to expel romantic ideas, but simply to regulate them. 
 All our nicest sympathies, and most delicate perceptions, 
 have a tinge of what the world calls romance. Let earthly 
 passions breathe upon them, or experience touch them with 
 her icy finger, and they flit away like fairies when they 
 hear the tread of a human foot. There are those who 
 laugh at love, imagination, and religion, and sneeringly 
 call them ' dreams — all dreams;' but the proudest of them 
 cannot laugh at the lover, the poet, and the devotee, 
 without a smothered sigh that their aerial visitants have 
 gone from him for ever, and the dark mantle of wordly 
 experience fallen so heavily over their remembered 
 glories. 
 
 It is wise to keep something of romance, though not too 
 much. Our nature is an union of extremes; and it is true 
 philosophy to keep them balanced. 
 
 To let the imagination sicken with love of ideal beauty, 
 till it pines away into echo, is worse than folly; but to 
 check our afflictions, and school our ideas, till thought and 
 feeling reject every thing they cannot see, touch, and 
 handle, certainly is not wisdom. 
 
 Do not send reason to the school of theory, and tien bid 
 her give a distinct outline of shadowy fancies — she will but 
 distort what she cannot comprehend. Do not by petulance 
 and sensuality, frighten away the tenderness and holy 
 reverence of youthful love — philosophy may teach you a 
 lesson of resignation, or scorn, but your heart is human, 
 and it cannot learn it. Do not reason upon religion till it 
 becomes lifeless ; would you murder and dissect the oracle 
 to find whence the voice of God proceeds ? 
 
 Be, then, rational enough for earth; but keep enough of 
 romance to remind us of heaven. We will not live on 
 unsubstantial fairy-ground — but we will let the beautiful 
 troop visit us without being scared from the scene of their 
 graceful and happy gambols. 
 
 Minds must assimulate, and be capable of feeling reci- 
 procal pleasure in conversation, to convey any satisfaction 
 to either party. The language of nature speaks more to 
 the heart than to the understanding, and false refinements 
 make us prefer the artificial to the natural, because custom 
 and education has made it more congenial to our feelings. 
 
 The best way to prove the clearness of our mind, is by 
 shewing its faults; as when a stream discovers the dirt at 
 the bottom, it convinces us of the transparency and purity 
 of the water. 
 
 34 
 
AN ELEGY, 
 
 WEITTKN IN THB ABBET CHURCH, EDINBURGH. 
 
 Fled from the mansions of the great and gay, 
 Where idle pleasure wastes her fleeting breath. 
 
 Through this sad cell I'll take my lonely way, 
 And view the havoc made by time and death. 
 
 And, as I enter, let no swelling rage, 
 
 No thoughts impure, my pensive bosom load. 
 
 But sweet religion all the man engage : 
 For this was once the sacred house of God; 
 
 Where oft Devotion, with her pious train. 
 
 In silent contemplation spent her days. 
 Or waked to ectasy the glowing strain, 
 
 With grateful accents to her Maker's praise. 
 
 No more shall youth and beauty grace the shrine. 
 
 Or pious sages to the portals throng; 
 No more the arch shall meet the voice divine. 
 
 Receive the sound, or echo back the song. 
 
 The pride and glory of our country 's fled, 
 The great supporters of the nation's laws. 
 
 The statesmen, heroes, and the kings are dead. 
 
 Who fought through fields of blood in freedom's cause. 
 
 Vast heaps of kindred here bestrew the ground, 
 And skulls and coffins to my view arise; 
 
 Here's friend and foe profusely scatter'd round, 
 And here a jaw, and there a thigh-bone, lies. 
 
 Perhaps this hand has, in some bloody fray, 
 With lusty sinews grasp'd the flaming brand, 
 
 Fought through the creadful carnage of the day, 
 And drove Oppression from its native land. 
 
 Yet fame and honour are but empty things, 
 
 The fleeting sunshine of uncertain day; 
 For statesmen, peasants, beggars, lords, and kings, 
 
 All fall alike to cruel Time a prey. 
 
 Though men, mere men, may unregarded rot. 
 And buried in their native dust consume, 
 
 Shall Scotland's great commander be forgot. 
 And moulder, unregretted, in the tomb ? 
 
 Will no kind bard in grateful numbers sing 
 The mighty wonders of each heroe's arm? 
 
 Will no kind friend protect a clay-cold king, 
 Collect his bones, and keep them safe from harm ? 
 
 Would some sweet muse assist me in the song, 
 I'd dwell with rapture on the glowing strain. 
 
 Roll the smooth tide of harmony along, 
 Till echo undulate applause again. 
 
 When night's dark curtain hid the beams of day 
 From these sad eyes, my soul should banish sleep; 
 
 Again I'd raise the sympathetic lay. 
 
 And teach the sullen monument to weep. 
 
 Ye sons of Scotland! though you cannot raise 
 Your long-lost monarch from the silent bier. 
 
 Their deeds are worthy of the highest praise. 
 And simple gratitude demands a tear. 
 
 For you they bore the falchion and the shield. 
 For you each piercing winter blast they stood, 
 
 For you they struggled in the hostile field, 
 For you they wither'd in their crimson blood. 
 
 Let no base slander on their mem'ry fall, 
 
 Nor malice of their little faults complain ; 
 They were such men, as, take them all in all, 
 
 We shall not look upon their like again! 
 
 Here lies the partner of the heroe's bed, 
 
 Whose every feature wore unequall'd grace : 
 
 Can Love's soft murmurs raise this death-struck head, 
 Or take the pale complexion from the face ! 
 
 Go then, ye fair ! exert your utmost skill, 
 Employ each art to keep your beauty fast: 
 
 Try each perfume, use paint, do what you will. 
 Of this sad colour you must be at last. 
 
 Ah, me ! how melancholy seem these walls. 
 
 To earth returning with a quick decay ! 
 Take heed, O man ! for, as each atom falls, 
 
 So wastes thy little spark of life away. 
 
 O thou, my soul, from worldly vices fly. 
 And follow Innocence where'er she strays ; 
 
 See with what ease an honest man can die, 
 None but the wicked wish for length of days. 
 
 Charles Salmon. 
 
 Sceptics— A man may be allowed to doubt, because his 
 powers of comprehension are extremely limited; but surely 
 a man ought not to be vain-glorious of his doubting. But 
 sceptics are generally proud of their septicism ; according 
 to the old story, they thank God for their ignorance, and 
 i'faith they have generally a great deal to be thankful for. 
 
 35 
 
BISHOP'S AUCKLAND PALACE. 
 
 This most princely palace, formerly a castle, is seated 
 upon a hill between two rivers, and has been, for a long 
 period of time, the chosen residence of the bishops of 
 Durham. Its original castellated form, erected, it is 
 supposed, by Antoniusde Beck, is entirely lost. According 
 to Lelaad, •' he raised a great haulle, and divers pillars of 
 black marble, speckeled with white, and an exceeding faire 
 gret churche, with others there. He made also an 
 exceedingly goodly chappelle of ston, well squaiid, and a 
 college with dene and prebends in it, and a quadrant on 
 the north-east side of the castelle for minisires of the 
 college." There are scarcely any remains of these — the 
 quaint description of the writer has survived them; and 
 now, the " gret haulle" and " exceeding faire gret 
 churche," have been leug since transformed, or rather have 
 made way for one of the most splendid episcopal seats in 
 the empire. 
 
 Bishop's Auckland castle more nearly approaches to the 
 grand and magnificent monasteries which we find on the 
 Continent than any other structure of the same kind we 
 have seen in England. It is an irregular pile, built at 
 several periods, and can boast of no very great antiquity ; 
 indeed, excepting the church, there are no remains of the 
 labours of Antonius de Beck ; for this place, having been 
 granted by parliament to that furious partizan. Sir Arthur 
 Hazlerigg, he demolished almost the whole of the buildings 
 there — prostrated in all directions the fond erections of 
 Beck's architectural fancy, and in a very short space of 
 time converted the ruins into a spacious and noble 
 dwelling for himself. A like fate, however, in turn 
 attended Sir Arthur's Vitruvian achievements. 
 
 A series of the most merciless persecutions, contrived 
 and excited by his enemies, had produced in the celebrated 
 Dr. Cousin, Bishop of Durham, an aversion even to touch 
 or look upon, much more to possess, any thing that had 
 belonged to or had been associated with them. He, 
 therefore, upon his appointment to the bishopric, resolved 
 to destroy the work of hands which had been dipped in the 
 blood of the martyr Charles I., and soon, in his excess of 
 piety, accomplished it. The bishop, having thus pulled 
 down, restored the materials to their original character. 
 
 IMAGINARY ADDRESS OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 Oh ! bury me deep in the boundless sea — 
 Let my heart have a limitless grave ; 
 
 For my spirit in life was as fierce and free 
 As the course of the tempest's wave. 
 
 And as far from the reach of mortal control 
 Were the depths of my fathomless mind; 
 
 And the ebbs and flows of my single soul 
 Were tides to the rest of mankind. 
 
 Then my briny pall shall engirdle the world, 
 As in life did the voice of my fame ; 
 
 And each mutinous billow that sky-ward curl'd, 
 Shall to fancy re-echo my name. 
 
 That name shall be storied in records sublime, 
 In the uttermost corners of earth, 
 
 And renown'd 'till the wreck of expiring time 
 Be the glorified land of my birth. 
 
 Yes ! bury my heart in the boundless sea — 
 It would burst from a narrower tomb, 
 
 Should less than an ocean my sepulchre be. 
 Or wrapp'd in less horrible gloom. 
 
 THE CYPRESS. 
 
 Thou graceful tree. 
 With thy green branches drooping. 
 As to yon blue heaven stooping, 
 I mek humility. 
 
 Like one who patient grieves. 
 
 When the fierce wind's o'er thee sweeping. 
 
 Thou answerest but by weeping. 
 
 While tear- like fall thy green leaves. 
 
 When summer flowers have birth, 
 And the sun is o'er thee shining, 
 Yet with thy slight boughs declining. 
 Still thou seekest the earth. 
 
 Thy leaves are ever green : 
 When other trees are changing. 
 With the seasons o'er them ranging; 
 Thou art still as thou hast been. 
 
 It is not just to thee. 
 For painter or bard to borrow 
 Thy emblem as that of Sorrow; 
 Thou art more like Piety. 
 
 Thou wert made to wave. 
 Patient when Winter winds rave o'er thee, 
 Lowly when Summer suns restore thee, 
 On some martyr's grave. 
 
 Like that martyr thou hast given 
 A lesson of faith and meekness, 
 Of patient strength in thy weakness. 
 And trust in Heaven ! 
 
 ae 
 
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AN EVENING'S AMUSEMENT. 
 
 It was on one of tnose chilling evenings in the month of 
 October, that the family of Sir William and Lady Dorville 
 were, from the somewhat mournful aspect of nature at that 
 season of the year, particularly in the country, induced to 
 collect at an earlier hour than usual round the blazing 
 hearth, where they thought no better amusement could be 
 found than the ancient and well-approved one of story- 
 telling, I do not mean the practice of circulating 
 abominable slanders against one's friends, but the harmless 
 and good-natured recreation of retailing wonderful 
 narratives. Sir William immediately proposed that 
 himself, his sons, Augustus and William, should each relate 
 some tale founded on fact, and in which they had been 
 either directly or indirectly interested — that, at the conclu- 
 sion of each narrative, his daughters, Emma, Julia, and 
 Marion, should repeat some lines from their respective 
 favourite authors. The order of the evening being thus 
 agreed upon, Sir William commenced the following story, 
 perfacing it with the fact, that his father, mother, and 
 great aunt, formed the principal characters in this strange 
 history. 
 
 SINGULAR INSTANCE OF SECOND SIGHT. 
 
 " My father and mother, whom I will designate as Sir 
 Charles and Lady Dorville, had lately been made happy in 
 the possession of each other: they had gone from the 
 neighbouring Scottish border to spend some delightful 
 weeks as the guest of Lord Roland. A few days after 
 their arrival. Sir Charles was persuaded to accompany 
 Lord Roland on a visit to the distant mansion of a neigh- 
 bouring chieftain, and was to return upon the following 
 day. That period arrived, and although the other ladies 
 were well aware of the numerous chances which the 
 warmth of Highland kindness afforded to prevent the 
 departure of a guest on the appointed day, yet the restless 
 emotion which Lady Dorville felt in her own bosom was 
 excited by her husband's absence : she guessed, and guessed 
 rightly, that no temptation, however powerful, could 
 operate to delay his return, when its object was to regain 
 the enjoyment of her society. She therefore continued 
 still to expect him, after every one else had abandoned 
 all hope of his appearance. She started at every sound, 
 and glanced her fine eyes hastily to the door at every 
 footstep, nor could the assurances of her companions 
 persuade her to dismiss her anxiety, or convince her that 
 it was not now at all probable that the gentlemen would 
 arrive that night, late as.it then was; but that it was more 
 likely thsy had been prevailed upon to remain to participate 
 in some hunting expedition, projected for the amusement 
 of the stranger. 
 
 " There was another personage, a guest at a festive 
 
 board of Lord Roland, on whom mirth seemed to have 
 little effect; its beams, which shot in every direction from 
 the eyes of the young and the gay around her, fell on her 
 high and marble features, and raven eye, like those of the 
 sun on the dark cavern of some cheerless and sea-beaten 
 crag, engulfing, rather than reflecting, its light. This 
 was the Lady Assynt, my old aunt: she added but little to 
 the general mirth, for ever since her arrival, she had sat in 
 the midst of hilarity, like the lonely cormorant on its rock, 
 unmoved and regardless of the playful waves that 
 murmured around her. Few attempts were made to bring 
 her into the play of conversation, and even those few were 
 soon silenced by chilling monosyllabic replies, delivered in 
 a lofty and repulsive manner. She was, therefore, left 
 undisturbed to the full possession of her own gloomy 
 thoughts. At last her very presence seemed to be almost 
 forgotten, or, if observed at all, she was noticed with no 
 other interest than were the stiff and smoke-discoloured 
 portraits of family ancestry, that stared in sullen and 
 silent majesty from the deep carved pannels of the ancient 
 apartment where the party was seated. 
 
 " The good-humoured jest, and the merry tale went 
 round, and the laugh of youthful joy was at its highest, — 
 when a piercing shriek produced a sudden and death4ike 
 silence, and directed every head toward the Lady Assynt, 
 who seemed for a moment to be violently convulsed. The 
 effect of such an unlooked-for interruption to the general 
 gaiety may be easily conceived. The ladies arose in 
 confusion; every assistance was proffered; and numerous 
 inquiries were made. But seeming to endeavour, by a 
 desperate effort, to summon up resolution to overcome the 
 sudden nervous malady which apparently affected her, she 
 put back both the kind and the curious with a wave of her 
 hand, and haughtily resumed her usual dignified and 
 freezing deportment, without deigning to give any expla- 
 nation. 
 
 " It was some time before the company was restored to 
 its composure ; hilarity had hardly begun again to enliven 
 it, when a louder and yet more unearthly shriek again 
 roused their alarm, and raised them from their seats in the 
 utmost consternation. The Lady Assynt now presented a 
 spectacle that chilled every one. The same convulsion 
 seemed to have recurred with redoubled violence. She 
 started up in its paroxysm ; and her uncommonly tall figure 
 was raised to its full height, and set rigidly against the 
 high back of the gothic chair in which she had been seated, 
 as if from anxiety to retreat as far as its confined space 
 would allow, from some horrible spectacle that appalled 
 her. Her arms were thrown up in a line with her person ; 
 each particular bony finger was widely separated from its 
 fellow ; and her stretched eyeballs were fixed in glassy and 
 motionless unconsciousness. She seemed for a time to lose 
 all sense of existence, and, though in an upright posture, 
 to have been suddenlv struck into a stiffened corse. By 
 
 37 
 
degrees she began to writhe, as if enduring extreme agony : 
 her lived lips moved rapidly, without the utterance of 
 sound; until finally overcome by her sufferings, she sank 
 within the depth of the antique chair, and remained for 
 some minutes in a languid and abstracted reverie. The 
 mingled anxiety and curiosity of the company was 
 unbounded; numerous and loud were the inquiries; and of 
 the inquirers, Lady Dorville, who seemed instinctively to 
 apprehend something dreadful connected with her own fate, 
 was the most earnestly solicitous of all. The Lady Assynt 
 heeded not the swarm of interrogatories which buzzed 
 around her. She looked at first as if she heard them not ; 
 then raised herself solemnly, and somewhat austerely, from 
 the reclining position into which she had dropped, she 
 spread her hands before her, and sweeping them slowly 
 backwards to right and left, she divided the ring of females 
 who surrounded her, and brought Lady Dorville full within 
 the range of her vision. At first she started involuntarily 
 at sight of her; but melancholy and pity mingling 
 themselves amidst the sternness of features to which such 
 tender emotions seemed to have been long strangers, in a 
 deep and articulate voice, and with a solemn and sibylline 
 air, she slowly addressed her niece, whilst profound silence 
 sat upon every other lip. * Let the voice of gladness yield 
 to that of mourning I Cruel is the blow that hangs over 
 thee, poor innocent dove ! and sad is it for me to tell thee 
 what thou art but too anxious to know. A vision crossed 
 my sight, and I saw a little boat, in which were thy lord 
 and Lord Roland: it was tossed by a sudden and 
 temptestuous gust, that swept the dark surface of the loch 
 in a whitening line. I saw the waves dashing over the 
 frail bark ,• and sorely did the two Highlanders who rowed 
 them contend with their oars against the outrageous 
 whirlwind. I hoped, yet shuddered, from fear of the 
 
 event. Again the spirit of vision opened my unwilling 
 
 eyes, and compelled me to behold that last wave, which 
 whelmed them beneath the burst of its tremendous swell. 
 The land was near. Stoutly the drowning wretches 
 struggled with their fate. I saw Lord Roland and his 
 sturdy servants, one by one, reach the shore, but ' 
 
 " 'My husband!' shrieked Lady Dorville, in anguish, 
 as she grasped the arm of the seer. ' Oh ! tell me that my 
 husband was saved!' 
 
 " ' His body,' replied the Lady Assynt, in a lower and 
 more melancholy voice — ' his body was driven by the 
 merciless waves upon the yellow beach: the moonbeam fell 
 upon his face, but the spark of life was quenched.' Lady 
 Dorville's death-like grasp was relaxed, but she swooned 
 away in the arms of those who surrounded her. The Lady 
 Assynt regarded her not : somewhat of her former convul- 
 sion again came upon her; and starting up in a frenzied 
 manner, she exclaimed, in a piercing voice, scarcely dis- 
 tinguishable from a scream, 'And now they bear him 
 hither '.—See how pale and cold he looks — how his long 
 
 hair drips— how ghastly are his unclosed eyes — how blanch- 
 ed those lips where lately sat the warm smile of love !* 
 Then sinking again, after a short interval, she continued, 
 in a more subdued tone, ' He is gone for ever ! No more 
 shall he revisit his own fair halls and fertile fields. Yet is 
 not all hope lost with him ; for his son shall live after him, 
 and bring back anew the image of his father.' 
 
 " The ladies were now buised about Lady Dorville, who 
 lay in a deep faint. All seemed to be as much interested 
 in her as if the events described in the waking visions of 
 the Lady Assynt had already actually happened. Ya*. 
 every one affected to treat her words as the idle d^ niti of 
 a distempered brain ; although, in the very \mk» of the 
 different speakers, there was a fear betn.ytd, that ill- 
 accorded with their words, manifesting the general appre- 
 hension that something tragical was to be dreaded. At 
 last a confused noise seemded to arise from the under 
 apartments of the castle ; mutterings, and broken senten- 
 ces, and half-suppressed exclamations, were heard on the 
 great stairs and in the passages. The name of Sir Charles 
 was frequently repeated by different voices. The more 
 anxious of the party tried to gain information by running 
 to the windows. The flaring lights of torches were seen 
 to hurry across the court-yard, where all seemed to be 
 bustle and dismay. And then it was that the doleful 
 sound of the bagpipe, playing a sad and wailing lament, 
 came upon the ear from without the castle-gate. A slow, 
 heavy, ana measured tramp of many feet upon the draw- 
 bridge, told that a party of men were bearing some heavy 
 weight across it. Unable longer to submit to the suspense 
 in which they were held, the greater part of the females 
 now rushed from the hall. A cry of horror was heard; 
 and the mysterious anticipations of the gifted Lady Assynt 
 were found to be, in truth, too dreadfully realized. 
 
 " Lord Roland, in the deepest affliction, told the sad tale, 
 with all its circumstances. Though much pressed to 
 remain. Sir Charles had resisted all the kind importunity 
 of their host. Their homeward way lay across the ferry 
 of The sudden squalls affecting such inland arms 
 
 of the sea are too well known: one of these had assailed 
 them in the middle of the loch, and had been productive 
 of the melancholy catastrophe. Nor was the prophetic 
 conclusion of the seer's vision left unaccomplished. There 
 was no suspicion of Lady Dorville's pregnancy at the time ; 
 but such proved to be the case, and, according to the 
 prediction, the child was a son. That child," continued 
 Sir William, addressing his children, " is now your 
 father." 
 
 After the ebullition of feeling excited by the relation of 
 the foregoing tale, had subsided, Emma repeated the 
 following poem from the German, by Lord Francis Leveson 
 Gower:— 
 
 38 
 
RESIGNATION. 
 
 FROM SCHItLER. 
 
 I TOO was born Arcadia's happy child, 
 
 And nature on my infant years, 
 In pledge of many a future blessing, smiled: 
 I too was born Arcadia's happy child, 
 
 Yet my short spring has left me nought but tears. 
 
 The May of life but once for man may bloom; 
 
 For me its bloom is o'er : 
 Weep, brethren, weep ! the deity of gloom 
 Inverts the torch he ne'er will re-illume — 
 
 The vision smiles no more. 
 
 Thy aid, enfolded in thy awful veil. 
 
 Dark arbitress, I claim ! 
 Of thee they told me once a pious tale, 
 That judgment trembled in thy blanched scale-^ 
 
 That Retribution was thy awful name! 
 
 E'en now the arch that spans thy gloomy reign, 
 
 Eternity I press! 
 Take back the pledge of bliss oestowed in vain, 
 Take the false record unredeemed again— 
 
 I know no happiness ! 
 
 They told how pain awaits the evil there, 
 
 And joys the virtuous few — 
 That thou would'st lay the evil bosom bare. 
 The wondrous riddle of my life declare, 
 
 And clear th' account to long endurance due. 
 
 There, as they told, the wanderer's couch was spread- 
 There closed the sufferer's thorny path of pain: 
 A goddess child, whose name was Truth, they said. 
 Whom few embraced, from whom the many fled. 
 Hung on my rapid course, and checked the reign. 
 
 " I will repay thee in a future state, 
 
 " Give me thy youth in this : 
 " I can but pledge the payment — sure, though late," 
 I took the pledge, signed for a future state. 
 
 And gave her all my youth aqd all its bliss. 
 
 Give me thine own I the loved one of thy heart! 
 
 " Thy Laura give! thy bride! 
 " With interest after death I pay the smart." 
 I tore her bleeding from my wounded heart. 
 
 And wept aloud, and gave her from my side. 
 
 " Thy bond must be exacted from the dead," 
 
 Thus scoffed the world at me ; 
 " And she to whom thy substance now is fled, 
 " False one, has given a shadow in its stead — 
 
 " Its term expires, when thou hast ceased to be." 
 
 Taunting, they told me, that my bliss was sold 
 
 For dreams, which old prescriiition's right defends. 
 What can those agents, who, as fables old 
 Pretend, creation's tottering frame uphold. 
 Whom man's invention to his misery lends? 
 
 They talked of future, by the tomb conceal' d — 
 
 Eternity, thy empty boast and pride. 
 What are they ? Honoured, awful, till revealed — 
 Fear's giant spectres, in the concave field 
 
 Of thy false mirror, conscience, magnified. 
 
 " A mummy form emerging from the tomb, 
 
 " To cheat mankind and lie ; 
 " By hope's balsamic juice through years of gloom 
 " Preserved, it leaves his proper catacomb, 
 
 " And madmen call it Immortality. 
 
 " For hopes, which cold corruption stamps for lies, 
 
 " Thou gav'st thy tried and certain happiness; 
 " None from the grave have yet been known to rise — 
 " Six thousand years have passed, and death denies 
 " All tidings of the gloomy Arbitress," 
 
 To other regions time slow winged his way. 
 
 And nature's form, which bloomed so bright before, 
 Behind his path, a corpse, all blasted lay; 
 Yet from the grave none rose to upper day— 
 
 I still believed the oath the goddess swore. 
 
 " To thee my joys I sacrificed and slayed, 
 
 " And, goddess, cast me now before thy throne. 
 
 •* With scorn the taunting many's scorn I paid ; 
 
 " Thy gifts alone against the world I weighed, 
 " And kneel before thee now to ask my own. 
 
 " My love proclaims each child of earth my friend." 
 
 A viewless Deity exclaimed ; 
 " Two flowers — my children, listen and attend— 
 " Two flowers reward each mortal aid and end, 
 
 " Hope and Enjoyment named. 
 
 " He who has plucked the one needs not to gain, 
 
 " And may not strive to pluck, the sister flower : 
 " Taste he who trusts not ; 'tis an ancient strain, 
 " Old as the world, let him who trusts refrain, 
 
 " The world's records confirm the maxim's power. 
 
 " Hope has been thine: thy bliss is won and worn — 
 
 " Thy Faith thy blessing — thy Belief thy lot. 
 " Ask all the wisest men of women born — 
 " What from the passing moment has been torn 
 " Eternity refunds it not." 
 
 39 
 
It now became Augustus's turn to give some account of 
 his travels: he had but lately returned from Sweden, where 
 he had sojourned for nearly two years. " I will," observed 
 Augustus, " narrate to you the manner in which the 
 festival of Christmas is celebrated in Sweden, and conclude 
 my part in the evening's amusement with some anecdotes 
 of the wolves, which came within my own observation." 
 
 FESTIVITIES OF CHRISTMAS IN SWEDEN. 
 
 " The last Christmas I spent at Wildeholm, where, 
 early in December, great preparations were making by all 
 classes to celebrate the solemn festival of Christmas, The 
 floors of the rooms, belonging to the rich as well as the 
 poor, after undergoing a through purification, were littered 
 with straw, in commemoration of the birth of our Saviour 
 in a stable. Like with us in England at this season, every 
 good that can pamper the appetite, as far as means will 
 allow, is likewise put into requisition. Amidst all their 
 preparations for their own gratification the peasants do not 
 forget the inferior order of the creation. In fact, it is 
 almost an universal custom among them to expose a sheaf 
 of unthrashed corn on a pole in the vicinity of their 
 dwellings, for the poor sparrows and other birds, which at 
 this inclement period of the year, are in a state of actual 
 starvation. The reason alleged by these kind-hearted 
 people for performing this act of beneficence is, that all 
 creatures should be made to rejoice on the anniversary of 
 Christ's coming among us mortals. 
 
 " Christmas Eve I had the pleasure of spending at the 
 residence of Mrs. Geijert. Near the conclusion of the 
 supper, two figures, masked and attired in the most gro- 
 tesque habiliments, entered the room — one carrying a bell, 
 the other a large basket; this latter contained a great 
 variety of presents, destined for the different branches of 
 the family and guests. To many of these presents some 
 amusing little scrap of prose or verse was appended, the 
 reading of which occasionally created no little merriment 
 among the assembled party. The donors do not attach 
 their names to the presents, but in most instances a 
 tolerably shrewd giiess is intertained from whom they come. 
 This merry and hearty sociality of the time, as observed 
 here and, I understand, all over Sweden, will remind you 
 of what you have read of our old English Christmas 
 celebrations, when feasting alone was not considered 
 sufficient, without an interchange of the kindness of the 
 heart. Alas! the over-refinement of England now has 
 degraded this genial custom into the sordid Christmas-box 
 given to menials. In fact, throughout Sweden, the hearty 
 though homely manner in which this season is celebrated, 
 is the admiration of all foreigners. 
 
 " On Christmas Day I attended divine service, which 
 commenced at six in the morning. As it was nearly three 
 hours before the sun was above the horizon, candles were 
 
 made use of. In spite, however, of the earliness of the 
 hour, the church was crowded to excess. Near to the 
 conclusion of the service, and after some observations 
 apposite to the occasion, the clergyman read from a paper, 
 entitled Personalia, the names of those persons who had 
 recently died within the parish. This contained also many 
 particulars relating to the birth, parentage, &c. of each of 
 the deceased individuals. He then expatiated on their good 
 or bad deeds upon earth, and concluded with some remarks 
 on the uncertainty of life, or other reflections of a similarly 
 impressive nature. The Personalia, which I happened to 
 hear, and which I ha /e in my possession, I wiU here read 
 to you. 
 
 " ' There is but one step between me and death,'* said a 
 man, whose life was at that time in imminent danger; and 
 every-day experience shows the truth of this saying. If 
 we always thought and saw how near death was to us — how 
 near he follows our steps — how soon he comes up with us — 
 then we should tread the uncertain path of life with more 
 caution, and count the passing moments, and contemplate 
 with awe his inevitable coming. Of what immense 
 importance is this step ! We must all take it, and how 
 soon it is taken ! In one moment we are snatched from 
 the theatre of life, on which we appeared as passing 
 shadows ! What a difference between the light of day and 
 the darkness of night — the warmth of life and the chill of 
 death — the animating feeling of existence, and the moulder- 
 ing grave I 
 
 "We have now before us a melancholy instance of the 
 uncertainty of human life. A young man, in the bloom of 
 youth, in the full enjoyment of health and vigour, is in a 
 few moments bereft of existence — lifeless! What an 
 example does that corpse exhibit to us ! What does it say 
 to us, though dumb ? What I have just said, ' There is 
 only one step between me and death.' 
 
 " He that has now taken this last earthly step, and 
 whose remains we have this day consigned to the grave, 
 was Olof Carlsson, from Bu-torp, eldest son of Carl 
 Dicksson, and his wife Christina. He was born the 22nd. 
 of October, 1810, and was drowned in the river Uf, the 
 thirtieth of last month, being then in the eighteenth year 
 of his age. This unlooked-for event is to be deeply 
 lamented for many reasons. 
 
 " All participate in your sorrows, disconsolate parents ! 
 You are advanced in years. Heavy will be the afflictions 
 of your old age, now that they can no longer be lightened 
 by the hand of your child. You had without doubt fondly 
 anticipated that he would have been the prop of your 
 declining years, when you were tottering on the brink of 
 the grave, and have rendered you the last sad offices by 
 closing your eyes. 
 
 * 1 Samuel, zx. 3, 
 
 40 
 
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" For many reasous the departed has made himself 
 worthy of our regrets. One of the sublimest, and, alas! 
 unusual epitaphs of our days which we can inscribe to his 
 memory as an example for the present and future genera- 
 tion, is, that he was never known to take the Lord's name 
 in vain. For this he deserves our unqualified praise, that 
 sin being unhappily so prevalent. According to the con- 
 current testimony of every one, the life of the deceased, in 
 other respects, was irreproachable. He was always to be 
 seen near his aged parents. The evening of the day may 
 be different from the morning. Every one knows in what 
 short space of time this unhappy occurrence took place. 
 Thus hastily was the prop of your old age, and the good 
 example for youth, hurried into another life. — But you 
 sigh heavily ! Do you think he is gone for ever ? I will 
 pour balsam into your bleeding heart ; the departed live, 
 and we become immortal through death. He is only gone 
 a little while before you. When you have finished your 
 course on earth, you will find him in the blessed abodes of 
 eternity. And time flies so fast, that perhaps in a few 
 moments some of us will be reckoned among the dead." 
 
 " Having given you this account of the mode of celebra- 
 ting Christmas, I will now relate to you the particulars of a 
 wolf-shooting excursion in which I was myself a party; 
 and also a circumstance showing the savage nature of the 
 wolf. 
 
 WOLF-SHOOTING. 
 
 " In company with a friend of mine, a Captain Norde- 
 nalder, together with several companions, we started off 
 during a very severe froston an expedition of wolf-shooting. 
 These voracious animals being very partial to pigs, we 
 caused one of a small size to be sewed up in a sack, with 
 the exception of his snout. We provided ourselves with a 
 large sledge, such as are used in Sweden to convey coke to 
 the furnaces, a pig, and an ample supply of guns, ammuni- 
 tion, &c. We drove on to a great piece of water which 
 was then frozen over, in the vicinity of Forsbacka, and at 
 no great distance from the town of Gefle. Here we began 
 to pinch the ears, &c. of the pig, who, of course, squeaked 
 out tremendously. 
 
 *' This, as we anticipated, soon drew a multitude of 
 famished wolves about our sledge. When these had 
 approached within range, we opened a fire upon them, and 
 destroyed or mutilated several of the number. All the 
 animals that were either killed or wounded were quickly 
 torn to pieces and devoured by their companions. This, 
 as I understand, is invariably the case, if there be many 
 congregated together. 
 
 " The blood with which the ravenous beasts had now 
 glutted themselves, instead of satiating their hunger, only 
 
 served to make them more savage and ferocious than 
 before ; for, in spite of the fire we kept up, they advanced 
 close to the sledge, with the apparent intention of making 
 an instant attack. To preserve our lives, therefore, the 
 Captain threw the pig on to the ice ; this, which was quick- 
 ly devoured by the MldIvcs, had the effect, for the moment, 
 of diverting their fury to another object. 
 
 " Whilst this was going forward, our horse, driven to 
 desperation by the near approach of the ferocious animals, 
 struggled and plunged so violently, that he broke the 
 shafts to pieces : being thus disengaged from the vehicle, 
 the poor animal galloped off, and succeeded in making good 
 his escape. 
 
 " When the pig was devoured, which was probably 
 hardly the work of a minute, the wolves again threatened 
 to attack our party ; and as the destruction of a few out of 
 so immense a drove as was then assembled, only served to 
 render the survivors more blood-thirsty, the Captain now 
 proposed our turning the sledge bottom up, and thus take 
 refuge beneath its friendly shelter. 
 
 " In this situation we remained for many hours, the 
 wolves in that while making repeated attempts to get at us, 
 by tearing the sledge with their teeth. At length, however, 
 assistance arrived, and we were then, to the great joy of all 
 the party, relieved from our most perilous situation. 
 
 " I will now conclude with the following interesting 
 story of the savage nature of the wolf. 
 
 A WOMAN ATTACKED BY WOLVES. 
 
 " A woman accompanied by three of her children, were 
 one day in a sledge, when they were pursued by a number 
 of wolves. On this, she put the horse into a gallop, and 
 drove towards her home, from which she was not far distant, 
 with all possible speed. All, however, would not avail, for 
 the ferocious animals gained upon her, and at last were on 
 the point of rushing on the sledge. For the preservation of 
 her own life and that of her children, the poor frantic 
 creature now took one of her babes, and cast it a prey to 
 her blood-thirsty pursuers. This stopped their career for a 
 moment; but, after devouring the little innocent, they 
 renewed the pursuit, and a second time came up with the 
 vehicle. The mother, driven to desperation, resorted to the 
 same horrible expedient, and threw her ferocious assailant 
 another of her offspring. To cut short this melancholy 
 story, her third child was sacrificed in a similar manner. 
 
 " Soon after this, the wretched being, whose feelings 
 may more easily be conceived than described, reached her 
 home in safety. Here she related what had happened, and 
 endeavoured to palliate her own conduct, by describing the 
 dreadful alternative to which she had been reduced. A 
 
 4i 
 
peasaut, however, who was among the bystanders, and 
 heard the recital, took up an axe, and with one blow cleft 
 her skull in two ; saying, at the same time, that a mother 
 who could thus sacrifice her children for the preservation of 
 her own life, was no longer fit to live. 
 
 " This man was committed to prison, but subsequently 
 received his pardon." 
 
 Augustus having finished, Julia immediately recited the 
 two following pieces — the first from the works of Charles 
 Lamb, and the second from the German. 
 
 SABBATH BELLS. 
 
 " The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, 
 
 Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice 
 
 Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims 
 
 Tidings of good to Zion • chiefly when 
 
 Their piercing tones fall sudden ou the ear 
 
 Of the contemplant, solitary man, 
 
 Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure 
 
 Forth from the walks of man, revolving oft, 
 
 And oft again, hard matter, which eludes 
 
 And baffles his pursuit — thought-sick and tired 
 
 Of controversy, where no end appears. 
 
 No clue to his research, the lonely man 
 
 Half wishes for society again. 
 
 Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute 
 
 Sudden ! his heart awakes, his ears drink ia 
 
 The cheering music ; his relenting soul 
 
 Yearns after all the joys of social life, 
 
 And softens with the love of human kind. 
 
 OUR JOYS. 
 
 FROM GOETHE. 
 
 " There fluttered round the spring 
 A fly of filmy wing, 
 
 Libella, lightly ranging , 
 Long had she pleased my sight, 
 From dark to lovely bright, 
 
 Like the cameleon, changing : 
 Red, blue, and green, 
 Soon lost as seen — 
 Oh 1 that I had her near, and knew 
 Her real changeless hue! 
 
 She flutters and floats — and will for ever — 
 
 But hold — on the willow she'll light — 
 
 There, there, I have her ! I have her ! 
 
 And now for a nearer sight — 
 
 I look — and see a sad dark blue ; 
 
 Thus, Analyst of Joy, it fares with you." 
 
 Captain William Dorville, (who was at the taking ol 
 Torres Vedras during the late war,) now commenced his 
 story. 
 
 HOSPITAL SCENE IN PORTUGAL. 
 
 " I will give you," said he, " some idea of a scene I 
 witnessed at Miranda do Cervo, on the ninth day of our 
 pursuit of the enemy. Yet I fear that a sight so terrible 
 cannot be shadowed out, except in the memory of him who 
 beheld it. 
 
 " I entered the town about dusk. It had been a black, 
 grim, and gloomy sort of a day — at one time fierce blasts 
 of winds, and at another perfect stillness, with far-off 
 thunder. Altogether there was a wild adaptation of the 
 weather and the day to the retreat of a great army. Huge 
 masses of clouds lay motionless on the sky before us; and 
 then they would bre^k-up suddenly, as with a whirlwind, 
 and roll off in the red and bloody distance. I felt myself, 
 towards the fall of the evening, in a state of strange excite- 
 ment. My imagination got the better entirely of all my 
 other faculties, and I was like a man in a grand but terrific 
 dream, who never thinks of questioning anything he sees 
 or hears, but believes all the phantasms around with a 
 strength of belief seemingly proportioned to their utter 
 dissimilarity to the objects of the real world of nature. 
 
 " Just as I was passing the great cross in the principal 
 street, I met an old, haggard-looking wretch — a woman, 
 who seemed to have in her hollow eyes an unaccountable 
 expression of cruelty — a glance like that of madness ; but 
 her deportment was quiet and rational, and she was 
 evidently of the middle rank of society, though her dress 
 was faded and squalid. She told me (without being 
 questioned,) in broken English, that I would find comfort- 
 able accommodation in an old convent that stood at some 
 distance among a grove of cork trees ; pointing to them at 
 the same time, with her long shrivelled hand and arm, and 
 giving a sort of hysterical laugh. You will find, said she, 
 nothing there to disturb you. 
 
 " I followed her advice with a kind of superstitious 
 acquiescence. There was no reason to anticipate any 
 adventure or danger in the convent ; yet the wild eyes, and 
 the wilder voice of the old crone powerfully affected me ; 
 and though, after all, she was only such an old woman as 
 one may see any where, I really began to invest her with 
 many most imposing qualities, till I found, that, in a sort 
 of reverie, I had walked up a pretty long flight of steps, 
 and was standing at the entrance to the cloisters of the 
 convent. I then saw something that made me speedily 
 forget the old woman, though what it was I did see, I could 
 not, in the first moments of my amazement and horror, 
 very distinctly comprehend. 
 
 " Above a hundred dead bodies lay and sat before ncy 
 eyes, all of them apparently in the very attitude or posture 
 
 42 
 
in which they had died. I looked at them for at least a 
 minute, before I knew that they were all corpses. Some- 
 thing in the mortal silence of the place told me that I 
 alone was alive in this dreadful company. A desperate 
 courage enabled me then to look steadfastly at the scene 
 before me. The bodies were mostly clothed in mats, and 
 rugs, and tattered great-coats; some of them merely wrap- 
 ped round about with girdles of straw; and two or three 
 perfectly naked. Every face had a different expression, 
 but all painful, horrid, agonized, bloodless. Many glazed 
 eyes were wide open ; and perhaps this was the most 
 shocking thing in the whole spectacle. So many eyes that 
 saw not, all seemingly fixed upon different objects: some 
 cast up to heaven, some looking straight-forward, and some 
 with the white orbs turned round, and deep sunk in the 
 sockets. 
 
 " It was a sort of hospital. These wretched beings were 
 mostly all desperately or mortally wounded; and after 
 having been stripped by their comrades, they had been 
 left there dead and to die. Such were they, who, as the 
 old hag said, would not trouble me. 
 
 " I had begun to view this ghastly sight with some com- 
 posure, when I saw, at the remotest pari of the hospital, a 
 gigantic figure sitting, covered with blood and almost 
 naked, upon a rude bedstead, with his back leaning 
 against the wall, and his eyes -fixed directly on mine. I 
 thought he was alive and shuddered ; but he was stone 
 dead. In the last agonies he had bitten his under lip 
 almost entirely off, and his long black beard was drench- 
 ed in clotted gore, that likewise lay in large blots on his 
 shaggy bosom. One of his hands had convulsively grasp- 
 ed the wood-work of the bedstead, which had been crushed 
 in the grasp. I recognised the corpse. He was a sergeant 
 in a grenadier regiment, and, during the retreat, distin- 
 guished for acts of savage valour. One day he killed, with 
 his own hand, Harry Warburton, the right-hand man of 
 my own company, perhaps the finest made and most power- 
 ful man in the British army. My soldiers had nicknamed 
 him with a very coarse appellation, and I really felt as if 
 he and I were acquaintances. There he sat, as if frozen to 
 death. 1 went up to the body, and raising up the giant's 
 musculai arm, it fell down again with a hollow sound 
 against the bloody side of the corpse. 
 
 " My eyes unconsciously wandered along the walls. 
 They were covered with grotesque figures and caricatures 
 of the English, absolutely drawn in blood. Horrid blas- 
 ohemies, and the most shocking obscenities in the shape of 
 socgs, were in like manner written there ; and you may 
 guess what an effect they had upon me, when the wretches 
 who had conceived them lay all dead corpses around my 
 feet. I saw two books lying on the floor. I lifted them 
 up. One seemed to be full of the most hideous obscenity, 
 the other was the Bible ! It is impossible to tell you the 
 hovror produced in me by this circumstance. The books 
 
 fell from my hand. They fell upon the breast of one of the 
 bodies. It was a woman's breast. A woman had lived 
 and died in such a place as this ! What had been in that 
 heart, now still, perhaps only a few hours before ! I 
 knew not. It is possible, love strong as death, — love, 
 guilty, abandoned, depraved, and linked by vice unto 
 misery, — but still love, that perished but with the last 
 throb, and yearned in the last convulsion towards some 
 one of these grim dead bodies. I think some such idea 
 as this came across me at the time ; or has it now only 
 arisen ? 
 
 " Near this corpse lay that of a perfect boy, certainly 
 not more than seventeen years of age. There was a little 
 copper figure of the Virgin Mary round his neck, suspen- 
 ded by a chain of hair. It was of little value, else it had 
 not been suffered to remain there. In his hand was a 
 letter. I saw enough to know that it was from his 
 mother — Mon chere fila, &c. It was a terrible place to 
 think of mother— of home — of any social human ties. 
 Have these ghastly things parents, brothers, sisters, lovers? 
 Were they once all happy in peaceful homes ? Did these 
 convulsed, and bloody, and mangled bodies once lie in un- 
 disturbed beds ? Did those clutched hands once press in 
 infancy a mother's breast ? Now all was loathsome, 
 terrible, ghostlike. Human nature itself seemed here to 
 be debased and brutified. Will such creatures, I thought, 
 ever live again ? Why should they ? Robbers, ravishers, 
 incendiaries, murderers, suicides (for a dragoon lay with a 
 a pistol in his hand, and his skull shattered to pieces), 
 heroes ! The only two powers that reigned here, were 
 agony and death. Whatever might have been their 
 characters when alive, all faces were now alike. I could 
 not, in those fixed contortions, tell what was pain from 
 what was anger — misery from wickedness. 
 
 "It was now almost dark, and the night was setting in 
 stormier than the day. A strong flash of lightning sud- 
 denly iUuminated this hold of death, and for a moment 
 showed me more distinctly the terrible array. A loud 
 squall of wind came round about the building, and the old 
 window-casement gave way, and fell with a shivering crash 
 in upon the floor. Something rose up with an angry growl 
 from among the dead bodies. It was a huge, dark-coloured 
 wolf-dog, with a spiked collar round his neck ; and seeing 
 me, he leaped forwards with gaunt and bony limbs. I am 
 confident that his jaws were bloody. I had instinctively 
 moved backwards towards the door. The surly savage 
 returned growling to his lair ; and, in a state of stupefac- 
 tion, I found myself in the open air. A bugle was playing, 
 and the light-infantry company of my own regiment was 
 entering the village with loud shouts and hurras." 
 
 43 
 
Marion now concluded the evening's amusement, by 
 repeating the annexed beautiful lines from Schiller. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 " I SEE her yet amidst her lovely train, 
 As there, the loveliest of them all, she stood; 
 Her sunlike beauty struck the glance with pain, 
 I stood aloof, irresolute, subdued, 
 A pleasing shudder thrilled each beating vein, 
 Awed by the circling loveliness I viewed ; 
 But all at once, as on resistless wing. 
 An impulse came, and bade me strike the string. 
 
 What may have been that moment's wildered feeling. 
 
 And what my song, in vain would I recall; 
 
 My heart had found an organ new, revealing 
 
 Its every wish, its holy movements all. 
 
 My soul, for long long years its love concealing, 
 
 Now burst at once impetuous from its thrall, 
 And from its deepest depths aroused a tone. 
 Which slumbered there divine, yet all unknown. 
 
 Hushed were the chords, and that wild impulse by. 
 
 My soul relapsed into itself again ; 
 
 But in her angel face I might descry 
 
 Sweet bashfulness resisting love in vain. 
 
 Rapt with the pure delight of realms on high, 
 
 Her few soft words I caught, a soothing strain — 
 
 Oh ! none henceforth may breathe such tones of love, 
 But spirits blest, that swell the choirs above. 
 
 The faithful heart that pines disconsolate, 
 
 Nursing a timid love in silence long. 
 
 Shall find one soul its self-hid worth to rate. 
 
 Be mine to wreak that heart on fortune's wrong ; 
 
 Poor though it be, it claims the brightest fate ; 
 
 To love alone the flowers of love belong ; 
 The fairest boon rewards the heart aright, 
 Which feels its worth, and will that worth requite." 
 
 Content. — I knew a man that had wealth and riches, 
 and several houses, all beautiful and ready furnished, and 
 who would often trouble himself and family by removing 
 from one house to another. Being asked by a friend why 
 he removed so often, he replied, it was to find content in 
 some one of them. "Content," said his friend, "ever 
 dwells in a meek and quiet soul." J. w. 
 
 THE SHADOW. 
 
 I HUNG o'er the side of the vessel while cleaving 
 Mid the blue rolling waters her pathway of light; 
 
 Behind was the white silver track she was leaving, 
 And before her the billows lay buoyant and bright 
 
 Her white sail was spread to the beauty of Morning, 
 
 Which waked like a rose crimson from her night's rest- 
 Now wooing the wind, and now, woman-like, scorning 
 The lover whose home was yet deep in her breast. 
 
 On sprang the ship, like the stag trom its pillow, » 
 
 In beauty, in music, in gladness, she past ; 
 
 But follow'd her still one dark shade on the billow; 
 That fair ship ! from her could such darkness be cast ? 
 
 The sun-beam hath its shadow, and youth hath its sorrow, 
 The fair bark its dark side, — and such is mine own; 
 
 Brightness and gladness my pathway may borrow, 
 But still my heart's darkness upon it is thrown. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Oh ! look ye on the rainbow, in its first 
 
 Exceeding faintness, like a rising thought. 
 
 Or a fine feeling of the beautiful. 
 
 An evanescence ! so you fear must be 
 
 The slight tinged silence of the showery sky. 
 
 Nor yet dare name its name, till breathing out 
 
 Into such colours as may not deceive. 
 
 And ixndelusive in their heavenliness. 
 
 O'er all the hues that happy nature knows, 
 
 Although it be the gentlest of them all 
 
 Prevailing the celestial violet, 
 
 To eyes by beauty made religious, lo ! 
 
 Brightening the house by God inhabited 
 
 The full form'd rainbow glows ! beneath her arch 
 
 The glittering earth once more is paradise ; 
 
 Nor sin nor sorrow hath her dwelling there. 
 
 Nor death ; but an immortal happiness 
 
 For us made angels ! swifter than a dream 
 
 It fades — it flies — and we and this our earth 
 
 Are disenchanted back to mortal life ; 
 
 Earth to its gloom, we to our miseries." 
 
 ■44 
 
THE THUNDER-STORM. 
 
 BY W. f. BRYANT. 
 
 The day had been a day of wind and storm; — 
 
 The wind was laid, the storm was overpassed, 
 And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm. 
 
 Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. 
 
 I stood upon the upland slope, and cast 
 My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 
 
 Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, 
 And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, 
 With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between. 
 
 The rain-drops glistened on the trees around. 
 
 Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, 
 Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground. 
 
 Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; 
 
 For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
 About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung 
 
 And gossipped, as he hastened ocean-ward ; 
 To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung, 
 And chirping, from the ground the grashopper upsprunj 
 
 And from beneath the leaves, that kept them dry, 
 Flew many a glittering insect here and there. 
 
 And darted up and down the butterfly, 
 i'hat seemed a living blossom of the air, 
 The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
 
 The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 
 Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; 
 
 The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay. 
 
 And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. 
 
 It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 
 
 Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
 Upon the motionless wood that clothed the cell, 
 
 And precipice upspringing like a wall. 
 
 And glassy river, and white waterfall. 
 And happy living things that trod the bright 
 
 And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, 
 On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 
 Was poured from the blue heavens, the same soft, golden 
 light. 
 
 1 looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
 
 An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
 When o'er earth's continents, and isles between. 
 
 The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, 
 
 And married nations dwell in harmony ; 
 When millions crouching in the dust to one, 
 
 No more shall beg their lives on bended knee. 
 Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
 The o'erlabonred captive toil, and wish his life were done. 
 
 loo long at clash of arms amid her bowers, 
 And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 
 
 The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
 And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last 
 The storm ; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past ; 
 
 Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly, 
 And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 
 
 O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
 
 On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. 
 
 THE WHITE ELEPHANT OF BURMAH. 
 
 The Burmese, like all other heathen countries, have 
 religious services performed in various ways to their gods; 
 but one in particular is deserving of notice, as being 
 altogether peculiar to themselves. This is the adoration 
 paid to a White Elephant, which is kept with a degree of 
 splendour not exceeded by that of the ilmperor himself. 
 How well does the Apostle's assertion apply here to those 
 men who, thinking themselves wise, have ' become vain in 
 their imaginations, and their foolish hearts are darkened.' 
 This white elephant has his residence contiguous to the 
 royal palace, with which it is connected by a long open 
 gallery. At the further end of this gallery, a lofty curtain 
 of black velvet, richly embossed with gold, conceals the 
 animal from the eyes of the vulgar. Before this curtain 
 the presents that are intended to be offered to him, consist- 
 ing of gold and silver, muslins, broad cloths, altar, (otto) 
 of roses, rose water, Benares brocades, tea, &c. are 
 displayed on carpets. His dwelling is a lofty hall, richly 
 gilt from top to bottom, both inside and out, and supported 
 by sixty-four pillars, thirty- six of which are also richly gilt. 
 His two fore-feet are fastened by a thick silver chain to one 
 of these pillars. His bedding consists of a thick straw 
 mattress, covered with the finest blue cloth, over which is 
 spread another of softer materials, covered with crimson 
 silk. He has a regular household, consisting of a chief 
 minister, a secretary of state, an inferior secretary, an 
 obtaiuer of intelligence, and other inferior ministers. 
 Besides these, he has oflBcers who transact the business of 
 several estates which he possesses in various parts of the 
 country, and an establishment of a thousand men, including 
 guards, servants, and other attendants. His trappings are 
 of extreme magnificence, being all of gold, and the richest 
 iTold cloth, thickly studded with large diamonds, pearls, 
 sapphires, rubies, and other precious stones. The vessels 
 out of which he eats and drinks are likewise of gold, inlaid 
 with numerous precious stones. 
 
 45 
 
THE CRUSADE. 
 
 Bound for holy Palestine, 
 Nimbly we brushed the level brine; 
 All in azure steel arrayed, 
 O'er the wave our weapons played, 
 And made the dancing billows glow ; 
 High upon the trophied prow, 
 Many a warrior-minstrel strung 
 His sounding harp, and boldly sung ; 
 
 " Syrian virgins, wail and weep, 
 English Richard ploughs the deep ! 
 Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy. 
 From distant towers, with anxious eye. 
 The radiant range of shield and lance 
 Down Damascus' hills advance: 
 From Sion's turrets, as afar 
 Ye ken the march of Europe's war ! 
 Saladin, thou paynim king, 
 From Albion's isle revenge we bring ! 
 On Aeon's spiry citadel. 
 Though to the gale thy banners swell, 
 Pictured with the silver moon; 
 England shaU end thy glory soon ! 
 In vain, to break our firm array. 
 Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray : 
 Those sounds our rising fury fan : 
 English Richard in the van. 
 On to victory we go, 
 A vaunting infidel £he foe." 
 
 Blondel led the tuneful band. 
 And swept the wire with glowing hand. 
 Cyprus, from her rocky mound. 
 And Crete, with piny verdure crowned. 
 Far along the smiling main 
 Echoed the prophetic strain. 
 
 Soon we kissed the sacred earth 
 That gave a murdered Saviour birth : 
 Then with ardour fresh endued. 
 Thus the solemn song renewed. 
 
 " Lo ! the toilsome voyage past. 
 Heaven's favoured hills appear at last ! 
 Object of our holy vow. 
 We tread the Tyrian valleys now. 
 From Carmel's almond-shaded steep 
 We feel the cheering fragrance creep ; 
 O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm 
 Waves the date-empurpled palm ; 
 See Lebanon's aspiring head 
 Wide his immortal umbrage spread ! 
 Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar, 
 Wet with our Redeemer's gore ! 
 Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn. 
 Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn ; 
 
 Your ravished honours to restore, 
 
 Fearless we climb this hostile shore 1 
 
 And thou, the sepulchre of God ! 
 
 By mocking Pagans rudely trod, 
 
 Bereft of every awful rite. 
 
 And quenched thy lamps that beamed so bright ; 
 
 For thee, from Britain's distant coast, 
 
 Lo, Richard leads his faithful host ! 
 
 Aloft in his heroic hand, 
 
 Blazing, like the beacon's brand. 
 
 O'er the far-afiFrighted fields. 
 
 Resistless Kaliburn he wields. 
 
 Proud Saracen, pollute no more 
 
 The shrines by martyrs built of yore ! 
 
 From each wild mountain's trackless crown 
 
 In vain, thy gloomy castles frown; 
 
 Thy battering engines, huge and high. 
 
 In vain our steel-clad steeds defy. 
 
 And, rolling in terrific state. 
 
 On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate. 
 
 When eve has hushed the buzzing camp. 
 
 Amid the moon-light vapours damp, 
 
 Thy necromantic forms, in vain. 
 
 Haunt us on the tented plain : 
 
 We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt, 
 
 Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt I 
 
 With many a demon, pale of hue, 
 
 Doomed to drink the bitter dew 
 
 That drops from Macon's sooty tree. 
 
 Mid the dread grove of ebony. 
 
 Nor magic charms, nor fields of hell. 
 
 The Christian's holy courage quelL 
 
 Salem, in ancient majesty 
 Arise, and lift thee to the sky 
 Soon on thy battlements divine 
 Shall wave the badge of Constantine. 
 Ye barons, to the sun unfold 
 Our cross with crimson wove and gold ! 
 
 WARTON, 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 FEiENDBHiPis the joy of reason. 
 Dearer yet than that of love : 
 
 Love but lasts a transient season- 
 Friendship makes the bliss above. 
 
 Who would lose the secret pleasure 
 Felt, when soul with soul unites ? 
 
 Other blessings have their measure : 
 Friendship without bound delights. 
 
 46> 
 
THE MARINER'S DREAM, 
 
 In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, 
 His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; 
 But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
 And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 
 
 He dream'd of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
 And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 
 While Memory stood side-ways, half cover'd with flowers, 
 And restored every rose, but secreted the thorn. 
 
 Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
 And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise; 
 Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide. 
 And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 
 
 The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch. 
 And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall ; 
 All trembling with transport he raises the latch, 
 And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 
 
 A father bends o'er him with looks of delight, 
 
 His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's warm tear; 
 
 And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
 
 With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 
 
 The heart of the Sleeper beats high in his breast, 
 Joy quickens his pulse — all his hardships seem o'er ! 
 And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest — 
 " O God ! thou hast blest me, I ask for no more 1" 
 
 Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? 
 Ah ! what is that sound that now larums his ear ? 
 'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky ! 
 'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere! 
 
 He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck ; 
 Amazement confronts him with images dire; — 
 Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck, 
 The masts fly in splinters, the shrouds are on fire I 
 
 Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell. 
 
 In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 
 
 Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell. 
 
 And the Death-Angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave. 
 
 O Sailor boy ! wo to thy dream of delight ; 
 In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ; 
 Where now is the picture that Fancy touch'd bright, 
 Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honoy'd kiss ? 
 
 Oh ! Sailor boy ! Sailor boy ! never again 
 Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 
 Unbless'd and unhonour'd, down deep in the main 
 Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay. 
 
 No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee. 
 Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; 
 But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, 
 And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. 
 
 On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid. 
 Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
 Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. 
 And every part suit to thy mansion below. 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away. 
 And still the vast waters above thee shall roll : 
 Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye — 
 Oh Sailor boy ! Sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 
 
 LOVE ME LOVE MY DOG. 
 
 The bee delights in opening flowers. 
 The birds rejoice in scented bowers. 
 The plover loves the lonesome hill, 
 The speckled trout the silver rill, 
 The wakeful bittern loves the bog 
 And I love thee, my faithful dog 
 I love with thee, as forth we walk. 
 Mute as thou art, to smile and talk, 
 Through beds of lilies white as snow 
 Treading their dewy heads, we go 
 Arousing in our merry race, 
 The mousing cat thou fear'st to fact • 
 The mild of mood ay look with awe 
 On creatures wearing tooth and claw 
 But let at night the scared owl screech. 
 Thy look is fire, thy bark is speech; 
 With tail exteuded, white teeth baring, 
 No lion looks more fierce and daring : 
 Thy back with rage is all one bristle. 
 Thy whiskers sharpen like a thistle, 
 On days of state, 'tis grand to see 
 Thee strut with dogs of high degree. 
 No peacock waves his golden tail. 
 So statelv as thou shak'st thy tail. 
 Live on unharmed by chain or clog. 
 My word is, — Love me — Love my dog, 
 
 47 
 
CHOCORUA'S CURSE. 
 
 The rocky county of Strafford, New Hampshire, is 
 remarkable for its wild and broken scenery. Ranges of 
 hills towering one above another, as if eager to look upon 
 the beautiful country, which afar off lies sleeping in the 
 embrace of heaven; precipices, from which the young 
 eagles take their flight to the sun ; dells rugged and tangled 
 as the dominions of Roderick Vich Alpine, and ravines 
 dark and deep enough for the death scene of a bandit, form 
 the magnificent characteristics of this picturesque region. 
 
 A high precipice, called Chocorua's Cliff, is rendered 
 peculiarly interesting by a legend which tradition has 
 scarcely saved from utter oblivion. Had it been in Scot- 
 land, perhaps the genius of Sir Walter Scott would have 
 hallowed it, and Americans would have crowded there to 
 kindle fancy on the altar of memory. Being in the midst 
 of our own romantic scenery, it is little known, and less 
 visited; for the vicinity is as yet untraversed by rail-roads 
 or canals, and no " Mountain House," perched on these 
 tremendous battlements, allures the traveller hither to mock 
 the majesty of nature with the insipidities of fashion. 
 A distinguished artist, Mr. Cole, found the sunshine and 
 the winds sleeping upon it in solitude and secrecy; and his 
 pencil has brought it before us in its stern repose. 
 
 In olden time, when Goffe and Whalley passed for 
 wizards and mountain spirits among the superstitious, the 
 vicinity of the spot we have been describing was occupied 
 by a very small colony, which, either from discontent or 
 enterprize, had retired into this remote part of New 
 Hampshire. Most of them were ordinary men, led to this 
 independent mode of life from an impatience of restraint, 
 which as frequently accompanies vulgar obstinacy as 
 generous pride. But there was one master spirit among 
 them, who was capable of a higher destiny than he ever 
 fulfilled. The consciousness of this had stamped something 
 of proud humility on the face of Cornelius Campbell; 
 something of a haughty spirit strongly curbed by circum- 
 stances he could not control, and at which he scorned to 
 murmur. He assumed no superiority; but unconsciously 
 he threw around him the spell of intellect, and his 
 companions felt, they knew not why, that he was " among 
 them, but not of them." His stature was gigantic, and he 
 had the bold, quick tread of one who had wandered 
 frequently and fearlessly among the terrible hiding places 
 of nature. His voice was harsh, but his whole countenance 
 possessed singular capabilities for tenderness of expression ; 
 and sometimes, under the gentle influence of domestic 
 excitement, his hard features would be rapidly lighted up, 
 seeming like the sunshine flying over the shaded fields in 
 an April day. 
 
 His companion was one peculiarly calculated to excite 
 and retain the deep, strong energies of manly love. She 
 had possessed extraordinary beauty ; and had, in the full 
 
 maturity of an excellent judgment, relinquished several 
 splended alliances, and incurred her father's displeasure, 
 for the sake of Cornelius Campbell. Had political circum- 
 stances proved favourable, his talents and ambition would 
 unquestionable have worked out a path to emolument and 
 fame ; but he had been a zealous and active enemy of the 
 Stuarts, and the restoration of Charles the Second was the 
 death-warrant of his hopes. Immediate flight became 
 necessary, and America was the chosen place of refuge. 
 His adherence to Cromwell's party was not occasioned by 
 religious sympathy, but by political views, too liberal and 
 philosophical for the state of the people ; therefore Corne- 
 lius Campbell was no favourite with our forefathers, and 
 being of a proud nature, he withdrew with his family to the 
 solitary place we have mentioned. 
 
 It seemed a hard fate for one who had from childhood 
 been accustomed to indulgence and admiration, yet Mrs. 
 Campbell enjoyed more than she had done in her days of 
 splendour ; so much deeper are the sources of happiness 
 than those of gaiety. Even her face had suffered little 
 from time and hardship. The bloom on her cheek, which 
 in youth had been like the sweet pea blossom, that most 
 feminine of all flowers, had, it is true, somewhat faded ; but 
 the rich, intellectual expression, did but receive additional 
 majesty from years; and the exercise of quiet domestic 
 love, which, where it is suffered to exist, always deepens 
 and brightens with time, had given a bland and placid 
 expression, which might well have atoned for the absence 
 of more striking beauty. To such a woman as Caroline 
 Campbell, of what use would have been some modern doc- 
 trines of equality and independence? 
 
 With a mind sufficiently cultivated to appreciate and 
 enjoy her husband's intellectual energies, she had a heart 
 that could not have found another home. The bird will 
 drop into its nest though the treasures of earth and sky are 
 open. To have proved marriage a tyranny, and the cares 
 of domestic life a thraldom, would have affected Caroline 
 Campbell as little, as to be told that the pure, sweet atmos- 
 phere she breathed, was pressing upon her so many pounds 
 to every square inch ! Over such a heart, and such a soul, 
 external circumstances have little power ; all worldy 
 interest was concentrated in her husband and babes, and 
 her spirit was satisfied with that inexhaustible fountain of 
 joy which nature gives, and God has blessed. 
 
 A very small settlement, in such a remote place, was of 
 course subject to inconvenience and occasional suffering. 
 From the Indians they received neither injury nor insult. 
 No cause of quarrel had ever arisen ; and, although their 
 frequent visits were sometimes troublesome, they never 
 had given indications of jealousy or malice. Chocorua 
 was a, prophet among them, and as such an object of pecu- 
 liar respect. He had a mind which education and motive 
 would have nerved with giant strength ; but, growing up 
 in savage freedom, it wasted itself in dark, fierce, un 'o- 
 
 4» 
 
MIHHA TM,(0)I[]L I'm THE CHAMBlETEt ®F -KrOB-WA, 
 
 VinF. SiHWALTLI-i SCO 1 I 5 I^IKAlt 
 
 ^^^TJ?". <-/;?. i'/u^^/r/j^ './M//A?id' m^^y^ 
 
 hruirajvedf b'u f.Jlope . 
 
vernable passions. There was something fearful in the 
 quiet haughtiness of his lip — it seemed so like slumbering 
 power, too proud to be lightly roused, and too implacable to 
 sleep again. In his small, black, fiery eye, expression lay 
 coiled up like a beautiful snake. The white people knew 
 that his hatred would be terrible; but they had never 
 provoked it, and even the children became too much accus- 
 tomed to him to fear him, 
 
 Chocorua had a son, about nine or ten years old, to 
 whom Caroline Campbell had occasionally made such 
 gaudy presents as were likely to attract his savage fancy. 
 This won the child's affections, so that he became a 
 familiar visitant, almost an inmate of their dwelling ; and 
 being unrestrained by the courtesies of civilized life, he 
 would inspect every thing, and taste of every thing which 
 came in his way. Some poison, prepared for a mischievous 
 fox, which had long troubled the little settlement, was 
 discovered and drunk by the Indian boy; and he went 
 home to his father to sicken and die. From that moment 
 jealousy and hatred took possession of Chocorua's soul. 
 He never told his suspicions — he brooded over them in 
 secret, to nourish the deadly revenge he contemplated 
 against Cornelius Campbell. 
 
 The story of Indian animosity is always the same. 
 Cornelius Campbell left his hut for the fields early one 
 bright, balmy morning in June. Still a lover, though ten 
 years a husband, his last look was turned towards his wife, 
 answering her parting smile — his last action a kiss for each 
 of his children. When he returned to dinner, they were 
 dead — all dead ! and their disfigured bodies too cruelly 
 showed that an Indian's hand had done the work! 
 
 la such a mind, grief, like all other emotions, was 
 tempestuous. Home had been to him the only verdant 
 spot in the wide desert of life. In his wife and children he 
 had garnered up all his heart; and now they were torn 
 from him, the remembrance of their love clung to him like 
 the death-grapple of a drowning man, sinking him down, 
 down, into darkness and death. This was followed by a 
 calm a thousand times more terrible — the creeping agony 
 of despair, that brings with it no power of resistance. 
 
 " It was as if the dead could feel 
 The icy worm around him steal." 
 
 Such, for many days, was the state of Cornelius 
 Campbell. Those who knew and reverenced him, feared 
 that the spark of reason was for ever extinguished. But it 
 rekindled again, and with it came a wild, demoniac spirit 
 of revenge. The death-groan of Chocorua would make 
 him smile in his dreams ; and when he waked, death 
 seemed too pitiful a vengeance for the anguish that was 
 eating into his very soul. 
 
 Chocorua's brethren were absent on a hunting expedition 
 at the time he committed the murder; and those who 
 
 watched his movements observed that he frequently 
 climbed the high precipice, which afterward took his name, 
 probably looking out for indications of their return. 
 
 Here Cornelius Campbell resolved to effect his deadly 
 purpose. A party was formed under his guidance, to cut 
 off all chance of retreat, and the dark-minded prophet was 
 to be hunted like a wild beast to his lair. 
 
 The morning sun had scarce cleared away the fogs when 
 Chocorua started at a loud voice from beneath the precipice, 
 commanding him to throw himself into the deep abyss 
 below He knew the voice of his enemy, and replied with 
 an Indian's calmness, "The Great Spirit gave life to 
 Chocorua; and Chocorua will not throw it away at the 
 command of a white man." " Then hear the Great Spirit 
 speak in the white man's thunder !" exclaimed Cornelius 
 Campbell, as he pointed the gun to the precipice. Chocorua, 
 though fierce and fearless as a panther, had never over- 
 come his dread of fire-arms. He placed his hand upon his 
 ears to shut out the stunning report; the next moment the 
 blood bubbled from his neck, and he reeled fearfully on 
 the edge of the precipice. But he recovered himself, and, 
 raising himself on his hands, he spoke in a loud voice, that 
 grew more terrific as its huskiness increased, " A curse 
 upon ye, white men ! May the Great Spirit curse ye when 
 he speaks in the clouds, and his words are fire ! Chocorua 
 had a son — and ye killed him while his eye still loved to 
 look on the bright sun, and the green earth ! The Evil 
 Spirit breathe death upon your cattle ! Your graves lie in 
 the war path of the Indian ! Panthers howl, and wolves 
 fatten over your bones ! Chocorua goes to the Great 
 Spirit — his curse stays with the white men!" 
 
 The prophet sunk upon the ground, still uttering inaudi- 
 ble curses — and they left his bones to whiten in the sun. 
 But his curse rested on the settlement. The tomahawk 
 and scalping knife were busy among them, the winds tore 
 up trees and hurled them at their dwellings, their crops were 
 blasted, their cattle died, and sickness came upon their 
 strongest men. At last the remnant of them departed 
 from the fatal spot to mingle with more populous and 
 prosperous colonies. Cornelius Campbell became a her- 
 mit, seldom seeking or seeing his fellow-men; and two 
 years after he was found dead in his hut. 
 
 To this day the town of Burton, in New Hampshire, is 
 remarkable for a pestilence which infects its cattle ; and 
 the superstitious think that Chocorua's spirit still sits 
 enthroned upon Jiis precipice, breathing a curse upon them. 
 
 By taking revenge, a man is out even with his enemy , 
 but in passing it over, he is superior.. 
 
 4» 
 
THE MARQUISA AND HER DOG. 
 
 Ay, clasp thy treasure, gentle one '. such love is pure and 
 
 sweet; 
 In this fair bond of kindness, there lurketh no deceit; 
 Well suits the sportive favourite with the sunshine of thy 
 
 years, 
 A love which never breaketh— a joy which knows not tears. 
 
 Sport'st thou among the flow'rs, fair girl ! he sports beside 
 
 thee there, 
 Joying in gambols like thine own, in knowing aught of 
 
 care; 
 Thy garlands of the wilding blooms, the green woods 
 
 yield, will deck. 
 In their pure and simple elegance, his dark and glossy 
 
 neck. 
 
 Sleep'st thou beneath the shady boughs, thy love meets 
 
 its reward. 
 The partner of thy pleasures wakes, to serve thee as a 
 
 guard; 
 No stranger- hand to scare thy rest with startling touch 
 
 may dare, 
 For he who shares thy waking sports, is watching o'er thee 
 
 there. 
 
 His love will never turn to hate ; like thee, he does not 
 
 guess 
 That there can come a cloud to chill affection's sweet 
 
 excess ; 
 He knows not of the thousand lures, which help to 
 
 overthrow 
 The dream of joy — as thou too sure, fair girl ! wilt one day 
 
 know. 
 
 Ay, cling to thy mute favourite — let thy guileless heart 
 
 pour forth 
 The gentle feelings which were giv'n to gladdeq us on 
 
 earth ; 
 For years will come, and loves will rise, to which this 
 
 infant one 
 Will seem a blessed dream of peace, too early lost and gone ! 
 
 Far other steps will follow thine, young beauty ! on thy way; 
 And other eyes look into thine — yet both in turn will stray ; 
 New smiles may lure aside the feet which foUow'd in thy 
 
 train, 
 And glances thou shalt learn to love, ne'er answer thine 
 
 again. 
 
 For otber favourites will join in the world's giddy game, 
 And some may fill thine eye with tears, and some thy heart 
 with blame : 
 
 All — all — may leave a sting behind, thou caust not guess 
 
 at now, 
 And cast a shadow o'er thy soul — a gloom upon thy brow ! 
 
 Life is a pageant with thee here — a dream of sport and light; 
 Sweet sounds are in thy infant years, sweet forms beneath 
 
 thy sight : 
 Thy waking thoughts are love and joy, and when thy head 
 
 hath prest 
 Its pillow, 'tis In tenderness, young dove! thou seekest 
 
 rest. 
 
 This passion leaves no bitterness — this fondness wakes no 
 
 tears — 
 Oh ! that it were a type of those which wait thy after years ; 
 Yet cling to this sweet dream, fair child! for none will 
 
 love so well, 
 And leave such perfect bliss behind, as thy poor fond 
 
 Fidele ! 
 
 TO MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 With a mosaic pegasus brought from Rome, and a leaf of bay 
 gathered at the fountain of Castalia. 
 
 BY THE VEN. ARCHDEACON BUTLER. 
 
 Too old to climb the sacred hill, 
 Around its base I linger still, 
 And send my Pegasus to try 
 A loftier range than 1 can fly. 
 Him, lighted on Hesperian ground. 
 By Tiber's yellow stream I found, 
 With arching neck, and floating mane, 
 And wings outspread for flight again. 
 I seized him, though control he spurned, 
 And from his frontlet, as he turned. 
 Ere from my grasp he burst away, 
 There dropt a leaf of Delphic bay. 
 Who shall receive the gift divine, 
 'Midst all the suppliants of the Nine ? 
 Who, but the worthiest, best, shall keep 
 The leaf that wav'd o'er Delphi's steep, 
 Pluck'd from the god's own Virgin tree. 
 And bath'd in dews of Castaly ? 
 Who, but the child of sweetest song ? 
 To whose enraptured lays belong, 
 Words that the flintest heart can move. 
 And thoughts that angels may approve : 
 The tenderest grace, the magic skill 
 To lead the captive soul at will ; 
 To thrill with fear, and awe to sway. 
 And guide in virtue's holiest way. 
 
 Who can this best and worthiest be ? 
 Whom, Hemans, can we name but thee 7 
 
 
THE SPLENDID ANNUAL. 
 
 Literature, even in this literary age, is not the 
 ordinary pursuit of the citizens of Loudon, although every 
 merchant is necessarily a man of letters, and underwriters 
 are as common as cucumbers. Notwithstanding, however, 
 my being a citizen, I am tempted to disclose the miseries 
 and misfortunes of my life in these pages, because, having 
 heard the " Drawing Room Album" called a splendid 
 annual, I hope for sympathy from its readers, seeing that 
 I have been a " splendid annual" myself. 
 
 My name is Scropps — I am an Alderman — I was 
 Sheriff — I have been Lord Mayor — and the three great 
 eras of my existence were the year of my shrievalty, the 
 year of my mayoralty, and the year after it. Until I had 
 passed through this ordeal I had no conception of the 
 extremes of happiness and wretchedness to which a human 
 being may be carried, nor ever believed that society pre- 
 sented to its members, an eminence so exalted as that 
 which I once touched, or imagined a fall so great as that 
 which I experienced. 
 
 I came originally from that place to which persons of 
 bad character are said to be sent — I mean Coventry, 
 where my father for many years contributed his share to 
 the success of parliamentary candidates, the happiness 
 of new married couples, and even the gratification of am- 
 bitious courtiers, by taking part in the manufacture of 
 ribands for election cockades, wedding favours, and cor- 
 dons of chivalry ; but trade failed, and, like his betters, 
 he became bankrupt, but, unlike his betters, without any 
 consequent advantage to himself; and I, at the age of 
 fifteen, was thrown upon the world with nothing but a 
 strong constitution, a moderate education, and fifteen 
 shillings and eleven pence three farthings in my pocket. 
 
 With these qualifications I started from my native town 
 on a pedestrian excursion to London ; and although I fell 
 into none of those romantic adventures of which I had 
 read at school, I met with more kindness than the world 
 generally gels credit for, and on the fourth day after my 
 departure, having slept soundly, if not magnificently, every 
 night, and eaten with an appetite which my mode of 
 travelling was admirably calculated to stimulate, reached 
 the great metropolis, having preserved of my patrimony, 
 no less a sum than nine shillings and seven-pence. 
 
 The bells of one of the churches in the city were ring- 
 ing merrily as I descended the heights of Islington ; and 
 were it not that my patronymic Scropps never could, under 
 the most improved system of campanology, be jingled into 
 any thing harmonious, I have no doubt, I, like my great 
 predecessor Whittington, might have heard in that peal a 
 prediction of my future exaltation ; certain it is I did not ; 
 and, wearied with my journey, I took up my lodging for 
 the night at a very humble house near Smithfield, to which 
 I had been kindly recommended by the driver of a return 
 
 postchaise, of whose liberal offer of the moiety of his bar to 
 town I had availed myself at Barnet. 
 
 As it is not my intention to deduce a moral from my 
 progress in the world at this period of my life, I need not 
 here dilate upon the good policy of honesty, or the advan- 
 tages of temperance and perseverance, by which I worked 
 my way upwards, until after meriting the confidence of an 
 excellent master, I found myself enjoying it fully. To his 
 business I succeeded at his death, having several years 
 before, with his sanction, married a young and deserving 
 woman, about my own age, of whose prudence and skill in 
 household matters I had long had a daily experience. In 
 the subordinate character of his sole domestic servant, in 
 which she figured when I first knew her, she had but few 
 opportunities of displaying her intellectual qualities, but 
 when she rose in the world, and felt the cheering influence 
 of prosperity, her mind, like a balloon, soaring into regions 
 where the bright sun beams on it, expanded, and she 
 became, as she remains, the kind unsophisticated partner 
 of my sorrows and my pleasures, the friend of my heart, 
 and the guiding star of my destinies. 
 
 To be brief. Providence blessed my efforts and increased 
 my means ; I became a wholesale dealer in every thing, 
 from barrels of gunpowder down to pickled herrings ; in the 
 civic acceptation of the word I was a merchant; amongst 
 the vulgar I am called a drysalter. I accumulated 
 wealth; with my fortune my family also grew, and one 
 male Scropps, and four female ditto, grace my board at 
 least once in every week ; for I hold it an article of faith 
 to have a sirloin of roasted beef upon my table on Sun- 
 days, and all my children round me to partake of it : this 
 may be prejudice — no matter — so long as he could afford it, 
 my poor father did so before me ; I plead that precedent, 
 and am not ashamed of the custom. 
 
 Passing over the minor gradations of my life, the remo- 
 val from one residence to another, the enlargement of this 
 warehouse, the rebuilding of that, the anxiety of a canvass 
 for common councilman, activity in the company of which 
 I am liveryman, inquests, and vestries, and ward meetings, 
 and all the other pleasing toils to which an active citizen 
 is subject, let us come at once to the first marked epoch of 
 my life— the year of my Shrievalty. The announcement 
 of my nomination and election filled Mrs. S. with delight ; 
 and when I took my children to Great Queen Street, 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields, to look at the gay chariot brushing 
 up for me, I confess I felt proud and happy to be able to 
 show my progeny the arms of London, those of the Spec- 
 tacle Makers' Company, and those of the Scroppses 
 (recently found at a trivial expense) all figuring upon the 
 same pannels. They looked magnificent upon the pea- 
 green ground, and the wheels, " white picked out crimson," 
 looked so chaste, and the hammercloth, and the fringe, 
 and the festoons, and the Scropps' crests all looked so rich, 
 and the silk linings and white tassels, and the squabs and 
 
 51 
 
the yellow cushions and the crimson carpet looked so 
 comfortable, that, as I stood contemplating the equipage, I 
 said to myself, "What have I done to deserve this? — O 
 that my poor father were alive to see his boy Jack going 
 down to Westminster, to chop sticks and count hobnails, 
 in a carnage like this!"' My children were like mad 
 things: and in the afternoon, when I put on my first new 
 brown court suit (lined, like my chariot, with white silk) 
 and fitted up with cut steet buttons, just to try the effect, 
 it all appeared like a dream ; the sword, which I tried on, 
 every night for half an hour after I went to bed, to prac- 
 tiee walking with it, was very inconvenient at first; but 
 use is second nature; and so by rehearsing and rehearsing 
 I made myself perfect before that auspicious day when 
 Sheriffs flourish — and geese prevail — namely, the twenty- 
 ninth of September. 
 
 The twelve months which followed were very delightful, 
 for independently of the positive honour and eclat they 
 produced, I had the Mayoralty in prospestu (having ob- 
 tained my aldermanic gown by an immense majority the 
 preceding year), and as I used during the session to sit in 
 my box at the Old Bailey, with my bag at my back and my 
 bouquet on my book, my thoughts were wholly devoted to 
 one object of contemplation; culprits stood trembling to 
 hear the verdict of a jury, and I regarded them not; 
 convicts knelt to receive the fatal fiat of the Recorder, and 
 I heeded not their sufferings, as I watched the Lord Mayor 
 seated in the centre of the bench, with Ihe sword of justice 
 stuck up in a goblet over his head — there, thought I, if I 
 live two years, shall /sit — however, even as it was, it was 
 very agreeable. When executions, the chief drawbacks 
 to my delight, happened, I found, after a little seasoning, I 
 took the thing coolly, and enjoyed my toast and tea after 
 the patients were turned off, just as if nothing had happen- 
 ed ; for, in my time, we hanged at eight and breakfasted at 
 a quarter after, so that without much hurry we were able to 
 finish our mufiins just in time for the cutting down at nine. 
 I had to go to the House of Commons with a petition, and 
 to Court with an address — trying situation for one of the 
 Scroppses — however, the want of state in parliament, and 
 the very little attention paid to us by the members, put me 
 quite at my ease at Westminster; while the gracious 
 urbanity of our accomplished Monarch on his throne made 
 me equally comfortable at St. James's. Still I was but a 
 secondary person, or rather only one of two secondary 
 persons — the chief of bailiffs and principal Jack Ketch ; 
 there was a step to gain — and, as I often mentioned in 
 confidence to Mrs. Scropps, I was sure my heart would 
 never be still until I had reached the pinnacle. 
 
 Behold at length the time arrived! — Guildhall crowded 
 
 to excess — the hustings thronged — the aldermen retire 
 
 they return — their choice is announced to the people it 
 
 has fallen upon John Ebenezer Scropps, Esq. Alderman 
 
 and spectacle maker — a sudden shout is heard — " Scropps 
 for ever !" resounds — the whole assembly seems to vanish 
 from my sight — I come forward — am invested with the 
 chain — I bow — make a speech — tumble over the train of 
 the Recorder, and tread upon the tenderest toe of Mr. 
 Deputy Pod — leave the hall in ecstasy, and drive home to 
 Mrs. Scropps in a state of mind bordering upon insanity. 
 
 The days wore on, each one seemed as long as a week, 
 until at length the eighth of November arrived, and then did 
 it seem certain that I should be Lord Mayor — I was sworn 
 in — the civic insignia were delivered to me — I returned 
 them to the proper officers — my chaplain was near me — 
 the esquires of my household were behind me — the thing 
 was done — never shall I forget the tingling sensation I felt 
 in my ear when I was first called "My Lord" — I even 
 doubted if it were addressed to me, and hesitated to answer 
 — but it was so — the reign of splendour had begun, and, 
 after going through the accustomed ceremonies, I got home 
 and retired to bod early, in order to be fresh for the 
 fatigues of the ensuing day. 
 
 Sleep I did not — how was it to be expected ? — some part 
 of the night I was in consultation with Mrs. Scropps upon 
 the different arrangements; settling about the girls, their 
 places at the banquet, and their partners at the ball ; the 
 wind down the chimney sounded like the shouts of the 
 people; the cocks crowing in the mews at the back of the 
 house I took for trumpets sounding my approach ; and the 
 ordinary incidental noise in the family 1 fancied the pop- 
 guns at Stangage, announcing my disembarkation at 
 Westminster — thus I tossed and tumbled until the long 
 wished-for day dawned, and I jumped up anxiously to 
 realize the visions of the night. I was not long at my 
 toilet — I was soon shaven and dressed — but just as I was 
 settling myself comfortable into my beautiful brown broad- 
 cloth inexpressibles, crack went something, and I dis- 
 covered that a seam had ripped half a foot long. Had it 
 been consistent with the dignity of a Lord Mayor to swear, 
 I should, 1 believe at that moment, have anathematized the 
 offending tailor ; — as it was, what was to be done? — I heard 
 trumpets in earnest, carriages drawing up and setting 
 down sheriffs, and chaplains, mace bearers, train bearers, 
 sword bearers, water bailiffs, remembrancers, Mr. Com., 
 mon Hunt, the Town clerk, and the deputy town clerk, 
 all bustling about — the bells ringing — and /late, with a hole 
 in my inexpressibles! There was but one remedy — my 
 wife's maid, kind, intelligent creature, civil and obliging, 
 and ready to turn her hand to any thing, came to my aid, 
 and in less than fifteen minutes her activity, exerted in the 
 midst of the confusion, repaired the injury, and turned me 
 out fit to be seen by the whole corporation of London. 
 
 When I was dressed, I tapped at Mrs. Scropps's door, 
 went in, and asked her if she thought I should do ; the 
 dear soul, after settling my point lace frill (which she had 
 
 o2 
 
i'ajjiteil i^-r.d.wm. laDdactc'.R-A. 
 
 yA^\^^:a^^^y^y^/^.^^' <2f\^ e^^^-df^' &^-/<2 
 
^ii^^^ 
 
been good enough to pick off her own petticoat ou purpose) 
 and putting my bag straight, gave me the sweetest salute 
 imaginable. 
 
 " 1 wish your Lordship health and happiness," said she. 
 " Sally," said I, "your Ladyship is an angel ;" and so, 
 having kissed each of my daughters, who were in progress 
 of dressing, I descended the stairs, to begin the auspicious 
 day in which I reached the apex of my greatness. Never 
 shall I forget the bows — the civilities — the congratulations 
 — Sheriffs bending before me — the Recorder smiling — the 
 Common Serjeant at my feet — the pageant was intoxicat- 
 ing ; and when, after having breakfasted, I stepped into 
 that glazed and gilded house upon wheels, called the state 
 coach, and saw my sword bearer pop himself into one of 
 the boots, with the sword of state in his hand, I was lost in 
 ecstacy, I threw myself back upon the seat of the vehicle 
 with all imaginable dignity, but not without damage, for in 
 the midst of my ease and elegance I snapped off the cut 
 steel hilt of my sword, by accidentally bumping the whole 
 weight of my body right, or rather wrong, directly upon the 
 top of it. 
 
 But what was a sword hilt or a bruise to we ? I was the 
 Lord Mayor— the greatest man of the greatest city of the 
 greatest nation in the world. The people realized my 
 anticipations, and "Bravo. Scropps I" and "Scropps for 
 ever!" again resounded, as we proceeded slowly and 
 majestically towards the river, through a fog, which 
 prevented our being advantageously seen, and which got 
 down the throat of the sword bearer, who coughed inces- 
 santly during our progress, much to my annoyance, not to 
 speak of the ungraceful movements which his convulsive 
 barkings gave to the red velvet scabbard of the official 
 glave as it stuck out of the window of the coach. 
 
 We embarked in my barge; a new scene of splendour 
 awaited me, guns, shouts, music, flags, banners, in short, 
 every thing that fancy could paint or a water bailiff provide; 
 there, in the gilded bark, was prepared a cold collation — I 
 ate, but tasted nothing — fowls, pates, tongue, game, beef, 
 ham, all had the same flavour; champagne, hock, and 
 Madeira were all alike to me — Lord Mayor was all I saw, 
 all I heard, all I swallowed ; every thing was pervaded by 
 the one captivating word, and the repeated appeal to " my 
 Lordship" was sweeter than nectar. 
 
 At Westminster, having been presented and received, I 
 — desired — I John Ebenezer Scropps, of Coventry — I 
 desired the Recorder to invite the Judges to dine with me — 
 I — who remember when two of the oldest and most innocent 
 of the twelve, came the circuit, trembling at the sight of 
 them, and believing them some extraordinary creatures 
 upon whom all the hair and fur I saw, grew naturally — I, 
 not only to ask these formidable beings to dine with me, 
 but, as if 1 thought it beneath my dignity to do so in my 
 proper person, deputing a judge of my own to do it for me; 
 
 I never shall forget their bows in return — Chinese man- 
 darins on chimney-pieces are fools to them. 
 
 Then came the return — we landed once more in the 
 scene of my dignity— at the corner of Fleet Street we 
 found the Lady Mayoress waiting for the procession — 
 there she was — Sally Scroops (her maiden name was 
 Snob) — there was my own Sally, with a plume of feathers 
 that half filled the coach, and Jenny and Maria and young 
 Sally, all with their backs to my horses, which were 
 pawing the mud and snorting and smoking like steam 
 engines, with nostrils like safety valves, and four of my 
 footmen hansjing behind the coach, like bees in a swarm. 
 There had not been so much riband in my family since my 
 poor father's failure at Coventry — and yet how often, over 
 and over again, although he has been dead more than 
 twenty years, did I, during that morning, in the midst of 
 all my splendour, think of him, and wish that he could see 
 me in my greatness. — Yes, even in the midst of my 
 triumph I seemed to defer to my good kind parent — in 
 heaven, as I hope and trust — as if I were anxious for his 
 judgment and his opinion as to how I should perform the 
 arduous and manifold duties of the day. 
 
 Up Ludgate Hill we moved — the fog grew thicker and 
 thicker — but then the beautiful women at the windows — 
 those up high could only see my knees and the paste 
 buckles in my shoes ; every now and then, I bowed 
 condescendingly to people I had never seen before, in 
 order to show my courtesy and my chain and collar, which 
 I had discovered during the morning shone the better for 
 being shaken. 
 
 At length we reached Guildhall — as I crossed the 
 beautiful building, lighted splendidly, and filled with well 
 dressed company, and heard the deafening shouts which 
 rent the fane as I entered it, I really was overcome — I 
 retired to a private room — refreshed my dress, rubbed up 
 my chain, which the damp had tarnished, and prepared to 
 receive my guests. They came, and — shall I ever forget 
 it ? — dinner was announced ; the bands played " O the 
 roast beef of Old England." Onwards we went, a Prince 
 of the blood, of the blood royal of my country, led out my 
 Sally — my own Sally — the Lady Mayoress ! the Lord 
 High Chancellor handed out young Sally — I saw it done — 
 I thought I should have choked; the Prime minister took 
 Maria; the Lord Privy Seal gave his arm to Jenny; and 
 my wife's mother, Mrs. Snob, was honoured by the protec- 
 tion of the Right Honourable Lord Chief Justice of the 
 King's Bench — Oh, if my poor father could but have seen 
 that ! 
 
 It would be tiresome to dwell upon the pleasures of the 
 happy year, thus auspiciously began, in detail; each 
 month brought its delights, each week its festival ; public 
 meetings under the sanction of the Right Honourable the 
 Lord Mayor; concerts and balls under the patronage of 
 
 _~.»l 
 
 03 
 
the Lady Mayoress ; Easter and its dinner, Blue-coat 
 boys and buns ; procession here, excursion there. — Summer 
 came, and then we had swan-hopping up the river, and 
 white-baiting doicn the river; Yantlet Creek below, the 
 navigation barge above ; music, flags, streamers, guns, and 
 company; turtle everyday in the week; peas at a pound 
 a pint, and grapes at a guinea a pound ; dabbling in rose- 
 water served in gold, not to speak of the loving cup, with 
 Mr. Common Hunt, in full dress, at my elbow : my dinners 
 were talked of, Ude grew jealous, and 1 was idolized. 
 
 The days, which before seemed like weeks, were now 
 turned to minutes : scarcely had I swallowed my breakfast 
 before I was in my justice-room : and before I had 
 mittimused half a dozen paupers for beggary, I was called 
 away to luncheon ; this barely over, in comes a deputation, 
 or a dispatch, and so on till dinner, which was barely ended 
 before supper was announced. We all became enchanted 
 with the Mansion House ; my girls grew graceful by the 
 confidence their high station gave them ; Maria refused a 
 good offer because her lover chanced to have an ill-sound- 
 ing name ; we had all got settled in our rooms, the 
 establishment had began to know and appreciate us ; we 
 had just become in fact easy in our dignity and happy in 
 our position, when lo and behold ! the ninth of November 
 came again — the anniversary of my exaltation, the consum- 
 mation of my downfall. 
 
 Again did we go in state to Guildhall, again were we 
 toasted and addressed, again were we handed in, and let 
 out, again flirted with cabinet ministers and danced with 
 ambassadors, and at two o'clock in the morning drove 
 home from the scene of gaiety to our old residence in 
 Budge Row. — Never in this world did pickled herrings 
 and turpentine smell so powerfully as on that night when 
 we entered the house ; and although my wife and the young 
 ones stuck to the drinkables at Guildhall, their natural 
 feelings would have way, and a sort of shuddering disgust 
 seemed to fill their minds on their return home, — the 
 passage looked so narrow — the drawing rooms looked so 
 small — the staircase seemed so dark — our apartments ap- 
 peared so low, — however, being tired, we all slept well, at 
 least I did, for I was in no humour to talk to Sally, and the 
 only topic I could think upon before I dropped into my 
 slumber, was a calculation of the amount of expenses which 
 I had incurred during the just expired year of my great- 
 ness. 
 
 In the morning we assembled at breakfast, — a note lay 
 on the table, addressed — " Mrs. Scropps, Budge Row." 
 The girls, one after the other, took it up, read the super- 
 scription, and laid it down again. A visitor was announ- 
 ced — a neighbour and kind friend, a man of wealth and 
 importance—what were his first words ? — they were the 
 first I had heard from a stranger since my job, — " How 
 are you, Scropps, done up, eh ?" 
 
 Scropps! no obsequiousness, no deference, no respect; 
 
 —no, "my lord, I hope your lordship passed an agreeable 
 night — and how is her ladyship and your lordship's amiable 
 daughters?" — not a bit of it — "How's Mrs. S. and the 
 gals ?" This was quite natural, all as it had been, all 
 perhaps as it should be — but how unlike what it was, only 
 one day before ! The very servants, who, when amidst the 
 strapping, stall-fed, gold-laced lacqueys of the Mansion 
 House, (transferred with the chairs and tables from one 
 Lord Mayor to another) dared not speak nor look, nor say 
 their lives were their own, strutted about the house, and 
 banged the doors, and talked of their " Missis," as if she 
 had been an apple woman. 
 
 So much for domestic miseries; — I went out — I was 
 shoved about in Cheapside in the most remorseless manner! 
 my right eye had a narrow escape of being poked out by the 
 tray of a brawny butcher's boy, who, when I civilly remon- 
 strated, turned round and said," Vy, I says, who are you I 
 vonder, as is so partiklar about your hysight." I felt an 
 involuntary shudder, — to-day, thought I, I am John Eben- 
 ezer Scropps — two days ago I was Lord Mayor; and so 
 the rencontre ended, evidently to the advantage of the 
 bristly brute. It was however too much for me — the effect 
 of contrast was too powerful, the change was too sudden — 
 and I determined to go to Brighton for a few weeks to re- 
 fresh myself, and be weaned from my dignity. 
 
 We went — we drove to the Royal Hotel; in the hall 
 stood one of his Majesty's ministers, one of my former 
 guests, speaking to his lady and daughter : my girls passed 
 close to him, — he had handed one of them to dinner the 
 year before, but he appeared entirely to have forgotten her. 
 By and by, when we were going out in a fly to take the air, 
 one of the waiters desired the fly man to pull off, because 
 Sir Something Somebody's carriage could not come up, — it 
 was clear that the name of Scropps had lost its influence. 
 
 We secluded ourselves in a private house, where we did 
 nothing but sigh and look at the sea. We had been totally 
 spoiled for our proper sphere, and could not get into a 
 better; the indifference of our inferiors mortified us, and 
 the familiarity of our equals disgusted us, — our potentiality 
 was gone, and we were so much degraded that a puppy of a 
 fellow had the impertinence to ask Jenny if she was going 
 to one of the Old Ship balls. "Of course," said the cox- 
 comb, " I don't mean the ' Almacks,' for thev are uncom- 
 monly select." 
 
 In short, do what we would, go where we might, we were 
 outraged and annoyed, at least thought ourselves so ; and 
 beyond all bitterness was the reflection, that the days of 
 our dignity and delight never might return. There were 
 at Brighton no less than three men who called me Jack, 
 and iAa^ out of flies or in libraries, and one of these chose 
 occasionally, by way of making himself particularly agree- 
 able, to address me by the familiar appellation of Jacky. 
 At length, and that only three weeks after my fall, an 
 overgrown tallow chandler met us on the Steyne, and 
 
 5i 
 
stopped our party to observe, " as how he thought he owed 
 me for two barrels of coal tar, for doing over his pigstyes." 
 This settled it, — we departed from Brighton, and made a 
 tour of the coast; but we never rallied; and business, 
 which must be minded, drove us before Christmas to Budge 
 Row, where we are again settled down. 
 
 Maria has grown thin — Sarah has turned methodist — 
 and Jenny, whodanced with his Excellency the Portuguese 
 Ambassador, who was called angelic by the Right Honour- 
 able the Lord Privy Seal, and who moreover refused a 
 man of fortune because he had an ugly name, is going to 
 be married to Lieutenant Stodge, on the half pay of the 
 Royal Marines — and what then ? — I am sure if it were not 
 for the females of my family I should be perfectly at my 
 ease in my proper sphere, out of which the course of our 
 civic constitution raised me. It was unpleasant at best : — 
 but I have toiled long and laboured hard ; I have done my 
 duty, and Providence has blessed my works. If we were 
 discomposed at the sudden change in our station, I it is 
 who was to blame for having aspired to honours which I 
 knew were not to last- However the ambition was not 
 dishonourable, nor did I disgrace the station while I held 
 it ; and when I see, as in the present year, that station 
 filled by a man of education and talent, of high character 
 and ample fortune, I discover no cause to repent of having 
 been one of his predecessors. Indeed I ought to apologize 
 for making public the weakness by which we were all 
 a£Fected ; especially as I have myself already learned to 
 laugh at what we all severely felt at first — the miseries of a 
 Sflendid Annual. 
 
 THE YOUNG BRIDE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Forget me not — forget me not— 
 
 When, dearest ! thou art far away ; 
 When happier fortunes gild thy lot. 
 
 And Heaven bestows a brighter day, 
 Thou wilt not, then, thy faith betray; 
 
 Thou wilt not from remembrance blot 
 The parting vows we pledge to-day — 
 
 Forget me not — forget me not ! 
 
 Think who, in hours of grief and gloom, 
 
 When friends and kindred false had proved. 
 Unchanging shared thy darker doom, 
 
 And link'd her fate to thine unmoved, 
 Reckless of all, save that she loved:— 
 
 Nought heeded I, in that dear cot, 
 Who blamed, or pitied, or reproved :— 
 
 Forget me not — forget me not ! 
 
 Thou goest to raise a fallen name, 
 
 To win the wealth we long have spared : 
 Dearest, wilt thou return the same ? 
 
 Bring me the heart none else hath shared, 
 And thou shalt find me well prepared 
 
 To live, to die in that lone spot 
 Where all was mine I ask'd or cared 
 
 Forget me not — forget me not ! 
 
 If, while with tears of love for thee. 
 Nightly my wakeful eyes are wet ; 
 
 I, while my cheek — where'er I be— 
 Is pale with ceaseless fond regret, 
 
 Thou wilt not all our love forget- 
 Then shall I never be forgot. 
 
 Nor needs my heart to whisper yet, 
 Forget me not — forget me not ! 
 
 A LOVER'S HOUR. 
 
 A STAR was twinkling in the west, 
 
 And rising o'er our woody hill; 
 The moon, upspringing from her nest, 
 
 Turn'd looks of light on lake and rill ; 
 Afar was heard the surging sea 
 
 Rustling o'er the pebbled strand, 
 A low dull moan, — it seem'd to be 
 
 The ripple dying on the sand ! 
 
 Soft flow'd our thoughts that twilight hour, 
 
 As I sat by thee in that lolely bower, 
 And gazed uncheck'd on those dark fringed eyes, 
 
 Where I saw reflected the deep blue skies. 
 And felt thy averted glance revealing 
 
 The tenderness which, o'er thee stealing. 
 Made thee turn gently round with one full look, 
 
 A brief, a single look ! — and all was told ! 
 
 Sweet were our thoughts that silent hour, 
 
 As the moonbeams chequer'd through our bower ; 
 
 And when our shadows startled thee. 
 And closer still thou crept to me, 
 
 I felt thy bosom quickly prest 
 
 One yielding moment to my breast! 
 
 Earth was forgot— it was holy bliss 
 
 To love a maiden so gentle as thee ; 
 And though we met in one deep kiss. 
 
 Our hearts were calm as that evening sea. 
 And then thy band was placed in mine. 
 
 And we knelt 'mid flowers in the pale moonshine ; 
 And we vow'd in our hearts — for no words were 
 spoken— 
 
 That the link of true love should never be broken ! 
 
STIRLING CASTLE, 
 
 AND TOWN. 
 
 The approach to which is thus desrribed hy Scott : — 
 "With a mind more at ease, Waverley ctnild not have 
 failed to admire the mixture of romance and beauty which 
 renders interesting the scene through which he was now 
 passing — the field which had been the scene of the tourna- 
 ments of old—the rock from which the ladies beheld the 
 contest, while each made vows for the success of some 
 favourite knight — the towers of the gothic church, where 
 these vows might be paid — and, surmounting all, the 
 fortress itself, at once a castle and palace, where valour 
 received the prizes from royalty, and knights and dames 
 closed the evening amidst the revelry of the dance, the 
 song, and the feast. All these were fitted to arouse and 
 interest a romantic imagination." 
 
 It was here that the party of Balmawhapple, while 
 passing the fortress, were saluted with a bullet; in return 
 for which compliment the valiant laird discharged his pistol 
 at the inhospitable rock. 
 
 In approaching the town from the West, in addition to 
 the castle-hill, which has been the scene of encounters so 
 numerous, that a bare list would occupy more room than 
 we can spare, the traveller sees before him three other hills, 
 all famous Golgothas, and all celebrated in song and history. 
 One of these is the Abbey Craig where the Scots were 
 posted on the day the English crossed the Forth to receive 
 80 memorable a defeat from Wallace ; the second is the 
 Gilleis Hill, the western termination of the field Ban- 
 nockburn ; and the third Sauchie Hill, where the battle 
 was fought between James III. and his rebellious subjects, 
 which ended in the defeat and death of that monarch. 
 
 On the plain opposite the castle the conflict took place 
 in 1297, which established the military reputation of 
 Wallace, and led the way to the ultimate deliverance of the 
 kingdom. The skill of the Scottish general would seem to 
 be consummate, from the account of the battle ; but it 
 may be a question how far he was indebted to the want of 
 skill on the part of the English commander. 
 
 The town of Stirling is built on a ridge of rock, rising 
 from east to west, and terminated by a lofty precipice, on 
 which the castle stands. The very same description applies 
 to Edinburgh ; and yet the character of the two towns is 
 altogether dififerent. The hills and precipices around 
 Edinburgh, form part of the magnificent picture, of which 
 the city is the principal object, and while they obstruct the 
 view, elevate its beauty almost to the sublime. Stirling, on 
 the contrary, raising its lofty head from a carse or plain, 
 of immense extent, and said to have once been the bed of 
 the Frith of Forth, is almost isolated. The view from the 
 castle- hill extends, on a clear day, to the capital itself; 
 while, on the other points of the compass, it is only bounded 
 
 by the Ochil and Campsie hills, and the gigantic bulk of 
 Ben-Lomond. 
 
 This rock was the seat of a fortress at a very early date ; 
 but, till the accession of the house of Stewart, very little is 
 known about its fortunes. It was the birth-place of James 
 II., and a favourite residence of succeeding princes. The 
 palace was built by James V. Its form is quadrangle ; 
 the exterior walls are of polished stone; and the 
 whole is ornamented with statues, in the taste of that 
 amorous prince. On the south angle, of which the archi- 
 tecture is much plainer, there is an apartmentcalled" Dou- 
 glas's Room," which is supposed to have been the scene of 
 the murder of one of that family, perpetrated by James II., 
 with his own hand. If the tradition be correct, this portion 
 of the building is, of course, the most ancient. 
 
 THE POPPY. 
 
 He wildly errs who thinks 1 yield 
 Precedence in the well-clothed field. 
 
 Though mixed with wheat I grow : 
 Indulgent Ceres knew my worth, 
 And to adorn the teeming earth, 
 
 She bade the Poppy blow 
 
 Nor vainly gay the sight to please, 
 But blessed with power mankind to ease, 
 The Goddess saw me rise : 
 
 • Thrive with the life-supporting grain,' 
 She cried, ' the solace of the swain, 
 
 The cordial of his eyes. 
 
 • Seize, happy mortal ! seize the good; 
 My hand supplies thy sleep and food, 
 
 And makes thee truly blest : 
 With plenteous meals enjoy the day, 
 In slumbers pass the night away, 
 
 And leave to fate the rest.' 
 
 Maxims. Make your heart your happiest home, and 
 
 you will always be in the best company ; for your thoughts 
 will never drive you into dissipation by self-reproach. 
 
 Consider the wise as the most honourable part of 
 society, and the virtuous as the wisest. 
 
 66 
 
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 4 
 
FOTHERINGAY. 
 
 BY THE REV. J, FARBT. 
 
 I STOOD upon the solitary mound, 
 
 Where the proud castle once upreared its Keep ; 
 
 And as I paced within the grassy round, 
 
 Which far-gone Time hath hallowed — from their sleep 
 
 A thousand visions thronged the mental eye, 
 
 Raised from the sepulchres of memory- 
 
 Before me frowned a lone and shattered wall, 
 The wreck of many years, and at its base 
 A river poured its waters musical ; 
 Whilst in the distant landscape I might trace 
 The tangled forest's outlines, and around 
 All Nature's glories in each sight and sound. 
 
 And in its antique beauty rising high. 
 
 Yon ' House of Prayer,' which passing years have swept 
 
 Less fiercely than the wrecks that round it lie — 
 
 Spoiled of its earlier grace, that Fane hath kept 
 
 Much of its spleudour still : its long array 
 
 Of shaft and arch yet triumphs o'er decay. 
 
 But not on things like these the Pilgrim dwells : 
 He communes with far other themes, and holds 
 Converse with the departed : from the cells 
 Of recollection all the past unfolds 
 Its treasures ; and upon the raptured gaze 
 All gorgeous still, the pomp of vanished days 
 
 Descends : or, in some sadder mood, may rise 
 The thoughts of her, who in her latter years 
 Counted the lonely watches, and with eyes 
 Dimmed by the agony of burning tears, 
 Tears such as captives shed, saw hope depart, 
 And knew too well the sickness of the heart. 
 
 Yes — ruined Keep ! her's is the name that flings 
 Such witchery o'er thee ; nor may Time efface 
 The spell that wins us, in our wanderings. 
 To walk where Mary walked, and fondly trace 
 All that reminds the spirit of her doom. 
 Her hanless beauty, and her bloody tomb. 
 
 And Schiller's glowing song hath shed around 
 Thy time-worn ruins, Fotheringay! a charm 
 Which may not perish : all is holy ground 
 Where the Bard's step hath been, and ripe and warm 
 The young creations of his mind appear. 
 Gathering fresh fame as wanes each fleeting year. 
 
 Then fare thee well ! thou lonely, moss-grown wall— 
 
 I had not greeted thee with idle lay, 
 
 But that my feelings prompt me to recall 
 
 A pilgrimage — the journey of a day — 
 
 In which I roved, well-pleased, and at my side 
 
 A Friend, right-dearly loved — in good and evil tried. 
 
 UNRENEWED YEARS. 
 
 BY WILLIS GAYLOHD CLABK, BSQ. 
 
 I KNOW not why thus on my heart 
 
 A cloud of early sorrows fall; 
 Bidding each gentle thrill depart. 
 
 And waking sighs unspeakable : 
 Why Love just laughed upon my way. 
 
 And scattered a few blossoms there: 
 When came the mildew of decay: 
 
 And rushed the tempest of despair. 
 
 I know not when the golden dream. 
 Which stirred my heart in thankfulness, 
 
 Which shed o'er earth a feerless gleam, 
 Will ere again my spirit bless: 
 
 It was too much of bliss, to stay 
 
 About my changeful pathway long ; 
 
 It passed like summer clouds away- 
 Like the rich cadence of a song. 
 
 Perchance it ne'er will come again— 
 
 And Earth will never wear a smile 
 So bright above its wide domain. 
 
 The unsullied bosom to beguile: 
 It is not meet that Joy should fling 
 
 His light around my pathway here ; 
 For Time hath clipped his painted wing. 
 
 And dimmed his radiant atmosphere. 
 
 I know not wherefore ; — ^but my hours 
 
 Pass like a sad and funeral train ; 
 And gathering Memory's wasted flowers, 
 
 My soul returns to Youth again ;— 
 And, in its varied light and shade, 
 
 I see how much my heart is changed— 
 What wrecks the tide of years hath made 
 
 Where childhood's frolic feet nave ranged ! 
 
 Roll on, ungentle tide ! — I feel 
 
 The gladness of a hope withm. 
 Which Sorrow cannot all conceal. 
 
 E'en when its darkest hours begin! 
 Life is the Journey of a Day, 
 
 And rest awaits its even-tide. 
 When the unfettered soul can lay 
 
 This weight of cumbrous dust aside ! 
 Philadelphia, 1830. 
 
WEARIE'S WELL. 
 
 In a saft simmer gloamin, 
 
 In yon dowie dell, 
 It was there we twa first met 
 
 By Wearie's cauld well. 
 We sat on the brume bank, 
 
 And look'd in the burn, 
 But side-lang we look'd on 
 
 Ilkitherin urn. 
 
 The corn-craik was chirming 
 
 His sad eerie cry, 
 And the wee stars were dreaming 
 
 Their path through the sky. 
 The burn babbled freely 
 
 Its luve to each flower, 
 But we heard and wo saw nought 
 In that blessed hour. 
 
 We heard and we saw nought 
 
 Above or around. 
 We felt that our luve lived. 
 
 And loathed idle sound, 
 I gazed on that sweet face 
 
 Till tears fiU'd mine e'e, 
 And they drapt on your wee loof 
 
 A warld's wealth to me ! 
 
 Now the winter snaw's fa'in 
 
 On bare holm and le i ; 
 And the cauld wind is strippin' 
 
 Ilk leaf aff the tree ; 
 But the snaw fa's not faster. 
 
 The leaf disna part 
 Sae sune frae the bough, as 
 
 Faith fades in your heart. 
 
 Ye've waled out anither 
 
 Your bridegroom to be ; 
 But can his heart love sae 
 
 As mine luvit thee ? 
 Ye'll get biggins and mailing. 
 
 And mony braw claes ; 
 But they a' winna buy back 
 
 The peace o' past days. 
 
 Fareweel, and for ever . 
 
 My first luve and last ; 
 May thy joys be to cume. 
 
 Mine live in the past. 
 In sorrow and sadness. 
 
 This hour fa's on me; 
 But light, as thy love, may 
 
 It fleet over thee. 
 
 THE SCULPTOR LORTA. 
 
 A RBCOLLBCTION OF THE GRAND TRIANON AT VERSAILLES. 
 
 Within the walls, the marble walls 
 
 Of Trianon, a statue's shewn. 
 Of LovB, who pensively recalls, 
 
 'Midst scattered flowers, some pleasure flown. 
 
 But he who formed it — he to whom 
 
 It rose a vision of delight. 
 Is shrouded now in cheerless gloom. 
 
 And wanders in perpetual night. 
 
 With that pure thirst for fame alone, 
 Which conquers sorrow, toil, and pain. 
 
 He laboured at the chissel'd stone : 
 'Twas finished — but ne'er seen again. 
 
 Yet, old and blind, he oft will stand 
 
 Amidst the crowd that comes to gaze, 
 And touch the marble with his hand. 
 
 And trace the work of happier days. 
 
 How, round his heart, that touch must draw 
 
 A world of feelings cherished yet ! 
 Twas the last object that he saw — 
 'Twill be the last he can forget. 
 
 MATIN-SONG. 
 
 The day's wan light breaks fair and far. 
 The wave is restless on the stream ; — 
 
 Dallying with the morning star, 
 
 It rocks the slight and silvery beam. 
 
 Freshly the heart of day is breathing! 
 
 The wild-flower trembles for the bee: — 
 On ocean's cheek a smile is wreathing, 
 
 Tenderly and merrily ! 
 
 The sky-lark leaves its nest. 
 
 With pearls upon its breast; — 
 From its nested sedge the crowned swan glides, sio'.r. 
 And forth into the morning, like the light, doth go : 
 
 5« 
 
THE PERSIAN LOVERS. 
 
 The Sun was in his western chamber 
 
 Sunk on his cloudy ottomans, 
 All tissued scarlet, gold, and amber ; 
 
 The beeezes round him waved their fans. 
 Below, the twilight ting'd the water; 
 
 The bee was humming through the roses ; 
 The ringdove told what nature taught her : 
 
 'Tis thus a Persian evening closes. 
 
 Who paces with such fairy feet 
 
 Beside that fountain's dewy gushings ? 
 Why does her heart so wildly beat, 
 
 Why paint her cheek those crimson flushings ? 
 Why, like the fawn from hunters flying, 
 
 Those glances through the perfum'd grove ? 
 Why panting, weeping, smiling, sighing ? 
 
 Thus Persian maidens fall in love. 
 
 But see, the rustling of the blossoms. 
 
 Like snow, a warrior shakes them round him ; 
 And to the loveliest of all bosoms 
 
 Swears that its spells for life have bound him. 
 The turtle (-i'er them waves its wing; 
 
 In silver o'er them smiles the Moon ; 
 And still the Persian maidens sing 
 
 The iovea of Osmyn and Meiuoua. 
 
 RURAL PICTURE. 
 
 Nor could the pencil of Poussin or Claude have em- 
 bodied upon their canvas a more delightful picture of rural 
 loveliness and solitude, than that which has been drawn 
 for us by the sweet fancy of Sidney and his sister. 
 
 * Lord ! dear Cousin,' said he, ' doth not the pleasantness 
 of this place carry in itself sufficient reward for any time 
 lost in it ? — do you not see how all the things conspire to- 
 gether to make the Country a heavenly dwelling ? — do you 
 not see the Grass, how in colour they excel the emerald, 
 every one striving to pass his fellow, and yet they are all 
 kept of an equal height ? — and see you not the rest of those 
 beautiful Flowers, each of which would require a man's 
 wit to know, and his life to express ? — do not these stately 
 Trees seem to maintain their flourishing old age with the 
 only happiness of their being clothed with a continual 
 spring, because no beautv here should ever fade ? — doth 
 not the Air breathe health, which the Birds, delightful 
 both to ear and eye, do daily solemnize with the sweet con- 
 sent of their voices? is not every Echo thereof a perfect 
 
 music ? and those tresh and delightful Brooks, how slowly 
 they slide away, as loth to leave the company of so many 
 things united in perfection, and with how sweet a murmur 
 they lament their forced departure 1' 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Under the green-wood tree, 
 Who loves to lie, with me, 
 And tune his merry note 
 Unto the sweet birds' throat, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 Who doth Ambition shun. 
 And loves to live i* the sun, 
 Seeking the food he eats. 
 And pleased with what he gets ; 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 THE TIDE AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 Hark ! the loud breakers dash against the shore. 
 
 Whilst midnight spreads her shadowy pall around ; 
 
 Now, venturing forth, amid the gloom profound, 
 We listen to the waters' thundering roar, 
 And God in His maguiflcence adore. 
 
 But soon the mighty waves, with rushing sound, 
 
 Their destin'd course roil o'er th' accustom'd ground. 
 As, trembling, we the dubious bank explore ; 
 
 And now the dashing of the salt sea-spray 
 Warns our swift footsteps from the shelvy coast, 
 
 Whilst not a star affords a glimmering ray, 
 Shrouded in misty veil the heavenly host ; 
 
 But lights phosphoric on the billows play, 
 A glittering squadron at their nightly post! 
 
 E.J. T 
 
 Mkdicine. — Akenside one day defended medicine 
 against the raillery of Saxby, who was something of a 
 cynic. After having parried all the Doctor's arguments, 
 so as to keep the laugh continually in his favour, Saxby 
 hastily exclaimed — " Bold, Doctor, I will tell you once for 
 all, what 1 think of your profession : the ancients took much 
 pains to make a science of it ; but did not accomplish it : 
 the moderns set about making it a trade, and they have 
 completely succeeded." 
 
A LAMENT FOR THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 O, FOR Knighthood's golden time 
 
 When Romance was yet adored. 
 When Love wrought the minstrel rhyme, 
 
 When Love drew the warrior sword,— 
 When in woman's eye to shine, 
 
 Every deed of fame was done ; 
 Peace the garland used to twine. 
 
 War flung down the banner won. 
 
 Then was Love no idle dream, 
 
 Lightly come and lightly past, 
 But a pure and holy beam 
 
 Burning brightly to the last; 
 Leading on the young and brave 
 
 To the charge of steel-clad men. 
 To the peril of the wave. 
 
 To the dragon in his den. 
 
 On it led through court and camp 
 
 Raging floods, and battle heath, 
 Cheering Faith in dungeon-damp, 
 
 Gilding e'en the form of death: 
 When the hero dying lay, 
 
 Borne to earth in bloody strife; 
 O'er him still the constant ray 
 
 Lit the hour of parting life. 
 
 Were it Knighthood's golden time, 
 
 When Romance was yet adored, 
 I for Love would weave the rhyme 
 
 I for Love unsheath the sword; 
 But remains alone for me, 
 
 Of a time so fair and bright. 
 True in Love as then to be. 
 
 And to mourn departed light. 
 
 OVER THE SEA. 
 
 Over the sea, over the sea, 
 
 Lies the land that is loved by me ; 
 
 A sunnier sky may be over my head. 
 
 And a richer soil beneath my tread, 
 
 And a softer speech in my ears be rung. 
 
 Than the notes of my own wild mountain tongue ; 
 
 But never, 0, never so dear to me 
 
 Can the loveliest spot in this wide world be. 
 
 As the bleak cold land, where the heather waves 
 
 Round the place of my birth, o'er my fathers' graves. 
 
 Ocean is wide, and his storms are rude, 
 
 And my heart feels faint in its solitude, 
 
 To think of the terrible gulf that lies 
 
 Betwixt me and all that my soul doth prize; 
 
 And I gaze for hours on the measureless deep, 
 
 Till my heart could break, though I cannot weep ; 
 
 And I feel the desire of my soul in vain, 
 
 That the land of my sires I shall ne'er see again, 
 
 That my tomb shall be hollowed out where now I stand^ 
 
 And my eyelids be closed by some unknown hand. 
 
 Mark not the spot where my bones are laid. 
 
 Whether it be in the dark forest shade. 
 
 Or fast by the beach where the wild wave lashes, 
 
 Or deep in the pass where the hill-torrent dashes 
 
 Or high on the cliff where the eagle sweeps — 
 
 What matters it where the stranger sleeps ? 
 
 But over the sea, over the sea. 
 
 How then shall my chainless spirit flee 
 
 Back to the land that I love so well, 
 
 To the craggy steep, and the heathy dell. 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S FAM^. 
 
 Minstrel, though gay and gliltering throngs 
 
 Court thee with ardent zeal, 
 And lavish praises on the songs 
 
 Beyond their power to feel ; 
 Oh ! build not on those specious arts. 
 
 The honours of thy name. 
 In simpler scenes, in warmer hearts, 
 
 Seek for thy truest fame. 
 
 Where'er a gifted band are met 
 
 Around the quiet hearth. 
 Who, wrapt in thy sweet strains, forget 
 
 The gilded toys of earth ; 
 Where'er the student's midnight hours. 
 
 Sacred to learning's claim. 
 Are brightened by thy magic powers, 
 
 There, rest for thy real fame. 
 
 Thine is the soul refined and high. 
 
 And thine the hallowed lyre. 
 Can worldly minds to such reply 
 
 With pure congenial fire ? 
 Oh ! sigh not their applause to own, 
 
 Nor heed their fickle blame. 
 But seek in kindred hearts alone, 
 
 For true and changeless fame. 
 
 60 
 
F I S M IS 
 
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A SONG OF DELOS. 
 
 BY- MRS, HEMAN3, 
 
 It wil be remembered, that this beautiful island was sacred to the 
 ancient Greeks, from having been the birth-place of Apollo and 
 Diana, None were born or died there — the mothers and the dying 
 were carried to the neighbouring islet of Rhane. Solemn expe- 
 ditions, with much priestly pomp, were frequently made from 
 Athens to enforce this ordinance, particularly to propitiate the 
 Gods in time of public calamity. Our era refers to the celebrated 
 lustration, at the time of the Pelopounesian war, during the plague 
 of Athens, 
 
 A SONG was heard of old — a low, sweet song. 
 
 On the blue seas by Delos: from that isle, 
 
 The Sun-God's own domain, a gentle girl. 
 
 Gentle — yet all inspired of soul, of mien, 
 
 Lit with a life too perilously bright, 
 
 Was borne away to die. How beautiful 
 
 Seems this world to the dying I — but for her 
 
 The child of beauty and of poesy. 
 
 And of soft Grecian skies — oh I who may dream 
 
 Of all that from her changeful eye flashed forth. 
 
 Or glanced more quiveriugly through starry tears. 
 
 As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane 
 
 Coloured with loving light — she gazed her last, 
 
 Her young life's last, that hour ! From her pale brow 
 
 And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back. 
 
 And bending forward — as the spirit swayed 
 
 The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, 
 
 Breathed the swan-music «f her wild farewell 
 
 O'er dancing waves : — " Oh! linger yet," she cried ; 
 
 " Oh ! linger, linger on the oar, 
 Oh ! pause upon the deep ! 
 That I may gaze yet once, once more. 
 Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep. 
 Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore : 
 — Oh ! linger, linger on the parting oar! 
 
 " I see the laurels fling back showers 
 Of soft light still on many a shrine; 
 I see the path to haunts of flowers 
 Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line j 
 I hear a sound of flutes — a swell of song — 
 Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng 1 
 
 " Oh ! linger linger, on the oar, 
 Beneath my native sky ! 
 Though breathing from the radiant shore 
 Voices of youth too sweetly wander by ! 
 Mine hath no part in all their summer-mirth, 
 Yet back they call me to the laughing earth. 
 
 " A fatal gift hath been thy dower, 
 Lord of the Lyre ! to me ; 
 With song and wreath from bower to bower, 
 Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free ; 
 While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apait, 
 Have lain and listened to my beating heart, 
 
 " Now, wasted by the inborn fire, 
 I sink to early rest; 
 The ray that lit the incense-pyre. 
 Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. 
 O sunshine, skies, rich flowers ! too soon I go. 
 While round me thus triumphantly ye glow ! 
 
 " Bright Isle ! might but thine echoes keep 
 A tone of my farewell, 
 One tender accent, low and deep, 
 'Shrined 'midst they founts and haunted rocks to dwell ! 
 Might my last breath send music to thy shore! 
 — Oh linger, seamen, linger on the oar ' 
 
 THE BISCAYEN TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Oh! softly falls the foot of love 
 
 Where those he worships rest, 
 More gently than a mother bird, 
 
 Who seeks her downy nest. 
 And thus I steal to thee, beloved. 
 
 Beneath the dark blue night: 
 O come to our unconijuer'd hills. 
 
 For there the stars are bright. 
 
 Oh ! pleasant 'tis to wander out. 
 
 When only thou and I 
 Are there, to speak our happy thought 
 
 To that far silent sky! 
 The valleys down beneath are full 
 
 Of voices and of men ; 
 Oh ! come to our untrodden hills. 
 
 They will not tell again. 
 
 The balmy air may breathe as sweet, 
 
 With perfume floating slow ; 
 But here where thou and I may roam. 
 
 The fresh wild breezes blow; 
 Oh! here each little floweret seems 
 
 To know that it is free: 
 The winds on our unconquer'd hills 
 
 Are full of liberty ! 
 
 61 
 
ELEGY. 
 
 BY THE ETRICK SHEPHERD. 
 
 Fair was thy blossom, tender flower. 
 
 That open'd like the rose in May, 
 Thouffh nursed beneath the chilly shower 
 
 Of fell regret for love's decay ! 
 
 How oft thy mother heaved the sigh 
 O'er wreaths of honour early shorn, 
 
 Before thy sweet and guiltless eye 
 Had open'd on the dawn of morn! 
 
 How oft above thy lowly bed. 
 
 When all in silence slumber'd low, 
 
 The fond and filial tear was shed, 
 
 Thou child of love, of shame, and wo ! 
 
 Her wrong'd, but gentle bosom burn'd 
 With joy thy opening bloom to see. 
 
 The only breast that o'er thee yearn'd. 
 The only heart that cared for thee. 
 
 Oft her young eye, with tear-drops bright. 
 Pleaded with Heaven for her sweet child, 
 
 When faded dreams of past delight 
 O'er recollection wander'd wild. 
 
 Fair was thy blossom, bonny flower. 
 Fair as the softest wreath of spring, 
 
 When late I saw thee seek the bower 
 In peace thy morning hymn to sing ! 
 
 Thy little feet across the lawn 
 
 Scarce from the primrose press'd the dew, 
 I thought the spirit of the dawn 
 
 Before me to the greenwood flew. 
 
 Even then the shaft was on the wing, 
 Thy spotless soul from earth to sever; 
 
 A tear of pity wet the string 
 
 That twang'd and seal'd thy doom for ever. 
 
 I saw thee late the emblem fair 
 
 Of beauty, innocence, and truth, 
 Start tiptoe on the verge of air, 
 
 'Twixt childhood and unstable youth: 
 
 But now I see thee stretch'd at rest. 
 
 To break that rest shall wake no morrow ; 
 
 Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast ! 
 Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow! 
 
 May thy long sleep be sound and sweet. 
 Thy visions fraught with bliss to be; 
 
 And long the daisy, emblem meet, 
 Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF DEATH. 
 
 How calm thou art ! on that fair brow 
 Hath Peace for ever set her seal; 
 
 And Grief can ne'er displace it now, 
 For thou hast ceased to feel. 
 
 Thou, from a world too rude for thee, 
 Sweet maiden I has for ever flown, 
 
 And, in thy virgin purity, 
 Hast to the grave gone down. 
 
 Life's fading roses yet a while 
 
 Are lingering on thy placid cheek; 
 
 And on thy lips that angel smile 
 Thy joy in death should speak. 
 
 I may not view those lovely eyes. 
 
 Now shrouded in their last long sleep; 
 
 But in their death no sadness lies, 
 And they have ceased to weep. 
 
 The patient look of grief resign'd. 
 
 Which thou wert wont in life to wear. 
 
 When secret anguish crush'd thy mind, 
 No longer lingers there. 
 
 But traits more heavenly far than this, 
 And milder, more seraphic grace, 
 
 Reflecting from thy spirit's bliss, 
 Are painted on thy face. 
 
 The pangs that wrung that tender heart 
 
 Are now for ever past and o'er; 
 And Falsehood's stings, and Love's keen dart, 
 
 Shall never pierce it more. 
 
 In Death, who early mark'd thy charms, 
 
 Thou hast a kinder lover found. 
 And thou wilt in his friendly arms 
 
 Sleep sweetly in the ground ; 
 
 Where bitter thoughts of slighted truth 
 And wither'd hopes shall never come. 
 
 Nor aught that cross'd thy wasted youth 
 Disturb that quiet home. 
 
 But vernal buds and summer flowers 
 Around thy lowly bed shall bloom. 
 
 And heaven's best dews and purest showers 
 Weep o'er thy silent tomb. 
 
 Agnes Strickland. 
 
 62 
 
WINDSOR CASTLE. 
 
 Yb distant spires ! ye antique towers ! 
 
 That crown the watery glade 
 
 Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; 
 
 And ye that from the stately brow 
 
 Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. 
 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among. 
 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver- winding way. Gray. 
 
 Windsor, the favourite residence of a long line of kings, 
 has been a royal demesne since the days of William the 
 Conqueror, who took possession of it from the hands of the 
 abbot of Westminster in exchange for lands in Essex. It is 
 situated in the county of Berks, and its name is derived 
 from a Saxon term which means winding banks. The 
 picturesque beauty of the Thames, the finely wooded dis- 
 trict through which it bends its course, and the interesting 
 historical associationsconnected with the vicinity, — all com- 
 bine to confer upon Windsor peculiar attractions. The 
 town was presented with its first charter by Edward I,, and 
 received its last in the reign of William III. It is governed 
 by a corporation of thirty brethren, ten of whom are called 
 aldermen, and the rest consist of benches and burgesses. 
 From the former of these are annually elected a mayor, 
 and justice ; and two bailiffs from the latter. The guild- 
 hall, which is the principal public edifice, contains several 
 noble apartments, and is decorated chiefly with portraits 
 of the English sovereigns. ?The church is of ancient archi- 
 tecture ; and the monuments it preserves are worthy the 
 antiquarian's notice. It is less however for the objects it 
 contains in itself than for the beauty of the scenery — its 
 noble forest, and stately castle, — that the town of Windsor 
 is generally visited, and to these it chiefly owes its cele- 
 brity. 
 
 Between the reigns of William the Conqueror and Ed- 
 ward III. the palace of Windsor was considerably enlarged 
 and improved, and the latter prince, who was born there, 
 caused the greater part of the old edifice to be removed, 
 and rebuilt it in its present form. It was built by William 
 of Wykeham, afterwards Bishop of Winchester; and it 
 has been recorded that his fortune was made by the skill 
 and genius he displayed. It is a curious comment on the 
 then arbitrary nature of royal government, that the king is 
 stated to have issued orders for those persons to be deprived 
 of their property who dared to offer higher wages to the 
 workmen than what he himself gave, and the men to be 
 imprisoned in Newgate. The commissioners employed to 
 provide the building materials were also enjoined to seize 
 as many vehicles as they might require for their convey- 
 ance; and by these summary and speedy measures the 
 structure was rapidly approaching its completion before 
 that great monarch's death. In the reign of Edward lY. 
 
 it received numerous additions; and still more in that 
 of Henry VIII. and his successor; in the time of Elizabeth, 
 and by Charles H. But it is since the accession of the 
 illustrious House of Brunswick, and in particular during 
 the reign of George III,, that the castle approached its 
 present completion, and under George the Fourth assumed 
 its final grand and splendid appearance. Having fallen 
 into a state of dilapidation, designs for rebuilding and 
 enlarging it were submitted by Sir Jeffrey Wjattville. 
 Under his active and judicious superintendance many 
 parts of the old edifice were removed, and those elegant 
 and noble portions introduced which now render it every 
 way a suitable residence for a race of kings. 
 
 The castle is divided into two large courts, the upper and 
 the lower; only separated from each other by the round 
 tower which is allotted for the residence of the governor. 
 On the north side of the upper court are situated the state 
 apartments; on the east were George I V.'s private apart- 
 ments; and on the south side is the suite of rooms set apart 
 for the officers of the state. The new grand entrance to 
 the royal apartments was constructed from designs by the 
 late James Wyatt, and under the immediate inspection of 
 George III., whose taste in architecture, no less than that 
 of George IV. is well known. In the centre of the court 
 is placed an equestrian statue of Charles II. ; and the royal 
 apartments are adorned with a splendid collection of paint- 
 ings, chiefly formed by his majesty. In the hall of St. 
 George are usually celebrated the rites and ceremonies 
 connected with the order of the garter. The royal chapel 
 is embellished with a variety of superb carvings by the 
 hand of the celebrated Gibbons ; and in the lower ward of 
 the castle is St. George's chapel, an elegant and highly 
 finished structure of pointed architecture. Connected 
 with this is the charitable institution of the poor knights of 
 W^indsor, who receive a yearly allowance of about £40, 
 with blue cloaks, embroidered with the cross of St. George. 
 The chapel was founded by Edward III. in the year 1377, 
 and completed and embellished as it is now seen during 
 tht reigns of Edward IV. and Henry VJI- In its vaults 
 are interred many of our sovereigns ; and here also is the 
 new royal cemetery, which was commenced by George III., 
 under the direction of the late James Wyatt. That archi- 
 tect caused an excavation to be made in the dry rock of 
 chalk, of the entire width and length of the building, called 
 Cardinal Wolsey's tomb-stone, within the walls of which it 
 is enclosed to more than the depth of fifteen feet from the 
 surface. The entire dimensions extend to seventy feet 
 long, by twenty eight wide, and 140 deep. To this abode 
 the remains of the princess Amelia were first consigned, 
 followed soon after by those of the duchess of Brunswick ; 
 the third was that of the ever lamented princess Charlotte ; 
 and the fourth consigned to it were the remains of the 
 venerable George III. The deaths of these illustrious indi* 
 viduiils occurring within a brief period, have still more 
 
 63 
 
recently been succeeded by the demise of the three eldest 
 brothers of the same royal bouse, — events which cannot 
 fail to excite deep and salutary reflections in the public 
 mind. 
 
 From the tower of the castle the eye embraces one of 
 the mostnoble and extensive prospects that England affords. 
 Not fewer than twelve counties may be discerned with the 
 naked eye ; while the landscape which 8';retches below 
 presents every combination of picturesque beauty and en- 
 chantment to gratify the taste. Amidst green luxuriant 
 foliage, forming the most agreeable and refreshing shades, 
 is seen the Thames, winding his serene and majestic course; 
 the vivid green, or the deeper brown shades of the forest ; 
 hamlets, villas, fields, and hills, — all presenting to the be- 
 holder a rural panorama of unrivalled brilliancy and effect. 
 
 In the interior of the same building is a guard chamber, 
 filled with ancient armour, and various kinds of warlike 
 weapons. Among other remarkable specimens of this des- 
 cription, are seen the coats of mail said to have been worn 
 by John, king of France, and David of Scotland, both of 
 whom are known to have been prisoners in the castle. 
 
 The beauty of Windsor and its environs has long been 
 the favourite theme of England's choicest poets. A num- 
 ber of old writers, before the days of Pope and Gray, 
 struck with the variety of its natural scenery and local at- 
 tractions, sought in the most secluded haunts and delight- 
 ful solitudes of its forests to give expression to those feel- 
 ings of admiration and pleasure derived from the contem- 
 plations it inspired. Abounding also in historical associa- 
 tions, both of a heroic and domestic kind, it is not surpris- 
 ing that our poets should have selected — 
 
 " Thy forest, Windsor, and its green retreats, 
 At once the monarch's and the muses' seats." 
 
 With how much pathetic beauty and tenderness the 
 poet Gray ha* described the adjacent scenes, and dwelt 
 upon the recollections and regrets they awakened of earlier 
 days, on a distant prospect of Eton college, we need hardly 
 recal to the reader's mind :— 
 
 I feel the gales that from you blow 
 A momentary hliss below. 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe. 
 And, redolent of joy and youth. 
 To breathe a second spring. 
 
 It is in the poem, however, of Windsor Forest, in the ex- 
 quisite beauty of its descriptions, the noble episodes and 
 pleasing fable with which it is interwoven— the celebration 
 of the exploits of some of our greatest British monarchs, — 
 combined with the charm of its versification, that we meet 
 with so much to interest us in the local scenery, and to 
 confer upon Windsor and its forest an additional attraction 
 
 to the mind of the patriot and the poet, which they never 
 before possessed. 
 
 About half a mile south-east of Windsor is situated 
 Frogmore, which boasts an elegant and beautiful mansion, 
 with fine gardens, long the favourite residence of the queen 
 of George III. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Who is Sylvia ? What is she. 
 That all our swains commend her? 
 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 
 
 The Heavens such grace did lend her, 
 
 That she might admired be. 
 
 Is she kind as she is fair ? 
 
 For beauty lives with kindness ; 
 Love doth to her eyes repair. 
 
 To kelp him of his blindness ; 
 And being helped, inhabits there* 
 
 Then to Sylvia let us sing^ 
 
 That Sylvia is excelling; 
 She excels each mortal thing 
 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
 To her let us garlands bring. 
 
 AMERICAN TASTE. 
 
 Greek and Latin are generally cultivated, but with 
 very few exceptions, not in a suflScient degree to give a 
 perception or taste for the beauties of the great masters of 
 Greece and Italy, otherwise could it be possible, that in 
 the public prints they should boast of the Columbiad of 
 Barlow, as a poem equal, nay, superior, to Homer and 
 Virgil, and the speeches of their representatives as models 
 of eloquence infinitely above those of Demosthenes and 
 Cicero? It is not to be denied, that the Americans ex- 
 press themselves with great facility and elegance, and 
 sometimes display fine traits of real eloquence. In short, 
 after gold, this is their idol ; but of the various branches 
 which, according to the greatest masters, make up the art 
 of speaking well, elDcution is the one on which they be- 
 stow the greatest care. Provided a speaker or writer deals 
 in choice expressions, elegant phrases, and harmonious 
 periods, nothing more is required to stamp him as a great 
 orator, however deficient he may be in the richness of in- 
 vention, felicity of thought, weight of sentiment, and com- 
 mand of the passions, which would ekewhere be required. 
 
 04 
 
Tirana bj A. F.- ChaiOD.K.A 
 
 ^^^4^ ^yZ.c^^A^^!d>9ty ^-^-e^z^/zc . 
 
THE MORGUE. 
 
 "M. Perrin, keeper of the Morgue, is a little old man. 
 who coughs incessantly. When I explained to him the 
 object of my visit, he very politely offered to show me all 
 the details of his administration, regretting much, as he said, 
 that there was not so much variety as could be desired. 
 "But I will show you what I have — be pleased to walk 
 
 !lp." 
 
 As we were climbing the narrow stairs, and he was in- 
 forming me that his establishment was connected both with 
 the prefecture and the police, with the one on account of 
 the local expenses, with the other from its connection with 
 the public health, we were obliged to stand close against 
 the wall to allow a troop of young girls to pass, well 
 dressed, gay, but shivering with the cold, which blew from 
 the river through the chink which lighted the stair. 
 
 " These are four of my daugliters, I have eight children. 
 Francois, the keeper, has had four, and he has had the 
 good fortune to get them all married. Francois is a kind 
 father." 
 
 *' So," said I, " twelve children then have been born in 
 the Morgue. Dreams of joy, and conjugal endearments, 
 and parental delights, have been experienced in this cham- 
 ber of death. JMarriage with its orange flowers, baptism 
 with its black robed sponsors, the communion and the 
 embroidered veil, love, religion, virtue, have had their 
 nome here as elsewhere. God has sown the seeds of happi- 
 ness everywhere." 
 
 *' Papa, we are going to a distribution of prizes. My 
 sisters are sure to get a prize. Don't weary, we wiU be 
 back in good time." 
 
 " Go, my children," — and all four embraced him. 
 I thought of the body of the little Norman in the dreary 
 room beneath, and of the mother who even now, perhaps, 
 was anxiously looking for her from the window. 
 
 "This is the apartment of Francois." Francois did the 
 honours with the activity of a man who is not ashamed of 
 his establishment. His room is comfortably furnished; 
 two modern pendules mounted on bronze, a wardrobe with 
 a Medusa's head, a high bed, and a handsome rosecolouied 
 curtain. If the room was not overburdened with furniture, 
 if there was not much of luxury, yet, to those not early ac- 
 customed to superfluities, it might even seem gay. It 
 represented the tastes, opinions, and habits of its master. 
 Vases of flowers threw a green reflection on the curtains, 
 for Francois is fond of flowers. Among his gallery of 
 portraits were those of Augereau and Kleber, both in long 
 coats, leaning on immense sabres, with peruques and 
 powder. Ntpoleon is there three times. 
 
 "Look at these jars," said Francois, "these are sweet- 
 meats of my wife's making : she excels in sweetmeats." I 
 read upon them, "gooseberries of 1831." We left Fran- 
 cois's apartment, which forms the right wing of the Morgue, 
 
 while the clerk's house is on the left, and entered the 
 cabinet of administration of M. Perrin. 
 
 If Francois is fond of flowers, M. Perrin has the same 
 penchant for hydraulics and the camera obscura ; he draws, 
 he makes jets from the Seine, by an ingenious piece of 
 machinery of his own invention; while he was retouching 
 his syphon, I asked permission to turn over the register 
 where suicides are ranged in two columns. 
 
 The fatal " unknown" was the prevailing designation; 
 "brought here at three in the morning, skull fractured, 
 unknown;" — "brought at twelve at night, drowned under 
 the Pontdes Arts, cards in his pocket, unknown ;" — "young 
 woman, pregnant, crushed by a fiacre at the corner of the 
 Rue Mander, unknoivn ;" — "new born child found dead of 
 cold, at the gate of an hotel, unknown." 
 
 I said to M. Perrin that he mu^t weary here very much 
 occasionally during the long nights of winter. 
 
 "No," replied he good humouredly, "the children sing, 
 we all work, Francois and I play at draughts or piquet; the 
 worst of it is, we are sometimes interrupted; a knock comes, 
 we must go down, get a stone ready, undress the new comer 
 and register him; that spoils the game; we forget to mark 
 the points." 
 
 "And this is the way you generally spend your evenings?" 
 — " Always, except when Francois has to go to Vaugirard 
 at four o'clock, then he must go to bed earlier. Perhaps 
 you do not know that our burying-ground is at Vaugirard : 
 — as that burying-ground is not much in fashion, we have 
 been allowed to retain our privilege of having a fosse to 
 ourselves." 
 
 "I understand, — it is a fief of the Morgue." 
 " You saw that chariot below near the entrance-gate, in 
 which the children were hiding themselves at play, — that is 
 our hearse." 
 
 " And rich or poor, all must make use of your conveyance ' 
 If for instance a suicide is recognized, his relations or 
 friends may reclaim him, take him home, and bestow the 
 rites of sepulture on him at his own house ?" 
 
 "No, the Morgue does not give back what has been 
 once deposited here. It allows the funeral ceremonies to 
 be as pompous as they will, but they must all set out from 
 hence; one end of the procession perhaps is at Notre Dame, 
 while the other is starting from the Morgue. The Arch- 
 bishop of Paris may be there ; but Francois's place is fixed. 
 It is the first." 
 
 " And the priests of Notre Dame, do they never make 
 any difficulty about administering the funeral rites to your 
 dead?" 
 "Never!" 
 
 "Not even to the suicides ?" 
 
 " There are no suicides for Notre Dame; one is drowned 
 by accident, another killed by the bursting of a gun, a third 
 has fallen from a scaffold. I invent the excuse, and the 
 conscience of the priest accepts it. That's enough." 
 
 65 
 
So, thought I! Notre Dame, which formerly witnessed 
 the execution at the stake of sorcerers, alchymists, and 
 gipsies on the Grande Place, has now no word of reproba- 
 tion for the carcase of the suicide, once allowed to rot on 
 the ground, or be devoured by birds. She asks not here, 
 what was his faith. The priest says mildly, "Peace be 
 with you." 
 
 We walked down, and Francois opened the first room, 
 that which contains the dresses ; habits of all shapes, all 
 dimensions, hideously jumbled together; gaiters pinned to 
 a sleeve, a shawl shading the neck of a coat; dresses of 
 peasants, workmen, carters and brewers' frocks, women's 
 gowns, all faded, discoloured, shapeless, flap against each 
 other in the current of air which enters through the windows. 
 There is something here appalling in the sight and sound 
 of these objects, soulless, bodyless, yet moving as if they 
 had life, and presenting the form without the flesh. Your 
 eye rests on a handkerchief, the property of some poor 
 labourer, suddenly seized with the idea of suicide, after 
 some day that he has wanted work. 
 
 Francois, who followed the direction of my eyes to see 
 what impression the picture produced on me, sighed heavily. 
 
 " Does it move you too ?" said I : " Are you discontented 
 with your lot — unhappy ?" 
 
 "Not exactly I But sir, formerly, you must know, the 
 dresses, after being six months exhibited, became a per- 
 quisite of ours; we sold them. Now they talk of taking 
 the dresses from us." 
 
 I reassured Francois as to the intention of government, 
 and assured him there was no talk of taking away the 
 dresses. 
 
 The second room, that which adjoins the public exhibition 
 room, is appropriated for the dissection of those the mode 
 of whose death appears to the police to be suspicious. Its 
 only furniture is a marble table, on which the dissections 
 take place, and a shelf on which are placed several bottles 
 of chlorate. This room is immediately above the room of 
 M. Perrin, The dissecting-table above just answers to the 
 girls' piano below. 
 
 In this room, which I crossed rapidly to avoid as much 
 as possible the sight of a body extended on the plank, I 
 saw the little girl, who had been stifled the night before in 
 the diligence ; she was a lovely child. The other figure 
 was frightfully disfigured; scarcely even would his mother 
 have recognized him. 
 
 There remained only the public room; it is narrow, ill 
 aired; ten or twelve black and sloping stones receive the 
 suicides, who are placed on it almost in a state of nudity ; 
 the places are seldom all occupied, except perhaps during 
 a revolution. Then it is that the Morgue is recruited; two 
 more days of glory and immortality in July, and the plague 
 had been in Paris. 
 
 "It is true." said M. Perrin, "we worked hard during 
 
 the three days, and were allowed the use of two assistants. 
 Corpses evere where, within, without, at the gate on the 
 bank." . . . 
 
 " And your girls?" 
 
 "During those days they did not leave their apartment, 
 nor looked out to the street, nor to the river ; besides, you 
 are mistaken if you think the sight would have terrified 
 them. Brought up here, they will walk at night without a 
 light in front of the glass, which divides the corpses from 
 the public, without trembling; we become accustomed to 
 any thing." 
 
 Methought I heard the poor children, so familiar with 
 the idea of death, so accustomed to this domestic spectacle 
 of their existence, asking innocently of the strangers whom 
 they visited. — as one would ask where is your garden, your 
 kitchen, or your cabinet, — " where do you keep your dead 
 here?" 
 
 These were all the facts I could gather with regard to the 
 establishment. I was opening the glass door to breathe 
 the fresh air again, when the entrance of the crowd drove 
 me back into the interior; they were following a bier, on 
 which lay a body, from which the water dripped in a long 
 stream. From one of the hands which were closely 
 clenched, the keeper detached a strip of coloured Unen, 
 and a fragment of lace. "Ah!" said he, "let me look, 'tis 
 shel" 
 
 " Who is it ?" 
 
 "The nurse who was here this morning; the nurse of 
 the little Norman girl. Good ! they may be buried together." 
 And M. Perrin put on his spectacles, opened his register, 
 and wrote in his best current-hand — "unknown.'' 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Thou art amid the festive halls. 
 
 Where beauty wakes her spells for thee ; 
 Where music on thy spirit falls 
 
 Like moonlight on the sea ; 
 But now while fairer brows are smiling. 
 And brighter lips thy heart beguiling, 
 
 Thiukest thou of me ? 
 
 Fair forms and faces pass thee by 
 Like bright creations of a dream. 
 
 And love-lit eyes, when thou art nigh, 
 With softer splendours beam : 
 
 Life's gayest witcheries are round thee ; 
 
 But now while mirth and joy surrouad thee, 
 Thiukest thou of me 7 
 
THE SLAVE SHIP. 
 
 We were on board a slave ship, bound to the coast of 
 Africa, I had my misgivings about the business; and I 
 believe others had them too. We had passed the Straits 
 of Gibraltar, and were lying off Barbary, one clear, bright 
 evening, when it came my turn to take the helm. The ship 
 was becalmed, and everything around was as silent as the 
 day after the deluge. The wide monotony of water, 
 varied only by the glancings of the moon on the crest of the 
 waves, made me think the old fables of Neptune were true ; 
 and that Amphitrite and her Naiads were sporting on the 
 surface of the ocean, with diamonds in their bair. Those 
 fancies were followed by thoughts of wife, children, and 
 home; and all were oddly enough jumbled together in a 
 delicious state of approaching slumber. Suddenly I heard, 
 high above my head, a loud, deep, terrible voice, call out, 
 " Stand from under !" I started to my feet — it was the 
 customary signal when any thing was to be thrown from 
 the shrouds, and mechanically 1 sung out the usual answer, 
 " Let go!" But nothing came — I looked up in the shrouds 
 —there was nothing there. I searched the deck — and 
 found that I was alone ! I tried to think it was a dream — 
 but that sound, so deep, so stern, so dreadful, rung in my 
 ears, like the bursting of a cannon ! 
 
 In the morning, I told the crew what I had heard. They 
 laughed at me; and were all day long full of their jokes 
 about " Dreaming Tom." One fellow among them was 
 most unmerciful in his raillery. He was a swarthy, ma- 
 lignant-looking Spaniard ; who carried murder in his eye, 
 and curses on his tongue; a daring and lordly man, who 
 boasted of crime, as if it gave him pre-eminence among his 
 fellows. He lauglied longest and loudest at my story. "A 
 most uncivil ghost, Tom," said he; "when such chaps 
 come to see me, I'll make 'em show themselves. I'll not 
 be satisfied without seeing and feeling, as well as hearing " 
 
 The sailors all joined with hnn ; and I, ashamed of my 
 alarm, was glad to be silent. The next night, Dick Bur- 
 ton took the helm. Dick had nerves like an ox, and si- 
 news like a whale ; it was little he feared, on the earth, or 
 beneath it. The clock struck one — Dick was leaning his 
 headon the helm, as he said, thinking nothing of me, or 
 my story — when that awful voice again called from the 
 shrouds, "Stand from under!" Dick darted forward like 
 an Indian arrow, which they say goes through and through 
 a buffalo, and wings on its way, as if it had not left death 
 in the rear. It was a moment or two before he found 
 presence of mind to call out "Let go!" Again nothing 
 was seen — nothing heard. Ten nights in succession, at 
 one o'clock, the same unearthly sound run through the air, 
 making our stoutest sailors quail. At last the crew grew 
 pale when it was spoken of; and the worst of us never 
 went to sleep without saying our prayers. For myself, I 
 would have been chained to the oar all my life, to have got 
 
 out of that vessel. But there we were in the vast solitude 
 of ocean ; and this invisible being was with us ! No one 
 put a bold face on the matter, but Antonio, the Spaniard. 
 He laughed at our fears, and defied Satan himself to terrify 
 him. However, when it came his turn at the helm, he re- 
 fused to go. Several times, under the- pretence of illness, 
 he was excused from a duty, which all on board dreaded. 
 But at last, the Captain ordered Antonio to receive a round 
 dozen lashes every night, until he should consent to per- 
 form his share of the unwelcome ofiice. For awhile this 
 was borne patiently ; but at length, he called out, " I may 
 as well die one way as another — Give me over to the 
 ghost I" 
 
 That night Antonio kept watch on deck. Few of the 
 crew slept ; for expectation and alarm had stretched our 
 nerves upon the rack. At one o'clock, the voice called, 
 "Stand from under!" "Letgo!" screamed the Span- 
 iard. This was answered by a shriek of laughter — and such 
 laughter ! — It seemed as if the fiends sung to each other 
 from pole to pole, and the bass was howled in hell ! Then 
 came a sudden crash upon the deck, as if our masts and 
 spars haa fallen. We all rushed to the spot — and there was 
 a cold stiff gigantic corpse. The Spaniard said it was 
 thrown from the shrouds, and when he looked on it he 
 ground his teeth like a madman. " I know him," ex- 
 claimed he ; "I stabbed him within an hour's sail of Cuba, 
 and drank his blood for breakfast." 
 
 We all stood aghast at the monster. In fearful whispers 
 we asked what should be done with the body. Finally we 
 agreed that the terrible sight must be removed from us, 
 and hidden in the depth of the sea. Four of us attempted 
 to raise it; but human strength was of no avail — we might 
 as well have tugged at Atlas. There it lay, stiff, rigid, 
 heavy, and as immoveable as if it formed a part of the 
 vessel. The Spaniard was furious; "let me lift him," 
 said he; "I lifted him once, and can do it again. I'll 
 teach him what it is to come and trouble me." He took the 
 body round the waist, and attempted to move it. Slowly 
 and heavily the corpse raised itself up; its rayless eyes 
 opened ; its rigid arms stretched out, and clasped its victim 
 in a close death grapple — and rolling over to the side of the 
 ship, they tottered an instant over the waters — then with a 
 loud plunge sunk together. 
 
 There is neither age, nor condition, nor situation, which 
 does not leave a man the liberty and the necessary means 
 of practising any virtue. Cicero has said that there is not 
 a moment without some duty. 
 
 61 
 
CHARLES CAMERON. 
 
 ------- See where he comes 1 
 
 His mauly liaeaments, his beaming ej-e 
 The same, butnow a holier imioceiice 
 Siis on his cheelc, and loftier thouijhts illume 
 The enlightened glance."— southey. 
 
 The newspapers of the day announced a brilliant vic- 
 tory, and Britons were called on to glory in their name, 
 and to share in the proud triumph of their invincible coun- 
 trymen. Loud aud long was the answering burst of public 
 gratulation: — but many a sickening heart refused to join 
 in the note of joy, and many a tearful eye looked around 
 on the diminished circle it once had fondly gazed on, but 
 looked in vain for the father, brother, husband, child, that 
 would return no more ! 
 
 Among the names of those who fell, that of Charles 
 Cameron had its passing meed of admiration for gallant 
 deeds, and of sincere, though short-lived, regret, that youth 
 and valour should have been thus untimely snatched away. 
 But deep was the wound which his loss had made in the 
 bosom of an idolizing family, who wept over the removal of 
 the son and the brother whose place could never again be 
 filled. When long years had softened down the first bit- 
 terness of their regrets, still was he fondly and sadly 
 remembered. The mother's heart, as her eye glanced on 
 the childish sports of her boys, would still revert to her 
 first-born, and ponder over many a scene of days gone by, 
 forgotten or unmarked save by a mother's love. The 
 father thought on the goodly youth that should have sus- 
 tained the honours of his name through days to come, aud 
 transmitted it with added lustre to his sons. Tlie sister's 
 undying love was ever with the sweet play-mate of her 
 infancy, the sharer of all her little joys and sorrows, the 
 friend and the counsellor of her more advanced youth. So 
 wore the years away, and many a day of pleasure and of 
 pain, as they rolled on, renewed the anguish of the mour- 
 ners. 
 
 Peace came at length, and with it many a thought arose 
 of the happier feelings with which, under other circumstan- 
 ces, they too might have welcomed the jjeueral blessing. 
 Oh man, rebellious man! thus ever prone to aggravate thy 
 woes, thus ceaselessly clinging to that which tUe Almighty 
 in His wisdom sees fit to remove, how dost thou still 
 ungratefully turn from the voice that would speak peace to 
 the wounded spirit ; that bids thee look from the sorrows 
 of time to the hopes of eternity ; and calls on thee to 
 receive the chastening trials of earth as an invitation to 
 draw yet nearer to that world, where they shall be for ever 
 unknown! 
 
 But I wander from my tale. Peace came at length, 
 I have said; and many a heart beat high as it welcomed 
 back the long absent and the loved. Soon followed strange 
 tidings to the mourning family of Charles Cameron- 
 
 strange and bewildering, awakening hopes that long had 
 slept — and that now scarcely did they dare to admit. One, 
 returned to foreign captivity, spoke of him as wounded and 
 a prisoner long after the day on which he was supposed to 
 have fallen. There was agony even in the short suspense 
 that followed, ere a letter from himself confirmed their 
 wildest, fondest hopes. 
 
 During the years they had mourned him as dead, he had 
 languished in the dungeons of a foreign land; but the doors 
 of his prison were now unclosed, and the friends of his 
 youth were about to welcome him back to their hearts and 
 their home. The wanderer returned to the land of his 
 birth: — a mother's smile, a father's welcome, greeted his 
 arrival — sisters, brothers, with looks of love, gathered round 
 the dear being thus restored to them as from the grave — 
 a<'ain their little home seemed the abode of bliss — the 
 dreary void there was filled — they looked around, and 
 gratefully asked what now was wanting — their cup of 
 felicity was full ! But how changed was the form over 
 which they hung with fond delight — how altered since last 
 their eyes had rested on it ! He had left them radiant in 
 health, and youth, and spirits — ardent, sanguine, impetu- 
 ous : — now, sickness aud " hope deferred" had left their 
 withering trace on the faded form, but on the spirit had 
 passed a nobler change, — there, sorrow and trial had early 
 accomplished their purifying work, and the sweet, the ele- 
 vating influence of religion was shed on all around him. 
 
 Many were the inquiries which fond aifeclion dictated 
 on the events of the past, but human language is poor 
 when it would express such feelings as he then described. 
 
 Cut off, as it had seemed to him, from every earthly 
 enjoyment; every energy of his ardent character repressed, 
 every hope of active usefulness, of honourable distinction, 
 crushed ; torn from every tie which had hitherto endeared 
 life, he had mourned in bitterest anguish over the hope- 
 lessness of his lot — he had dared to question the wisdom of 
 that decree which prolonged an existence thus useless, as 
 he deemed it, to himself or others. The walls of his prison 
 had echoed to the cries of repining and despair. From 
 its inmost recesses a voice had reached him, had demanded, 
 " Who art thou, mortal, that darest thus to arraign the 
 wisdom of Providence, thus to reason on the designs of 
 Omnipotence ? Man judgeth blindly from the little part 
 he sees, but to the eyes of the Almighty, the past and the 
 future are oiie great present ; to Him the means and the 
 end are ahke discernible, by Him alike directed." 
 
 Eagerly had he turned to the voice of correcting admo- 
 nition, and gratefully did he welcome the companion, thus 
 mercifully allotted him, to cheer the solitude of his dun- 
 ireon, and to dispel the night of spiritual darkness which 
 surrounded him. Gradually was then unfolded to his 
 brightening spirit the wonderful ways of Divine Provi- 
 dence ; and sweetly was he taught to trace the hand of a 
 Father, even in the afflictive events of a world which ha 
 
 I 
 
 fiS 
 
h 
 
♦» 
 
 m' 
 
then first learned to estimate justly, not as the scene of 
 man's lasting: joys, but as the probationary state which is 
 to fit him for the enjoyment of more exalted delights, and 
 to train him for the exercise of higher duties, during an 
 existence of which this is but the infancy. 
 
 The friend and companion of his solitude was one who 
 had himself been aisciplined in the salutary school of 
 adversity. On his heart were engraven the lessons of com- 
 fort and encouragement which the blessed Volume of 
 Inspiration holds out to the weary and heavy-laden, to the 
 soul just sinking under the trials of life, or awakening to 
 the first overwhelming conviction of its utter sinfulness in 
 the sight of a God of infinite purity. To the treasured 
 records of that book he directed the eye so lately be\)t to 
 earth in lowest despondency. He bade him read there 
 how they "of whom the world was not worthy" had been 
 " perfected through sufi"ering." — He bade nim look on Him 
 who had "borne our griefs and carried our sorrows," who, 
 "though He were a Son, yet learned He obedience by the 
 things which He suffered." — He taught him that resignation 
 which bids the Christian exclaim with his sufi'ering Lord, 
 " the cup which my Father hath given me shall I not drink 
 it?" — which, though permitted to ask "if it be possible 
 that the bitter cup may pass away," yet adds, with the 
 deepest humility, " nevertheless not my will but Thine be 
 done." — He infused into his sinking spirit that faith which 
 enables the Chrishian's eye to penetrate beyond the dark- 
 ness of this clouded and troubled scene; which enjoins him 
 to receive every trial as the chastening of a Father's love, 
 designed for his profit, though for the present grievous to 
 poor shrinking humanity. — He cheered with heavenly hopes 
 that heart so lately bowed down with hopeless anguish. — 
 He tuned to heavenly themes that tongue whose accents 
 had breathed only the murmurs of despair. 
 
 " I know and feel now," exclaimed the young soldier, 
 " that it is good for me that I was thus afilicted : — through 
 time and through eternity I can never cease to acknowledge 
 that my all of real happiness has sprung from what I once 
 blindly believed the extinction of every hope of felicity. " 
 
 Oh, mortal! and will it not ever be thus! Who can 
 look back on the short space of life through which he_has 
 passed, nor trace there the wonder-working hand of an 
 over-ruling and directing Providence. 
 
 "Merciful over all His works, with good 
 Still overcoming evil, and by small 
 Accomplishing great things." 
 
 Even here it is given us to conceive, though faintly, the 
 feelings of rapture, love and admiration, with which the 
 purified spirit shall hereafter look back, and trace the 
 minutest steps of that wondrous path from which it has been 
 led from sin to purity, from darkness to light, from earth to 
 Heaven, where its powers shall expand to comprehend that 
 
 love which has been exerted to reclaim it from misery and 
 death, and when the feelings of more than mortal enjoy- 
 ment, which are sometimes permitted to irradiate this 
 earthly scene, shall be exchanged for those yet more 
 exalted, those enduring pleasures which are at the right 
 hand of God, for ever more ! 
 
 L. H. c. 
 
 THE SLANDERER. 
 
 The slanderer either thinks that his evil-speaking 
 affects not much the happiness of those whom he defames, 
 or, if he does, he disregards it. In the latter case, he is 
 condemned by both heaven and earth. If a pretended zeal 
 for religion and morality be the motive for his holding up 
 another's character to infamy, a heaven-inspired apostle 
 will declare to him that even " if he gave his body to be 
 burned" in religion's cause, " and have not charity, it 
 profiteth him nothing;" that, however true may be the 
 charge against a sinner, it is the part of charity to veil the 
 multitude of sins : — let him who hath no sin cast the first 
 stone. If a desire of raising his own character be the 
 motive for the defamation, poor and pitiful is that ambition 
 which only seeks to rise on the degradation of another; 
 and however willingly the enemies of the person of whom 
 he is speaking evil may receive and rejoice in the tale, the 
 tale-bearer, be assured, is always held in contempt. If the 
 defamer thinks that the object of his defamation is not 
 affected in tranquillity, because the injury is not resented 
 nor concern betrayed, let him be assured, that sin, wherever 
 it exists, will, sooner or later, sit heavy enough, without 
 his unchristian and cruel exposure of the sinner. If the 
 defamation be groundless, and only raised against supposed 
 and suspected crime, and the slanderer think that in that 
 case his calumny affects not the mind of the person whom 
 he injures, he must be a stranger to every feeling of the 
 virtuous and ingenuous heart. 
 
 Pleasure is a rose near which there ever grows the 
 thorn of evil. It is wisdom's work so carefully to cull the 
 rose, as to avoid the thorn, and let its rich perfume exhale 
 to heaven in grateful adoration of Him who gave the rose 
 to blow. 
 
 With friends there should be no reserves, with acquaint- 
 ances it is quite different; and how few friends do we meet 
 with in our journey through life, 
 
THE MARKET BOAT. 
 
 A SEA SIDE SKETCH. 
 
 "Aye, Annie, weel I remember the morns I ha' gone to the 
 market wi' my fish, whiles we had i'th market boat horses and 
 sheep, an' the skipper had enow' to do to keep 'em aw quiet" 
 
 " Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
 Their homely joys, or destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile. 
 The short but siiEple annals of the poor. 
 
 Gray, 
 
 My home is od the ocean shore, 
 
 My father's cot beside the wave, 
 Where winds of Winter loudest roar, 
 
 And crested billows hoarsest rave. 
 My Brothers, beautiful and brave ! 
 
 At Trafalgar, by Nelson's side. 
 Too early won a watery grave, 
 
 And fell in boyhood's pride 
 
 111 could my Mother's heart sustain 
 
 A blow so sudden and severe; 
 She died ! and I alone remain 
 
 My sire's else childless home to cheer: — 
 /"wept! but he could shed no tear, 
 
 Though I might hear his stifled groan. 
 When slowly from my Mother's bier 
 
 He turn'd — to me alone ! 
 
 But Poverty, whate'er its grief. 
 
 Must labour for its daily bread; 
 Its hour of mourning must be brief. 
 
 However dear the humble dead : 
 And Childhood's tear, though freely shed, 
 
 Is soon forgotten: — day by day. 
 As o'er our lowly roof it sped, 
 
 Some sorrow stole away. 
 
 And now I would not change my lot 
 
 For that of Wealth's most splendid home ; 
 More dear to me our sea-side cot 
 
 Than Grandeur's proudest, loftiest dome: 
 The beach, where hour by hour I roam, 
 
 Is more than flowery fields to me ; 
 Its breakers, crested white with foam. 
 
 My playmates frank and free. 
 
 The rocky cliffs, that lift on high, 
 Their fronts to battle with the breeze, 
 
 Arc lovelier to my partial eye 
 
 Than verdant clamps of leafy trees : 
 
 The solemn sound of tossing seas. 
 The fisher's song, the gull's loud cry. 
 
 My youthful fancy better please 
 Than inland melody. 
 
 Then think me not of hope forlorn, 
 
 Or weighed by toil and sorrow down : 
 With basket on my arm, each morn 
 
 I gaily seek the Market-town: 
 None greet me with an angry frown. 
 
 But all my humble labours aid ; — 
 Pity the king who wears a crown, 
 
 But not the Fisher Maid! 
 
 A MOTHER'S LAMENT OVER THE GRAVE OF 
 A BELOVED SON. 
 
 BY GERALD GRIFFKN. 
 
 Tub Christmas light is burning bright. 
 
 In many a village pane ; 
 And many a cottage rings to-night 
 
 With many a merry strain. 
 
 Young boys and girls run laughing by, 
 
 Their hearts and eyes elate, — 
 I can but think on mine and sigh. 
 
 For I am desolate. 
 
 There's none to watch in our old cot, 
 
 Beside the holy light. 
 No tongues to bless the silent spot 
 
 Against the parting night. 
 
 I've closed the door — and hither come 
 
 To mourn my lonely fate ; 
 I cannot bear my own old home, 
 
 It is so desolate ! 
 
 I saw my father's eyes grow dim. 
 
 And clasped my mother's knee ; 
 I saw my mother follow him ; 
 
 — My husband wept with me. 
 
 My husband did not long remain, 
 
 — His child was left me yet ; 
 But now my heart's last love is slam, 
 
 And I am desolate ! 
 
THE INFANT BACCHUS, 
 BROUGHT BY MERCURY TO THE NYMPHS. 
 
 BY GEORGE EMERSON, ESQ. 
 
 No rustling wind stirred a leaf in the Groves of Arcadia; 
 the etheral sky was redolent with the glories of a summer's 
 noon-tide sun — the herds and the flocks reposed in happy 
 tranquillity in various groups on the fertile plains, — not a 
 sound was heard save the cooing of the woodpigeon, or the 
 feathered choristers trilling their hymn to nature, — when 
 Silenus, whose serenity of countenance told the pleasant 
 feelings of his heart, sought the shelter of the grove, to 
 indulge in that pleasant reverie which the universal happi- 
 ness around him inspired. His Nymphs had quitted their 
 dance — they had laid aside their pipes — they had hung 
 their tabor on a tree, they had seated themselves on their 
 sylvan couch, they enjoyed the extensive beauties of the 
 scene, they beheld with rapture the attention their favourite 
 goat paid to her kid — whose frolics appeared to delight its 
 dam, while her tender bleatings called it to that food sup- 
 plied by nature ; their thoughts turned to the happiness of 
 mothers — they mentally invoke the Gods to impart to them 
 that blessing — when lo ! the air became full of voices, the 
 mighty trees on the hills sung to a breeze unfelt on the 
 plains, and between the valley and the sun there suddenly 
 appeared a floating glory, — a rush of wings was heard, and 
 their eyes were strained to watch a far vision in the distant 
 skies, taking an earthward flight. Anon, over their heads 
 hangs the Messenger of the Gods; as quick as the lightning 
 of Jove he unfolds his mantle, and displays to their wonder- 
 ing eyes the Infant Bacchus, whose smiles, and happy 
 features, make a deep and lasting impression on their 
 hearts: they receive the innocent from Mercury, who 
 returns to Olympus bearing their fervent thanksgiving for 
 the blessing sent; they embrace him with ardour, they 
 make thpir goat subservient to his nutriment, they induce 
 Silenus to be his instructor, and in due time the boy, like 
 other spoiled urchins, becoming unruly and turbulent, re- 
 duces Silenus from his happy state, and by his luxurious 
 and viscious propensities, destroys the golden and silver 
 age? of the world. 
 
 The air is full of voices ! — the huge pines 
 
 Are singing to a breeze unfelt below ! 
 
 A murmur in the ivy! and the vines 
 
 Wave, to their own glad music, to and fro ! 
 
 Through the long valley, like a living thing, 
 
 Rushes the river, with its joyous song. 
 
 Thro' shores — like rainbows of the earth — that fling 
 
 Back its loud uttering, as it leaps along ! 
 
 Amid the shade of forests old and dim, 
 
 From flutes of fauns, breathes many a loving tale, 
 
 Or echo listens to some satyr's hymn, 
 
 And flings a low, wild answer down the vale! 
 
 The air is full of voices ! — whoops and calls. 
 
 Uttered by spirits, from the far, blue hills; 
 
 Shouts, 'mid the ringing sound of waterfalls. 
 
 And naiads, singing by their silver rills ; 
 
 And one wide ansvvering peean, far on high, 
 
 From birds that have gone half-way to the sky! 
 
 The air is full of incense ! — where the dew 
 Lies, star-like, on the fields of asphodel, 
 From myrtle thickets, bowers of every hue 
 The orange blossom, and the lotus bell. 
 Rise thousand perfumes ! — Like a silver bark. 
 Anchors the sun, within a sapphire sea. 
 Bright as it bore a God, within its ark ; 
 And hill and valley, flower and wave and tree 
 Glitter, beneath its pennant, gloriously! 
 
 By a blue stream that, like the streams of old, 
 
 Through vallies echoing to immortal tread, 
 
 — Long ere Pactolus — flowed o'er sands of gold. 
 
 And uttered tones, by spirits only read. 
 
 Recline four beings, of unearthly form — 
 
 Shapes such as vanished with the golden time. 
 
 But come again to poets' visions, warm 
 
 As when the world was in its glowing prime, 
 
 Ere beauty wore the Promethean curse : — 
 
 To dream of such is immortality ! 
 
 Witness the Chian, with his deathless verse ! — 
 
 And near them, — wisdom throned within his eye, 
 
 And thought upon his forehead, — in the shade 
 
 Of ancient trees that whisper in his ear 
 
 A knowledge and amystery, — is laid 
 
 The old Silenus !— .listening, all, to hear 
 
 The oracles that speak from stream and tree. 
 
 And gazing through the amethystine air. 
 
 Into the empyrean, silently ! — 
 
 To mortal ken — if mortal ken were there, — 
 
 There's nothing lives between them and the skies, — 
 
 A purple ocean and a ship of light! 
 
 But they have caught a murmur, — and their eyes 
 
 Watch a far vision, in its earthward flight! 
 
 — And lo ! between the valley and the sun, 
 
 A floating glory, and a rush of wings. 
 
 Ambrosial breezes o'er the earth that run. 
 
 And harpings in the air, from viewless strings ! — 
 
 O'er that Egyptian Tempe's sacred spring, 
 
 Hovers the Triple God, upon a gale 
 
 Brought, with him, from the skies ; then folds his wing. 
 
 And, like an arrow, stoops upon the vale, — 
 
 7i 
 
That rings with music, and the voice of mirth, 
 Waters that laugh, and woods that prophesy,— 
 Till — like a heart-dream fading in its birth, — 
 The white-robed bearer seeks the distant sky, 
 And the child Bacchus treads the shouting earth ! 
 
 In the picture which these lines are intended to illustrate, Mr. 
 Howard has, with equal taste andjudgment, drawn Silenus.withnut 
 any of those attributes ascribi'd to him by the Roman mytholo- 
 gists, and with which we are now in the general habit of identi- 
 fying him; and has painted hira as he was represented in the 
 earlier, and (as Mr. Howard calls them), better times of art. 
 Silenus having been, according to some authors, the philosophic 
 friend and useful counsellor of Bacchus, in his Indian expedi- 
 tion, the character with which Mr. Howard has, here, invested 
 him, is much more judicious, when the subject has reference to 
 the education of that God, than his ordinary and better known 
 cue of the fat, drunken and vine-crowned Silenus. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Go bid the winds of winter sleep ; 
 
 Go hush the stormy wave, 
 But do not tell me not to weep 
 
 O'er joy's untimely grave; 
 But do not try to smile away 
 
 The grief that clouds my brow, — 
 I would not, if I could, be gay : 
 
 Grief is my nature now. 
 
 I have not always wept, for friends 
 
 Once filled my trusting ear 
 With every vow that friendship lends, 
 
 To those she holds most dear ; 
 Butfortune changed, and friendship's words 
 
 Grew rarer and less warm ; 
 My friends were only summer birds — 
 
 They shunned the coming storm. 
 
 I have not always wept ; for love 
 
 Once made my heart his own ; 
 And hope's rich branches waved above 
 
 His gay and glittering throne; 
 But injured love indignant fled, 
 
 And hope was blighted then ; 
 His fragile blossoms soon were shed, 
 
 It nf^ver bloomed again. 
 
 Then do not tell me not to mourn ; 
 
 Oh ! mock not my distress, 
 My heart has been so long forlorn, 
 
 It loves its loneliness. 
 Away, shall I capricious fling 
 
 What I can ne'er forget ? 
 Grief is the only constant thing 
 
 I ever cherished yet. 
 
 THE AULD MAN. 
 
 Down Lyddal glen the stream leaps glad; 
 
 The lily blooms on Lyddal lea ! 
 The daisy glows on the sunny sod ; 
 
 The birds sing loud on tower and tree ; 
 The earth laughs out, yet seems to sav. 
 Thy blood is thin, and thy locks are gray. 
 
 The minstrel trims his merriest string, 
 And draws his best and boldest bow ; 
 
 The maidens shake their white brow-locks, 
 And go starting ofi" with their necks of snow. 
 
 I smile, but my smiling seems to say, 
 
 Thy blood is thin, and thy locks are gray. 
 
 The damsels dance : their beaming eyes 
 Shower light and love, and joy about ; 
 
 The glowing peasant answers glad, 
 
 With a merry kiss, and mirthsome shout. 
 
 I leap to ray legs, but, well-a-day ! 
 
 Their might is gone, and my locks are gray, 
 
 A maiden said to me with a smile, 
 Though past thy hour of bridal bliss. 
 
 With hoary years, and pains and fears, 
 A frosty pow and a frozen kiss ; 
 
 Come down the dance with me, I pray, 
 
 Though thy blood be thin, and thy locks be gray. 
 
 Sweet one, thou smilest ! but I have had. 
 When my leaf was green, as fair as thee 
 
 Sigh for my coming, and high-born dames 
 Have loved the glance of my merry e'e; 
 
 But the brightest eye will lose its ray, 
 
 And the daikest locks will grow to gray, 
 
 I've courted till the morning star 
 
 Wax'd dim ere came our parting time ; 
 
 I've walked with jeweli'd locks, which shone 
 r the moon, when past her evening prime : 
 
 And I've ta'en from rivals rich away 
 
 The dame of my heart, though my locks be gray. 
 
 It is an obliging condescension that we expect from the 
 great, an bumble submission from those in the lower ranks 
 of life, and from our equals frankness devoid of that saucv 
 familiarity which is equally a foe to friendship and good- 
 breeding. 
 
 7-i 
 
"Draw V A.r. C!iatei. K-A. 
 
 ]te0ritivdl}T iT. C. F-dwarfls. 
 
 Q^€/ (^i^zA^ i 
 
 I Ifasa/iteUc.j 
 
f» 
 
MISS CROKEK. 
 
 Beautiful creature ! in the sunny prime 
 
 Of youthful loveliness, whose gentle brow 
 Hath ne'er been furrowed by the frown of time, 
 
 Nor cankered by Despair ! To such as Thou 
 In all thy spotless innocence of guile — 
 
 And Virtue's own omnipotence arrayed ; 
 With eyes of lightning and cherubic smile — 
 
 The homage of devotion may be paid ! 
 
 Thou need'st no trappings of the modern art 
 
 To aid the charms that emanate from thee ; 
 What would Vermillion to thy cheeks impart 
 
 Besides pollutions vulgar glare and glee ? 
 Thou dwellest in the atmosphere of love 
 
 And quiet joy, and undisturbed delight; 
 Like the pure spirits of the realms above. 
 
 And chaste as the clear moonbeam at midnight. 
 
 Beautiful creature ! may thy snowy breast 
 
 Ne'er throb but unto pleasure's kindest call! 
 In youth beloved, and oh ! in age caressed — 
 
 The living model, and the friend of all ! 
 So shall the memory of thy name endure 
 
 With thy rich virgin beauty, in the lines 
 Where praise and immortality is sure, — 
 
 For glorious Lawrence from the canvas shines ! 
 
 THE FARMER, THE SPANIEL, AND THE CAT. 
 
 Why knits my love her angry brow, 
 What rude offence alarms you now ? 
 I said that * * * * 's fair, 't is true ; 
 But did I say she equalled you ? 
 Can't I another's face commend. 
 Or to her virtues be a friend. 
 But constantly your forehead lowers, 
 As if her merit lessened yours ? 
 From female envy never free. 
 Must all be blind because you see 7 
 
 Survey the gardens, fields, and bowers, 
 The buds, the blossoms, and the flowers ; 
 Then tell me, where the woodbine grows 
 That vies in sweetness with the rose ? 
 Or where the lily's snowy white, 
 That throws such beauties on the sight ? 
 Yet folly is it to declare 
 That these are neither sweet nor fair. 
 The crystal shines with fainter rays 
 Before the diamond's brighter blaze, 
 And, fops will say, the diamond dies 
 Before the lustre of your eyes. 
 
 But I, who deal in truth, deny 
 That neither shine when you are by. 
 
 As at his board a Farmer sat. 
 Replenished by his homely treat. 
 His favourite Spaniel near him stood, 
 And with his master shared the food— 
 The crackling bones his jaws devoured, 
 His lapping tongue the trenches scoured ; 
 Till, sated now, supine he lay. 
 And snored the rising fumes away. 
 
 The hungry Cat in turn drew near, 
 And humbly craved a servant's share ; 
 Her modest worth the master knew, 
 And straight the fattening morsel threw. 
 Enraged, the snarling cur awoke. 
 And thus with spiteful envy spoke. 
 
 ' They only claim a right to eat. 
 Who earn by services their meat ; 
 Me, zeal and industry inflame 
 To scour the fields, and spring the game ; 
 Or plunging in the wintry wave. 
 For man the wounded bird to save. 
 With watchful diligence I keep 
 From prowling wolves, his fleecy sheep; 
 At home his midnight hours secure. 
 And drive the robber from the door ; 
 For this his breast with kindness glow. 
 For this,his hand the food bestows. 
 And shall thy indolence impart, 
 A warmer friendship to his heart. 
 That thus he robs me of my due. 
 To pamper such vile things as you ?' 
 
 ' I own (with meekness Puss replied), 
 
 Superior merit on your side ; 
 
 Nor does my breast with envy swell 
 
 To see it recompensed so well : 
 
 Yet I, in what my nature can, 
 
 Contribute to the good of man. — 
 
 Whose claws destroy the pilfering mouse ? 
 
 Who drives the vermin from the house ? 
 
 Or, watchful for the labouring swain. 
 
 From lurking rats secures the grain ? 
 
 From hence if he rewards bestow, 
 
 Why should your heart with gall o'erflow ? 
 
 Why pine my happiness to see. 
 
 Since there's enough for you and me ?' 
 
 * Thy words are just,' the Farmer cried, 
 And spurned the snarler from his side. 
 
 73 
 
A TALE OF THE SPANISH WARS. 
 
 (fEOM " LE LIT DU CAMP.") 
 
 The French army was still in Spain. Our division, which 
 formed part of the centre, received orders to go into canton- 
 ments near Valladolid; the remainder of the troops were 
 encamped near Segovia. Adrien was incessantly harassed 
 with the desire of returning to his native country; his 
 ruined health rendered rest and peace necessary to his 
 exibtence, and consequently his sufferings were more 
 poignant. Metz ! Metz which he had quitted early in 
 life, and where his family were anxiously awaiting his 
 return, seemed to him every morning as a goal which he 
 could reach with his hand. The call-drum would put an 
 end to his reverie, and all his pleasing hopes would vanish, 
 when at every arrival of the couriers, no news was brought 
 to him, and the only answer to his repeated and earnest 
 enquiries was, "No letter: no news of any kind." Once 
 the idea of a cowardly act crossed his mind; he thought of 
 leaving his division and of following the soldiers who had 
 been ordered to France; twenty times did he resolve to 
 seek death in the first engagement that should take place, 
 if he should see no hopes of return. By good fortune, 
 at the moment when despair was about to master him 
 entirely, his station was changed, and the busy scene in 
 which he was for some time engaged, diverted his thoughts, 
 in some measure, from the letters which had been so long 
 delayed. Increased exertion, and the excitement attendant 
 upon the presence of the court at Valladolid, afforded him 
 no leisure to reflect upon his situation, or to pay attention 
 to the delicate state of his health. Tbe fever of the country 
 had just given place to an alarming langour, which had a 
 detrimental effect upon his constitution ; and he was almost 
 in a dying state, when a letter was transmitted to him. 
 He opened it, without looking at the direction. At sight 
 of the writing, his arms fell, his thoughts returned to their 
 distressing subject, and his heart swelled with grief. He 
 had thought at first that it was from his sister; but it 
 brought him no news of his family ; a comrade, who 
 belonged to the army in Navarre informed him, that in an 
 expedition against a band of guerillas, he had received a 
 wound which would confine him to his bed for some time. 
 The disappointment was doubtless terrible, and its severity 
 was increased when news came from all quarters, that the 
 enemy was concentrating his forces. Adrien, though 
 feeble and ill, was obliged to accompany his division in the 
 march towards Burgos. 
 
 La Uochefoucault says, in some part of his works, " We 
 are more willing to love those who hate us, than those wno 
 love us more than we wish." Such was the case with 
 Adrien, whose heart yearned to this sentiment in order to 
 fill the void which had been left there, when his affections 
 were lacerated by his sudden departure. 
 
 Well ! the troops arrived at Burgos, and relaxation was 
 at last afforded to them. We found many women and 
 friars there; and from the conduct of the latter nothing 
 favourable could be augured to the new comers : conse- 
 quently Adrien kept his sabre constantly at hand; and the 
 old posadero with whom he lodged, all Spaniard as he was, 
 did not ridicule him for this precaution. " I confess I 
 approve of your conduct, for I like you dearly. Heavens, 
 if any one has heard me speak thus, I am undone." 
 
 " What, do you fear that the walls of your inn have ears ?" 
 " If the walls cannot hear, there are people behind who 
 can." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " You must know, brave Frenchman, that every hour of 
 the day for the last week, my people and myself have 
 observed a monk enter the neighbouring chamber. Heaven 
 forefend that I should speak ill of him." 
 
 " Well, what would this man do to you ? has he not 
 sufficient regard for you to keep secret your attachment to 
 our army ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! I suspect that he is one of the familiars of 
 the inquisition, on the search fer heretics and sorcerers, 
 and criminals of every description. Good God, I have 
 uttered words that make me tremble, and which I dare not 
 repeat." 
 
 "If you have any fears, keep your secrets to yourself, 
 my good host ; as to me, I shall always have my sabre 
 drawn and my gun loaded." 
 
 The posadero, who was dying to relate what he had 
 heard, went to the door and called, " Loretta, when Don 
 Syneros comps, tell me immediately, as I have something 
 to say to his highness." He then returned to Adrien, and 
 seated himself. " I am sure you are not acquainted with 
 this Don Syneros. He is the protector of the monk, and 
 his descent is so illustrious, that for three generations past 
 his ancestors have possessed the privilege of speaking to 
 the king, without uncovering. This nobleman was madly 
 desirous of being bethrothed to a young lady of high rank, 
 but he had the mortification of finding a more successful 
 rival in the person of the chamberlain. Blood alone, in 
 his opinion, could wipe out the insult, and blood Don 
 Syneros was determined to have. As a more immediate 
 means of gratifying his thirst for vengeance, he had 
 recourse to the all-powerful influence of gold. 
 
 Among the guests who frequented the hotel of the king's 
 chamberlain, he observed a monk who had been the lady's 
 confessor before the ceremony had taken place. A single 
 glance at the man informed him that he was the very 
 person he wished to find. Having made him many valu- 
 able presents and numberless promises, he slipped a dagger 
 and a paper into his hand. The dagger was one of the 
 most deadly kind : and on the paper was written : 
 
 " You know my wishes. At some distant period I shall 
 
 71 
 
have boundless influence ; if a cardinal's hat would please 
 you, serve me. Let this be secret 1" 
 
 The next morning the chamberlain was found dead : a 
 report was spread that some slight at court had induced him 
 to commit suicide, and two days afterwards he was interred 
 in the family vault. This that I have related to you, 
 happened many years ago. The lady in question, who 
 was a mere child at the time, did not even dream of 
 lamenting her husband ; she knew not the extent of her 
 loss. 
 
 Don Syneros thought proper to leave it to time to 
 destroy every trace of the affair. When he renewed his 
 attentions, the young widow had disappeared, while her 
 family instituted an enquiry. The monk on his part 
 thought it most prudent to decamp. This flight gave rise 
 t) suspicion ; pursuit was proposed ; but the priests hushed 
 up the business, and nothing more was said about it. It 
 appears that themonk wandered for along time in distress, 
 subsisting upon charity. About a week ago, he knocked 
 at my door; on the same evening came Don Syneros. 
 They recognized each other at supper. Some muttered 
 words and indistinct observations roused my curiositj', so 
 that I followed them when they retired for the night. 
 
 The monk entered the chamber of Don Syneros. I 
 recognized him by his voice, for they had the precaution to 
 jhui the door. The monk grew warm, and his words were 
 hurried. " Do you suppose," said he, " that I have 
 forgotten your promises? no, no; I claim the cardinal's 
 hat; it is my due." — "Is it in my power to control 
 circumstances ? Your hair has become white, and mine 
 <'-rey ; and you perceive that my power is not greater than 
 before, and consequently you have not been promoted." — 
 " And whose is the fault? Was it for me to wait and be 
 put off like this?" — "The plot has failed — Oh! those 
 confounded French." — "Well!" exclaimed the monk, 
 after a short silence which was only interrupted by the 
 counting o^' money upon the table, "that is not sufficient; 
 every five weeks the holy tribunal compels me to remit as 
 much. And now this is the only condition upon which my 
 silence can be obtained, unless you choose to employ your 
 sword. Benigna has been seen at Saragossa and Toledo, 
 she is still a widow ; she has ceased to be young, without 
 ceasing to be beautiful ; she is still rich and would make 
 any man happy. It is said, that she follows the French 
 army ; let us hasten to find her, and she is yours ; but one 
 night for me, and our accounts shall be cleared." There 
 was a short interval of silence; after which Don Syneros 
 exclaimed, " Give me time for consideration ; you shall 
 have an answer to-morrow." The monk took his leave, and 
 retired to his chamber, without having the least idea that 
 his conference had been overheard ; at day-break he failed 
 not to be at the appointed place, and I also was there 
 concealed. The answer was evidently unsatisfactory, for 
 the conversation was warm and loud, and the monk 
 
 departed in a rage, tearing into a thousand pieces the 
 written promise of his employer. 
 
 They have since met frequently, and appear to be on a 
 more friendly footing. Yesterday morning, Don Syneros 
 ordered me to bring up some wine, and as I was entering 
 the room, I caught these words : " The French have 
 commenced a retreat upon Burgos : we shall see them 
 to-morrow; and if you have told me truly," — " By St. 
 Francesco!" — "Swear not, for Heaven's sake; it is 
 always well to leave no room for perjury." He ceased, 
 and both applied themselves to the wine. At a sign from 
 Don Syneros, I departed, and left them alone. " Now, 
 my brave fellow, what think you of all this ?" 
 
 "That your Don and your monk are a couple of 
 scoundrels, who deserve to be burned." 
 
 " Not so loud, I entreat you ; speak lower," whispered 
 the innkeeper, trembling all over; " if they learn that I 
 have revealed all, I am a dead man." 
 
 " Wait awhile," suddenly exclaimed Adrien, rising with 
 his drawn sabre in his hand, " Madman, where are you 
 going ?" demanded the other, catching hold of his uniform. 
 
 " Oh ! stir not for mercy's sake! I would rather perform 
 penance in each of the eighty-two churches of Barcelona, 
 than have you commit so thoughtless an action. Leave 
 the wretches alone ; heaven will punish them in good 
 time ; and do not give me reason to repent having revealed 
 to you a crime which has remained so long a secret." — 
 " Coward," cried Adrien, " you are as much afraid as if 
 you were guilty !" — " Then let me at least point them out 
 to you, that you may be able to recognize them when an 
 opportunity shall off'er."— ." Willingly." 
 
 Adrien, however, was compelled to depart before he 
 could meet the men he so longed to encounter. The 
 troops defiled at the foot of the heights; but previous to 
 continuing the march, orders were given to blow up a 
 castle which commanded the road, Duclos, a comrade of 
 Adrien's, was among the number of those who were 
 commissioned to set fire to the train. Through some 
 accident the mine exploded sooner than was intended, and 
 several soldiers, among whom was Duclos, were mortally 
 wounded by the fragments of stone scattered in all 
 directions by the explosion. Before he breathed his last, 
 he sent for Adrien, and also one of the quarter-masters, 
 named Moline. " Adrien," said he, " give me your hand." 
 Adrien wept: " when you return to your country, console 
 your sister, Lucie, and give this to her without opening it." 
 He pressed his hand and gave him a small packet; "as 
 to yourself, here is a comrade to whom I will commend — 
 you will, Moline, I am sure, have the same regard for 
 Adrien as you have had for me." The quarter- master 
 gave him his word ; Duclos was not able to hear his reply. 
 He had expired. 
 
 Adrien was heart-broken ; and in the extremity of his 
 grief, his thoughts turned towards religion. He regretted 
 
that his friend could not be interred in a cemetery, where 
 his ashes would be treated with respect. " Who knows," 
 he murmured, "but that the cross erected over his body 
 would serve as a rallying spot for banditti ? And would 
 not the Spaniards rejoice over the last resting place of one 
 of our nation. And that there should not be a priest to 
 perform the accustomed duties!" 
 
 In this country in which monasteries abound, it would 
 have been strange, indeed, if some one of the members 
 could not have been found. Just as those whose sad office 
 it was to bury the body, had finished their labours, and were 
 on the point of falling into the ranks, a monk rose up as if 
 by magic at the edge of the grave. He arrived too late for 
 Doclus, and too soon for himself. Adrien's eyes flashed 
 fire at the sight; the monk started, and gave him a respect- 
 ful salutation. " Wretch," cried Adrien, as he heard his 
 voice; "I know you, though this is the first time we have 
 met. Under thy cowl, is concealed a villian." As he 
 grasped him by the arm, he perceived that the monk 
 trembled with rage. " Do you think," said he again, 
 pointing to the grave, " do you think that he will be con- 
 demned by his judge, since he has not had the benefit of 
 your prayers in his mortal agony ?" — " God is great and 
 merciful," replied the monk. " Will he be so to a murder- 
 er?"- The monk suddenly grew pale, and the small portion 
 of his face that was not concealed by his thick beard became 
 of the deadly hue of a corpse. Adrien now was perfectly 
 furious, and in an almost ungovernable paroxysm of rage, 
 he asked, " Shall I now with my sabre send your head to 
 Rome, that it may be covered with the hat of a cardinal ?" 
 The monk fell on his knees, giving utterance to the most 
 abject petitions for mercy, and as he was submissively rais- 
 ing his head to see if the threat would be put in force, he 
 received from the clenched fist of Adrien, a tremendous 
 blow on the breast, the force of which hurled him back- 
 wards some paces "Go, go, thou accursed monk ! Goand 
 be burned wherever you please, but return not again to ob- 
 serve our route." The monk hastily rose, and drawing a 
 pistol from beneath his robe, fired at Adrien, but happily 
 missed his aim. Adrien levelled his musket, and had not a 
 secret impulss restrained his arm, the wretched man would 
 have sufi'ered the punishment due to his crime. As it was, 
 he was permitted to escape. 
 
 From this day, an intimate friendship was established be- 
 tween Adrien and the quarter master. The former had 
 partially recovered his strength, and managed to endure 
 with less difficulty the fatigue he was compelled to under- 
 go- 
 
 A series of complicated military movements followed 
 these events: and the division to which Adrien was at- 
 tached hastily advancing to its allotted station, resembled 
 an army in retreat, rather than soldiers engaged in the ex- 
 ecution of a well matured plan. The near approach of the 
 eucniy greatly increased the confusion incident to this hur- 
 
 ried movement, and the disorder was at its height when it 
 was discovered that they had missed their way. To at- 
 tempt to describe the scene which ensued when thsir luck- 
 less condition became fully known, would be out of the 
 power of language. In the universal trepidation, Adrien 
 who was in the rear of the division, lost none of his accus- 
 tomed coolness and presence of mind. Ashe passed by the 
 foot of a steep embankment, he perceived a waggon that 
 had been stopped; one of the horses was extended on the 
 ground, and the driver was not to be seen. Some marau- 
 ding soldiers were attempting to break open the chests, and 
 pillage the money contained in them. Adrien hurried 
 forward to hinder their design, and though almost speech- 
 less with anger, his quick eye caught a glance of a female 
 lying upon some cushions, young, and beautiful even in the 
 pallid hue that overspread her countenance; and richly 
 apparelled. Wishing to afi'ord assistance if he should hap- 
 pen to be in time, he advanced with the utmost rapidity. 
 Upon this movement, the plunderers, who had been busied 
 with the booty, thinking that Adrien and the soldiers who 
 accompanied him were about to claim their share, levelled 
 their muskets and fired. "The villains! the murderers! 
 they are not our men," he exclaimed; and a well-directed 
 volley from his own men quickly reminded the marauders, 
 that their only safety was in flight; and the life of the lady, 
 who had only fainted, was happily preserved. The atten- 
 tive care of Adrien soon restored her to herself, and without 
 losing time in making frivolous enquiries, he assisted her to 
 proceed, after having advised her to take the articles that 
 were of most value from the waggon, and so leave the re- 
 mainder to the robbers. A miniature, a small cofl'er, and a 
 casket of jewels, were all that could be preserved. 
 
 It was not till midnight that the disordered troops enter- 
 ed Salvatierra, without either artillery or baggage. The 
 unfortunate Spaniard still remained with her deliverers, 
 and the poignancy of her grief gave her no time to observe 
 the laceration her feet had undergone from the length of 
 the march. Adrien contrived to procure her an apartment , 
 and she withdrew to rest, after offering all the recompense 
 in her power to her brave deliverers; to Adrien alone, 
 whose deportment had struck her, did she smile her thanks, 
 and as she retired she begged him to call her at the expira- 
 tion of three hours. She locked herself in her chamber, 
 and spent the time in fervent prayer. She was still at her 
 devotions when Adrien returned; and he would have been 
 completely happy in the consciousness of having done a 
 generous action, had not his pleasure been somewhat damp- 
 ed by the absence of Moline, whom he had not met since 
 the confusion arose. As he entered the lady's chamber, 
 there was an instant of silence; curiosity rendered the one 
 mute, trepidation the other. The Spaniard was of small 
 stature, but extremely well made; her features were of the 
 cast of beauty peculiar to the inhabitants of Andalusia, 
 and her manners betrayed traces of a French education. 
 
 76 
 
WF-SIMORtLANO, 
 
 jytcTm, a./i- 
 
 
 -k^^ 
 
 Loii&a ftihtshfd-Aiigl-r.' W,H. bv-Simpkin. t Matshsfll Sia'airaers Court. &: J. AVStewns, 10. Deroy- Street, ffin^e Ctoss 
 
.^pv 
 
4* 
 
 At that hour of the night, the lady resembled some hea- 
 venly apparition. Adrian observed a tear in her eye, and 
 heard a long and deep-drawn sigh. After a few moments, 
 observing Adrien's indecision, she broke the painful si- 
 lence, — " Have you nothing to say, my friend ?" The word 
 fl*iend awoke him with a start from the reverie in which he 
 was wrapped while gazing on her beauteous face, and he 
 seemed as if he had been just roused from a deep sleep, 
 " Speak to me then, what are you afraid of?" " Spain may 
 produce prettier women, but it never can shew one more 
 handsome." " Have you nothing else to say ? Forget for 
 an instant that you are French. Have you thought of the 
 debt T owe you for your repeated attention to me ?" 
 
 " I know not, madam, what meritorious action I have 
 performed. I have saved your life ; and had another been 
 in my situation, he would have done the same. I have only 
 done my duty." 
 
 " And as to myself, I am under such obligation to you 
 that I know not how to acquit myself of it. Listen to me 
 for a few minutes." 
 
 And she here related to him the story with which our 
 readers are acquainted, and informed him that she was 
 Benigna, the unhappy lady of whom Don Syneros was in 
 quest. He endeavoured to give her all the consolation in 
 his power, but the signal-drum soon put an end to their in- 
 terview. The soldiers received orders to continue their 
 march, and by the exertions of the officers, the division was 
 restored to its usual good order. Adrien had with some 
 difficulty procured a mule; and on his return with it to the 
 house in which he had left his beauteous charge, he obser- 
 ved a shadow flitting across his path. He instantly shoul- 
 dered his musquet, and at the rattling of the weapon the 
 figure disappeared, and he saw it no more. He did not 
 mention this adventure to the Spaniard, nor the suspicions 
 that it had aroused in his mind. He joined the troops, 
 and continued his march, in great uneasiness as to the fate 
 of his friend Moline, who had not yet rejoined him. In the 
 evening the enemy's light troops were hovering on the rear, 
 and consequently the march was conducted with all possi- 
 ble rapidity ; and the column with but little opposition 
 regained the high road to Tolosa. In all the hardships to 
 which she was exposed, Donna Benigna maintained the 
 most astonishing firmness and composure. Her energy 
 surpassed even that of the men themselves. At lasta short 
 period of repose was afforded to her; for the regiment to 
 which Adrien belonged was ordered into garrison at Pam- 
 peluna; and at that town Moliae rejoined his comrade, 
 who had almost despaired of seeing him again. 
 
 They had been stationed thus for some time, when Adrien 
 returning one evening from an interview with Benigna, to 
 whom he was become deeply attached, was jostled by a 
 soldier who wore the French uniform. The street was wide, 
 and deserted. Stern were the glances that passed between 
 
 them, and bitter and rapid was the exchange of words. 
 Adrien did not recognize the marauder. 
 
 " A bird in hand is worth two in the bush," observed the 
 man. Adrien indignantly demanded to what he alluded. 
 " To you and to the Spanish lady who accompanies you. 
 The whole regiment is aware that you have seduced her, 
 an! that you intend to abandon her as soon as you have 
 stripped her of her property." Great was Adrien's aston- 
 ishment at hearing this accusation, and he angrily answered, 
 " I could slay you on the spot, but I only answer your 
 insults by a defiance." " Do you defy me?" " Is that 
 wonderful?" continued Adrien, grinding his teeth with 
 passion ; " oh ! true ; I had forgotten that cowardice was 
 allied to baseness." "Wretch!" " I tell you that you 
 are a coward as well as a villian." " Do you insult in your 
 turn ?" " Shall I be really more fortunate than I expected ? 
 For the third time, I tell you that I treat you as a man 
 utterly devoid both of honour and courage." " To-morrow 
 you shall have proof of the contrary." " To-morrow let it 
 be." " Where?" " Behind the walls of the grand ceme- 
 tery." "The time?" " Four in the morning." "The 
 weapon?" " Pistol, or sword, or what other? We'll say 
 the sword," "Agreed; to-morrow, then, at four." — Two 
 strangers, with slouched hats, and large mantles folded 
 round them, passed the two disputants at this moment, and 
 muttered as they proceeded "Four o'clock!" Adrien, 
 however, paid no attention to them; and he determined to 
 inform Donna Benigna of every thing that had transpired. 
 He requested Moline to be his second, who, when he was 
 informed of the affair, offered to take the place of his young 
 friend. Adrien would by no means allow of this ; and 
 Moline, who had never before felt the least tremor at the 
 prospect of a duel, was much disturbed at the danger which 
 Adrien would incur. 
 
 As our story has been protracted to an unusual length, 
 we are compelled to pass over the interview between Adrien 
 and Benigna. Suffice it to say, that the scene was such as 
 might be supposed from the relations of the parties con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Moline and Adrien passed the remainder of the night in 
 practising at the sword. Adrien displayed uncommon 
 dexterity and command over his weapon, and Moline 
 already congratulated him upon the victory he would obtain. 
 As they continued their practice, the button unluckily flew 
 from the foil of Moline, who not perceiving it at the mo- 
 ment, made a lunge, and the point of the foil entered 
 beneath Adrien's eye, who instantly fainted away at the 
 blow. The blood poured forth in torrents; surgeons were 
 immediately in attendance, but he still remained insensi- 
 ble — The day dawned: four o'clock had struck; and 
 behind the wall of the cemetery was the opponent of Adrien 
 waiting, with his second. The marauder grew impatient at 
 the delay, and mounted the wall of the cemetery, that he might 
 
 77 
 
 J 
 
have a more extended view, and the first object that met 
 his eager gaze was a funeral procession — it was that of 
 Adrien. 
 
 The cemetery had been the place appointed for the 
 rendezvous. Adrien thought not that he would fail to be 
 there; but did he think that he would have arrived in that 
 state? Neither Moline nor Donna Benigaa could credit 
 that he was dead. The latter, giving herself up to despair, 
 threw herself on the corpse of her preserver, uttering the 
 most piteous lamentations. As she pressed him in her arms, 
 and placed her hand on the heart which had lived for her, 
 she discovered a packet. She hastily opened it, and found 
 a letter signed Lucie, and a brooch with hair. It had 
 belonged to the unfortunate Duclos. Suspicion instantly 
 flashed across the mind of the Spaniard; her tears ceased, 
 and she stood the semblance of a corpse. Seeing her in 
 this sad state, Moline muttered to himself, " She will die 
 of it." As he was walking away, a prey to all the heart- 
 rending emotions which would naturally occur to a man in 
 his situation, he heard the cries of a female in distress, and 
 a carriage passed rapidly by drawn by a couple of mules ; 
 and what was most strange, it was a monk who was driving 
 them I 
 
 On the evening of that day, the army received orders to 
 continue its retreat, and to cross the Pyrenees. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 There lives a young lassie 
 
 Far down yon lang glen ; 
 How I lo'e that lassie 
 
 There's nae ane can ken! 
 O ! a saint's faith may vary, 
 
 But faithfu' I'll be; 
 For weel I lo'e Mary, 
 
 And Mary lo'es me. 
 
 Red — red as the rowan 
 
 Her smiling wee mou'; 
 An' white as the gowan 
 
 Her breast and her brow t 
 Wi' a foot o' a fairy 
 
 She links o'er the lea; 
 ! weel I lo'e Mary, 
 
 And Mary lo'es me. 
 
 Where yon tall forest timmer, 
 
 And lowly broom bower, 
 To the sunshine o* simmer 
 
 Spread verdure and flower; 
 There, when night clouds the cary, 
 
 Beside her I'll be; 
 For weel I lo'e Marv, 
 
 And Mary lo'es me ! 
 
 JOHN IMLAH. 
 
 THE YOUNG MOTHER. 
 
 TO HER INFANT CHILD. 
 
 ' Heaven lies abuot us in our infancy." 
 
 fyordtteorth. 
 
 Joyous infant ! thou art waking. 
 To the morning's early rav- 
 
 For the golden sun is breaking 
 
 Through the eastern clouds of day : 
 
 Thou shalt wake to infant gladness. 
 
 And to joy, until the west 
 Shall again, with shade and sadness, 
 
 Bring to thee the hour of rest. 
 
 Happy infant ! thou art thinking 
 Only on the dreams of joy : 
 
 May thy heart be kept from sinking, 
 Should it feel life's cold alloy. 
 
 Be his blessing ever with thee, 
 Who alone can make thee bleet : 
 
 May his mercies full and freely. 
 Guide thee to his home of rest. 
 
 Lovely infant ! thou art sleeping, 
 Whilst the evening shadows close, - 
 
 Whilst the silent dews are weeping 
 O'er thy spirit's mild repose: 
 
 Whilst the twilight star is shining, 
 Like an angel from the west. 
 
 Thou, sweet bade, art now reclining, 
 Hushed in slumber's quiet rest. 
 
 Beauteous infant 1 thou art dreaming. 
 Ere the night is o'er thee spread, 
 
 And each quiet star is beaming, 
 From the sky above thine head ; 
 
 See the shadows of the even. 
 
 Gliding slowly to the west. 
 While the azure hue of heaven, 
 
 Peaceful tints thy tranquil rest. 
 
 78 
 
ARUNDEL CASTLE. 
 
 THE SEAT OF HIS GBAOB THE DUKE OF NOBFOLK. 
 
 Arunele Castle has been famed for its strength from 
 the earliest periods. Under the Saxon government, it be- 
 longed to the crown, and was at that time an important 
 fortress. Shortly after the Norman conquest it was 
 repaired by Roger de Montgomery, upon whom it had bei^n 
 bestowed by the conqueror, who created him, at the same 
 time. Earl of Arundel and Shrewsbury. From the former, 
 however, he took his title, though his real title was that of 
 Earl of Sussex and Chichester. 
 
 The manor is inseparably annexed to the castle, as also 
 is the honour of earl, so that whoever possesses the castle 
 thereby becomes an earl without any other creation. 
 
 The castle was twice besieged during the civil wars in 
 the time of Charles I. The Lord Hopton having seized it 
 with the king's forces, it was speedily re-taken by Sir 
 William Waller, general of the parliamentary army. At 
 this siege, the learned Chillingworth was taken prisoner, 
 who, by his skill as an engineer, had rendered himself of 
 much service during the period of the investment. 
 
 Since that epoch the Castle of Arundel has not been 
 looked upon as a fortress. During the civil wars, it was 
 committed to all the barbarities of military execution — its 
 furniture ransacked — its walls demolished, and its south- 
 front, comprehending the magnificent state-room of the 
 Fitzalaus, entirely destroyed. From that perod, till the 
 repairs by the late Duke of Norfolk, nothing remained of 
 this noble structure, but a few lofty apartments, a gallery, 
 and a spacious kitchen. 
 
 Arundel Castle is delightfully situated amongst a variety 
 of woods and charming hills, and commands a prospect of 
 the sea, and of fertile meadows, pleasantly watered and 
 divided by the windings of a navigable river — the Avon, 
 which, in addition to the other recommendations, is supplied 
 with excellent mullet. 
 
 ON TASTE. 
 
 Agueeable emotions and sensations may be devided 
 into three orders : those of pleasure, which refer to the 
 senses; — those of harmony, which refer to the mind ; — and 
 those of happiness, which are the natural result of an union 
 between harmony and pleasure : the former being exercised 
 in virtue — the latter in temperance. Harmony is princi- 
 pally enjoyed by those men, who possess, what has 
 analogically been termed, taste ; — which Mr. Melmoth 
 defines, ' that universal sense of beauty, which every man 
 in some degree possesses, rendered more exquisite by 
 genius and more correct by cultivation.' 'It is very re- 
 n;arkable,' says Dr. Akenside, ' that the disposition of the 
 m iral powers is always similar to that of the imagination j 
 
 —that those, who are most inclined to admire prodigious 
 and sublime objects in the natural world, are also most 
 inclined to applaud examples of fortitude and heroic virtue 
 in the moral; — while those, who are charmed rather with 
 the delicacy and sweetness of colours, forms, and sounds, 
 never fail in like manner to yield the preference to the 
 softer scenes of virtue and the sympaties of a domestic life.' 
 Exciting a love of true glory, and an admiration of every 
 nobler virtue, Taste exalts the affections, and purifies our 
 passions; — clothes a Private life in white, and a Public one 
 in purple. Adding a new feature, as it were, to the pomp, 
 the bloom, and the exuberance of nature, it enables the 
 mind to illumine what is dark, and to colour what is 
 faded ; — giving a lighter yellow to the topaz, and a more 
 celestial blue to the sapphire, and a deeper crimson to the 
 ruby, it imparts a higher brilliance to the diamond, and a 
 more transparent purple to the amethyst. 
 
 Bearing a price, which only the heart and the imagina- 
 tion can estimate, and being the mother of a thousand 
 chaste desires, and a thousand secret hopes, taste strews 
 flowers in the paths of literature and science ; and breath- 
 ing inexpressive sounds, and picturing celestial forms, 
 qualifies the hour of sorrow, by inducing that secret sense 
 of cheerfulness, which, in its operation,— 
 
 Refines the soft, and swells the strong ; 
 And joining nature's general song. 
 Through many a varying tone unfolds 
 The harmony of human souls. 
 
 SONG OF HESPERUS TO CYNTHIA. 
 
 Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair, 
 
 Now the sun is laid to sleep. 
 Seated in thy silver chair, 
 
 State in wonted manner keep : 
 Hesperus entreats thy light, 
 Goddess, excellently bright. 
 
 Earth, let not thy envious shade 
 
 Dare itself to interpose ; 
 Cynthia's shining orb was made 
 
 Heaven to clear, when day did cloie. 
 Bless us then with wished sight. 
 Goddess, excellently bright. 
 
 Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 
 
 And thy crystal- shining quiver; 
 Give unto the flying hart 
 
 Space to breathe, how short soever : 
 Thou that mak'st a day of night. 
 Goddess, excellently bright. 
 
SONG OF THE GREEKS. 
 
 Again to the battle, Achaians ! 
 
 Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ; 
 
 Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree — 
 
 It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free ; 
 
 For the cross of our faith is replanted. 
 
 The pale dying crescent is daunted, 
 
 And we march, that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves 
 
 May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves. 
 
 Their spirits are hovering o'er us, 
 
 And the sword shall to glory restore us. 
 
 Ah ! what though no succour advances, 
 
 Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 
 
 Are stretch'd in our aid — be the combat our own ! 
 
 And we'll perish or conquer mote proudly alone: 
 
 For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters, 
 
 By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars. 
 
 By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, 
 
 By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins. 
 
 That living, we shall be victorious, 
 
 Or that dying, our death shall be glorious. 
 
 A breath of submission we breathe not; 
 
 The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not; 
 
 Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 
 
 And the vengeance of ages has whe-tted its blade. 
 
 Earth may hide — waves engulf — fire consume us. 
 
 But they shall not to slavery doom us : 
 
 It they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves ; 
 
 But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, 
 
 And new triumphs on land are before us, — 
 
 To the charge! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. 
 
 This day shall ye blush for its story, 
 
 Or brighten your lives with its glory. 
 
 Our women. Oh say, shall they shriek in despair. 
 
 Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair ? 
 
 Accursed may his memory blacken. 
 
 If a coward there be that would slacken, 
 
 Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth. 
 
 Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. 
 
 Strike home, and the world shall revere us 
 
 As heroes descended from heroes. 
 
 Old Greece lightens up with emotion, 
 
 Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean; 
 Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring. 
 
 And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring. 
 
 Our hearts shall be kindled in gladness. 
 That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness; 
 
 Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white- waving arms, 
 Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms. 
 When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
 Shall have crimson'd the beaks of our ravens. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE 
 
 Eve closes o'er as fair a scene 
 
 As mortal eye could wish to greet; 
 The world of waters spread serene, 
 
 And murmurs music wild and sweet. 
 I wander on the darkening shore. 
 
 The harmless waves my pathway sweep — 
 One lonely sail skims distant o"er 
 
 The surface of the eternal deep. 
 
 God ! how beautiful ! how grand 
 
 The wonders of this solitude ! 
 How, at the still, yet stern command, 
 
 The spirit bows, becalm'd — subdued ! 
 How exultation sinks to rest, 
 
 How passion dies before the spell; 
 How human feelings fly the breast. 
 
 And tears, nor joys, nor sorrows swell. 
 
 And this, indeed, were bliss to roe. 
 
 If one fair hand were press'd in mine— 
 Thou star that shin'st in memory. 
 
 When all beside have ceased to shine; 
 Even here thy calm and lovely light. 
 
 Where all to me is strange and wild. 
 Still holds its influence pure and bright, 
 
 By change and wonder unbeguiled. 
 
 No, no! though all of loveliness 
 
 Where'er it turns, allures the eye. 
 It cannot make thy beauty less. 
 
 Nor wake one faithless smile or sigh. 
 With one bright hue too deeply died, 
 
 By others o'er controU'd to be, 
 This heart, all themes of joy beside, 
 
 Tints with the passitm'd thought of thee ! 
 
 80 
 

 ~tv 
 
 
 4t 
 
KOSALINE. 
 
 The masquers were fast crowding to the hall 
 
 Where princes, princely beauty, lords, and knights, 
 Were mingled at a splendid carnival, 
 
 Midst silken tapestries and streaming lights, 
 And glittering gems, soft words, and whisper'd sighs, 
 And sprightly melodies, and sparkling eyes. 
 Beneath a tent, whose azure vault display'd, 
 
 Profusely shed, a host of silver stars. 
 Upon a couch in weary sadness laid, 
 
 I gazed upon the scene— for pleasure jars 
 Against the wounded heart ; and I had come 
 From distant climes, and found an alter'd home. 
 
 Friends dead, companions scatter'd or estranged — 
 The frowning hills alone, and pathless wood. 
 
 Of all the scenes where happy childhood ranged, 
 Firm in the everlasting grandeur stood; 
 
 And I had sought those brilliant halls to try 
 
 How heartless joy could medicine misery. 
 
 Light forms were there, the joyous and the young, 
 Who ne'er had felt misfortune's withering chill; 
 
 And gilded harps to melting lays were strung, 
 Pouring through willing ears the gentle thrill 
 
 That woman's voice, at such a time can bring 
 
 To bounding hearts, in life's unclouded spring. 
 
 None sought the canopy where then I lay. 
 Few knew the wanderer on his late return ; 
 
 For ten long summers, from my home away. 
 Had seen the western sun above me burn,— 
 
 When I was mingling in the strife that gave 
 
 The liberty they sigh'd for, to the brave. 
 
 Before me spread green slopes and forests brown, 
 And tranquil waters darkly deep yet clear; 
 
 While bright o'er all the cloudless skies look'd down, 
 And faintly breathing from a terrace near, 
 
 Soft words were warbled to a mandolin 
 
 By lips, from that lone spot, but dimly seen. 
 
 I listen'd — 'twas a tale of other days. 
 
 Of joy's bright morning melting into tears, 
 
 Of manly constancy that ne'er decays. 
 And love that even baffled hope endears : 
 
 Fond memory woke — the words she sung were mine. 
 
 And there before me stood my own sweet Rosaline, 
 
 The scene before was fair : — above, around 
 Was dazzling splendour — not for me it shone ! 
 
 But now affection made it hallow'd ground, 
 
 And the heavens beam'd in those soft eyes alone. 
 
 Though oft she wept, and told — each pause between— 
 
 How — as myself — a wanderer she had been. 
 
 For gallant hearts, to madness driven, had tried 
 A desperate effort in their country's cause, 
 
 And, in the struggle, had her kinsmen died. 
 Or fled to distant lands and milder laws ; 
 
 But not on woman had the tyrant dared 
 
 To wreak his vengeance— she, alone, was spared. 
 
 'Twas thus my Rosaline was made my own — 
 Forgot were toils and perils, strife and wrong ; 
 
 And oh how oft I bless'd the gentle tone, 
 That, warbling to her mandolin my song. 
 
 Came o'er my spirit in its troubled hour. 
 
 Soothing and mild as twilight's dewy shower. 
 
 WHERE IS HE? 
 
 And where is he ? not by the side 
 
 Of her whose wants he loved to tend ; 
 Not o'er those valleys wandering wide. 
 
 Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend 
 That form beloved he marks no more. 
 
 Those scenes admired no more shall see. 
 Those scenes are lovely as before. 
 
 And she as fair— but where is he ? 
 
 No, no, the radiance is not dim, 
 
 That used to gild his favourite hill, 
 The pleasures that were dear to him. 
 
 Are dear to life and nature still ; 
 But ah ! his home is not as fair. 
 
 Neglected must his gardens be. 
 The lilies droop and wither there, 
 
 And seem to whisper " where is he?" 
 
 His was the pomp, the crowded hall — 
 
 But where is now this proud display ? 
 His riches, honours, pleasures, all 
 
 Desire could frame — ^but where are they ? 
 And he, as some tall rock that stands 
 
 Protected by the circling sea. 
 Surrounded by admiring bands, 
 
 Seem'd proudly strong — and where is he ? 
 
 The church-yard bears an added stone, 
 
 The fire-side shews a vacant chair, 
 Here sadness dwells, and weeps alone, 
 
 And death displays his banner there; 
 The life is gone, the breath has fled. 
 
 And what has been no more shall be. 
 The well-known form, the welcome tread, 
 
 Oh ! where are they, and where is he ? 
 
 Neelb. 
 
 I 
 
 yZ 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 
 (the author of waverlet in his study.) 
 
 [We have mnch pleasure in presenting to our readers a descrip- 
 tion of the residence of the late Sir Walter Scott, from the private 
 letter of a distinguished American, The fame of the illustrious 
 proprietor has flown far and wide ; and his name has become a 
 passport to his countrymen in every quarter of the globe where 
 the glory of genius is acknowledged. The admiration which his 
 numerous works have excited, naturally creates a wish to know 
 something more of one who has delighted us all so much — to see 
 the place where he gave himself up to meditation — the walks in 
 which he mused, and the study in which he conceived and 
 poured forth his magical productions. The pen of our friend has 
 recorded his own impressions with great vividness and graphic 
 rigour : to the aid of the pen we have brought the pencil, and 
 rendered more complete the account of the distinguished tourist.] 
 
 I HAVE been exceedingly unfortunate as to one of the 
 chief objects of this northern expedition; iu a word, it has 
 been my luck to select for my visit to Scotland, the only 
 montii in which, for some years past, Sir Walter has been 
 
 out of it. My good friend R had told me that by the 
 
 12th or 13th he was sure to be on the banks of the Tweed, 
 and amply provided with letters of introduction, I quitted 
 the mail coach at Selkirk on the 15th, without the slightest 
 doubt that I was within an hour's ride of the great Minstrel, 
 as well as of his castle. The people at the inn, too, con- 
 firmed me in my belief. " The Sheriff," so they called 
 him, was, they said, sure to be at home, for " the session 
 was up," and he never was known to linger amidst the dust 
 of Edinburgh when his professional duties permitted him to 
 be in the country. On accordingly I drove, in high hope ; 
 and ere long the towers of Abbotsford were pointed out to 
 me, amidst a beautiful wood chiefly of young oak and birch, 
 and at no great distance from the river. But to cut the 
 story short, I found the outer gates barred and bolted ; there 
 was nothing, after we knocked and rang for some minutes, 
 but a woful howling of dogs from the interior ; and at last 
 a rough looking countryman issuing, with a staghound at 
 his heels and an axe over his shoulder, from a side postern, 
 informed me, in a dialect not over intelligible, that Sir 
 Walter and bis family had gone on a tour to Ireland, and 
 were not expected back again for some weeks. This was 
 grievous enough : but what remedy ? I asked to see the 
 house and gardens, and was told I might do so any other 
 day 1 pleased, but that on this particular day there was a 
 fair in the neighbourhood, and the showkeepers had quitted 
 their post to partake of its festivities. Upon a little reflec- 
 tion, I resolved to go on to "fair Melrose," and return to 
 Abbotsford next morning. I was fortunate enough to 
 scrape acquaintance, ere this, with Mr. «•*** of ♦♦***, 
 who politely offered to act as my cicerone, and I believe, in 
 the absence of the Poet's own household, there was no one 
 better able to perform those functions. I breakfasted with 
 him, and he conducted me once more to the huge baronial 
 
 gates, which I no longer found reluctant to turn on their 
 hinges. He took me all over the house and its environs, 
 and I spent a delightful evening afterwards under his own 
 hospitable roof, which is one on the other side of the 
 Tweed. 
 
 Some fifteen or sixteen years ago, he tells me, there was 
 not a more unlovely spot, in this part of the world, than 
 that on which Abbotsford now exhibits all its quaint ar- 
 chitecture and beautiful accompaniment of garden and 
 woodland, A mean farm house stood on part of the site 
 of the present edifice ; a " kcile yard" bloomed where the 
 stately embattled court yard now spreads itself; and for 
 many thousand acres of flourishing plantations, half of 
 which have all the appearance of being twice as old as they 
 really are, there was but a single long straggling stripe of 
 unthriving firs. The river, however, must needs remain 
 in statu quo ; and I will not believe that any place so near 
 those clearest and sweetest of all waters, could ever have 
 been quite destitute of charms. The scene, however, was 
 no doubt wild enough, — a naked moor — a few little turnip 
 fields painfully reclaimed from it — a Scotch cottage — a 
 Scotch farm yard, and some Scots firs. It is difficult to 
 imagine a more complete contrast to the present Abbots- 
 ford. 
 
 Sir W. is, (this was written in the year 1828,) as you 
 have no doubt heard, a most zealous agriculturist, and 
 arboriculturist especially ; and he is allowed to have done 
 things with this estate, since it came into his possession, 
 which would have been reckoned wonders, even if they 
 had occupied the whole of a clever and skilful man's 
 attention, during more years than have elapsed since he 
 began to write himself Laird of Abbotsford. He has some 
 excellent arable land on the banks of the Tweed, and 
 towards the little town of Melrose, which lies some three 
 miles from the mansion ; but the bulk of the property is 
 hilly country, with deep narrow dells interlacing it. Of 
 this he has planted fully one half, and it is admitted on all 
 hands, that his rising forest has been laid out, arranged, 
 and managed with consummate taste, care, and success. 
 So much so, that the general appearance of Tweedside, for 
 some miles, is already quite altered and improved by the 
 graceful ranges of his woodland ; and that the produce of 
 these plantations must, in the course of twenty or thirty 
 years more, add immensely to the yearly rental of the 
 estate. In the meantime, the shelter afforded by the 
 woods to the sheep walks reserved amidst them, has 
 prodigiously improved the pasturage, and half the surface 
 yields already double the rent the whole was ever thought 
 capable of affording, while in the old unprotected condition. 
 All through those woods there are broad riding-ways, kept in 
 capital order, and conducted in such excellent taste, that 
 we might wander for weeks amidst their windings without 
 exhausting the beauties of the Poet's lounge. There are 
 scores of charming waterfalls in the ravines, and near 
 
 83 
 
every one of them you find benches or bowew at the most 
 picturesque points of view. There are two or three small 
 mountain lakes included in the domain — one of them not 
 so small neither — being, I should suppose, nearly a mile in 
 circumference ; and of these also every advantage has 
 been taken. On the whole, it is already a very beautiful 
 scene ; and when the trees have gained their proper dignity 
 of elevation, it must be a very grand one. Amidst these 
 woods, Mr. ***** tells me, the proprietor, when at home, 
 usually spends many hours daih', either on his pony, or on 
 foot, with axe and pruning knife in hand. Here is his 
 study } he, it seems, like Jaques, is never at a loss to find 
 "books in trees." 
 
 "The Muse nae poet ever fand her 
 Till by himsel' he learned to wander 
 Adown some trotting burn's meander. 
 An' no think lang," 
 
 As Bums says ; and one of his hurns,hj the by, is Huntley 
 Burn, where Thomas of Erceldoune met the Queen of 
 Faery. The recontre, according to the old Rhymer him- 
 self, occurred beside "The Eildon Tree." That landmark 
 has long since disappeared, but most of Sir Walter's walks 
 have the Eildon Hills, in some one or other of their innu- 
 merable aspects, for background. But I am keeping you 
 too long away from "The Roof-tree of Monkbarns,'' which 
 is situated on the brink of the last of a series of irregular 
 hills, descending from the elevation of the Eildons, step- 
 wise, to the Tweed. On all sides, except towards the river, 
 the house connects itself with the gardens (according to 
 the old fashion now generally condemned) ; so that there is 
 no want of air and space about the habitation. The 
 building is such a one, I dare say, as nobody but he would 
 ever have dreamed of erecting; or, if he had, escaped 
 being quizzed for his pains. Yet it is eminently imposing 
 in its general effect; and in most of the details, not only 
 full of historical interest, but of beauty also. It is no doubt 
 a thing of shreds and patches, but they have been combined 
 by a masterly hand j and if there be some whimsicalities, 
 that in an ordinary case might have called up a smile, who 
 is likely now or hereafter to contemplate such a monument 
 of such a man's peculiar tastes and fancies, without feelings 
 of a fardifferent order? Borrowing outlines and ornaments 
 from every part of Scotland, a gateway from Linlithgow, 
 a roof from Roslin, a chimneypiece from Melrose, a postern 
 from the " Heart of Midlothian," &c. &c. &c. it is totally 
 unlike any other building in the kingdom, as a whole ; and 
 that whole is, I have said, a beautiful and a noble whole — 
 almost enough so to' make me suspect that, if Sir Walter 
 had been bred an architect, he might have done as much 
 in that way as he has de facto, in the woodman's craft, or 
 (which they swear he is less vain of) the novelist's. 
 By the principal approach you come very suddenly on 
 
 ' the edifice— as the French would say, "Vous tomhez sur 
 le chateau;" but this evil, if evil it be, was unavoidable, in 
 consequence of the vicinity of a public road which cuts off 
 the chateau and its plaisance from the main body of park 
 and wood, making it a matter of necessity, that what is 
 called, in the improvement-men's slang "the avenue 
 proper," should be short. It is but slightly curved, and 
 you find yourself, a very few minutes after turning from 
 the road, at the great gate already mentioned. This is a 
 lofty arch rising out of an embattled wall of considerable 
 height ; and i\^ejougs, as they are styled, those well known 
 emblems of feudal authority, hang rusty at the side : this 
 pair being dit on relics from that great citadel of the old 
 Douglasses, Thrieve Castle, in Galloway. On entering, 
 you find yourself within an enclosure of perhaps half an 
 acre or better, two sides thereof being protected by the 
 high wall above mentioned, all along which, inside, a 
 Irellissed walk extends itself — broad, cool and dark over- 
 head with roses and honeysuckles. The third side, to the 
 east, shows a screen of open arches of Gothic stone work, 
 filled between with a net work of iron, not vissible until 
 you come close to it. and affording therefore delightful 
 glimpses of the gardens, which spread upwards with many 
 architectural ornaments of turret, porch, urn, vase, and 
 what not, after a fashion that would make the heart of old 
 Price of the Picturesque to leap within him: this screen 
 is a feature of equal novelty and grace, and if ever the old 
 school of gardening come into vogue again, will find abun- 
 dance of imitators. It abutts on the eastern extremity of 
 the house, which runs along the whole of the northern side 
 (and a small part of the western) of the great enclosure. 
 And, by the way, nothing can be more delightful than the 
 whole effect of the said enclosure, in the still and solitary 
 state in which I chanced to see it There is room for a 
 piece of the most elaborate turf within it, and rosaries of all 
 manner of shapes and sizes gradually connect this green 
 pavement with the roof of the trellis walk, a verdant clois- 
 ter, over which appears the gray wall with its little turrets ; 
 and over that again, climb oak, elm, birch, and hazel, up 
 a steep bank — so steep that the trees, young as they are, 
 give already all the grand effect of a sweeping amphitheatre 
 of wood. The background on that side is wholly forest ; 
 on the east, garden loses itself in forest by degrees ; on the 
 west, there is wood on wood also, but with glimpses of the 
 Tweed between ; and in the di^itance fsome half a dozen 
 miles off) a complete sierra, the ridge of the mountain 
 between Tweed and Yarrow, to wit — its highest peak being 
 that of Newark hill, at the bottom of which the old castle, 
 where " the latest Minstrel sang," still exhibits some 
 noble ruins. 
 
 Not being skilled in the technical tongue of the archi- 
 tects, I beg leave to decline describing the structure of the 
 house, further than merely to say, that it is more than one 
 hundred and fifty feet long in front, as I paced it; was 
 
built at two different onsets; has a tall tower at either end; 
 the one not the least like the other; presents sundry crow- 
 footed, alias zigzagged, gables to the eye ; a myriad of 
 indentations and parapets and machicolated eaves ; most 
 fantastic waterspouts; labelled windows, not a few of them 
 of painted glass; groups of right Elizabethan chimneys; 
 balconies of divers feishions, greater and lesser; stones 
 carved with heraldries innumerable let in here and there 
 in the wall ; and a very noble projecting gateway, a fac 
 simile, I am told, of that appertaining to a certain dilapi- 
 dated royal palace, which long ago seems to have caught in 
 a particular manner the Poet's fancy, as witness the 
 stanza ■ 
 
 Of all the palaces so fair. 
 
 Built for the royal dwelling. 
 Above the rest, beyond compare, 
 
 Linlithgow is excelling. 
 
 The prints will give you a better notion of these matters 
 than my pen could do, — and, by the by, the best likeness I 
 have as yet met with, is one that adorns the cover of a cer- 
 tain species of sticking plaster. From this porchway, 
 which is spacious and airy, quite open to the elements in 
 front, and adorned with some enormous petrified staghorns 
 overhead, you are admitted by a pair of folding doors at 
 once into the hall, and an imposing coup d'oeil the first 
 glimpse of the Poet's interior does present. The lofty win- 
 dows, only two in number, being wholly covered with coats 
 of arms, the place appears as dark as the twelfth century, 
 on your first entrance from noonday; but the delicious 
 coolness of the atmosphere is luxury enough for a minute 
 or two ; and by degrees your eyes get accustomed to the 
 effect of those " storied panes," and you are satisfied that 
 you stand in one of the most picturesque of apartments. 
 The hall is, I should guess, about forty feet long, by twenty 
 in height and breadth. The walls are of richly carved oak, 
 most part of it exceedingly dark, and brought, it seems, 
 from the old palace of Dumfermline: the roof, a series of 
 pointed arches of the same, each beam presenting, in the 
 centre, a shield of arms richly blazoned : of these shields 
 there are sixteen, enough to bear all the quarterings of a 
 perfect pedigree if the poet could show them ; but on the 
 maternal side (at the extremity) there are two or three 
 blanks (of the same sort which made Louis le Grand un- 
 happy) which have been covered with sketches of Cloud- 
 land, and equipped with the appropriate motto, " Nox alta 
 velat." The shields, properly filled up, are distinguished 
 ones ; the descent of Scott of Harden on one side, and 
 Rutherford of that ilk on the other; all which matters, are 
 they not written iu the book of the chronicles of Douglas 
 and Nisbet? There is a doorway at the eastern end, over 
 and round which the Baronet has placed another series of 
 9scatcheous, which I looked on with at least as mach 
 
 respect; they are the memorials of his immediate personal 
 connexions, the bearings of his friends and companions. 
 All around the cornice of this noble room, there runit a 
 continued series of blazoned shields, of another sort still ; 
 at the centre of one end, I saw the bloody heart of Douglas; 
 and opposite to that, the royal lion of Scotland, — and 
 between the ribs there is an inscription in black letter, 
 which I, after some trials, read, and of which I wish I had 
 had sense enough to take a copy. To the best of my recol- 
 lection, the words are not unlike these : " These be the 
 coat armories of the clannis and chief men of name, wha 
 keepit the marchys of Scotlande in the aulde tyme for the 
 Kinge, Trewe ware they in their tyme, and in their 
 defense God them defendyt." There are from thirty to 
 forty shields thus distinguished — Douglas, Soulis, Buc- 
 cleugh, Maxwell, Johnstoune, Glendoning, Herries, Ruth- 
 erford, Kerr, Elliott, Pringle, Home, and all the other 
 heroes, as you may guess, of the border minstrelsy. The 
 floor of this hall is black and white marble, from the 
 Hebrides, wrought lozengewise; and the upper walls are 
 completely hung with arms and armour. Two full suits 
 of splendid steel occupy niches at the eastern end by 
 themselves; the one an English suit of Henry the Fifth's 
 time, the other an Italian, not quite so old. The variety of 
 curiasses, black and white, plain and scultured, is endless; 
 helmets are in equal profusion ; stirrups and spurs, of 
 every fantasy, dangle about and below them; and there are 
 swords of every order, from the enormous twohanded 
 weapon with which the Swiss peasants dared to withstand 
 the spears of the Austrian chivalry, to the claymore of the 
 "Forty-five," and the rapier of Dettingen. Indeed, I 
 might come still lower, for among other spoils; I saw Polish 
 lances, gathered by the author of Paul's Letters on the 
 field of Waterloo, and a complete suit of chain mail taken 
 ofi" the corpse of one of Tippoo's body guard at Seringapa- 
 tam. A series of German executioners' swords was inter alia 
 pointed out to me ; on the blade of one of which I made out 
 the arms of Augsburg, and a legend which may be thus 
 rendered : 
 
 Dust, when I strike, to dust : From sleepless grave. 
 Sweet Jesu, stoop, a sin-stained soul to save. 
 
 1 am sorry there is no catalogue of this curious collection. 
 Sir Walter ought to make one himself, for my cicerone 
 informs me there is some particular history attached to 
 almost every piece in it, and known in detail to nobody but 
 himself. " Stepping westward," as Wordsworth says, 
 from this hall, you find yourself in a narrow, low, arched 
 room, which runs quite across the house, having a blazoned 
 window again at either extremity, and filled all over with 
 smaller pieces of armour and weapons, such as swords, 
 firelocks, spears, arrows, darts, daggers, &c. &c. &c. Here 
 are the pieces, esteemed most precious by reason of their 
 
 fci 
 
histories respectively. I saw, among the rest, Rob Roy's 
 gun, with his initials, R. M. C. i. e. Robert Macgregor 
 Campbell, round the touch-hole : the blunderbuss of Hofer, 
 a present to Sir Walter from his friend Sir Humphrey 
 Davy ; a most magnificent sword, as magnificently mount- 
 ed, the gift of Charles the First to the great Montrose, and 
 having the arms of Prince Henry worked on the hilt; the 
 hunting bottle of bonnie King Jamie ; Buonaparte's pistols 
 (found in his carriage at Waterloo, I believe), cum multis 
 aliis. I should have mentioned that staghorns and bulls' 
 horns (the petrified relics of the old mountain monster, I 
 mean), and so forth, are suspended in great abundance 
 above all the doorways of these armories; and that, in one 
 corner, a dark one as it ought to be, there is a complete 
 assortment of the old Scottish instruments of torture, not 
 forgetting the very thumbekins under which Cardinal 
 Carstairs did not flinch, and the more terrific iron crown 
 of Wisheart the martyr, being a sort of barred head-piece, 
 screwed on the victim at the stake, to prevent him from crying 
 aloud in his agony. In short, there can be no doubt that, 
 like Grose of merry memory, the mighty Minstrel 
 
 ——Has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets, 
 Rusty aim caps and jinglin' jackets. 
 Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 
 A towmont' guid. 
 
 These relics of other, and for the most part darker, years, 
 are disposed, however, with so much grace and elegance, 
 that I doubt if Mr, Hope himself would find any thing to 
 quarrel with in the beautiful apartments which contain 
 them. The smaller of these opens to the drawing room on 
 one side, and the dining room on the other, and is fitted up 
 with low divans rather than sofas ; so as to make, I doubt 
 not, a most agreeable sitting room when the apartments are 
 occupied, as for my sins I found them not. In the hall, 
 when the weather is hot, the Baronet is accustomed to 
 dine; and a gallant refectory no question it must make. A 
 ponderous chandelier of painted glass swings from the roof; 
 and the chimney-piece (the design copied from the stone- 
 work of the Abbot's Stall at Melrose) would hold rafters 
 enough for a Christmas fire of the good old times. Were 
 the company suitably attired, a dinner party here would 
 look like a scene in the Mysteries of Udolpho. 
 
 Beyond the smaller, or rather, I should say, the narrower 
 armoury, lies the dining parlour proper, however; and 
 though there is nothing Udolphoish here, yet I can well 
 believe that, when lighted up and the curtains drawn 
 at night, the place may give no bad notion of the private 
 snuggery of some lofty lord abbot of the time of the 
 Canterbury Tales. The room is a very handsome one, 
 with a low and very richly carved roof of dark oak again; 
 a huge projecting bow window, and the dais elevated more 
 majorum; the ornaments of the roof, niches for lamps, &c. 
 
 &c. in short, all the minor details are, I believe, fac similes 
 after Melrose. The walls are hung in crimson, but almost 
 entirely covered with pictures, of which the most remarka- 
 ble are — the parliamentary general, Lord Essex, a full 
 length on horseback ; the Duke of Monmouth, by Lely; a 
 capital Hogarth, by himself; Prior and Gay, both by 
 Jervas ; and the head of Mary Queen of Scots, in a 
 charger, painted by Amias Canrood the day after the 
 decapitation at Fotheringay, and sent some years ago as a 
 present to Sir Walter from a Prussian nobleman, in whose 
 family it had been for more than two centuries. It is a 
 most deathlike performance, and the countenance answers 
 well enough to the coins of the unfortunate beauty, though 
 not at all to any of the portraits I have happened to see. I 
 believe there is no doubt as to the authenticity of this most 
 curious picture. Among various family pictures, I noticed 
 particularly Sir Walter's great grandfather, the old cava- 
 lier mentioned in one of the epistles in Marmion, who let 
 his beard grow after the execution of Charles the First, 
 and who here appears, accordingly, with a most venerable 
 appendage, of silver whiteness, reaching even unto his 
 girdle. This old gentleman's son hangs close by him ; and 
 had it not been for the costume, &c, I should have taken 
 it for a likeness of Sir Walter himself. (It is very like 
 the common portraits of the Poet, though certainly not like 
 either Sir Thomas Lawrence's picture or Chantrey's bust). 
 There is also a very splendid full length of Lucy Waters, 
 mother to the Duke of Monmouth ; and an oval, capitally 
 painted, of Anne Dutchess of Buccleugh, the same who, 
 
 In pride of youth, in beauty's bloom. 
 Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb. 
 
 All the furniture of this room is massy Gothic oak ; and, 
 as I said before, when it is fairly lit up, and plate and glass 
 set forth, it must needs have a richly and luxuriously an- 
 tique aspect. Beyond and alongside are narrowish pas- 
 sages, which make one fancy one's self in the penetralia 
 of some dim old monastery ; for roofs and walls and win- 
 dows (square, round, and oval alike) are sculptured in stone, 
 after the richest relics of Melrose and Roslin Chapel. 
 One of these leads to a charming breakfast room, which 
 looks to the Tweed on one side, and towards Yarrow and 
 Ettricke, famed in song, on the other: a cheerful room, 
 fitted up with novels, romances, and poetry, I could per- 
 ceive, at one end; and the other walls covered thick and 
 thicker with a most valuable and beautiful collection of 
 watercolour drawings, chiefly by Turner, and Thomson of 
 Duddingstone, the designs, in short, for the magnificent 
 work entitled " Provincial Antiquities of Scotland." There 
 is one very grand oil painting over the chimneypiece, 
 Fastcastle, by Thomson, alias the Wolfs Crag of the 
 Bride of Lammermoor, one of the most majectic and 
 melancholy sea pieces I ever saw ; and some large black 
 
 bS 
 
and white drawings of the Vision of Don Roderick, by Sir 
 James Steuart of AUanbank (whose illustrations of Mar- 
 mion and Mazeppa you have seen or heard of), are at one 
 end of the parlour. The room is crammed with queer 
 cabinets and boxes, and in a niche there is a bust of old 
 Henry Mackenzie, by Joseph of Edinburgh. Returning 
 towards the armoury, you have, on one side of a most reli- 
 gious looking corridor, a small greenhouse with a fountain 
 playing before it — the very fountain that in days of yore 
 graced the cross of Edinburgh, and used to flow with claret 
 at the coronation of the Stuarts — a pretty design, and a 
 standing monument of the barbarity of modern innovation. 
 From the small armoury you pass, as 1 said before, into the 
 drawing room, a large, lofty, and splendid salon, with 
 antique ebony furniture and crimson silk hangings, cabi- 
 nets, china, and mirrors quantum suff. and some por- 
 traits ; among the rest glorious John Dryden, by Sir Peter 
 Lely, with his gray hairs floating about in a most pic- 
 turesque style, eyes full of wildness, presenting the old 
 Bard, I take it, in one of those " tremulous moods," in 
 which we have it on record he appeared when interrupted 
 in the midst of his Alexander's Feast. From this you pass 
 into the largest of all the apartments, the library, which, 
 I must say, is really a noble room. It is an oblong of some 
 fifty feet by thirty, with a projection in the centre, oppo- 
 site the fireplace, terminating in a grand bow window, 
 fitted up with books also, and, in fact, constituting a sort of 
 chapel to the church. The roof is of carved oak again — a 
 very rich pattern — I believe chiefly d la Roslin, and the 
 bookcases, which are also of richly carved oak, reach high 
 up the walls all round. The collection amounts, in this 
 room, to some fifteen or twenty thousand volumes, arran- 
 ged according to their subjects: British history and anti- 
 quities filling the whole of the chief wall; English poetry 
 and drama, classics and miscellanies, one end ; foreign 
 literature, chiefly French and German, the other. The 
 cases on the side opposite the fire are wired, and locked, 
 as containing articles very precious and very portable. 
 One consists entirely of books and MSS. relating to the 
 insurrections of 1715 and 1745; and another (within the 
 recess of the bow window), of treatises de re magica, both 
 of these being (I am told, and can well believe), in their 
 several ways, collections of the rarest curiosity. My 
 cicerone pointed out, in one corner, a magnificent set of 
 Mountfaucon, ten volumes folio, bound in the richest man- 
 ner in scarlet, and stamped with the royal arms, the gift of 
 his present Majesty. There are few living authors of whose 
 works presentation copies are not to be found here. My 
 friend showed me inscriptions of that sort in, I believe, 
 every European dialect extant. The books are all in 
 prime condition, and bindings that would satisfy Mr. 
 Dibdia. The only picture is Sir Walter's eldest son, in 
 hussar uniform, and holding his horse, by Allan of Edin- 
 burgh, a noble portrait, over the fireplace ; and the only 
 
 bust is that of Shakspeare, from the Avon monument, in 
 a small niche in the centre of the east side. On a rich 
 stand of porphyry, in one corner, reposes a tall silver urn 
 filled with bones from the Piraeus, and bearing the in- 
 scription, "Given by George Gordon, Lord Byron, to Sir 
 Walter Scott, Bart." It contained the letter which ac- 
 companied the gift till lately : it has disappeared ; no one 
 guesses who took it, but whoever he was, as my guide 
 observed, he must have been a thief for thieving's sake 
 truly, as he durst no more exhibit his anitograph than tip 
 himself a bare bodkin. Sad, infamous tourist indeed ! 
 Although I saw abundance of comfortable looking desks 
 and arm chairs, yet this room seemed rather too large and 
 fine for work, and I found accordingly, after passing a 
 double pair of doors, that there was a sanctum within and 
 beyond this library. And here you may believe was not 
 to me the least interesting, though by no means the most 
 splendid, part of the suite. 
 
 The lion's own den proper, then, is a room of about five- 
 and-twenty feet square by twenty feet high, containing of 
 what is properly called furniture nothing but a small 
 writing table in the centre, a plain arm chair covered with 
 black leather — a very comfortable one though, for I tried 
 it— and a single chair besides, plain symptoms that this is 
 no place for company. On either side of the fireplace 
 there are shelves filled with duodecimos and books of 
 reference, chiefly, of course, folios ; but except these there 
 are no books save the contents of a light gallery which runs 
 round three sides of the room, and is reached by a hangin<» 
 stair of carved oak in one corner. You have been both at 
 the Elisee Bourbon and Malmaison, and remember the 
 library atone or other of those places, I forget which ; this 
 gallery is much in the same style. There are only two 
 portraits, an original of the beautiful and melancholy head 
 of Claverhouse, and a small full length of Rob Roy. 
 Various little antique cabinets stand round about, each 
 having a bust on it : Stothard's Canterbury Pilgrims are 
 on the mantelpiece ; and in one corner I saw a collection 
 of really useful weapons, those of the forest-craft, to wit — 
 axes and bills and so forth of every calibre. There is only 
 one window pieroed in a very thick wall, so that the place 
 is rather sombre; the light tracery work of the gallery 
 overhead harmonizes with the books well. It is a very 
 comfortable looking room, and very unlike any other I ever 
 was in. I should not forget some Highland claymores, 
 clustered round a target over the Canterbury people, nor a 
 writing box of carved wood, lined with crimson velvet, and 
 furnished with silver plate of right venerable aspect, which 
 looked as if it might have been the implement of old 
 Chaucer himself, bnt which from the arms on the lid must 
 have belonged to some Italian prince of the days of Leo 
 the Magnificent at the furthest. 
 
 In one corner of this sanctum there is a little holy of 
 holies, in the shape of a closet, which looks like the oratory 
 
of some dame of old romance, and opens into the gardens ; 
 and the tower which furnishes this below, forms above a 
 private staircase accessible from the gallery and leading to 
 the upper regions. Thither also I penetrated, but I sup- 
 pose you will take the bed rooms and dressing rooms for 
 granted. 
 
 The view to the Tweed from all the principal apartments 
 is beautiful. You look out from among bowers, over a 
 lawn of sweet turf, upon the clearest of all streams, fringed 
 with the wildest of birch woods, and backed with the green 
 hills of Ettricke Forest. The rest you must imagine. 
 Altogether, the place destined to receive so many pilgrim- 
 ages contains within itself beauties not unworthy of its 
 associations. Few poets ever inhabited such a place; 
 none, ere now, ever created one. It is the realization of 
 dreams : some Frenchman called it, I hear, "a romance in 
 stone and lime." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY W. ROSCOH, ESQ. 
 
 Quench not the light that soon must fade. 
 Nor damp the fire that soon must die, 
 Nor let to-morrow's ills invade 
 The hour to-day devotes to joy. 
 
 Ah! who with music's softest swell 
 Would mingle sorrow's piercinjj moan ? 
 Or to the bounding spirit tell 
 How soon the charm of life is flown? 
 
 Say, is the rose's scent less sweet 
 Because its bloom must soon decay ? 
 Or shall we shun the bliss to meet 
 That cannot here for ever stay ? 
 
 No: by the Power that bliss who gave, 
 This hour we'll from the future borrow. 
 And all, that fate allows us, save 
 From the dread shipwreck of to-morrow. 
 
 Vulgarity — This is a composition formed of ignorance, 
 conceit, grossness, stupidity, and insolence. — Vulgarity is 
 a« disgusting to an elegant mind, as vice is to an innocent 
 one. — Vulgarity is the offspring of avaricious drudgery. 
 
 THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. 
 
 Broab set the sun o'er wild Glencoe, 
 Red gleam'd the heights of drifted snow, 
 And loud and hoarse the torrent's flow 
 Dash'd through the drear domain. 
 
 Bright shines the hearth's domestic blaze, 
 The dancers bound in wanton maze. 
 And merry minstrels tune their lays, 
 Blyth o'er the mountain reign. 
 
 Yon level sun sinks down in blood. 
 Lowering in dark ingratitude ; 
 It warns the guileless and the good, 
 Glencoe's woe-fated clan ! 
 
 Each smiling host salutes his guest, 
 " Good night !"— that hand so kindly prest 
 Shall plunge the dagger in thy breast. 
 Long e'er the orient dawn ! 
 
 All's still— but, hark ! from height to height 
 Comes rushing on the breeze of night 
 The startling shriek of wild affright, 
 The hoarse assassin yell ! 
 
 Is there no arm on high to save 
 From foulest death the trustful brave? — 
 Each by his threshold found a grave, 
 Or where he slumber'd fell ! 
 
 Red rose the sun o'er lone Glencoe, 
 What eye shall mark that crimson'd snow ? 
 What ear shall list the torrent's flow, 
 Dashing the dreary wild ? 
 
 Round shiel and hamlet's sheltering rock 
 High soars destruction's volumed smoke. 
 But hush'd the shriek which maddening broke 
 From mother, maiden, child ! 
 
 All's still '.—save round yon mountain's head, 
 Where men of blood the snow-path tread, 
 Startling, lest voices from the dead 
 A deed of hell proclaim. 
 
 Wo ! for thy clan, thou wild Glencoe ! 
 Whose blood dyes deep the mouutaiu-snow ; 
 But deadlier pale, and deeper wo, 
 Glenorchy, on thy name ! 
 
 Author of Clan-albin. 
 
 81 
 
THE TOOTH DRAWER. 
 
 A Dentist, love, makes teeth of bone. 
 For those whom fate has left without; 
 
 And finds provision for his own, 
 By pulling other people's out. 
 
 FEMALE DEVOTEDNESS. 
 
 Events, which are sometimes to be found in the records 
 of history, are not unfrequently as strange, as dark, and as 
 tragical, as the most sombre fictions of romance. In the 
 reign of Francis I. there served in the armies a gentleman 
 of the island of Corsica, named Sampietro Bartelica; he 
 was more known and esteemed for his valour than for his 
 fortune, or the greatness of his family ; he always mani- 
 fested an attachment to France, and by his fidelity, dis- 
 played a striking contrast to the conduct of the Genoese, 
 who were masters of Corsica, and who, without any ap- 
 parent reason, were constantly revolting against the power 
 of France, Sampietro was present at numerous sieges 
 and engagements, in which he had always greatly distin- 
 guished himself. After the death of Francis I., in 1546, 
 he returned to Corsica, where he married Vannina, daugh- 
 ter and only heiress of Francisco d'Ornano, whose family 
 was one of the most noble and most ancient of the isle. 
 His reputation alone procured him this important alliance. 
 His popularity among his countrymen rendered him formi- 
 dable to the Genoese, who resolved on his destruction. 
 Giovanni Maria Spinola, the governor of the island, sent 
 an order for bim to repair, with his father-in-law, to the 
 citadel of Bastia, where there is every reason to believe he 
 would have been put to death, but for the powerful inter- 
 cession of the King, Henry II. Sampietro entertained a 
 grateful recollection of this service, and at the same time 
 conceived a deadly hatred to the Genoese, with ardent 
 thirst for vengeance. War having broke out in Italy, in 
 1551, he served in the campaign, and his assistance was 
 found to be very valuable by Octavio Farnese, whom the 
 King of France had taken under his protection. Sampie- 
 tro then instigated the French Government to attempt the 
 subjugation of Corsica. In this expedition he accompanied 
 M. de Thermes, subsequently a Field-Marshal, and was 
 accompanied by some of the bravest of the islanders, who 
 were attracted by his renown, and were discontented with the 
 Genoese : the latter were driven from the principal town. 
 Sampietro was recalled to France, and returned, in Sep- 
 tember 1555, to Corsica, where he continued to carry on 
 the war. The peace of Chateau Cambreses, in 1569, and 
 the fatal death of Henry II., induced him to take other 
 measures. He resolved to proceed to Constantinople, to 
 demand assistance there ; as the Genoese had confiscated 
 
 all his property, and had set a price upon his head, be 
 determined to drive them to extremities. During his 
 absence on this mission, he was informed that Donna 
 d'Ornana, his wife, whom he had left at Marseilles, had 
 resolved to pass over to Genoa ; this intelligence nearly 
 rendered him desperate : he sent Antonio de San Fiorenzo, 
 one of his followers, to prevent her : she had been persuaded, 
 that she might obtain her husband's pardon from the Re- 
 public, and her anxiety on this subject induced her to take 
 this resolution. Sampietro, on his return, found his wife 
 atAixjhe accompanied her back to Marseilles, and coldly 
 informed her that she must prepare to die. Vannina 
 obeyed with calmness, and asked but one favour of her 
 husband, that as no man but himself had ever laid hands 
 on her, that she might have the same privelege at that 
 moment, and might die by his hands ! It is said that Sam- 
 pietro dropped on his knees, called her his love, asked her 
 forgiveness, and then strangled her with a napkin. So 
 atrocious an action greatly tarnished the reputation of Sam- 
 pietro, who returned to Corsica in 1564, effected an insur- 
 rection throughout the whole island, although he had but 
 five and twenty men with him when he first arrived : he 
 was successful in several actions, and took many cities and 
 fortresses from the Genoese, who instigated Vitelli, one of 
 his captains, to assassinate him, iu the month of January, 
 1567.— 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BY JOHN CLABB. 
 [The Northamptonshire Peasant.] 
 
 I WOULD not that my being all should die. 
 And pass away with every common lot ; 
 I would not that my humble dust should lie 
 In quite a strange and unfrequented spot, 
 By all unheeded, and by all forgot. 
 With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh, 
 And nothing but the dewy morn to weep, 
 About my grave, far hid from the world's eye,— 
 I feign would have some friend to wander nigh, 
 And find a path to where my ashes sleep. 
 Not the cold heart that merely passes by, 
 To read who lieth there, but such that keep 
 Past memories warm with deeds of other years, 
 And pay to friendship some few friendly tears. 
 
THE TEMPTir^"^ PMT.SKT^T 
 
THOUGHTS. 
 
 • »••»#/. I have felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused. 
 Whose dwelling was the light of setting suns. 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man," 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 The day was closinj? in, and as I sat watching the 
 scarcely moving foliage of a neighbouring elm, my mind 
 gradually sank into a state of luxurious repose, amounting 
 to total unconsciousness of all the busy sights and sounds 
 of earth. 
 
 It seemed to me as if I were seated by a calm, deep 
 lake, surrounded by graceful and breezy shrubbery, and 
 listening to most delicious music. The landscape differed 
 from any thing I had ever seen. Light seemed to be in 
 every thing, and to emanate from every thing, like a glory. 
 Yet I felt at home ; and could I see a painting of it, I 
 should know it as readily as the scenes of my childhood. 
 And so it is with a multitude of thoughts that come sud- 
 denly into the soul, new as visitants from farthest Saturn, 
 yet familiar as a mother's voice. Whence do they coma? 
 Is Plato's suggestion something more than poetry? Have 
 we indeed formerly lived in a luminous and shadowless 
 world, where all things wear light as a garment? And are 
 our bright and beautiful thoughts but casual glimpses of 
 that former state ? Are all our hopes and aspirations 
 nothing but recollections ? Is it to the fragments otmemory's 
 broken mirror we owe the thousand fantastic forms of 
 grandeur, or of loveliness, which /ancy calls her own? 
 
 And the gifted ones, who now and then blaze upon the 
 world, and "darken nations when they die," — do they 
 differ from other mortals only in more cloudless reminiscen- 
 ces of their heavenly home ? 
 
 Or are we living separate existences, at one and the same 
 time ? Are not our souls wandering in the spirit-land 
 while our bodies are on earth ? And when in slumber, or 
 deep quietude of thought, we cast off 'this mortal coil,' do 
 we not gather up imagies of reality, that seem to us like 
 poetry ? Might not the restless spirit of Byron have indeed 
 learned of "archangels ruined" those potent words, which, 
 like infernal magic, arouse every sleeping demon in the 
 human heart ? 
 
 Are dreams merely visits to our spirit-home; and are we 
 in sleep really talking with the souls of those whose voice 
 wa seem to hear ? 
 
 As death approaches and earth recedes, do we not more 
 clearly see that spiritual world, in which we have all along 
 been living, though we knew it not ? The dying man tells 
 us of attendant angels hovering round him. Perchance 
 it is no vision— they may have often been with him, but 
 his inward eye was dim, and he saw them not. What is | 
 
 that mysterious expression, so holy and so strange, so 
 beautiful yet so fearful, on the countenance of one whose 
 soul has just departed? Is it the glorious light of atten- 
 dant seraphs, the luminous shadow of which rests awhile 
 on the countenance of the dead? Does infancy owe to 
 this angel crowd its peculiar power to purify and bless ? 
 
 MY COUCH, 
 
 Blessings on the man," says the immortal Sancho 
 Panza, " who first invented sleep 1 — it wraps one round like 
 a cloak," — It must be admitted, that the state of repose, 
 which serves to refresh and renew both the outward and 
 inward frame, is one of the chief consolations which Provi- 
 dence has bestowed upon mankind: and we are accordingly 
 somewhat of the French opinion, as regards their fondness 
 for a convenient, a roomy, and even handsome apartment, 
 wherein to propitiate the drowsy deity. " Next my arm- 
 chair," says an elegant writerof that country, " as I proceed 
 northward in my room, I iind my bed, which is stationed at 
 the end of the chamber, forming a delicious perspective. 
 Its situation is happily chosen; the early rays of the 
 awakening sun shine upon my curtains ! I watch them in 
 the fine mornings of summer, stealing gradually, as day 
 advances, along the wall. The elms which grow before my 
 window divide them into a thousand beams, and dart them, 
 according to the impulse of the wind, lo wards my bed, the 
 furniture of which, being rose-colour and white, reflects a 
 glowing tint upon every thing around. I hear each morn- 
 ing the confused chirpiug of the swallows which have taken 
 possession of the roof of my house, and of other birds in the 
 elm trees; a thousand cheei'ful reflections throng into my 
 mind, and no person in the universe enjoys so enchanting, 
 so peaceful an awakening as myself. 
 
 "I confess that I love to trifle with these delightful 
 moments, and to prolong the pleasure I experience whilst 
 meditating in the genial indolence of my bed. Does the 
 busy theatre give more play to the imagination? — does it 
 arouse more tender thoughts; or charm us so sweetly into 
 forgetfulness ? Modest reader, be not startled; but may I 
 not hint at the happiness of the lover, who for the first time 
 clasps in his arms his virtuous bride ? — unspeakable plea- 
 sure ! — which my evil destiny has decreed that I shall never 
 taste. Is it not in her bed, that the mother, intoxicated 
 with joy at the birth of a son, forgets every previous pain ? 
 It is there that the phantom-realizations of enterprise and 
 hope agitate and elevate our fancy. In fine, in this haven 
 we forget for one half of our lives, the troubles of the other 
 half. 
 
 " A bed is the witness of the birth and of the death of man. 
 It is the varying stage on which the human race exhibit 
 alternately interesting scenes, grotesque fantasma, and 
 
 8)» 
 
THE SIOUX PRINCESS. 
 
 " May slighted woman turn. 
 And as a rine the oak has shaken off. 
 Bend lightly to her tendencies again? 
 Oh, no ! by all her loveliness, by all 
 That makes life peotry and beauty, no ! 
 Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek 
 By needless jealousies; let the last star 
 Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
 Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all 
 That makes her cup a bitterness— yet give 
 One evidence of love, and earth has not 
 An emblem of devotedness like her's. 
 But, oh ! estrange her once, it boots not how 
 By wrong or silence, any thing that tells 
 A change has come upon your tenderness — 
 And there is not a high thing out Of heaven. 
 Her pride o'ermastereth not." 
 
 Willis. 
 
 Tahmiroo was the daughter of a powerful Sioux chief- 
 lain ; and she was the only being ever known to turn the 
 relentness old man from a savage purpose. Something of 
 this influence was owing to her infantile beauty; but more 
 to the gentleness of which that beauty was the emblem. 
 Her's was a species of loveliness rare among Indian girls. 
 Her figure had the flexile grace so appropriate to protected 
 and dependant women in refined countries ; her ripe 
 pouting lip, and dimpled cheek, wore the pleading air of 
 aggrieved childhood; and her dark eye had such an 
 habitual expression of* timidity and fear, that the Young 
 Sioux called her the " Startled Fawn." I know not 
 whether her father's broad lands, or her own appealing 
 beauty, was the most powerful cause of her admiration ; 
 but certain it is, Tahmiroo was the .unrivalled belle of the 
 Sioux. She was a creature all formed for love. Her 
 downcast eye, her trembling lip, and her quiet, submissive 
 motion, all spoke its language; yet various young chief- 
 tains had in vain sought her affections, and when her father 
 urged her to strengthen his power by an alliance, she 
 answered him only by her tears. 
 
 This state of things continued until 1765, when a com- 
 pany of French traders came to reside there, for the sake of 
 deriving profit from the fur trade. Among them was 
 Florimond de Ranee, a young, indolent Adonis, whom 
 pure ennui had led from Quebec to the Falls of St. An- 
 thony. His fair, round face, and studied foppery of dress, 
 might have done little towards gaining the heart of the 
 gentle Sioux ; but there was a deference and courtesy in 
 his manner, which the Indians never pay woman ; and 
 Tahmiroo's deep sensibilities were touched by it. A more 
 careful arrangement of her rude dress, and anxiety to 
 speak his language fluently, and a close observance of his 
 European customs, soon betrayed the subtle power which 
 was fast making her its slave. The ready vanity of the 
 Frenchman quickly perceived it. At first he encouraged 
 
 it with that sort of undefined pleasure which man always 
 feels in awakening strong affection in the hearts of even the 
 most insignificant. Then the idea that, though an Indian, 
 she was a princess, and that her father's extensive lands 
 on the Missouri were daily becoming of more consequence 
 to his ambitious nation, led him to think of marriage with 
 her as a desirable object. His eyes and his manner had 
 said this, long before the old chief began to suspect it ; and 
 he allowed the wily Frenchman to twine himself almost as 
 closely around his heart, as he had around the more yield- 
 ing soul of his darling child. Though exceedingly indo- 
 lent by nature, Florimond de Ranee had acquired skill in 
 many graceful acts, which excited the wonder of the 
 savages. 
 
 He fenced well enough to foil the most expert antagonist ; 
 and in hunting, his rifle was sure to carry death to the 
 game. These accomplishments, and the facility with which 
 his pliant nation conform to the usages of every country, 
 made him a universal favourite; and, at his request, he was 
 formally adopted as one of the tribe. But conscious as he 
 was of his power, it was long before he dared to ask for the 
 daughter of the haughty chief. When he did make the 
 daring proposition, it was received with a still and terrible 
 wrath, that might well fright him from his purpose. Rage 
 showed itself only in the swelling veins and clenched hand 
 of the old chief. 
 
 With the boasted coldness and self-possession of an 
 Indian, he answered, "There are Sioux girls enough for 
 the poor pale faces that come among us. A King's daugh- 
 ter weds the son of a King. Eagles must sleep in an eagle's 
 nest." 
 
 In vain Tahmiroo knelt and Supplicated. In vain she 
 promised Florimond de Ranee would adopt all his enmities 
 and all his friendships; that in hunting, and in war, he 
 would be an invaluable treasure. The chief remained 
 inexorable. Then Tahmiroo no longer joined in the dance, 
 and the old man noticed that her rich voice was silent, 
 when he passed her wigwam. The light of her beauty 
 began to fade, and the bright vermillion current, which 
 mantled under her brown cheek, became sluggish and pale. 
 The languid glance she cast on the morning sun and the 
 bright earth, entered into her father's soul. He could not 
 see his beautiful child thus gradually wasting away. He 
 had long averted his eyes whenever he saw Florimond de 
 Ranee; but one day, when he crossed his hunting path, he 
 laid his hand on his shoulder, and pointed to Tahmiroo's 
 dwelling. Not a word was spoken. The proud old man 
 and the blooming lover entered it together. Tahmiroo was 
 seated in the darkest corner of the wigwam, her head lean- 
 ing on her hand, her basket-work tangled beside her, and 
 a bunch of flowers, the village maidens had brought her, 
 scattered and whithering at her feet. 
 
 The Chief looked upon her with a vehement expression 
 uf love, which none but stern countenances can wear. 
 
 «2 
 
^ 
 
 4 
 
 Piriird iy VI Dcaall 
 
 £ugr»/«i hy C. licaUi. 
 
 
 ' (^c-ii-^iy^ 
 
» 
 
" Tahmiroo," he said, in a subdued tone, "go to the wigwam 
 of the stranger, that your father may again see you love to 
 look on the rising sun, and the opening flowers." There 
 was mingled joy and modesty in the upward glance of the 
 '• Startled Fawn" of the Sioux ; and when Florimond de 
 Ranee saw the light of her mild eye, suddenly and timidly 
 veiled by its deeply-fringed lid, he knew that he had lost 
 none of his power. 
 
 The marriage song was soon heard in the royal wigwam, 
 and the young adventurer became the son of a King. 
 
 Months and years past on, and found Tahmiroo the 
 same devoted, submissive being. Her husband no longer 
 treated her with the uniform gallantry of a lover. He was 
 not often harsh; but he adopted something of the coldness 
 and indifference of the nation he had joined. Tahmiroo 
 sometimes wept in secret ; but so much of fear had lately 
 mingled with her love, that she carefully concealed her 
 grief from him who had occasioned it. When she watched 
 his countenance, with that pleading, innocent look, which 
 had always characterized her beauty, she sometimes would 
 obtain a glance such as he had given her in former days; 
 and then her heart would leap like a frolicsome lamb, and 
 she would live cheerfully on the remembrance of that 
 smile, through many wearisome days of silence and neglect. 
 Never was woman, in her heart-breaking devotedness, 
 satisfied with such slight testimonials of love, as was this 
 gentle Sioux girl If Florimond chose to fish, she would 
 herself ply the oar, rather than he should suffer fatigue ; 
 and the gaudy canoe hpr father had given her, might often 
 be seen gliding down the stream, while Tahmiroo dipped 
 her oar in unison witk her soft rich voice, and the indolent 
 Frenchman lay sunk in luxurious repose. She had learned 
 his religion ; but for herself she never prayed. The cross 
 he had given her was always raised in supplication for him ! 
 and if he but looked unkindly on her, she kissed it, and 
 invoked its aid, in agony of soul. She fancied the sound 
 of his native land might be dear to him ; and she studied 
 his language with a patience and perseverance to which the 
 savage has seldom been known to submit. She tried to 
 imitate the dresses she had heard him describe; and if be 
 looked with a pleased eye on any ornament she wore, it 
 was always reserved to welcome his return. Yet, for all 
 this lavishnessof love, she asked but kind, approving looks, 
 which cost the giver nothing. Alas, for the preverseness 
 of man, in scorning the affection he ceases to doubt ! The 
 little pittance of love for which poor Tahmiroo's heart 
 yearned so much, was seldom given. Her soul was a 
 perpetual prey to anxiety and excitement ; and the quiet 
 certainty of domestic bliss was never her allotted portion. 
 There were, however, two beings on whom she could pour 
 forth her whole fl(»d of tenderness, without reproof or 
 disappointment. She had given birth to a son and 
 daughter of uncommon promise. Victoire, the eldest, 
 had her father's beauty, save in the melting dark eye, 
 
 with its plaintive expression, and the modest drooping of 
 its silken lash. Her cheeks had just enough of the Indian 
 hue to give them a warm, rich colouring ; and such was 
 her early maturity, that at thirteen years of age, her tall 
 figure combined the graceful elasticity of youth, with the 
 majesty of womanhood. She had sprung up at her father's 
 feet, with the sudden luxuriance of a tropical flower ; and 
 her matured loveliness aroused all the dormant tenderness 
 and energy within him. It was with mournful interest he 
 saw her leaping along the chase, with her mother's bounding, 
 sylph-like joy; and he would sigh deeply when he observed 
 her oar rapidly cutting the waters of the Missouri, while 
 her boat flew over the surface of the river like a wild bird 
 in sport — and the gay young creature would wind among 
 the eddies, or dart forward with her hair streaming on the 
 wind, and her lips parted with eagerness, Tahmiroo did 
 not understand the nature of his emotions. She thought, 
 in the simplicity of her heart, that silence and sadness 
 were the natural expressions of a white man's love ; but 
 when he turned his restless gaze from his daughter to her, 
 she met an expression which troubled her. Indifference 
 had changed into contempt; and woman's soul, whether 
 in the drawing-room, or in the wilderness, is painfully alive 
 to the sting of scorn. Sometimes her placid nature was 
 disturbed by a strange jealousy of her own child, " I love 
 Victoire only because she is the daughter of Florimond," 
 thought she ; " and why, oh ! why, does he not love me for 
 being the mother of Victoire ?" 
 
 It was too evident that De Ranee wished his daughter 
 to be estranged from her mother, and her mother's people. 
 With all members of the tribe, out of his own family, he 
 sternly forbade her having any intercourse; and even there 
 he kept her constantly employed in taking dancing lessons 
 from himself, and obtaining various branches of learning 
 from an old Catholic priest, whom he had solicited to reside 
 with him for that purpose. But this kind of life was irk- 
 some to the Indian girl, and she was perpetually escaping 
 the vigilance of her father, to try her arrow in the woods, or 
 guide her pretty canoe over the waters. De Ranee had 
 long thought it impossible to gratify his ambitious views 
 for hii daughter without removing her from the attractions, 
 of her savage home ; and each day's experience convinced 
 him more and more of the truth of this conclusion. 
 
 To favour his project, he assumed an affectionate manner 
 towards his wife; for he well knew that one look, or word, 
 of kindness, would at any time win back all her love. When 
 the deep sensibilities of her warm heart were roused, he 
 would ask for leave to sell her lands; and she, in her 
 prodigality of tenderness, would have given him any thing, 
 even her own life, for such smiles as he then bestowed. 
 The old chief was dead, and there was no one to check the 
 unfeeling rapacity of the Frenchman. Tract after tract of 
 Tahmiroo's valuable land was sold, and the money remitted 
 to Quebec, where he intended to convey his children, on 
 
 m 
 
 y3 
 
pretence of a visit; but in reality with the firm intent of 
 never again beholding bis deserted wife. 
 
 A company of Canadian traders chanced to visit the 
 Falls of St. Anthony, just at this juncture; and Florimond 
 de Ranee took the opportunity to apprize Tahmiroo of his 
 intention to educate Victoire. She entreated with all the 
 earnestness of a mother's eloquence; but she pled in vain, 
 Victoire and her father joiued the company of traders on 
 their return to Canada. Tahmiroo knelt, and fervently 
 besought that she might accompany them. She would stay 
 out of sight, she said; they should not be ashamed of her 
 among the great white folks of the east; and if she could 
 but live where she could see them every day, she should die 
 happier. 
 
 "Ashamed of you! and you the daughter of a Sioux 
 King !" exclaimed Victoire proudly, and with a natural 
 impulse of tenderness, she fell on her mother's neck and 
 wept. 
 
 " Victoire, 'tis time to depart," said her father, sternly. 
 The sobbing girl tried to release herself; but she could not. 
 Tahmiroo embraced her with the energy of despair; for, 
 after all her doubts and jealousies, Victoire was the darling 
 child of her bosom — she was so much the image of Flori- 
 mond when he first said he loved her. 
 
 " Woman! let her go!" exclaimed De Ranee, exaspera- 
 ted by the length of the parting scene. Tahmiroo raised 
 her eyes anxiously to his face, and she saw that his arm was 
 raised to strike her. 
 
 " I am a poor daughter of the Sioux; oh! why did you 
 marry me ?" exclaimed she, in a tone of passionate grief. 
 " For your father's land," said the Frenchman coldly. 
 This was the drop too much. Poor Tahmiroo, with a 
 piercing shriek, fell on the earth, and hid her face in the 
 grass. She knew not how long she remained there. Her 
 highly wrought feelings had brought on a dizziness of the 
 brain; and she was conscious only of a sensation of sickness, 
 accompanied by the sound of reeeeding voices. When she 
 recovered, she found herself alone with Louis, her little boy, 
 then about six years old. The child had wandered there 
 after the traders had departed, and having in vain tried to 
 waken his mother, he laid himself down by her side, and 
 slept on his bow and arrows. From that hour Tahmiroo 
 was changed. 
 
 Her quiet submissive air gave place to a stem and lofty 
 manner ; and she, who had always been so gentle, became 
 as bitter and implacable as the most blood-thirsty of her 
 tribe. In little Louis all the strong feelings of her soul 
 were centred; but even her affection for him was charac- 
 terized by a strange, unwonted fierceness- Her only care 
 seemed to be to make him like his grandfather, and to instil 
 a deadly hatred of white men. The boy learned his lessons 
 well. He was the veriest little savage that ever let fly an 
 arrow. To his mother alone he yielded any thing like sub- 
 
 mission ; and the Sioux were proud to hail the haughty 
 child as their future chieftain. 
 
 Such was the aspect of things ou the shores of the 
 Missouri, when Florimond de Ranee came among them, 
 after an absence of three years. He was induced to make 
 this visit, partly from a lingering curiosity to see his boy, 
 and partly from the hope of obtaining more land from th© 
 yielding Tahmiroo. He affected much contrition for his 
 past conduct, and promised to return with Victoire, before 
 the year expired. Tahmiroo met him with the most 
 chilling indifference, and listened to him with a vacant 
 look, as if she heard him not. 
 
 It was only when he spoke to her boy, that he could 
 arouse her from this apparent lethargy. On this subject 
 she was all suspicion. She had a sort of undefined dread 
 that he, too, would be carried away from her ; and she 
 watched over him like a she-wolf, when her young is in 
 danger. Her fears were not unfounded ; De Ranee did 
 intend, by demonstrations of fondness, and glowing des- 
 criptions of Quebec, to kindle in the mind of his son a 
 desire to accompany him. 
 
 Tahmiroo thought the hatred of white men. which she 
 had so carefully instilled, would prove a sufficient shield ; 
 but many weeks had not elapsed before she saw that Louis 
 was fast yielding himself up to the fascinating power which 
 had enthralled her own youthful spirit. With this discovery 
 came horrible thoughts of vengeance ; and more than once 
 she had nearly nerved her soul to murder the father of her 
 son; but she could not. Something in his features still 
 reminded her of the devoted young Frenchman, who had 
 carried her quiver through the woods, and kissed the 
 moccasin he stooped to lace ; and she could not kill him. 
 
 The last cutting blow was soon given to the heart of the 
 Indian wife. Young Louis, full of boyish curiosity, 
 expressed a wish to go with his father, though he at the 
 same time promised a speedy return. He always had been 
 a stubborn boy ; and she felt now as if her worn out spirit 
 would vainly contend against his wilfulness. With that 
 sort of resigned stupor which often indicates approaching 
 insanity, she yielded to his request ; exacting, however, a 
 promise that he would sail a few miles down the Missis- 
 sippi with her the day before his departure. 
 
 The day arrived. Florimond de Ranee was at a distance 
 on business. Tahmiroo decked herself in the garments 
 and jewels she had worn on the day of her marriage, and 
 selected the gaudiest wampum belts for the little Louis. 
 " Why do you put these on?" said the boy. 
 "Because Tahmiroo will no more see her son in the 
 land of Sioux," said she, mournfully, " and when her 
 father meets her in the Spirit Land, he will know the beads 
 he gave her." 
 
 She took the wondering boy by the hand, and led him to 
 the water side. There lay the canoe her father had given 
 
 I-. 
 
her when she left him for "the wigwam of the stranger." 
 It was faded and bruised now, and so were all her hopes. 
 She looked back on the hut, where she had spent her brief 
 term of wedded happiness, and its peacefulness seemed a 
 mockery of her misery. And was she — the lone, the 
 wretched, the desperate, and deserted one — was she the 
 " Startled Fawn" of the Sioux, for whom contending Chiefs 
 had asked in vain ? The remembrance of all her love and 
 all her wrongs came up before her memory, and death 
 seemed more pleasant to her than the gay dance she once 
 loved so well. But then her eye rested on her boy — and, O 
 God ! with what an agony of love ! It was the last vehe- 
 ment struggle of a soul all formed for tenderness. " We 
 will go the Spirit Land together," she exclaimed. "He 
 cannot come there to rob me !" 
 
 She took Louis in her arms, as if he had been a feather, 
 and springing into the boat, she guided it towards the 
 falls of St. Anthony. 
 
 " Mother, mother ! the canoe is going over the rapids !" 
 screamed the frightened child. "My father stands on the 
 waves and beckons !" she said. The boy looked at the 
 horribly fixed expression of her face, and shrieked aloud 
 for help. 
 
 The boat went over the cataract. — 
 
 Louis de Ranee was seen no more. He sleeps with the 
 "Startled Fawn" of the Sioux, in the waves of the Missis- 
 sippi! The story is well remembered by the Indians of 
 the present day ; and when a mist gathers over the fall, 
 they often say, " Let us not hunt to-day. A storm will 
 certainly come ; for Tahmiroo and her son are going over 
 the falls of St. Anthony." 
 
 THE NEW ZEALANDERS. 
 
 I was roused one morning at day-break by my servant 
 running in with the intelligence that a great number of 
 war canoes were crossing the bay. As King George had 
 told us but the evening before that he expected a visit from 
 Ta-ri-ah, a chief of the tribe called the Narpooes, whose 
 territory lay on the opposite side of the bay, and given us 
 to understand that Ta-ri-ah was a man not to be trusted, 
 and therefore feared some mischief might happen if he 
 really came, the sight of these war canoes naturally caused 
 us considerable alarm, and we sincerely wished that the 
 visit was over. 
 
 We dressed ourselves with the utmost expedition, and 
 walked down to the beach. The landing of these warriors 
 was conducted with a considerable degree of order ! and 
 could I have divested myself of all idea of danger, I should 
 have admired the sight excessively. All our New Zealand 
 friends — the tribe of Shulitea — were stripped naked, their 
 bodies were oiled, and all were completely armed ; their 
 
 muskets were loaded, their cartouch-boxes were fastened 
 round their waists, and their patoo-patoos were fixed to 
 their wrists. Their hair was tied up in a tight knot at the 
 top of their heads, beautifully ornamented with feathers of 
 the albatross. As the opposite party landed, ours all 
 crouched on the ground, their eyes fixed on their visitors, 
 and perfectly silent. When the debarkation was com- 
 pleted, I observed the chief, Ta-ri-ah, put himself at their 
 head, and march towards us with his party formed closely 
 and compactly, and armed with muskets and paddles. 
 When they came very near, they suddenly stopped. Our 
 party continued still mute, with their firelocks poised ready 
 for use. For the space of a few minutes all was still, each 
 party glaring fiercely on the other ; and they certainly 
 formed one of the most beautiful and extraordinary pictures 
 I had ever beheld. The foreground was formed by a line 
 of naked savages, each resting on one knee, with musket 
 advanced ; their gaze fixed on the opposite party, their 
 fine broad muscular backs contrasting with the dark foliage 
 in front, and catching the gleam of the rising sun. The 
 strangers were clothed in the most grotesque manner ima- 
 ginable ; some armed, some naked, some with long beards, 
 others were painted all over with red ochre : every part of 
 each figure was quite still, except the rolling and glaring 
 of their eyes on their opponents. The back-ground was 
 formed by the beach, and a number of ^their beautiful war 
 canoes dancing on the waves; while, in the distance, the 
 mountains on the opposite side of the bay were just tinged 
 with the varied aud beautiful colours of the sun then rising 
 in splendour from behind them. 
 
 The stillness of this extraordinary scene did not last long. 
 The Narpooes commenced a noise and discordant song and 
 dance, yelling, jumping, and making the most hideous 
 faces. This was soon answered by a loud shout from our 
 party who endeavoured to outdo the Narpooes in making 
 horrible distortions of their countenances : then succeeded 
 another dance from our visitors ; after which our friends 
 made a rush, and in a sort of rough joke set them running. 
 Then all joined in a pell-mell sort of encounter, in which 
 numerous hard blows were given and received; then all 
 the party fired their pieces in the air, and the ceremony of 
 landing was thus deemed completed. They then ap- 
 proached each other, and began rubbing noses ; and those 
 who were particular friends cried and lamented over each 
 other. 
 
 Nature. — She is ever provident; shb has left every man 
 a capacity of being agreeable, though not of shining in 
 company; and there are a hundred men sufficiently qualifi- 
 ed for both, who, by a very few faults, that they might 
 correct in half an hour, are not so much as tolerable. 
 
MUSIC'S MISHAP. 
 
 The parish-clerk, the Tillage music-master, 
 Master at once of music, and her slave, 
 Of late I saw — (not Dan Apollo touch'd 
 The horsehair faster) — seeking souls to save 
 By teaching Sunday scholars the true stave ; 
 And much it pleased me, in my unseen station, 
 To watch the efforts of the tutor grave 
 To modify the heathenish squallation, 
 To gods and columns both a sheer abomination. 
 
 Upon his eyebrows sat authority. 
 And at his feet his dog; before him stood 
 The neophytes of sacred minstrelsy, 
 Cecilias in reversion : the sweet wood, 
 The handle of his viol, not too good, 
 He held with gentle hand to guard from harm ; 
 For much he prized it, more than flesh and blood. 
 With resin, magic drug, to aid the charm. 
 The master arm'd his bow, and then he bow'd his arm. 
 
 At once uplifting voice and instrument. 
 He led the way — a lamentable sound 
 (Whose name was Legion, being many) went 
 Forth from the throat of all that stood around ; 
 Discord, that did all harmon yconfound. 
 Loader, and louder, did the master bawl ; 
 In philosophic quiet sat the hound. 
 Worthy of praise, amid that Babelish squall 
 Of notes not flat, not sharp — certes not natural. 
 
 His patient ears hung down upon his face. 
 Curtaining out the nose, perchance, in part; 
 All as unmoved, behind the master's place, 
 There stood his better half, his life, his heart, 
 Who, partner of his cares, would not depart : 
 With arms across, and face demurely still. 
 Unmoved she watch'd the triumphs of his art ; 
 While he with might and main, and toilsome skill. 
 With love of music strove untuneful souls to fill. 
 
 In vain ! no bars restrain th* impatient crowd ; 
 Notes are unnoted, limping time forgot: 
 Yet still the treble discord grows more loud. 
 And would abate the master not a jot. 
 With music and impatience waxing hot. 
 More fiercely did he bid the resin move ; 
 Voice, hand, and foot in unison were got : 
 The urchin choir inspired to follow strove ; 
 His dame more sweetly smiled — for music melts to love. 
 
 In ecstasy the minstrel rock'd his chair ; 
 His tail in approbation Tray did bend ; 
 
 96 
 
 (For in grave souls, whose praise is slow and spare, 
 Approval comes but in the latter end). 
 But why did cruel fate that motion send ? 
 Oh hapless tale, and yet more hapless tail I 
 The chair, not charily, did swift descend. 
 That thou wert a grave dog did not avail, 
 Oh Tray ! nor did avert what I must needs bewaii. 
 
 Then rose from earth to sky the mighty yell ; 
 Fled Polyhymnia with psalmodic groans : 
 With chair inverted, straight the master fell ; 
 His stronger head preserved his weaker bones. 
 Ah ! much the wounded tail the Muse bemoans. 
 And sad mischance of this disastrous day 
 (Day to be mark'd for ever with black stones). 
 Where triumph did to overthrow betray : 
 So clouds and storms succeed a too resplendent day. 
 
 SONNET TO HIS NATIVE RIVER, ANKER. 
 
 (bT MICBASL CKAYTON.) 
 
 Clear Anker, on whose silver- sanded shore, 
 
 Aly soul-shrined saint, my fair Idea, lies ; 
 
 O blessed brook ! whose milk-white swans adore 
 
 Thy crystal stream, refined by her eyes, 
 
 Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the Spring 
 
 Gently distils his nectar-dropping showers, 
 
 Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing 
 
 Amongst the dainty dew-impearled flowers ! 
 
 Say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see my queen, 
 
 Lo ! here thy shepherd spent his wandering years ; 
 
 And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft had been, 
 
 And here to thee he sacrificed his tears : 
 Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone, 
 And thou, sweet Anker, art my Helicon. 
 
 ON THE ROSE, 
 
 Sweet flower ! emblem of innocence and truth, 
 Fit subject to pourtray the hours of youth ; 
 When pure, unspotted, every action has a grace. 
 Which after years of woe and danger will efface. 
 
 Like thee the bud of youth too oft contains 
 A worm that mars, and every beauty stains ; 
 A little worm which, overlooked, will flourish, 
 First feed on, then destroy the heart in which t'was 
 nourished. 
 
 And yet again, some buds like them will grow. 
 From which all beauty, grace, and virtue flow ; 
 Matured by age they strengthen and adorn the soul. 
 Till death with icy-hand destroys the whole. 
 
w 
 
 
 ■a 
 
 (f^- 
 
 
 
 *,^ 
 
 -■V. 
 
THE REIN-DEER. 
 
 Few animals present so interesting a range of observa- 
 tion and enquiry as the Rein-Deer in its natural history 
 and economy. The ancients were vaguely acquainted with 
 this animal through the accounts they received from the 
 Scythians ; and Caesar mentions its existence in his Com- 
 mentaries. It is found abundantly in free herds through- 
 out the north of Europe : in Kamtschatka, Spitzbergeu, 
 and over the whole of Northern Russia, where the Tungu- 
 sians rear a large breed, which they ride more generally 
 than harness to the sledge ; in Sweden and Norway ; but 
 Cuvier has proved that they never extended further South 
 than the Baltic and the northern parts of Poland. In Asia, 
 however, the Rein-Deer is found to the foot of the Cauca- 
 sus ; and there is reason to believe that it formerly extended 
 further south than at the present time. In the arctic 
 regions it is also found in great numbers ; whence it 
 extends even to the rocky mountains of central North 
 America. In all these countries the Rein-Deer is found 
 in a wild state; but in Lapland, where the domestication 
 of the animal is identified with all the comforts of the 
 people, there are but few wild Rein-Deer remaining. 
 
 The usual size of the adult Rein-Deer in a wild state is 
 equal to a stag, or even superior; but the tame races, 
 particularly of Lapland, are not much higher at the shoul- 
 der than fallow-deer. In large males the horns are 
 sometimes above four feet long; in the females they are 
 constantly smaller, and the palmated or flattened parts 
 narrower. This peculiar shape of the horns, we may here 
 mention, appears to be, in several species, a provision of 
 nature, to enable the animals to clear the snow from their 
 food ; for it is observed that this structure is confined to 
 those of the higher latitudes, and rendered applicable in 
 proportion as they inhabit more rigorous climates. Thus, 
 in the Rein-Deer, who are absolutely arctic, it is most so ; 
 and least in the fallow-deer, who belong to the more tem- 
 perate regions. This observation will likewise apply to 
 the magnitude of the Rein-Deer, which is greatest towards 
 the Pole, and least in the south. 
 
 There is, however, no species of deer whose boms vary to 
 such an extent as the Rein-Deer; indeed, it is difiicult to 
 meet with two alike. In general they are at first thrown 
 back from the forehead, and then curve with a considerable 
 sweep forwards. Over the face they bear two branches, 
 mostly palmated, and from the back part of the curves other 
 snags arise. The form of the animal, compared with other 
 deer, is heavy and low ; the neck is short, the head carried 
 straight forward in a line with the back ; the legs are short 
 and stout; and the hoofs are very broad and spreading: 
 they contract when the foot is raised from the ground ; but 
 when the Rein Deer crosses the yielding snows the foot 
 presents a larger surface, and thus prevents, to a certain 
 extent, the animal sinking as deeply as it would if the hoof 
 
 were small and compact. The hair of the Rein-Deer is 
 of two kinds, close and woolly ; under the throat it is long, 
 and in winter long hairs spread over the body. Sir Arthur 
 de Brooke, to whom we are indebted for the best account 
 of the economy of the Rein-Deer, states the hair of its coat 
 to be "so thick that it is hardly possible by separating 
 them in any way to discern the least portion of the naked 
 hide ;" and Dr. Richardson says, clothing made of deer- 
 skin " is so impervious to the cold, that, with the addition 
 of ci blanket of the same material, any one so clothed may 
 bivouack on the snow with safety in the most intense cold 
 of an arctic winter's night." 
 
 The colour of the upper parts of the Rein- Deer is mostly 
 brown, which becomes greyish in winter; while the under 
 parts are always of greyish white. 
 
 Rein-Deer swim with ease, and are so buoyant as to keep 
 half their bodies above water : their broad feet, struck with 
 great force, imj)el them so fast in the strongest currents 
 and across the broadest rivers, that a boat well manned, 
 can scarcely keep pace with them. When irritated or at- 
 tacked, they strike downwards with their horns, but do not 
 gore ; they kick with violence and repel the wolf with suc- 
 cess: but their most dangerous enemy is the glutton, who 
 is stated to drop down upon the Deer from the branch of 
 some tree while they are oflF their guard. In a wild state 
 they live in herds, and emigrate, according to the season. 
 In winter they retire to the woods, and subsist on lichens, 
 which hang upon the trees. As spring approaches, they 
 return to the open country, where their food is similar. 
 They sufi'er much in the summer months from the attacks 
 of insects, to avoid which they migrate to the sea-shore or 
 the mountains. 
 
 The importance of the Rein.Deer for the purposes of 
 draught in Lapland is well known. It possesses great 
 strength in its shoulders and fore-quarters, and surety of 
 foot even in storms of sleet and snow : these habits, toge- 
 ther with their quick scent, guide them with wonderful 
 precision through the most dangerous passes, and in the 
 darkest nights of an arctic winter. To this sagacity the 
 Laplander trusts his life with confidence, and accidents 
 are of very rare occurrence. They draw his sledge with 
 such speed, that a pair of them, in the language of Lap- 
 land, will change his horizon three times in twenty-four 
 hours; that is, they can pass three times the furthest limit 
 in sight on starting, which, in their latitudes, is computed 
 at above one hundred miles. They will draw about three 
 hundred pounds each, but the burden is generally limited 
 to two hundred and forty pounds; their trot is about ten 
 miles an hour. In the palace of Drotningholm, in Sweden, 
 is a portrait of a Rein-Deer, which is stated to have drawn 
 an officer with important dispatches the distance of eight 
 hundred English miles in forty-eight hours, and the Deer 
 is said to have dropped down lifeless upon his arrival. 
 Fictet, a French astronomer, who visited Lapland in 1769, 
 
 97 
 
DUN ROBIN CASTLE. 
 
 THE SEAT OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OP SOTHBRLAND. 
 
 DuNROBiN Castle, on the east coast of Sutherlandshire, 
 is the seat of the ancient earls of Sutherland. It is in 
 excellent repair, and great agricultural exertions have been 
 successfully made around it. It was founded about the 
 year 1100, by Robert or Robin, second earl of Sutherland, 
 and being built upon a round hill, as the word dun imports, 
 was hence called Dun-Robin Castle. It is situated on an 
 eminence near the sea. As very few, if any alterations 
 have been made in the castle within the last two hundred 
 years, a short description of it from the manuscript of Sir 
 Robert Gordon, will suffice to convey an idea of it to our 
 readers. 
 
 " The castles and pyles of Sutherland or Demough, 
 Dunrobin, (the Earl of Sutherland his special residence,) 
 a house well seated upon a round mote, hard by the sea, 
 with fair orchards, wer ther be pleasant gardens, planted 
 with all kynds of froots, hearbs, and floors, used in this 
 kingdome, and abundance of good saphron, tobacco, and 
 rosemarie. The froot here is excellent, and chiefly the 
 pears and cherries. There is in Dunrobin one of the 
 deepest draw-wells, all of aister work from the ground to 
 the top, called St. John his well, which is within the castle 
 in the midst of the court." 
 
 There is a very curious structure in the vicinity of the 
 castle, of which Pennant gives the following account: — 
 
 " Not far from Dunrobin is a very entire piece of 
 antiquity of the kind known in Scotland by the name of 
 Pictish Castles and called here Cairn Lia, or Grey Town. 
 That I saw was about one hundred and thirty yards in 
 circumference, round, and raised so high above the ground 
 as to form a considerable mount. On the top was an 
 extensive but shallow hollow; within were three low 
 concentric galleries at small distances from each other, 
 covered with large stones ; and the side walls were about 
 four to five feet thick, rudely made. There are generally 
 three of these places near each other, so that each may be 
 seen from anyone. Buildings of this kind are frequent along 
 this coast, that of Caithness and Strathnaver. Others, 
 agreeing in external form, are common in the Hebrides, but 
 differ in their internal construction. In the islands they 
 are attributed to the Danes — here to the Picts. They were 
 probably the defensible habitations of the times." 
 
 The Ant. — The ant seems, of all others, to have been 
 Plutarch's favourite insect. He even pronounces her a 
 wise and virtuous animal. Friendship, fortitude, continen- 
 cy, patience, justice, and industry, are among the moral 
 qualities which he deservedly places to her account. 
 
 HOSPITALITY. 
 
 Domestic powers ! erewhile revered, 
 Where Syria spread her palmy plain, 
 
 "Where Greece her tuneful Muses heard, 
 Where Rome beheld her patriot train. 
 
 Thou to Albion too were known, 
 
 'Midst the moat and moss-grown wall 
 That girt her Gothic-structured hall, 
 
 With rural trophies strown. 
 
 The traveller, doubtful of his way 
 Upon the pathless forest wild ; 
 
 The huntsman in the heat of day. 
 
 And with the tedious chase o'ertoiled — 
 
 Wide their view around them cast. 
 Marked the distant rustic tower. 
 And sought and found the festive bower. 
 
 And shared the free repast. 
 
 E'en now, on Caledonia's shore. 
 When eve's dun robe the sky arrays. 
 
 Thy punctual hand unfolds the door. 
 Thy eye the mountain road surveys; 
 
 Pleas'd to spy the casual guest, 
 
 Pleas'd with food his heart to cheer, 
 With pipe or song to soothe his ear. 
 
 And spread his couch for rest. 
 
 Nor yet e'en here disdained thy sway. 
 Where grandeur's splendid modern seat 
 
 Far o'er the landscape glitters gay ; 
 Or where fair quiet's lone retreat 
 
 Hides beneath the hoary hill. 
 Near the dusky upland shade. 
 Between the willow's glossy glade. 
 
 And by the tinkling rill. 
 
 There thine the pleasing interviews 
 
 That friends and relatives endear. 
 When scenes, not often seen, amuse. 
 
 When tales, not often told, we hear. 
 There the scholar's liberal mind 
 
 Oft instruction gives and gains ; 
 
 And oft the lover's lore obtains 
 His fair-one's audience kind. 
 
 gentle power ! where'er thy reign, 
 May health and peace attend thee still ; 
 
 Nor folly's presence cause thee pain, 
 Nor vice reward thy good with ill. 
 
 Gratitude thy altar raise. 
 
 Wealth to thee her offerings pay, 
 And Genius wake his tuneful lay 
 
 To celebrate thy praise. 
 
 100 
 
BA^TTLE OF TRAFALGAR. 
 
 Nelson arrived off Cadiz on the 29th of September, 
 1805 — his birth-day. Fearing that if the enemy knew his 
 force they might be deterred from venturing to sea, he kept 
 out of sight of land, desired Collingwood to fire no salute 
 and hoist no colours, and wrote to Gibraltar to request that 
 the force of the fleet might not be inserted there in the Ga- 
 zette. His reception in the Mediterranean fleet was as 
 gratifying as the farewell of his countrymen at Portsmouth : 
 the officers, who came on board to welcome him, forgot his 
 rank as commander in their joy at seeing him again. On 
 the day of his arrival, Villeneuve received orders to put 
 to sea the first opportunity. Villeneuve, however, hesitated 
 when he heard that Nelson had resumed the command. He 
 called a council of war, and their determination was that it 
 would not be expedient to leave Cadiz, unless they had 
 reason to believe themselves stronger by one-third than the 
 British force. In the public measures of this country, se- 
 cresy is seldom practicable and seldom attempted : here, 
 however, by the precautions of Nelson and the wise mea- 
 sures of the Admiralty, the enemy were for once kept in 
 ignorance; for, as the ships appointed to re-inforce the 
 Mediterranean fleet were dispatched singly, each as soon 
 as it was ready, their collected number was not stated in 
 the newspapers, and their arrival was not known to the 
 enemy. 
 
 On the 9th of October Nelson sent Collingwood what he 
 called, in his diary, the Nelson-touch. "I send you,'' said 
 he, "my plan of attack, as far as a man dare venture to 
 guess at the very uncertain position the enemy may be found 
 in : but it is to place you perfectly at ease respecting my in- 
 tentions, and to give full scope to your judgment in carrying 
 them into effect. We can, my dear Coll, have no little 
 jealousies. We have only one great object in view, that of 
 annihilating our enemies, and getting a glorious peace for 
 our country. No man has more confidence in another 
 than I have in you; and no man will render your services 
 more justice than your very old friend. Nelson and Bronte." 
 The order of sailing was to be the order of battle : the fleet 
 in two lines, with an advanced squadron of eight of the 
 fastest-sailing two-deckers. The second in command, 
 having the entire direction of his line, was to breakthrough 
 the enemy, about the twelfth ship from the rear : he would 
 lead through the centre, and the advanced squadron was to 
 cut off three or four a-head of the centre. This plan was to 
 be adapted to the strength of the enemy, so that they should 
 always be one-fourth superior to those whom they cut off. 
 Nelson said, "That his admirals and captains, knowing his 
 precise object to be that of a close and decisive action, would 
 supply any deficiency of signals, and act accordingly. In 
 case signals cannot be seen or clearly understood, no cap- 
 tain can do wrong if he places his ship alongside that of 
 an enemy." One of the last orders of this admirable man 
 
 was, that the name and family of every oflicer, seaman, and 
 marine, who might be killed or wounded in the action, 
 should be, as soon as possible, returned to him, in order to 
 be transmitted to the chairman of the patriotic fund, that the 
 case might be taken into consideration, for the benefit of 
 the sufferer or his family. 
 
 On the 21st, at day-break, the combined fleets were dis- 
 tinctly seen from the Victory's deck, formed in a close line 
 of battle a-head, on the starboard-tack, about twelve miles 
 too lee-ward, and standing to the south. Onr fleet con- 
 sisted of twenty-seven sail of the line and four frigates; theirs 
 of thirty-three and seven large frigates. Their superiority 
 was greater in size and weight of metal than in numbers. 
 They had four thousand troops on board ; and the best rifle- 
 men who could be procured, many of them Tyrolese, were 
 dispersed through the ships. liittle did the Tyrolese, and 
 little did the Spaniards, at that day imagine what horrors 
 the wicked tyrant whom they served was preparing for 
 their country. 
 
 Soon after daylight Nelson came on deck. The 21st of 
 October was a festival in his family, because on that day 
 his uncle. Captain Suckling, in the Dreadnought, with two 
 other line-of-battle ships, had beaten off a French squadron 
 of four sail of the line and three frigates. Nelson, with 
 that sort of superstition from which few persons are entirely 
 exempt, had more than once expressed his persuasion that 
 this was to be the day of his battle also ; and he was well 
 pleased at seeing his prediction about to be verified. The 
 wind was nowfrom the west, light breezes, with a long heavy 
 swell. Signal was made to bear down upon the enemy in 
 two lines, and the fleet set all sail. Collingwood, in the 
 Royal Sovereign, led the lee-line of thirteen ships, the 
 Victory led the weather-line of fourteen. Having seen 
 that all was as it should be. Nelson retired into his cabin, 
 and wrote the following prayer: — 
 
 "May the great God, whom I worship, grant to my coun- 
 try, and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and 
 glorious victory, and may no misconduct in any one tarnish 
 it; and may humanity after victory be the predominant 
 feature in the British fleet ! For myself individually, I 
 commit my life to Him that made me ; and may his bless- 
 ing alight on my endeavours for serving my country faith- 
 fully! To Him I resign myself, and the just cause which 
 is entrusted to me to defend. Amen, Amen, Amen." 
 
 Blackwood went on board the Victory about six. He 
 found him in good spirits, but very calm ; not in that exhil- 
 aration whichhe had felt upon enteriningto tattle atAboukir 
 and Copenhagen: he knew that his own life would be 
 particularly aimed at, and seems to have looked for death 
 with almost as sure an expectation as for victory. His 
 whole attention was fixed upon the enemy. They tacked 
 to the northward, and formed their line on the larboard-tack; 
 thus bringing the shoals of Trafalgar and St. Pedro under 
 the lee of the British, and keeping the port of Cadiz open 
 
 101 
 
for themselves This was judiciously done ; and Nelson, 
 aware of all the advantages which it gave them, made signal 
 to prepare to anchor. 
 
 Villeneuve was a skilful seaman, worthy of serving a bet- 
 ter master and a better cause. His plan of defence was as 
 well conceived and as original as the plan of attack. He 
 formed the fleet in a double line, every alternate shipbeing 
 about a cable's length to windward of her second a-head 
 and astern. Nelson, certain of a triumphant issue to the 
 day, asked Blackwood what he should consider as a vic- 
 tory ? That officer answered, that, considering the hand- 
 some way in which battle was offered by the enemy, their 
 apparent determination for a fair trial of strength, and the 
 situation of the land, he thought it would be a glorious 
 result if fourteen were captured. He replied, "I shall not 
 be satisfied with less than twenty." Soon afterwards he 
 asked him, if he did not think there was a signal wanting ? 
 Captain Blackwood made answer, that he thought the 
 whole fleet seemed very clearly to understand what they 
 were about. These words were scarcely spoken before that 
 signal was made, which will be remembered as long as the 
 language, or even the memory of England, shall endure : 
 —Nelson's last signal—" ENGLAND EXPECTS 
 EVERY MAN TO DO HIS DUTY!" It was received 
 throughout the fleet with a shout of answering acclamation, 
 made sublime by the spirit which it breathed and the feel- 
 ing which it expressed. "Now," said Lord Nelson, "I 
 can do no more. We may trust to the great Disposer of 
 all events, and the justice of our cause. I thank God for 
 this great opportunity of doing my duty." 
 
 He wore that day, as usual, his admiral's frockcoat, 
 bearing on the left breast four stars, of the different orders 
 with which he was invested. Ornaments which rendered 
 him so conspicuous a mark for the enemy were beheld with 
 ominous apprehension by his officers. It was known that 
 there were rifle-men on board the French ships, and it 
 could not be doubted but that his life would be particularly 
 aimed at. They communicated their fears to each other; 
 and the surgeon, Mr. Beatty, spoke to the chaplain. Dr. 
 Scott, and to Mr. Scott, the public secretary, desiring that 
 some person would entreat him to change his dress, or 
 cover the stars ; but they knew that such a request would 
 highly displease him. " In honour I gained them," he had 
 said, when such a thing had been hinted to him formerly, 
 " and in honour 1 will die with them." A long swell was 
 netting into the Bay of Cadiz; our ships crowding all sail, 
 moved majestically before it, with light winds from the 
 south-west. The sun shone on the sails of the enemy: and 
 their well-formed line, with their numerous three-deckers, 
 made an appearance which any other assailants would have 
 thought formidable ; — but the British sailors only admired 
 the beauty and splendour of the spectacle; and, in full 
 confidence of winning what they saw, remarked to each 
 
 other, "what a fine sight yonder ships would make at 
 Spithead!" 
 
 The French admiral, from the Bucentaure, beheld the 
 new manner in which his enemy was advancing — Nelson 
 and CoUingwood each leading his line; and pointing them 
 out to his officers, he is said to have exclaimed, that such 
 conduct could not fail to be successful. Yet Villeneuve 
 had made his own dispositions with the utmost skill, and 
 the fleets under his command waited for the attack with 
 peifect coolness. 
 
 Nelson's column was steered about two points more to 
 the north than Colliagwood's, in order to cut off the 
 enemy's escape into Cadiz; the lee-line, therefore, was 
 first engaged. " See," cried Nelson, pointing to the Royal 
 Sovereign, as she steered right for the centre of the enemy's 
 line, cut through it astern of the Santa Anna, three-deck- 
 er, and engaged her at the muzzle of her guns on the star- 
 board side; "see how that noble fellow CoUingwood 
 carries his ship into action !" CoUingwood, delighted 
 at being first in the heat of the fire, and knowing the feel- 
 ings of his commander and old friend, turned to his captain 
 and exclaimed, "Rotherham, what would Nelson give to 
 be here!" 
 
 The enemy continued to fire a gun at a time at the 
 Victory, till they saw that a shot had passed through her 
 main-top-gallant sail ; then they opened their broadsides, 
 aiming chiefly at her rigging, in the hope of disabling her 
 before she could close with them. Nelson, as usual, had 
 hoisted several flags, lest one should be shot away. The 
 enemy showed no colours till late in the action, when they 
 began to feel the necessity of having them to strike. For 
 this reason, the Santissima Trinidad, Nelson's old ac- 
 quaintance, as he used to caliber, was distinguishable only 
 by her four decks; and to the bow of this opponent he 
 ordered the Victory to be steered. Meantime an inces- 
 sant raking fire was kept up upon the Victory. The 
 admiral's secretary was one of the first who fell; he was 
 killed by a cannon-shot while conversing with Hardy. 
 Captain Adair of the marines, with the help of a sailor, 
 endeavoured to move the body from Nelson's sight, who 
 had a great regard for Mr. Scott; but he anxiously asked 
 — " Is that poor Scott that's gone ?" and being informed 
 that it was indeed so, exclaimed, " Poor fellow !" Pre- 
 sently a double-headed shot struck a party of marines, who 
 were drawn up on the poop, and killed eight of them ; 
 upon which Nelson immediately desired Captain Adair 
 to disperse his men round the ship, that they might not 
 suffer so much from being together. A few minutes 
 afterwards a shot struck tha fore-brace-bits on the quarter- 
 deck, and passed between Nelson and Hardy, a splinter 
 from the bit tearing off Hardy's buckle and bruising his 
 foot. Both stopped, and looked anxiously at each other, 
 each supposing the other to be wounded. Nelson then 
 
 102 
 
smiled, and said, " This is too warm work, Hardy, to last 
 long." 
 
 The Victory had not yet returned a single gun ; fifty of 
 her men had been by this time killed oi wounded, and her 
 main-top-mast, with all her studding-sails and their booms, 
 shot away. Nelson declared, that, in all his battles, he had 
 seen nothing which surpassed the cool courage of his crew 
 on this occasion. At four minutes after twelve she opened 
 her fire from both sides of her deck. It was impossible to 
 Ireak the enemy's line without running on board one of 
 their ships: Hardy informed him of this, and asked him 
 which he would prefer. Nelson replied, " Take your 
 choice, Hardy, it does not signify much." The master was 
 ordered to put the helm to port, and the Victory ran on 
 board the Redoubtable, just as her tiller ropes were shot 
 away. The French ship received her with a broadside ; 
 then instantly let down her lower-deck ports, for fear of 
 being boarded through them, and never afterwards fired a 
 great gun during the action. Her tops, like those of all the 
 enemy's ships, were filled with ritiemen. Nelson never 
 placed musketry in his tops; he had a strong dislike to the 
 practice, not merely because it endangers setting fire to the 
 sails, but .also because it is a murderous sort of warfare, by 
 which individuals may sufi'er, and a commander now and 
 then be picked off, though it never can decide the fate of a 
 general engagement. 
 
 Captain Harvey, in the Temeraire, fell on board the 
 Redoubtable on the other side. Another enemy was in like 
 manner on board the Temeraire : so that these four ships 
 formed as compact a tier as if they had been moored toge- 
 ther, their heads lying all the same way. The lieutenants of 
 the Victory seeing this, depressed their guns of the middle 
 and lower decks, and fired with a diminished charge, lest the 
 shot should pass through and injure the Temeraire. And 
 because their was danger that the Redoubtable might take 
 fire from the lower-deck guns, the muzzle of which touched 
 her side when they were run out, the fire-man of each gun 
 stood ready with a bucket of water, which, as soon as the 
 gun was discharged, he dashed into the hole made by the 
 shot. An incessant fire was kept up from the Victory, from 
 both sides ; her larboard guns playing upon the Bucentaure 
 and the huge Santissima Trinidad. 
 
 It had been part of Nelson's prayer, that the British 
 fleet might be distinguished by humanity in the victory 
 which he expected. Setting an example himself, he twice 
 gave orders to cease firing upon the Redoubtable, supposing 
 that she had struck, because her great guns were silent; for 
 as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly as- 
 certaining the fact. From this ship, whichhe had thus twice 
 spared, he received his death. A ball fired from her mizen- 
 top, which, in the then situation of the two vessels, was not 
 more than fifteen yards from that part of the deck where he 
 was standing, struck the epaulette on his left shoulder, 
 about a quarter after one, just iu the heatof the action. He 
 
 fell upon his face on the spot which was covered with his 
 poor secretary's blood. Hardy, who was a few steps from 
 him, turning round, saw three men raising him up — " They 
 have done for me at last, Hardy!" said he. — "I hope not!" 
 cried Hardy. — "Yes!" he replied; "my back-bone is shot 
 through." Yet even now, not for a moment losing his 
 pre»ence of mind, he observed, as they were carrying him 
 down the ladder, that the tiller-ropes, which had been shot 
 away, were not yet replaced, and ordered that new ones 
 should be rove immediately: — then, that he might not be 
 seen by the crew, he took out his handkerchief, and covered 
 his face and his stars. — Had he but concealed these badges 
 of honour from the enemy, England perhaps would not 
 have had cause to receive with sorrow the news of the battle 
 of Trafalgar. The^ cockpit was crowded with wounded and 
 dying men; over whose bodies he was with some difficulty 
 conveyed, and laid upon a pallet in the midshipman's berth. 
 It was soon perceived, upon examination, that the wound 
 was mortal. This, however, was concealed from all. except 
 Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants. 
 He himself being certain, from the sensation in his back, 
 and the gush of blood he felt momently within his breast, 
 that no human care could avail him, insisted that the 
 surgeon should leave him, and attend to those to whom he 
 might be useful : " For," said he, " you can do nothing for 
 me."— All that could be done was to fan him with paper, 
 and frequently to give him lemonade, to alleviate his 
 intense thirst. He was in great pain, and expressed much 
 anxiety for the event of the action, which now began to 
 declare itself. As often as a ship struck, the crew of the 
 Victory hurraed ; and at every hurra, a visible expression 
 of joy gleamed in the eye and marked the countenance of 
 the dying hero. But he became impatient to see Captain 
 Hardy ; and as that oflScer, though often sent for, could not 
 leave the deck. Nelson feared that some fatal cause prevent- 
 ed him, and repeatedly cried, "Will no one bring Hardy 
 to me? He must be killed! He is surely dead!" — An 
 hour and ten minutes elasped from the time when Nelson 
 received his wound before Hardy could come to him. They 
 shook hands in silence: Hardy in vain struggled to suppress 
 the feelings of that most painful and yet sublimest moment. 
 " Well, Hardy," said Nelson, " how goes the day with us ?" 
 " Very well," replied Hardy; "ten ships have struck, but 
 five of the van have tacked, and show an intention to bear 
 down upon the Victory. I have called two or three of our 
 fresh ships round, and have no boubt of giving them a 
 drubbing." " I hope," said Nelson, " none of our ships 
 have struck?" Hardy answered, "There is no fear of 
 that." Then, and not till then, Nelson spoke of himself 
 
 " I am a dead man, Hardy," said he; "I am going fast: 
 
 it will be all over with me soon. Come nearer to me. Let 
 my dear Lady Hamilton have my hair and all other things 
 belonging to me." Hardy observed, that he hoped Mr. 
 Beatty could yet holdout some prospect of life. " Oh no!" 
 
 103 
 
he replied; " it is impossible: my back is shot through; 
 Beatty will tell you so." Captain Hardy then once more 
 shook hands with him; and, with a heart almost bursting, 
 hastened upon deck. 
 
 By this time all feeling below the breast was gone ; and 
 Nelson, having made the surgeon ascertain this, said to 
 him, " You know I am gone. I know it. I feel 
 something rising in my breast" — putting his hand on his 
 left side — " which tells me so." And upon Beatty's 
 inquiring whether his pain was very great ? he replied, 
 " So great that he wished he was dead. Yet," said he in 
 a lower voice, " one would like to live a little longer too !" 
 And after a few minutes, in the same under tone, he added, 
 " What would become of poor Lady Hamilton if she 
 knew my situation?" — Next to his country she occupied 
 his thoughts. Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he 
 left the cockpit, returned ; and, again taking the hand of 
 his dying friend and commander, congratulated him on 
 having gained a complete victory. How many of the 
 enemy were taken, he did not know, as it was impossible 
 to perceive them distinctly; but fourteen or fifteen at 
 least, " That's well," cried Nelson, " but I bargained for 
 twenty." And then, in a stronger voice, he said, " Anchor, 
 Hardy — anchor." Hardy, upon this, hinted that Admiral 
 CoUingwood would take upon himself the direction of 
 affairs. " Not while I live. Hardy," said the dying 
 Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to raise himself from 
 the bed : do you anchor." His previous order for 
 preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw 
 the necessity of this. Presently calling Hardy back, he 
 said to him in a low voice, " Don't throw me overboard ;" 
 and he desired that he might be buried by his parents, 
 unless it should please the king to order otherwise. Then 
 reverting to private feelings ; " Take care of my dear 
 Lady Hamilton, Hardy ; — take care of poor Lady 
 Hamilton. — Kiss me. Hardy," said he. Hardy knelt 
 down and kissed his cheek ; and Nelson said, "Now I am 
 satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty." Hardy 
 stood over him in silence for a moment or two, then knelt 
 again, and kissed his forehead. "Who is that?" said 
 Nelson : and being informed, he replied, " God bless you. 
 Hardy. ' And Hardy then left him — for ever. 
 
 Nelson now desired to be turned upon his right side, 
 and said, " I wish I had not left the deck; for I shall soon 
 be gone." Death was indeed rapidly approaching. He 
 said to the chaplain, "Doctor, I have not been a yreat 
 sinner ;" and after a short pause, " Remember that I 
 leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter Horatiaas a legacy 
 to my country." His articulation now became difficult; 
 but he was distinctly heard to say, " Thank God, I have 
 done my duty !" These words he repeatedly pronounced, 
 and they were the last words which he uttered. He 
 expired at thirty minutes after four — three hours and a 
 quarter after he had received his wound. 
 
 Within a quarter of an hour after Nelson was wounded, 
 above fifty of the Victory's men fell by the enemies' 
 musketry. They, however, on their part, were not idle; 
 and it was not long before there were only two Frenchmen 
 left alive on the mizen-top of the Redoubtable. — One of 
 them was the man who had given the fatal wound : he did 
 not live to boast of what he had done. An old quarter- 
 master had seen him fire, and easily recognized him, 
 because he wore a glazed cocked hat and a white frock. 
 This quarter-master and two midshipmen, Mr. CoUingwood 
 and Mr. Pollard, were the only persons left in the 
 Victory's poop ; — the two midshipmen kept firing at the 
 top, and he supplied them with cartridges. One of the 
 Frenchmen, attempting to make his escape down the 
 rigging, was shot by Mr. Pollard, and fell on the poop. 
 But the old quarter-master, as he cried out, " That's he — 
 .nat's he," and pointed at the other, who was coming 
 forward to fire again, received a shot in his mouth, and fell 
 dead. Both the midshipmen then fired at the same time, 
 and the fellow dropped in the top. When they took 
 possession of the prize, they went into the mizen top, and 
 found him dead, with one ball through his head and 
 another through his breast. 
 
 The Redoubtable struck within twenty minutes after the 
 fatal shot had been fired from her. During that time she 
 had been twice on fire — in her forechains and in her 
 forecastle. The French, as they bad done in other 
 battles, made use, in this, of fire-balls and other combusti- 
 bles — implements of destruction, which other nations, 
 from a sense of honour and humanity, have laid aside; 
 which add to the sufferings of the wounded, without 
 determining the issue of the combat ; which none but the 
 cruel would employ, and which never can be successful 
 against the brave. Once they succeeded in setting fire, 
 from the Redoubtable, to some ropes and canvass on the 
 Victory's booms. The cry ran through the ship, and 
 reached the cockpit ; but even this dreadful cry produced 
 no confusion : the men displayed that perfect self-possessi- 
 on in danger by which English seamen are characterized: 
 they extinguished the flames on board their own ship, 
 and then hastened to extinguish them in the enemy, by 
 throwing buckets of water from the gangway. 
 
 The Spaniards began the battle with less vivacity than 
 their unworthy allies, but they continued it with greater 
 firmness. The Argonauta and Bahama were defended 
 till they had each lost about four hundred men: the St. 
 Juan Nepomuceno lost three hundred and fifty. Often as 
 the superiority of British courage has been proved against 
 France upon the seas, it was never more conspicuous than 
 in this discisive conflict. Five of our ships were engaged 
 muzzle to muzzle, with five of the French. In all five the 
 Frenchmen lowered their lower-deck ports, and deserted 
 their guns ; while our men continued deliberately to load 
 and fire, till they had made the victory securs 
 
 lOi 
 
Once, amidst his sufferings, Nelson liad expressed a wish 
 that he were dead ; but immediately the spirit subdued the 
 pains of death, and he wished to live a little longer — doubt- 
 less that he might hear the completion of the victory which 
 he had seen so gloriously begun. This desire was granted, 
 and the last guns which were fired at the flying enemy were 
 heard a minute or two before he expired. The ships which 
 were thus flying were four of the enemy's van, all French 
 under Rear-Admiral Dumanoir. They had borne no part 
 in the action; and now, when they were seeking safety in 
 flight, they fired not only into the Victory and Koyal 
 Sovereign as they passed, but poured their broadsides into 
 the Spanish captured ships ; and they were seen to back 
 their top-sails for the purpose of firing with more pre- 
 cision. The indignation of the Spaniards at this detestable 
 cruelty from their allies, for whom they had fought so 
 bravely, and so profusely bled, may well be conceived. 
 It was such, that when, two days after the action, seven of 
 the ships which had escaped into Cadiz came out, in hopes 
 of retaking some of the disabled prizes, the prisoners in the 
 Argonauta, in a body, offered their services to the British 
 prize-master, to man the guns against any of the French 
 ships, saying, that if a Spanish ship came alongside, they 
 would quietly go below ; but they requested that they 
 might be allowed to fight the French, in resentment for 
 the murderous usage which they had suffered at their 
 hands. Such was their earnestness, and such the im- 
 plicit confidence which could be placed in Spanish honour, 
 that the offer was accepted, and they were actually stationed 
 at the lower deck-guns. Dumanoir and his squadron were 
 not more fortunate than the fleet from whose destruction 
 they fled: they fell in with Sir Richard Strachan, who was 
 cruising for the Rochefort squadron, and were all taken. 
 
 The total British kss in the battle of Trafalgar amounted 
 to 1587. Twenty of the enemy struck; — unhappily the 
 fleet did not anchor, as Nelson, almost with his dying 
 breath, had enjoined; a gale came on from the south-west; 
 some of the prizes went down, some went on shore ; one 
 effected its escape into Cadiz ; others were destroyed ; four 
 only were saved, and those by the greatest exertions. The 
 wounded Spaniards were sent ashore, an assurance being 
 given that they should not serve till regularly exchanged ; 
 and the Spaniards, with a generous feeling, which would 
 not, perhaps, have been found in any other people, offered 
 the use of their hospitals for our wounded, pledging the ho- 
 nour of Spain that they should be carefully attended there.. 
 When the storm, afteh the action, drove some of the prizes 
 upon the coast, they declared that the English, who were 
 thus thrown into taair itWiis, should not be considered as 
 prisoners of war; and the Spanish soldiers gave up their 
 own beds to their shipwrecked enemies. The Spanish 
 vice-admiral, Alva, died of his wounds. Villeneuve was 
 sent to England, and permitted to return to France. The 
 French government say that he destroyed himself on the 
 
 way to Paris, dreading the consequences of a court-martial. 
 — It is almost superfluous to add, that all the honours which 
 a grateful country could bestow were heaped upon the 
 memory of Nelson. His brother was made an earl, with a 
 grant of £6000 a-year ;— £10,000 were voted to each of his 
 sisters, and £100,000 for the purchase of an estate. A 
 public funeral was decreed, and a public monument. Sta- 
 tues and monuments also were voted by most of our princi- 
 pal cities. The leaden cofiin in which he was brought 
 home was cut in pieces, which were distributed as relics 
 of Saint Nelson — so the gunner of the Victory called them ; 
 and when, at his interment, his flag was about to be 
 lowered into the grave, the sailors who assisted at the cere- 
 mony, with one accord rent it in pieces, that each might 
 preserve a fragment while they lived. 
 
 The death of Nelson was felt in England as something 
 more than a public calamity: men started at the intelligence, 
 and turned pale, as if they had heard the loss of a dear 
 friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our 
 pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us ; and it 
 seemed as if we had never till then known how deeply we 
 ^oved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in 
 its great naval hero — the greatest of our own, and of all 
 former times, was scarcely taken into the account of grief. 
 So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that the 
 maritime war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at 
 an end: the fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but 
 destroyed ; new navies must be built, and a new race of sea- 
 men reared for them, before the possibility of their invading 
 our shores could again be contemplated. It was not, 
 therefore, from any selfish reflection upon the magnitude of 
 our loss that we mourned for him : the general sorrow 
 was of a higher character. The people of England grieved 
 that funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, and pos- 
 thumous rewards, were all which they could now bestow 
 upon him, whom the king, the legislature, and the nation, 
 would have alike delighted to honour ; whom every tongue 
 would have blessed ; whose presence in every village through 
 which he might have passed would have wakened the 
 church-bells, have given school-boys a holiday, have drawn 
 children from their sports to gaze upon him, and " old men 
 from the chimney corner," to look upon Nelson ere they 
 died. The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, 
 with the usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without 
 joy ; for such already was the glory of the British navy, 
 through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely seem- 
 ed to receive any addition from the most signal victory 
 that ever was achieved upon the seas ; and the destruction 
 of this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime schemes of 
 France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add to 
 our security or strength ; for, while Nelson was living to 
 watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt our- 
 selves as secure as now when they were no longer in 
 existence. Southky. 
 
 IU5 
 
REBECCA. 
 
 Alonk, a captive, and a stranger. 
 
 She sat within the Christian's tower, 
 The Jewish maid, in grief and danger. 
 
 But stedfast in her trial hour. 
 In her dark eye was not a tear, 
 
 Pale was her cheek, though little moved, 
 Cold as the marble that we rear 
 
 To guard the relics of the loved. 
 
 •' There is a pain upon my soul, 
 
 It speaks of grief, it speaks of death ; 
 My beating heart knows no control, 
 
 And almost stays my labouring breath. 
 My spirit can but ill sustain 
 
 The thoughts of this my hour of wo; 
 They rend my heart, they fire my brain ; 
 
 I bid them, but they will not go. 
 
 " My father: I am bound to thee 
 
 With more than nature's common ties ; 
 Thy aid in life I hop'd to be. 
 
 The light of thine expiring eyes. 
 Though this sad joy the oppressor's power 
 
 Forbids, yet love is still the same : 
 And well I know in life's last hour 
 
 Thy lips will bless Rebecca's name. 
 
 " My father ! though to thee and Heaven 
 
 My thoughts are due, are due alone; 
 Yet be it, if a sin, forgiven 
 
 One other secret thought to own. 
 One name with thine and Heaven's hath been 
 
 Lov'd, treasur'd, pray'd for, all in vain ; 
 That name is thine, young Nazarene ! 
 
 I ne'er will speak that name again. 
 
 " To think of thee as I have thought 
 
 Was surely folly, if not guilt; 
 Yet virtue's self no stain had caught 
 
 From feelings such as I have felt. 
 For what am I ? and what art thou ? 
 
 Of adverse faith, and adverse birth ; 
 And I resign thy memory now, 
 
 To have my spirit free from earth. 
 
 " Yes, I resign it ! be thou blest : 
 
 Farewell! but never think of me ; 
 I would not dwell within thy breast 
 
 A thing unlov'd, contemn'd, by thee 1 
 For well I know thy haughtier lot 
 
 Despises Judah's banner torn ; 
 And it were bliss to be forgot, 
 
 Ere be thy pity or thy scorn. 
 
 " My pain is past, my struggle over; 
 
 My father, take thy child's last blessing ; 
 May heaven within my heart discover 
 
 No thought unworthy its possessing 
 Now as the bird of morning springs 
 
 To hail the light, and upward soars, 
 My earth-tir'd spirit spreads its wings 
 
 To meet the heaven that it adores.*' 
 
 MIGRATION OF BIRDS. 
 
 When Autumn scatters his departing gleams. 
 Warned of approaching Winter, gathered, play 
 The swallow people ; and tossed wide around. 
 O'er the calm sky, in convolution swift 
 The feathered eddy floats : rejoicing once. 
 Ere to their winter slumbers they retire ; 
 In clusters clung, beneath the mouldering bank, 
 And where, unpierced by frost, the cavern sweats, 
 Or rather into warmer climes conveyed, 
 VVith other kindred birds of season, there 
 They twitter cheerful, till the vernal months 
 Invite them welcome back : for thronging, now 
 Innumerous wings are in commotion all. 
 
 Where the Rhine loses his majestic force 
 In Belgian plains, won from the raging deep 
 By diligence amazing, and the strong 
 Unconquerable hand of liberty. 
 The stork assembly meets : for many a day, 
 Consulting deep, and various, ere they take 
 Their arduous voyage through the liquid sky. 
 And now, their route designed, their leader chosen, 
 Tbeir tribes adjusted, cleaned their vigorous wings. 
 And many a circle, many a short essay, 
 Wheeled round and round,--in congregation full 
 The figured flight ascends ; and, riding high 
 The aerial billows, mixes with the clouds. 
 
 Or where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, 
 Boils round the naked, melancholy isles 
 Of farthest Thule, and the Atlantic surge 
 Pours in among the stormy Hebrides ; 
 Who can recount what transmigrations there 
 Are annual made ? — what nations come and go ? 
 And how the living clouds on clouds arise ? 
 Infinite wings ! till all the plume-dark air 
 And rude resounding shore are one wild cry. 
 Here the plain harmless native his small flock, 
 And herd diminutive, of many hues. 
 Tends on the little island's verdant swell, 
 The shepherd's sea-girt reign ; or, to the rocks 
 Dire clinging, gathers his ovarious food ; 
 Or sweeps the fishy shore; or treasured up 
 The plumage, rising full, to form the bed 
 Of luxury. Thompson. 
 
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LA ROSIERE: 
 
 OR THE TRIUMPH OF GOODNESS. 
 
 " Loving she is, and tractable, though wild ; 
 
 And innocence hath privilege in her 
 
 To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 In France there is an old and very graceful custom, 
 called the fete of la Rosiere. On this occasion those in 
 authority publicly present a garland of roses to the best 
 and most beautiful girl in the village. This custom had 
 its origin deep in national feeling and true morality; but, 
 alas ! wheresoever human passions can creep in, they leave 
 their smile upon the roses of life — the fete of la Rosiere, 
 like other triumphs, too often becomes an affair of jealous 
 rivalry and petty intrigue. 
 
 Angelique Duroy was one of the prettiest of her be- 
 witching countrywomen. Her clear, dark eye was neither 
 flashing nor languid — it had a quiet, deep expression, 
 brilliant yet thoughtful; her complexion inclined to olive; 
 but the perpetual colour that mantled there, gave her cheek 
 the tempting ripeness of tropical fruit ; while the laugh- 
 ing dimples on either side came and went, like whirlpools 
 in a sunny stream. Every thing in her look and motion 
 argued an exuberance of life and happiness. Her voice 
 had the clear, gushing melody of the thrush, her little 
 nimble graceful feet made one think of a swallow just ready 
 to take wing; and altogether she was so small, so airy, so 
 pretty, so gay, and so musical, that I am sure if her soul 
 transmigrate, it will pass into a yellow bird, or a Java 
 sparrow. 
 
 The young men all admired Angelique, because she 
 was so lady-like and unaffected; the old people loved her 
 becau-se she was such a good child to her parents, and 
 always so kind and respectful to the aged — while the 
 children, when asked, were always ready to say, "We love 
 Angelique best, because she is always so good-natured and 
 obliging, and she knows how to make us so many pretty 
 things." Indeed, Angelique was famous for her ingenuity 
 and industry. After examining any thing, she always 
 found out how to do it without being taught; and what she 
 did, she always did well. The prettiest dresses and bon- 
 nets in the village were made by her; and her artificial 
 flowers were so natural, that I think the very honey-bees 
 would have been deceived by them. Some told her if she 
 went to Paris she would make a fortune by her ingenuity ; 
 but Angelique blushed, and said she had rather live with 
 her good mother, than grow rich among strangers. 
 
 It is strange this artless Jittle French girl should have 
 enemies; for she never had an uncommonly pretty cap, 
 or garland, that she was not perfectly willing to make her 
 
 young companions one just like it ; but great gifts, if 
 borne ever so meekly, do excite envy — Angelique had her 
 enemies. The daughter of the Maire of the village was 
 eight or nine years older than Angelique; and she never 
 from her childhood had been either pretty or amiable. 
 She was very rich, very idle, very haughty, and very 
 jealous. It vexed her that her fairy neighbour, unadorned, 
 save by her own tasteful industry, should be so much more 
 admired than she was, with all her jewellery, and Pari- 
 sian fiuery. Besides, she bad long been in love with the 
 son of a wealthy proprietaire ; and this young man, when 
 urged by his father to make suit to so great an heiress, 
 openly declared that his affections were engaged to Ange- 
 lique. This made the father very angry — he called it a 
 boyish passion. "Antoinette is the only child of the Maire, 
 and he has immense wealth and high character ; will you 
 give up such an union, when father and daughter both 
 evidently wish for it, merely for the sake of a pretty play- 
 thing, a giddy little butterfly, like Angelique Duroy ?" 
 said he. 
 
 The young man insisted that Angelique was as good as 
 she was pretty; and that she was also industrious, modest, 
 and noble-hearted. "As a proof of it," continued he, 
 " every one in the village, except Antoinette, says the 
 Cure will crown her at the fete of la Rosiere." 
 
 The proprietaire was a kind-hearted, wise, old man; 
 his neighbours called him odd, but bis oddity was always of 
 a benevolent kind. "Well, Jacques," said he, " if you 
 think the girl has so many good qualities, besides herprettv 
 looks, your choice will meet with my approbation. I know 
 Angelique has resolutely refused to receive any attention 
 from you without the knowledge and approbation of her 
 mother and myself — this speaks well — but how do you 
 know that the young lady will smile upon your suit?" 
 
 Jacques looked down, blushed very slightly, hesitated 
 
 then looked up with an arch look, and said, " If she knew 
 you gave your approbation, I, at least, might try." 
 
 The old man smiled — " Well, well," said he, "I see how 
 it is. The girl, though not rich, is highly respectable. I 
 will attend the fete of la Rosiere ; you shall dance with the 
 crowned fair one, and if 1 think she deserve this distinc- 
 tion, Angelique shall be to me as a daughter." 
 
 Jacques knelt down, and kissed his father's hand with 
 overflowing gratitude. He had not expected to gain his 
 point so easily ; for he knew his father had very much set 
 his heart upon joining his estates to those of the Maire. 
 "You are the best father in the world!" exclaimed he. 
 " You call me so Jacques — the world will say I am an old 
 fool; but after all, what do we live for, if not for hap- 
 piness ?" 
 
 Away went the young man, in the fulness of his joy, 
 to impart the tidings to Angelique; and she, above all 
 petty coquetry, heard it with unaffected delight. 
 
 The fete of la Rosiere was anxiously awaited. Every 
 
 JU7 
 
body 80 often repeated that Angelique would certainly be 
 crowned, for she was la plus belle et la plus bonne, that 
 modest as she was, she could act help expecting it. The 
 important day came — aud who do you think was crowned? 
 Antoinette, the ugly, idle daughter of the Maire ! she was 
 crowned the best and most beautiful ! The Maire gave a 
 great ball that night. Augeiique went; for she was above 
 showing any resentment. She saw Jacques dancing with 
 la Rosiere — she saw that his father observed her closely ; 
 and though she could not be gay, she was cheerful and 
 dignified. Antoinette whispered to her companions, " See 
 what bold airs she puts on : I should think she would be 
 mortified, when she and eill her friends have been boasting 
 that she would be crowned." The old proprietaire heard 
 one or two such speeches as this, and he shook his head 
 expressively. He disappeared from the room a short 
 time; while he was gone, his sister, a maiden lady, came 
 up to Angelique : " My dear child," said she, " there is 
 something wrong about this affair — all the village said you 
 would be crowned." " My friends flattered me," said 
 Angelique, modestly; " I knew they thought more highly 
 of me than I deserved.*' " But think of crowning 
 Antoinette!" continued the lady — " Such an ugly, sluttish 
 thing as she is !" 
 
 " Her dress is very becoming," said Angelique ; " and I 
 think she is the best dancer in the room :" the tears came 
 to her eyes as she said this ; for Jacques was again dancing 
 with la Rosiere, and her garland of Provence roses was 
 very beautiful. 
 
 Angelique retired very early that night— not without a 
 kind look from Jacques, and an expression of benevolent 
 approbation from the old proprietaire and his maiden 
 sister. As soon as she reached her own little bed-room, 
 she knelt down, and bursting into tears, prayed that all 
 envious and repining thoughts might be subdued within 
 her heart. The prayer proved to be a strength and a 
 consolation; and she soon sunk to sleep as sweetly as an 
 infant. 
 
 Jacques came the next day. He was loud in his com- 
 plaints. He said the whole village was indignant about 
 it. Much good might the crown of roses do Miss An- 
 toinette ! — Nobody thought she deserved it. He knew one 
 thing, the Maire had given the Cure a splendid suit of 
 clothes just before the/efe/ and he himself had seen An- 
 toinette's diamond ring on his finger. No wonder the 
 Cure gave the crown to a rich man's daughter, " Nay, I 
 do not think the Cure could do so wrong as to take bribes 
 from any body," replied Angelique; "and I beg you will 
 not say so." " All the village think so," replied Jacques ; 
 "and they always will think so. I danced with her, 
 because my father said it would give offence if I did not, on 
 such an occasion ; but I will never dance with her again." 
 " I am sure she is one of the best dancers I ever saw," 
 answered Angelique. 
 
 Anomaly. — It is a remarkable anomaly, that those who 
 possess the power and disposition to make others happy, are 
 but too frequently uncomfortable themselves; while those 
 who are a perpetual annoyance wherever they go, seem to 
 have a " widow's cruise" of comfort in their inordinate self- 
 esteem. 
 
 Nothing soothed by her gentleness, Jacques went away 
 more indignant than ever, that so good a girl should be 
 thus wronged. 
 
 A week or two alter, a great ball was given by the pro- 
 prietaire. He himself called to invite Angelique: and in 
 the intervening time, hardly a day passed without his spend- 
 ing an hour or two at her parent's dwelling. The more he 
 saw of her, the more he was convinced that she was a good 
 girl, and worthy of his son. When the evening of the ball 
 arrived, Angelique and her family were received at his large 
 mansion with distinguished kindness. "Before the danc- 
 ing begins, I have a whim to be gratified," said the kind- 
 hearted, but eccentric old man. There was a universal 
 hum of assent among the assembly ; for the wealthy old 
 laudlord was very popular ; and a proposition of his could 
 at any time be carried by acclamation in the village. The 
 old gentleman smiled, and holding up a wreath of roses and 
 orange-buds, he said, "There were once two Popes in the 
 church; why should there not be two crowned ^allosiere ?" 
 As he spoke, he placed the garland on the head of An- 
 gelique. " I crown her, because I have proved that she 
 cannot be tempted to speak ill of a rival," said he ; "the 
 roses are my own gift — the orange-buds came from a 
 younger hand." Angelique blushed crimson : for orauge- 
 buds form the bridal wreath in France. She looked up 
 timidly : Jacques was at her side, the music, struck up 
 " C'est V amour, r amour," aud the exulting lover led her 
 to the dance amid the applauses of the guests. 
 
 Angelique afterwards found that the good maiden lady 
 had been instructed to try her generosity, and that the father 
 of Jacques had been a concealed listener to her replies. 
 
 Antoinette was not invited to the proprietaire' s ball. 
 He said he had learned instances of her art ana selfishness, 
 which had destroyed all esteem for her; but that he would 
 not openly insult her by the triumph of one she had always 
 tried to injure. 
 
 Soon after, Angelique actually wore the white veil and 
 the orange-buds, to the village church, and the Maire and 
 his daughter left a place where they had never been popu- 
 lar, and now were odious. By the influence of the proprie- 
 taire, a new Cure was appointed before the next fete of la 
 Rosiere. 
 
 108 
 
"^ THE LADY IN WHITE. 
 
 When I was a young boy, I had delicate health, and 
 was somewhat of a pensive and contemplative turn of mind : 
 it was my delight, in the long summer evenings, to slip 
 away from my noisy and more robust companions, that I 
 might walk in the shade of a venerable wood, my favourite 
 haunt, and listen to the cawing of the old rooks, who seemed 
 as fond of this retreat as I was. 
 
 One evening I sat later than usual, though the distant 
 sound of the cathedral clock had more than once warned 
 me to my home. There was a stillness in all nature that 
 I was unwilling to disturb by the least motion. From this 
 reverie 1 was suddenly startled by the sight of a tall slender 
 female, who was standing by me, looking sorrowfully and 
 steadily in my face. Slie was dressed in white, from head to 
 foot, in a fashion that I had never seen before; her garments 
 were unusually long and flowing, and rustled as she glided 
 through the low shrubs near me, as if they were made of 
 the richest silk. My heart beat as if I was dying, and I 
 knew not that I could have stirred from the spot : but she 
 seemed so very mild and beautiful I did not attempt it. 
 Her pale brown hair was braided round her head, but there 
 were some locks that strayed upon her neck ; and, alto- 
 gether, she looked like a lovely j)icture, but not like a 
 lovely woman. 1 closed my eyes forcibly with my hands, 
 and when I looked again she had vanished. 
 
 I cannot exactly say why I did not on my return speak 
 of this beautiful appearance : nor why, with a strange mix- 
 ture of hope and fear, I went again and again to the same spot, 
 that I might see her. She always came; and often in the 
 storm and splashing rain, that never seemed to touch or to 
 annoy her, looked sweetly on me, and silently passed 
 on : and though she was so near to me, that once the wind 
 lifted those light straying locks, and I felt them against my 
 cheek, yet I never could move or speak to her. I fell ill ; 
 and when 1 recovered, my mother closely questioned me ot 
 the tall lady, of whom, iu the height of my fever, I had so 
 often spoken. 
 
 I cauuot tell you what a weight was taken from my boyish 
 spirits, when I learned that this was no apparition, but a 
 lovely woman, not young, though she had kept her young 
 looks; for the grief which had broken her heart seemed to 
 have spared her beauty. 
 
 When the rebel troops were retreating after their total 
 defeat, iu that very wood I was so fond of, a young officer, 
 unable any longer to endure the anguish of his wounds, sunk 
 from his horse, and laid himself down to die. He was found 
 
 there by the daughter of Sir Henry R , and conveyed 
 
 by a trusty domestic to her father's mansion. Sir Heury 
 was a loyalist: but the oificer's desperate condition excited 
 his compassion, and his many wounds spoke a language a 
 brave man could not misunderstand. Sir Henry's daughter, 
 with many tears, pleaded for him, aud promised that he 
 
 should be carefully and secretly attended. And well she 
 kept that promise: for she waited upon him (her mother 
 being long dead) for many weeks, and anxiously watched 
 for the opening of eyes, that, languid as he was, looked 
 brightly and gratefully upon his young nurse. 
 
 You may fancy, better than I can tell you, as he slowly 
 recovered, all the moments that were spent in reading, and 
 low-voiced singing, aud gentle playing on the lute; and 
 how many fresh flowers were brought to one whose wound- 
 ed limbs would not bear him to gather them for himself; 
 and how calmly the days glided on in the blessedness of 
 returning health, and in that sweet silence so carefully 
 enjoined him. I will pass by this, to speak of one day, 
 which, brighter and pleasanter than others, did not seem 
 more bright or more lovely than the looks of the young 
 maiden, as she gaily spoke of" a little festival which, 
 (i hough it must bear an unworthier name) she meant really 
 to give in honour of her guest's recovery ;" "And it is time, 
 lady," lady," said he, " for that guest, so tended and so 
 honoured, to tell you his whole story, and speak to you of 
 one who will help to thank you: may I ask you, fair lady, 
 to write a little billet for me, which, even in these times of 
 danger, I may find some means to forward." To his mo- 
 ther, no doubt, she thought, as with light steps aud a lighter 
 heart she seated herself by his couch, and smilingly bade 
 him dictate : but when he said, " My dear wife," and lilted 
 up his eyes to be asked for more, he saw before him a pale 
 statue, that gave him one look of utter despair, and fell, for 
 he had no power to help her, heavily at his feet. Those 
 eyes never truly reflected the pure soul again, or answered 
 by answering looks thefoud enquiries of her poor old father. 
 She lived to be as I saw her, sweet and gentle, and delicate 
 always : but reason returned no more. She visited till 
 the day of her death the spot where she first saw that young 
 soldier , and dressed herself in the very clothes that he said 
 so well became her. 
 
 TO THE LADIES. 
 
 Ladies, fly from love's smooth tale. 
 Oaths steep'd in tears do oft prevail ; 
 Grief is infectiou.s, and the air, 
 Inflam'd with sighs, will blast the fair. 
 Then stop your ears when lovers cry. 
 Lest yourself weep, when no soft eye 
 Shall with a sorrowing tear repay 
 That pity which you cast away. 
 
 1(19 
 
THE MINE. 
 
 They were two lovers, — 0, how much is said 
 
 In that brief praise ; how much of happiness. 
 
 Of all that makes life precious, is summ'd up 
 
 In telling they were lovers ! In this world, 
 
 In all its many pleasures, all its dreams • 
 
 Of riches, fame, ambition, there is naught 
 
 That sheds the light of young and passionate love. 
 
 Ah, its first sigh is worth all else on earth ; 
 
 That sigh may be most fugitive, may leave 
 
 A burning, broken, or a withered heart ; 
 
 It may know many sorrows, may be crost 
 
 With many cares, and all its joys may be 
 
 But rainbow glimpses seen in clouds ; yet still 
 
 That sigh breathes paradise. — Love, thou hast been 
 
 Our ruin and our heaven. Well, they loved— 
 
 Olave and his Elore ; from infancy 
 
 They had been playmates, and they ever were 
 
 Each other's shadow; but when woman's blush 
 
 Came o'er the cheek, and woman's tenderness 
 
 Shaded Elore's blue eyes, then Olave's heart 
 
 Caught deeper feeling. It was just the time 
 
 When soft vows have been breathed, and answered 
 
 By blushes, gentle sighs, the eloquent signs 
 
 Of maiden bashfulness and maiden love. 
 
 And Olave knew he was beloved; that when 
 
 The fresh spring leaves were on the firs, Elore 
 
 Would be his own indeed, 'Tis a sweet time, 
 
 This season of young passion's happiness : 
 
 The spirit revels in delicious dreams ; 
 
 The future is so beautiful, for hope 
 
 Is then all-powerful. They would often sit 
 
 For hours by their bright hearths and tell old tales 
 
 Of love, true as their own — or talk of days 
 
 Of quiet joy to come. And when the Spring 
 
 Smiled in green beauty, they would sweetly roam 
 
 By the pale moon, and in her tender light 
 
 Read the love written in each other's eyes. 
 
 And call her for a witness. 'tis bliss 
 
 To wander thus, arm link'd in arm; — a look, 
 
 A sigh, a blush, the only answer given 
 
 To the so witching tales fond lips are telling. 
 
 One eve they parted even more tenderly 
 
 Than they vpere wont to do ; but one day more, 
 
 And their fate would be link'd in a true bond 
 
 Of deep affection ; henceforth but one life • 
 
 But the next morn he came not, and Elore 
 Watched down the vale in vain ! The evening closed, 
 And by her fire-side there was solitude; 
 Morn blush'd again, and found her still alone, 
 That promised morning, whose light should have shed 
 
 Gladness o'er the sweet bride, but shone on tears. 
 
 On loneliness and terror. Days pass'd by, 
 
 But Olave came not; none knew of his fate : 
 
 It was all mystery and fear. They search'd 
 
 The valleys and the mountains, but no trace 
 
 Was left to tell of either life or death : 
 
 He had departed like a shadow. Strange 
 
 And drear were now the tales they told 
 
 In his own village : some said the snow-pit 
 
 Had been his grave, and some that he still lived; 
 
 And wild old histories were now recali'd 
 
 Of mortals loved by powerful beings, who 
 
 Bore them from earth— and Olave was so young. 
 
 So beautiful, he might well be beloved 
 
 By mountain-spirits. But, alas ! for her, 
 
 His widow'd Bride! how soon she changed from all 
 
 The beauty of her youth— her long gold hair 
 
 Lost its bright colour, and her fair blue eyes 
 
 Forgot the sunshine of their smile ; for never 
 
 Her countenance was brighten'd up again 
 
 By the heart's gladsome feelings. So she lived 
 
 A solitary thing, to whom the world 
 
 Was nothing; and she shunn'd all intercourse, 
 
 Shrunk even from the voice of soothing; all 
 
 Her earthly ties were broken, and she could 
 
 But brood o'er her great misery — 
 
 'Twas in Fahlun's deep mines a corse was found. 
 As the dark miners urged their toilsome way. 
 Preserved from all decay ; the gold locks 
 Curl'd down in rich luxuriance o'er a face 
 Pale as a statue's — cold and colourless. 
 But perfect every feature. — No one knew 
 What youth it was. The dress was not the same 
 As worn by miners, but of antique shape. 
 Such as their fathers', and they deem'd it was 
 Some stranger who had curiously explored 
 The depths of Fahlun, and the falling rock 
 Had closed him from the face of day for ever. 
 Thrice fearful grave ! They took the body up 
 And bore it to the open air, and crowds 
 Soon gather'd round to look on the fair face 
 And graceful form, yet still not one could tell 
 Aught of its history. But at length there came 
 An aged woman ;— down beside the youth 
 Trembling she knelt, and with her wither'd hands 
 
 Parted from off his face the thick bright hair 
 
 She sank upon his bosom ; one wild shriek 
 Rang with his name. — My love, my lost Olave ! 
 
 Jiiy 
 
THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 Away from me, oh restless sleep. 
 
 No happy dream breaks thy sad reign ; 
 'Tis mine to wake — to wake and weep, 
 
 Ere sunrise cheers the village-train. 
 
 Springing to light, with sweetest song 
 The young bird minstrels to the grove; 
 
 With food its mother skims along: — 
 I sob to see maternal love. 
 
 Ah, why no mother's love forme ? 
 
 Why like that nestling am not I, 
 Bending the slight twig of the tree, 
 
 As, watch' d, it balances on high ? 
 
 B ut I am desolate, alone ; 
 
 Ne'er cradled was my infant head: 
 Its first bed was a hard cold stone. 
 
 Where sleep the happier village- dead. 
 
 The children of the village play, — 
 
 Not one calls me a sister dear: 
 I hasten from their sports away, 
 
 To hide the bitter gushing tear. 
 
 The peasant careless sits at eve, 
 
 His darlings cluster'd round his knee. 
 
 And all his joy — why do I grieve? 
 There is no place, no kiss for me. 
 
 The parish-bread, the workhouse-homo, 
 There only not a stranger poor. 
 
 As through the weary world I roam. 
 Is refuge and the unshut door. 
 
 Oft to the church-yard gloom I steal, 
 Upon the conscious stone to gaze, 
 
 Where first 'twas mine, oh life, to feel 
 The miseries of thy endless maze. 
 
 Prone on its flint my eyeballs strain, 
 Affection's parting tears to trace, 
 
 Perhaps my mother shed. — In vain ! 
 My floods the record would efface. 
 
 Then wandering o'er the mound-heap'd sod, 
 I ask the tombs if, done with strife, 
 
 One friend rests there ? For me, oh God ! 
 Alike are blank, the tombs and life. 
 
 Again I throw me on the stone, 
 
 Since fourteen springs where I drew breath : 
 Come, mother, haste to claim thy own, 
 
 I wait for thee — for thee or Death ! 
 
 THE FAREWELL OF A SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 DO not blame the tears that roll 
 
 Unbidden down my cheek. 
 But them alone my anxious soul 
 
 Her griefs, her fears may speak : 
 The trumpets sounding on the hill. 
 Thy mind with dreams of glory fill — 
 
 But I, a woman weak. 
 Hear in their notes a sadder tale 
 Of woe, and death, and fruitless wail. 
 
 Nay, frown not, dearest 1 — though my heart 
 
 Should in the trial burst, 
 No sigh shall heave, no tear shall start. 
 
 For thee in silence nurst; 
 Nor shalt thou hear one boding word — 
 The prayer alone to Heaven preferr'd 
 
 Shall tell those griefs — the first, — 
 would they might the latest be 
 My love shall ever feel for thee. 
 
 When first thy plighted faith was given, 
 
 I thought not we should part ; 
 Nor till that word my heart had riven. 
 
 Knew I how dear thou art. 
 A soldier's bride thou bad'st me be,— 
 And 'twas a joyous name to me, 
 
 0, my ill-judging heart! 
 The mournful truth too well I've tried, 
 What 'tis to be a warrior's bride. 
 
 MY MORNING'S WISH. 
 
 I wish'd that two vowels were join'd 
 In wedlock so holy and true ; 
 
 I could not but think in my miud 
 That the vowels must be I and U. 
 
 I turn'd it again in my thoughts. 
 
 And turn'd myself round with a sigh; 
 
 Yet nought could I make of the two. 
 For reversed thev came U and I. 
 
 ill 
 
ENDURFNG AFFECTION. 
 
 BY L. A. H. 
 
 The story related in the following lines was told to the writer, in 
 substance, as he has presented it to the reader. In versifying 
 it, he has neither added nor omitted any material sentenct. 
 The young lady to whom it refers, laboured for several years 
 under the extraordinary delusion that forms the groundwork of 
 the tale ; and it completely absorbed every other feeling, tem- 
 poral and eternal. Toward the close of her .life, however, she 
 was led to seek that good Physician who giveth " rest unto all 
 that labour and are heavy laden," and she died in the " sure and 
 certain hope of a blessed immortality." 
 
 In days of early, happy youth, 
 
 Ere childhood's bloom of heart had fled, 
 When Nature taught us only truth, 
 
 The love was born that is not dead. 
 "We loved before we knew the name ; 
 
 And still through years of grief and gloom 
 That hallowed feeling lived the same, 
 
 And lives tho' buried in the tomb. 
 True was the love my brother bore. 
 
 As in a mind like his should dwell ; 
 I loved him, oh '. J loved him more 
 
 Than man's or woman's tongue can tell. 
 I saw him die, — but ne'er decays 
 The love that lived in happier days ; 
 Each feeling of my heart is fled. 
 That one is with the silent dead. 
 
 When all things prospered, — then his heart 
 
 Was humble as an artless child ; 
 He saw our earthly hopes depart. 
 
 And still thro' all our sorrows smiled ; 
 For then he rose above the fate, 
 
 That cannot crush a noble mind. 
 Nor gave the world his love nor hate. 
 
 And neither sought nor shunned mankind. 
 Few were his hopes, but few his fears ; 
 Hif pathway, thro' this vale of tears, 
 Was, like his own deep soul, sublime. 
 Yet noiseless as the step of time. 
 
 But I must haste to tell you how, 
 
 Before the world his worth had told. 
 Death looked not on his youthful brow, 
 
 But to his mind, and thought him old ; 
 And ere his life had well begun, 
 His brief but glorious race was run. j 
 
 One evening, ere the sun had set, I 
 
 He talked about his death again, I 
 
 And I had told him 'twas not yet , 
 
 His destiny to die— but then 
 
 A flush passed o'er his cheek, and broke 
 Jts death-like paleness, while he spoke :— 
 " Nay, nay— all hope of earth is o'er, 
 But let me see that earth once more ; 
 Let the sun smile on me and all, 
 Before his parting beauties fall, 
 And as he passes from the sky 
 And sets in glory — I wiU die.'' 
 
 'Twas early Spring — and all was gay 
 As the night struggled with the day 
 For mastery — the setting sun 
 Seem'd loth to think his labour done. 
 But he had marked the parting beam. 
 
 Had watched the day-star slowly set,— 
 Sitting beside a placid stream, — 
 
 Dying, but of the living yet. 
 The bank was fresh, and green, and gay, 
 As if it never would decay ; 
 Around him many a wild flower grew, 
 
 Passing its little life of bloom ; 
 Behind, a shadowy forest threw 
 
 A pensive shade that was not gloom, — 
 Fit emblem of my brother's mind — 
 Upon my arm his head reclined. 
 The hand that prest to mine was chill. 
 But, oh ! so gently prest me still. 
 I turned away my tears to hide. 
 
 For they had fallen his brow to steep ; 
 He prest my baud again, and sigh'd. 
 
 And bade me smile on him, not weep 
 He smiled, and look'd up in my face. 
 So faintly smiled, that I could trace 
 Death on his clammy cheek and brow ; 
 His parting glance was on me now, 
 I turned, to check the swelling sigh. 
 Then gazed, — and 1 beheld him die ! 
 The light breeze bore his parting breath 
 That green sod was his bed of death. 
 
 Ah! well I knew he would not go 
 To leave me all alone below :— ^- 
 One eve, 'twas beautiful and bright, 
 
 As that on which he passed away. 
 When 1 had gone to mark, ere night. 
 
 The grave m which my brother lay; 
 And if the flowers still blossomed fair, — 
 The few that I had planted there, — 
 To linger till the day withdrew. 
 And night had given its holier hue. 
 I knelt upon his narrow bed, 
 And pressed the clay that pressed the dead 
 There, as I wept, I heard a sounu, 
 
 So soft, methought it was the breath 
 
 112 
 
Of eve, which, gently gliding round, 
 
 Above the dull abode of death, 
 T^ echo of some grave awoke, — 
 A voice, while yet I listened, spoke— 
 " Rise, weeping child of earth — arise. 
 And gaze upon the midnight skies.'' 
 I turn'd to the voice I knew so well, 
 But my gaze upon the dark heaven fell. 
 And there a light cloud met mine eye, 
 Midway between me and the sky ; 
 That sky was of the deepest gray, 
 But the cloud was bright as the brightest day ; 
 One star was in heaven, and I could see 
 That lone star through its drapery. 
 
 I knew the voice that spoke to me, — 
 
 I knew it — I could not forget, 
 The* sweeter than it us'd to be. 
 
 The sound that lives in memory yet. 
 And while the well-known words gave birth 
 To joys that were not of this earth, 
 They mingled with a human thrill 
 Of love for him who loved me still. 
 
 I staid till night had pass'd away ; — 
 
 He spoke of such unearthly things, 
 And many a thing I must not say : — 
 
 Of realms where God, the Kings of kings, 
 Listens to never-ceasing song 
 Of angels that around him throng ; 
 Where brighten neither moon nor sun. 
 Because their day is never done. 
 And he could leave that world of light, 
 Those spirits, perfect, pure, and bright. 
 To visit this cold earth and me, — 
 
 To promise, when the soul, that now 
 
 Hath but a little while to bow 
 Beneath its weight of clay, should be 
 Unburden'd, free, and purified ; 
 That he would come and be my guide. 
 From this, a world of varied woe. 
 
 To that above yon starry skies ; 
 For sorrow tinges all below. 
 
 But there affection never dies. 
 
 An Old Campaigner. — Formerly, farmers in the 
 vicinity of Cork used to send their milk to town in large 
 churns, one on each side of a horse, between which a wo- 
 man frequently rode astride, and in that position disposed 
 of the railk to her customers. It so happened that a cast 
 dragoon horse was employed in this manner, and as he was 
 passing near a regiment of cavalry at exercise, he heard 
 the well-known sound of the trumpet, which he immedi- 
 ately obeyed, and with his woman and churns fell into the 
 ranks, to the no small terror of his rider, and amusement 
 of the spectators. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Thou beauty ! what is all the world to thee ? 
 Come, with the night-wind murmuring, to me : 
 Oh ! born not of the earth, and not to breathe 
 Thy charm in bright society ! The heath, 
 At constellated midnight, the rose-bower 
 Is all thy pleasure, and thy palace — home; 
 Thy lingering is about the purple dome ; 
 Thy travel is athwart the waveless seas ; 
 Thou lovest the gentle rivers and the trees ; 
 The stillest and the coolest, is thine hour. 
 
 Passionate music ! Round about the spheres 
 Suspend thy lute and harp, thy smiles and tears ; 
 And in thy march, omnipotent, aloud 
 Peal thy sublimer organs from the cloud : 
 Come gracefully ! And for my soul to sip, 
 Give me the breathing of thy parted lip : 
 Under the starlight let me hear thy voice, 
 For I was born thy lover, and rejoice 
 To mark thee in the multitude of woods. 
 And on the brink of the eternal floods, 
 And underneath the white sun of the night, 
 Where thou art soft and sweetest as the light. 
 
 I pray thee come, if by the lone sea-shore 
 Thou bendest o'er the waters, and the sand 
 Is smooth beneath thy small and magic hand : 
 And if thy charm is floating on the deep, 
 Or through the sparry caverns, full of sleep, 
 Breathless and calm, like sleep for evermore. 
 
 Celestial music 1 how I love thy form, 
 Bowing as doth the meek flower to the storm. 
 Thy shining arms cast upwards, and thine eye 
 Beaming like noon, oh immortality ! 
 Sweep the loud lyre, and while thy garments blue 
 Like air, and lighter than the dawn, and few, 
 Entangle the wild winds, sing thou of joy, 
 And passion, and the brave Dardanian boy. 
 With her who walked the world without a peer, 
 And was, to him who died of her, how dear ! 
 
 Stand tiptoe on the rock, and I will lie 
 Down at thy feet, and love thy minstrelsy ; 
 And dream of all the gorgeous things that were 
 Under the shadow of thy golden hair. 
 
 Time. — Time is like a creditor who allows an ample 
 space to make up accounts, but is inexorable at last. Time 
 is like a verb that can be used only in the present tense. 
 Time, well employed, gives that health and vigour to the 
 soul which rest and retirement give to the body. Time 
 never sits heavily on us but when it is badly employed. 
 Time is a grateful friend— use it well, and it never fails to 
 make a suitable requital. 
 
 ll^i 
 
THE CHESS PLAYERS. 
 
 BY THOMAS ATKINSON. 
 
 Bbhold an image of the strife 
 Which man with fortune holds for life. 
 The anxious look, the ardent heart, 
 The pondering thought, the subtle art, 
 The skill, the sharpness, touch and tact. 
 Where cunning gathers strength from fact : 
 And speculation loves to soar 
 Above the sea that has no shore. 
 Behold all these — though thrice a span 
 That boy is yet from measuring man — 
 'Tis but a step, at most a stride. 
 From boyhood meek to bearded pride. 
 
 Age thinks of youth's gay time and weeps; 
 Youth looks and laughs and forward sweeps. 
 And chants his song and sips his wine, 
 Thinks earth is heaven and man divine. 
 O'erflowed with health and strength, he braves 
 The battle shout and ocean waves, 
 Or shakes the senate in the hour 
 When virtue goes to strife with power ; 
 Or quotes old sages, makes grave saws, 
 And reads to wide earth's worms her laws; 
 Till grim Death levels, with his shafts. 
 This monarch of life's game at draughts. 
 
 REPUBLICAN MANNERS 
 ON BOARD AMERICAN STEAM-VESSELS. 
 
 " I must not omit to notice supper or tea, for itwas both, 
 and an excellent meal it was, served about eight o'clock 
 upon two parallel tables, which ran the whole length of 
 the cabin, at least one hundred and eighty feet ; and to 
 which sat down about one hundred persons, of aU ranks, 
 the richest merchants, the most eminent statesmen, and 
 the humblest mechanic, who chose to pay for a cabin 
 fare, as most of those persons who travel do. I was seated 
 with an exceeding lady-like and well-bred woman on my 
 left hand, and on my right, sat a man who, although 
 decently dressed, was evidently a working operative of the 
 humblest class ; yet there was nothing in either his manner 
 or appearance to annoy the most refined female; he asked 
 for what he wanted respectfully, performed any little 
 attention he could courteously, and evinced better breeding 
 and less selfishness than I have witnessed at some public 
 dinners at home, where the admission of such a person 
 would have been deemed derogatory. 
 
 " I do not mean by this description to infer that a crowded 
 table of this kind is as agreeable as a party whose habits, 
 
 education, and sympathies, being on a level, render inter- 
 course a matter of mutual pleasure ; what I would show is, 
 that in this mingling of classes, which is inevitable in tra- 
 velling here, there is nothing to disgust or debase man or 
 woman, however exclusive ; for it would really be impossi- 
 ble to feed a like multitude, of any rank or country, with 
 slighter breaches of decency or decorum, or throw persons 
 so wholly dissimilar together with less personal incon- 
 venience either to one class or another. 
 
 "I had been accustomed to see this set down as one of the 
 chief nuisances of travelling in this country, and the con- 
 sequences greatly exaggerated ; things must have improved 
 rapidly since, as far as I have hitherto gone. I protest I 
 prefer the steam-boat arrangements here to our owii, and 
 would back them to be considered less objectionable by any 
 candid traveller who had fairly tested both." — Power. 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF AMERICA. 
 
 " The young ladies of America appear possessed of the 
 same native, simple, yet perfectly easy manners which 
 characterize their countrywomen of the North, where in- 
 deed they are principally educated and instructed in all 
 those graceful accomplishments which embellish and refine 
 our life. It appears upon a first view strange, that, superior 
 as they are, they do not exercise a greater influence over 
 the youth of the other sex ; but this may be ascribed to the 
 fact, that they are brought out before either their judgment 
 or knowledge of the world are suflBciently matured to make 
 them aware of the existence of certain abuses, or of their 
 own power of reforming them. Then again, marrying 
 very young, they commonly quit society, in a great measure, 
 at the moment the influence of their example migth be of 
 the srreatest service to it." — Power. 
 
 ON SOME SPRIGS OF FUCHIA WITHERING. 
 
 The flowers I prized so are withered and dead, 
 Their fragrance and beauty for ever are fled ; 
 Ah ! why is it thus, that whatever we cherish. 
 Is sure to be first to wither and perish. 
 
 There's nought in this world I ever could prize. 
 But 'twas sure too early to fade from mine eyes ; 
 I never affectionately loved a dear friend 
 But something was certain our union to end. 
 
 Those fuchias' whose beauty I admired so much. 
 
 Have faded beneath cold Time's icy touch ; 
 
 In vain my endeavours to nourish them were. 
 
 They died in despite of my fostering care. M. m. h. 
 
 114 
 
WOMAN'S TRIALS. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY MRS, S. C. HALL. 
 
 " Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain ; but a woman that 
 feareth the Lord she shall be praised." 
 
 THK PROVERBS. 
 
 In one of the most highly cultivated counties of England, 
 near a town whose real name I shall conceal under that of 
 Mondrich, the following circumstances occurr„J. My 
 tale is but a simple narration, and had little to recommend 
 it but its reality. To those who yearn after exaggerated 
 pictures of life, in any situation, it may be dull and weari- 
 some ; but those who can appreciate the sufferings and 
 struggles of virtue, under trials of a more than ordinary 
 nature, lyill, I doubt not, feel interested in what I am 
 about to relate. 
 
 " Well, good night, Mr. Hinton, good night, we are 
 neighbours now, and shall often meet," said Edward 
 Hoskins, as he closed the cottage-door after his retreating 
 guest. "A very pleasant fellow, Agnes," he continued, 
 addressing his wife ; " though you were not particularly 
 civil to him, I know who was ;" and his bright blue eye 
 rested for a moment on his sister-in-law — a merry-looking 
 maiden, busied in assisting Agnes Hoskins in placing aside 
 the remains of their frugal supper. 
 
 " For shame, Ned!" retorted the blushing Jessy ; " but 
 you are ever teasing me in some way or other; and here's 
 my sister says it is very wrong to be putting such things 
 into my head." 
 
 Agnes turned her handsome, cheerful countenance 
 towards her sister, and observed, in a low and more serious 
 tone of voice than was her wont, " Jessy, I should indeed 
 be sorry if any thing got into either your head or your 
 heart which it would be necessary to root out again." 
 
 " Well," laughed Edward, " I don't see what harm 
 Harry Hinton's getting into her head, or heart either, 
 could do ; he is a good- tempered, fi-ee, frank, industri- 
 ous " 
 
 "Stop there, Edward," interrupted his wife, laying her 
 hand on his arm, " not industrious — surely not industri- 
 ous !" 
 
 " No, perhaps not that exactly," replied Ned, "not what 
 you would call industrious. But really, Agnes, I think we 
 both work too hard ; — we ought, as Harry says, take a 
 little pleasure now and then, and we should return to our 
 daily labour with more earnestness, and do all the better 
 for it." 
 
 " I don't think we need do better ; your situation at the 
 manor, the produce of your own little farm — all contribute 
 to render us independent. And as to pleasure — as to hap- 
 piness, Ned, look there 1" 
 
 She drew aside a large linen cloth that fell from the 
 upper part of her baby's cradle, so as to shade it from the 
 light. Although the little thing had not cried, it was 
 awake; and, as the father stooped to kiss it, the hands 
 were stretched forward to meet him, and the rosy lips par- 
 ted by the light noiseless laughter of earliest infancy ! It 
 was a blessed moment: both parents gazed upon their 
 child, and, as the mother placed it to her bosom, the father 
 said, in a subdued tone, " You are right, Agnes ; thank 
 God, we are happy ; and though, love, as you were better 
 brought up than I was, I should like to be richer for your 
 sake, yet somehow I think it shows you to more advantage, 
 and draws you more into my heart, to be as you are. 
 What the minister said of you was true, though I did not 
 mean to tell it you, lest it might make you conceited : — 
 'Your wife, Hoskins,' said he, ' is never without a jar of 
 honey, and a flask of oil, to sweeten and soften your path 
 through life.' " 
 
 " Reach down the Bible, Jessy; although it is past ten, 
 we must not go to bed without our chapter," observed 
 Agnes after a long pause ; " But what books are placed 
 upon it, Jessy ?" 
 
 "A volume of songs and a novel, sister." 
 
 Agnes continued, in a reproving tone, "I thought I had 
 no need to tell you that that shelf was appropriated to the 
 Bible, Prayer, and Hymn-book only ; profane and sacred 
 things should never mingle.'* 
 
 " It was not Jessy, but Hinton, who put them there," 
 said Edward. Agnes sighed. " Why do you sigh so 
 heavily ?" enquired the husband, as he turned over the 
 leaves to find one of his wife's favourite chapters. 
 
 " Because it confirms my opinion of our new neighbour. 
 The word of God will be ever treated by a true Christian 
 with outward respect— the proof of inward reverence. One 
 who venerates Scripture could not rest a song-book even 
 upon its binding," 
 
 Edward made no reply, and soon after the party retired 
 to rest. 
 
 This little passage in the lives of those humble indivi- 
 duals occurred about the latter end of the month of April, a 
 few years ago, in a retired spot, near the town of Mond- 
 rich, to which I shall give the name of Mosspits. It was a 
 sweet and quiet nesting of five cottages, inhabited, with one 
 exception, by happy industrious people. Four of these 
 dwellings were joined together; the fifth, the abode of 
 Hoskins, stood apart, surrounded by a blossoming garden, 
 and was of a larger size than the others. The scene might 
 be aptly discribed as— 
 
 " A gentle, lonely place ; the path o'ergrown 
 With primroses, and broad-leaved violets. 
 Arched by laburnums and the sweet woodbine. 
 
 115 
 
"Across the green a silver streamlet ran. 
 Hidden and silent, as it fear«>d to wake 
 The deep tranquillity that dwelt and slept 
 Even on the fuU-leaved trees." 
 
 It was far away from the public road, and one large oak 
 spread its huge branches over the green in front of the 
 Mosspit cottages ; the trunk was surrounded by a rustic 
 seat, where the inhabitants met every fine evening, and 
 discussed affairs of state or business with the affected saga- 
 city of wiser heads. Hoskins possessed, as his wife had 
 said, a lucrative situation, — one that gave them abundant 
 comforts, and would, if carefully husbanded, enable them to 
 lay by a provision for after years. 
 
 Agnes and Jessy were the orphan daughters of a Pres- 
 byterian clergyman. Mrs. Hoskins was some years older 
 than her giddy sister, and had enjoyed, during her father's 
 lifetime, many advantages which he did not remain long 
 enough in the world to bestow upon his youngest-born. 
 Agnes had been chosen by the lady of the manor, Mrs, Ce- 
 cil Wallingford, as a humble, very humble, companion for 
 her daughter — an only child, and a heiress : she was, there- 
 fore, to use the accepted phrase, " comfortably situated ;" 
 which, being interpreted, means, that she had her board, 
 washing, and lodging, and the young lady's society when 
 she was ill or without company — dined with the house- 
 keeper — rode either inside the carriage when her friend 
 pleased, or outside on the dicky when ditto — curled the 
 lap-dog's hair — and sometimes suffered, under the practi- 
 cal jokes of her young tormentor, such mortifications as 
 nought but her enduring spirit could have supported — 
 was stared at, whenever seen, by the young men, who al- 
 ready scented the heiress's gold afar off — and received 
 divers lessons from Mrs. Cecil Wallingford, not on errors 
 she had committed, but on those which the lady supposed 
 she might commit. The dependant on this purse-proud 
 family could not have been strickly called beautiful ; but 
 there was that about her which suppassed beauty — a kind, 
 yet animated countenance, illuminated by mild and fre- 
 quently upturned eyes, which lent a sort of holy expression 
 to her delicate features. Under her after-trials it seemed al- 
 most as if a heavenly communion supported her; for, 
 while the tear trembled in her eye, the smile sprang to her 
 lip, and she regained her serenity apparently without an 
 effort. 
 
 Agnes was fortunate enough to make one real friend in 
 this mighty family. The housekeeper, Mrs. Middleton, 
 was a curate's widow, and felt much and kindly for the 
 situation of one so young and unprotected ; she did all she 
 could to sofien the innumerable mortifications that awaited 
 the pure and delicately minded girl ; and often, when the 
 household had retired to rest, they would seek each other's 
 chamber, and hold sweet counsel together, thus imparting 
 cheerfulness to the aged, and instruction to the young. 
 
 When Agnes had been about twelve mouths at the manor, 
 Edward Hoskins was strongly recommended, on account 
 of his great skill in horticulture and floriculture, to the 
 situation of gardener in Mrs. Cecil Wallingford's establish- 
 ment, vacant by the death of the old man who had exerci- 
 sed unbounded dominion over grapery, pinery, and green- 
 house, for nearly half a century. Hoskins wisely brought 
 with him a new carnation of his own discovery, which had 
 gained the first prize of the Horticultural Society. The 
 splendid flower decided the matter, and he was immediate- 
 ly engaged, at a salary of a hundred and ten guineas per 
 annum (as the lady found he could not only act as gardener, 
 bu* as steward), and the very prettiest cottage at Mosspit 
 was appropriated for his residence. 
 
 AH was bustle in the servants' hall as the handsome 
 young gardener talked for a moment with the head butler. 
 The lady's maid and chief house-duster positively quarrelled 
 as to the right of first setting their caps at him; though they 
 both agreed that he behaved very rudely in passing into the 
 housekeeper's room without besowing the slightest notice 
 upon their pretty persons. Mrs. Middleton and her young 
 friend were quietly seated at tea, when the butler respect- 
 fully asked permission to introduce the new resident ; long 
 after Agnes had departed, he lingered, and lingered, and at 
 last asked who the young lady was. Her history was at once 
 told; and, to dismiss allmattersofcourtshipbriefly, they were 
 soon married. To do Mrs. Cecil Wallingford justice, she 
 behaved very generously to her portegee on the occasion, 
 presented to the young couple some neat and appropriate 
 furniture, stood godmother to their first infant, and Miss 
 Cecil Wallingford (when sentimentally inclined) always 
 talked of love in the Mosspit cottage, and her sweet humble 
 friend Agnes Hoskins, 
 
 Much had been of course said, at the commencement 
 of their union, as to the probability of Agnes being too 
 dainty a damsel to make a useful wife ; but a little time 
 proved the incorrectness of such surmises, Hoskins insisted 
 on Agnes domesticating her only sister with them, and went 
 for her to Scotland, where she had previously resided with 
 a distant relative. No further help than Jessy's was 
 necessary to keep all things in order, and no dwelling even 
 at the Mosspits was half so neat, half so cheerful, as their 
 cottage. Indeed, cheerfulness was Agnes's peculiar 
 attribute — that sweet, gentle, and unobtrusive cheerfulness, 
 which is felt rather than seen. Her very voice told of 
 happiness I her eyes beamed with faith and love ; and the 
 minister's description of one of the favourites of bis flock 
 w£is no less beautiful than true. The disposition of Jessy 
 was not so valuable as that of her sister; she was more 
 mirthful, more gay, and. alas ! both giddy and inconside- 
 rate ; but then, as Edward kindly observed, " she was only 
 seventeen, and every body could not be perfect like Agnes, 
 who certainly was different from every one else." 
 
 It is a happy thing when married folk believe perfection 
 
 116 
 
enthroned in each other; out it is a wise thing when they 
 see each other's faults, and yet endeavour to conceal them. 
 It is a severe trial of a woman's judgment if she discover 
 her mental superiority to the lord of her affections, and yet, 
 while she secretly manages all things for the best, makes 
 the world believe that she is only the instrument of his will. 
 A wise woman will do this, but it is only a wise woman 
 who can. 
 
 Edward was certainly inferior to Agnes in intellect; and 
 yet, woman though she was, she never allowed her mind to 
 rest upon the circumstance she could not avoid perceiving. 
 She was a superior woman — he was only an ordinary man, 
 but one in whom all kind elements were so happily blended, 
 that his faults were forgotten in the contemplation of his 
 better qualities. The great difference iu their characters 
 was, that Edward acted invariably from impulse — Agnes 
 from principle. 
 
 My friends will remember that my little tale commenced 
 in the gentle month of April, the kindly season sung of by 
 the elegant Surry as — 
 
 " The suote season, that bud and bloom forth brings. 
 With grerie hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; 
 The nightingale with feathers new she sings. 
 The turtle to her mate hath told her tale." 
 
 And, passing over the two first months of summer, I 
 come to the latter end of July. Stating at the same time, 
 that though nothing had occurred of a nature to destroy the 
 actual quiet of our Mosspit family, yet a great many name- 
 less events had filled the mind of Agnes with an apprehen- 
 sion which she could not account for, and dreaded to 
 encourage. Harry Hinton was always so cooly received 
 by her that he spent very little time at their cottage; and 
 Agnes was continually oh the watch to prevent any intimacy 
 between Jessy and their idle neighbour. Still it was 
 almost certain that the thoughtless girl regarded Harry 
 with any thing but indifi'erence; and the proximity of 
 their dwellings rendered it impossible to prevent their 
 meeting. If Jessy took her little nephew into the garden, 
 Hinton was most likely in his; if she stood at the door, 
 Hinton passed it; if she went for water to the well, Hinton 
 would carry the pitcher, at all events as far as the great 
 tree that shaded them from observation ; and, above all, 
 Agnes could not make either her husband or her sister 
 think otherwise than well of Harry Hinton. Edward did 
 not spend his evenings as constantly at home as before his 
 acquaintance with his neighbour ; Mrs. Cecil Wallingford 
 complained that her grapes were not so fine as they had 
 been ; and the clergyman called one morning to reprimand 
 her husband for being absent from Sabbath worship. 
 Agnes witnessed the reproof, and heard also — what shocked 
 her still more — her Edward utter a decided falsehood as to 
 the cause. She knew that he had gone with Hinton, 
 under some pretext or other, two successive Sundays to the 
 
 next market^town; and when he stated he had been 
 compelled, through the negligence of the under-gardener, 
 to remain at the Manor while he should have been at 
 church, his wife's face was suffused with the blush of shame, 
 and she left their little sitting-room with a sense of degra- 
 dation both new and insupportable to a mind like hers. 
 Tue bed-room into which she retired was at the back of 
 the house, and her child, who hourly improved in strength 
 and beauty, was sleeping silently on the snowy coverlet. 
 The open window was literally curtained with roses and 
 woodbine, through which the sunbeams could not penetrate ; 
 her fingers wandered amid their foliage, while her tearful 
 gaze was fixed upon her boy ; and she started as from a 
 dream when the clear merry laugh of Jessy rang upon her 
 ear : it did not harmonize with her feelings, and it was 
 followed by words still more painful. 
 
 " You need not be afraid to speak to me, Jessy; your 
 
 sister is too much occupied with the parson to heed you just 
 
 now ; and I long for the time that will make you mine, and 
 
 remove you from her tyranny." 
 
 " Agnes is no tyrant, Harry," replied the maiden, "only 
 
 a little strict ; and I wish you would let me tell her " 
 
 " What ?'* enquired Hinton, after waiting for some time 
 the conclusion of Jessy's speech — " What do you want to 
 tell her ? — that I'm your lover ? — why, silly lass, she 
 knows that already !" 
 
 " Not that, exactly, but — " 
 
 " But, what ?" 
 
 " I should like to tell her what you think of our laws, 
 and of the rights of men and women ; and about that good 
 gentleman, in London, who proves we are all equal, 
 and — " 
 
 " That you have as good a right to wear satin and gold, 
 and ride in a coach, as Mrs. Cecil Wallingford herself; but 
 Agnes would not believe you, Jessy, her mind is not 
 comprehensive like yours." 
 
 *' Oh, Harry — Harry !" exclaimed the thoughtless girl, 
 to the conclusion of her lover's speech; "how nice 
 I should look in white satin and French curls ! It is very 
 hard that Agnes will persist in making me band my hair 
 like a Methodist ; but I cannot think I have as good a 
 right to ride in a coach as Mrs. Wallingford; because, you 
 know, all her relations keep carriages — and mine — " 
 
 The sentence was left unfinished; but Hinton soon 
 satisfied her scruples, as to Mrs. Cecil Wallingford and the 
 carriage, by an encomium on her beauty, a reiterated 
 assurance of what he termed love, and a present which, first 
 having received — secondly, having admired — thirdly, and 
 lastly, she did not know what to do with. 
 
 " I don't think Agnes would let me wear such a beauti- 
 ful brooch ; and I am sur-s she would not nermit me to take 
 a present from you, Harry." 
 
 " You need not say any thing about it" 
 
 " But Agnes might see it." 
 
 117 
 
" Then tell her you found it!" 
 
 Breathlessly did Agnes Hoskins wait for the reply, but 
 she heard it not — the lovers had passed the window and 
 walked on. Almost on the instant her husband entered 
 the room, with an air of boisterous gaiety, and, as if he had 
 quite forgotten the clergyman's visit, rallied his wife upon 
 the seriousness of her looks ; she felt too much, and too 
 deeply, to reply even with her usual smile. He took no 
 notice of her change of manner — probably from a wish to 
 avoid a recurrence to what he knew must have given her 
 much pain — but fondled and kissed his child, and, taking it 
 in his arms, was leaving the apartment, when Jessy 
 quickly passed the door. "Stay, Edward: sister, come 
 here !" exclaimed Agnes. Jessy did come, with a flushed 
 cheek and a downcast eye, 
 
 " What have you this moment put into your bosom ?" 
 enquired Agnes ; adding, without waiting for a reply, 
 " I will not oblige you to utter the falsehood you have been 
 directed to^where is the brooch that young Hinton gave 
 you but now under this window ? You tremble — you turn 
 pale ; Jessy, my sister Jessy! — when you crouched beside 
 the heather and the harebell at our father's feet, while the 
 sun was sinking amid the hills of our own Scotland — there, 
 at the cottage-door, when our aged parent taught you to lift 
 up your then innocent hands to the Almighty in prayer 
 and praise — I little thought you would have so soon 
 forgotten his precept !" 
 
 The thoughtless girl burst into tears, and Edward, whose 
 good-nature was an active not a passive quality, kindly 
 took her hand, and looked at his wife — " Do not be so 
 angry, Agnes, at her receiving a love-token; Harry meant 
 no harm — that I'll answer for ; surely if he is to be her 
 husband — " 
 
 " Her husband !" repeated Agnes, with an energy that 
 startled both Edward and Jessy ; — •' the husband of Jessy 
 Grey ! I would rather shroud her for her coffin than see 
 her married to a man devoid of religious and moral 
 principle." 
 
 You are strangely prejudiced against poor Harry, and a 
 thousand times more Methodistical than ever, Agnes," 
 observed her husband. 
 
 "I am not Methodistical, Edward — I am not changed — 
 it is you who think differently ; and, as the change has 
 marred our happiness, you cannot wonder at my disliking 
 him who has wrought it. You were independent, industri- 
 ous, and happy ; you talk of the wealth of your superiors ; 
 you say it is wrong for them to possess so much, and yet 
 you covet more ; Edward, now you seldom smile — or smile 
 80 that 1 would rather see you weep ; if you attend the 
 village church your eyes and mind wander from your 
 devotions, and you rejoice at the conclusion of the service. 
 The flowers in our garden are neglected — " 
 
 "Stop, Agnes !" interrupted Hoskins, " you have lectur- 
 ed me pretty sharply, I think, for nothing ! have I ever 
 
 suffered you to want? — have I ever treated you unkindly ?'* 
 " Oh, no ! — no Edward, not unkindly — not that yet." 
 " Nor ever will, my own Agnes ! I will be more with you^ 
 and show you how much you have wronged me, and Jessy 
 too, by these misunderstandings." 
 
 " I will speak to my sister apart, Edward — give her the 
 infant — there Jessy, do not weep." 
 
 Jessy left the room in tears. " Now, in truth, Agnes," 
 said Hoskins, when the door was closed, " your prejudices 
 are amazing to me ; there is not a better-hearted fellow 
 in the world than Harry, or a more clever — I own that he 
 thinks a little too freely, and you women don't understand 
 that : the people are improving." 
 
 " Would,"' ejaculated Agnes, " that they felt Christianity 
 to be their best legacy, and inherited the virtue of their 
 ancestors !" 
 
 " The very thing Harry says ; he vows the landlords grow 
 worse and worse ; and unless the people take them in hand 
 there'll be no end to their tyranny ?" 
 
 " Did you ever experience any tyranny, Edward ?" 
 "Never, Agnes," 
 " Did Hinton ?" 
 
 " No — but yes he did, poor fellow, and that no later than 
 last week. 'Squire Nicol's fox-hounds and the whole hunt 
 went right through his barley; but that is not the worst of it 
 —when he lived near Chester, his sister ran off with and 
 was deserted by his landlord's eldest son." 
 
 " lam not surprised at that," replied Agnes, coolly, "if he 
 instructed his sister in the principles of equality, the rights 
 of women, and Mr. Owen's Morality. She only practiced 
 what he preached.'' 
 
 Agnes then proceeded to state to her husband the conver- 
 sation that had passed between Jessy and Harry Hinton ; but 
 in natural and forcible colours she pourtrayed the danger of his 
 principles, aided by his insinuating manners, and conclud- 
 ed with a request that Edward would at once relinquish so 
 dangerous an acquaintance. Hoskins was much shocked 
 at the idea that Hinton should have breathed such notions 
 into the ear of the innocent girl, whom he loved witb all 
 the warmth of brotherly affection ; he promised his wife that 
 he would speak seriously to him on the subject, and unite 
 with her in endeavouring to break off his connexion with 
 Jessy Grey, whom Agnesd eclared she would send on a 
 visit to an aged relative of her friend Mrs, Middleton, who 
 dwelt near the Scottish border, 
 
 " I think your plan is best ; absence and time will soon 
 put love out of her head," observed Edward. 
 
 " It may do so, and I hope it most fervently," was the 
 wife's reply — and again she entreated her husband, even 
 with tears, to avoid Hinton, 
 
 " I promise you faithfuily so much, Agnes ; but circum- 
 stances, which I cannot explain, will oblige me to see him 
 occasionally ; in fact, I am in his secrets, and it would be 
 ungenerous to desert him when I know my friendship is of 
 
 i 8 
 
value to him; he may judge wrongly, at times; but I 
 know him to be both clever, and as good-hearted a fellow 
 as ever lived." 
 
 Agnes shook her head, unbelievingly, at the refuge of 
 good-heartedness, under which such a multitude of sins 
 shelter; and pleased at having, as she hoped, lessened his 
 influence over her husband, and resolved upon a plan of 
 action with her sister, she wisely for a time forbore any 
 allusion to what at first so bitterly grieved her — Edward's 
 deviation from truth. 
 
 Heavy were the tears of Jessy when told that she must 
 leave Mosspits for a season, and her sister refused to tell 
 her destination. Once, and once only, did Harry Hinton 
 speak on the subject to Edward Hoskins. But Edward 
 firmly told him in that matter he would not interfere ; 
 Jessy was his wife's sister, and consequently Agnes had 
 the best right to determine how she was to be situated. 
 " My wife says," he continued, " that when Jessy comes 
 of age she may do as she pleases, but till then she will act 
 towards her as her father would have done had he lived till 
 now." 
 
 Hinton made no reply, and turned moodily away, mut- 
 tering curses, not loud but deep. Agnes, almost immedi- 
 ately after, journeyed to London, and placed Jessy under 
 the care of a respectable female of her acquaintance who 
 was going to Berwick. It was not without many tears 
 that the sisters parted : tears of reproachfulness and sorrow, 
 on the one side, and of affection and anxiety on the other 
 When Agnes returned, in the evening, to her cotteige, she 
 felt it very desolate; a strange girl, whom she had hired 
 for the purpose, was nursing her little boy. No Jessy's 
 light step and gay smile welcomed her as in former times ; 
 and Edward was not at home — not come in — had not been 
 home to dinner, nor to tea. She took the child in her arms, 
 and seated herself on a little mound in the meadoflr that 
 overlooked the high road ; it was early autumn, and troops 
 of merry reapers passed from time to time, beguiling the 
 way with song and noisy laughter ; her boy sat on her knee, 
 twisting the tough stems of the corn-flower into what he 
 lispiugly called " posy," and, ever and anon, pointing, 
 with infant wonder, at the happy groups hastening to their 
 quiet homes. Gradually, the passengers became fewer in 
 number, the voices died away upon the hill, one by one 
 the stars came forth in the blue heavens, and no note, save 
 the creaking of the rail, disturbed the tranquillity that was 
 covering the earth as with a mantle. The Mosspit cottages, 
 nesting in their little dell, looked the very abode of cheer- 
 fulness; and lights twinkled from two or three of the small- 
 paned windows, showing that the dames within were busy 
 with their small housewifery. The eyes of Agnes had res- 
 ted for some moments upon the scene, when her boy's 
 gestures drew her attention towards the road. She was 
 somewhat surprised at observing a woman whose tattered 
 dress and red cloak gave her the appearance of a gipsy, 
 
 forcing her way through the hedge, approaching her at an 
 uneven but hurried pace. If she had been struck by her 
 boldness, her attention was riveted by the expression of her 
 wild and restless eye, which both watched and wandered. 
 She appeared young, and, perhaps, under other circumstan- 
 ces, would have been called pretty : her figure was slight, 
 and her hair, of a light auburn, fell in profuse but unar- 
 ranged tresses over her face. She was without shoes, and the 
 blood streamed from a wound in her foot so as to attract the 
 notice of the little boy, who pointed to it with one hand, 
 while he wound his arm tightly round his mother's neck. 
 
 "You did wrong to trespass, young woman," said Agnes 
 mildly, while the stranger stood gazing upon her with a 
 peculiar and bewildered look — " you did wrong to tres- 
 pass — but you have been sufficiently punished : wrap this 
 handkerchief round your foot, and if you will follow me td 
 the cottage I will give you a pair of old shoesto protect you." 
 
 The woman did not accept the offered handkerchief, but, 
 still staring at Mrs, Hoskins, who had risen from her 
 grassy seat, at last said, " Do you want your fortune 
 told?" 
 
 " No," replied Agnes, " and, false as the art is, you have 
 no pretention to it — you are not even a gipsy." 
 
 " You say truly," replied the girl ; " I am not a gipsy ; 
 and yet I could tell much that will happen to you — you 
 must be the married one — where's the other ?" 
 
 "If you mean my sister," replied Agnes, "she has left 
 England." 
 
 '• Left England ! — left England !" repeated the young 
 woman, jumping and clapping her hands — " gone away 
 from" — then suddenly changing the joyful tone in which 
 she had spoken, added — " But not of her own accord — not 
 of her own accord — no girl would leave him of her own ac- 
 cord." 
 
 Agnes looked upon her with astonishment, and the sus- 
 picion that the poor wanderer was a maniac occurred so 
 forcibly to her mind that she held her child closely to her 
 bosom, and commenced returning to the Mosspits. 
 
 " Stop, Agnes Hoskins, stop! — you sent Aer away, and 
 I would bless you if I know how — but I cannot remember 
 the words," She paused, pressed her soiled but delicate 
 fingers to her brow, and sighed so deeply that Mrs. 
 Hoskins could not have said an unkind word to her for 
 worlds. 
 
 " He will be returning, soon !" exclaimed the girl, at 
 last, in a hurried tone : " but look you to her husband — 
 may-be you love him; and it is very sad, as the song says, 
 
 ' To love — and love for ever,' 
 
 and then to find your lover go away just like the down off 
 the thistle — and may- be for as light a breath ! Well, 
 keep him from Hairy, or the curse will oversnadow you; 
 for I was as blithe and as happy as a nightingale till I kept 
 
 119 
 
r 
 
 his company — not but what I'm gay enough still, — only I 
 don't ever feel peaceful here (laying her hand on her 
 heart),— .yes, Jane is gay enough still, and does his bid- 
 ding too, as well as if he loved her ; only I must not tell 
 because it would get Harry into trouble, that I dance round 
 the burning ricks." She approached closely to Mrs. Hos- 
 kins while uttering the last sentence, which she pronounced 
 slowly, and in an under-tone. 
 
 An allusion to a circumstance that had excited so much 
 terror throughout the country, and made every one look 
 with alarm to his own homestead, caused an involuntary 
 shudder to pass over the frame of Agnes. The wild girl 
 skrieked, and clasped her hand on her mouth ; then, without 
 uttering another sentence, retreated rapidly across the 
 meadow. She had not, however, reached the spot where 
 she entered, ere she retraced her steps with visible agitation. 
 
 " They are coming," said she, " if he sees me here he 
 will murder me outright ; do— do, just let me hide in your 
 house till he goes to his own, and then 1 can go — for it 
 will be dark, dark night, then." 
 
 The poor creature trembled from head to foot, and, 
 before Agnes had time to reply, had not only established 
 herself in the cottage, but coiled herself into an inconceiva- 
 bly small space in a cupboard that opened into a little 
 passage. Edward Hoskins and Harry Hinton were soon 
 upon the green that fronted the cottage, and the flush- 
 ed cheek and loud laughter of her husband told Agnes, but 
 too plainly, he was intoxicated. Her first feeling was that 
 of anger and disgust — her second brought the excuse, 
 " it is not often thus with him ;" though she could not but 
 acknowledge, what every woman so circumstanced must 
 feel, that each time she so beholds her husband must lessen 
 her respect — and, without that, woman's love for man is 
 little worth. 
 
 " Well, Agnes — pale, pensive, as usual ! he exclaimed, 
 as, notwithstanding his situation, she had advanced to the 
 door to meet him. " Wont you wish Harry good-night ?" 
 " I am always to suffer in Mrs. Hoskins's opinion, 1 fear, 
 although I hurried her husband home. We saw some gipsies 
 about, amd I said they might frighten you" — he added, 
 drawing nearly to the threshold of the door, and peering 
 into her face with his small grey eye, which she used to 
 characterise as "cold," but which now appeared illumined 
 by some secret fire — " did not you see any ?" 
 
 " No," replied Agnes, without shrinking from his gaze ; 
 •' many persons passed on their way, but I did not recog- 
 nize any as gipsies." Her self-possession, doubtless, 
 disarmed the querist— for, wishing her courteously good- 
 night, he entered his cottage, and seemed determined to 
 shut out intruders, by carefully barring doors and windows. 
 
 " So you saw poor Jessy ofiE, my love ?" exclaimed 
 Hoskius, throwing himself on the chairs that stood near the 
 table. " Don't, for heaven's sake, look so calm and quiet 
 — I know what you think — but I am sober — not quite cool 
 
 perhaps — but sober — sober as a judge. Why should'ntlbe 
 a judge ? Well, if I am not wise enough for a judge, you 
 are for a judgess — though you are not always right ; now 
 you were wrong about Hinton, for he'd have made a good 
 husband for Jessy — only, as I said, she's your sister, not 
 mine ; so you've had your own way — banished your sister, 
 and smashed that poor fellow's heart all to pieces. But the 
 coach must have come very quickly ; I did not think you 
 could have been home these two hours. Give me the boy, 
 Agnes, I have not had a kiss from either of you since I 
 returned." 
 
 Agnes held the child towards him, but — whether it was 
 that the little fellow retained a remembrance of the bleed- 
 ing foot and the red cloak, or that he felt the antipathy of 
 childhood to the smell of spirits, I cannot determine — he 
 shrunk from his father, and hid his face on his mother's 
 bosom. Edward grew angry, and forcibly disengaged the 
 boy, who screamed more loudly, " mamma — mamma !' 
 
 " Take the brat ! ejaculated the father, with an oath, 
 at the same moment throning him with violence to Agnes — 
 " take the brat; but I tell you that, whatever you may do, 
 my own child shan't thwart me ; this is what comes of its 
 having an aristocratic godmother; it already thinks my 
 hands too rough to hold it, I suppose,!" 
 
 A silly woman — nay, a woman with a moderate share of 
 good sense, as it is called, would have replied to this, and high 
 words would have ensued, and seeds of bitterness therewith 
 been sown : but Agnes was a superior woman ; so, without 
 uttering a syllable, without suffering an unkind word or 
 gesture to escape, she took the screaming infant out of the 
 room, gave it into the arms of the little serving-maiden, 
 and, having wiped those eyes to which uubidden tears had 
 started, and offered up a silent but fervent prayer to the 
 throne of God for wisdom to form and strength to persist in 
 her good resolves, she returned to prepare her husband's 
 supper with her own hands. 
 
 When Agnes had seen Edward to bed, she went to seek 
 the poor wanderer, who had sheltered in the cupboard ; 
 but the girl was gone — how, it was difficult to conjecture, 
 unless she had let herself down from the bed-room window, 
 which appeared partially open. It must not be supposed 
 that Agnes was one of those women who " humour" a 
 husband in his faults, asserting, with a mock amiability 
 the sincerity of which I always doubt), that they " have 
 no right to oppose him in his little ways." A woman 
 possessing a great and well-cultivated mind will be anxious 
 that her husband shall both be and appear perfection, and 
 she will watch for a fitting opportunity to point out, with 
 gentleness and humility, whatever his better judgment, if 
 exercised, would also declare wrong. Agnes knew that it 
 was not when he was intoxicated that she ought to say a 
 word calculated to add fuel to the flame, but her resolution 
 was no less decidedly taken to combat, with her gentle 
 strength, the growing evil. 
 
 i-0 
 
The next morning Edward was very penitent, and for an 
 entire week there was no recurrence of the same fault ; but 
 the evil did continue ; and, with anguish which only a wife 
 so circumstanced can feel or understand, Agnes saw that 
 her influence and happiness were both decaying ; the 
 «erpent-coil was round and round her husband, and each 
 day added to its closeness and to its strength ; she prayed, 
 she wept, she entreated ; and sometimes Edward himself 
 would seem bitterly to feel his weakness and vow to amend 
 it; but Hinton had attained that command over him which 
 the powerful mind possesses over the weaker; and his duty, 
 his business, were neglected for the society of him he 
 termed his friend. Mrs. Cecil Wallingford called herself 
 upon Agnes, and told her that unless Edward paid more 
 attention to her affairs, however unwillingly, she should be 
 obliged to get some one else to act as steward and gardener; 
 the suffering wife assured the lady that she would do her 
 utmost to correct his habits, of which she refrained from 
 complaining. Mrs. Wallingford, to say the truth, felt 
 sincere sorrow for the altered looks of her protegee, and 
 said many kind and complimentary things to Agnes on the 
 extreme beauty of the bud, which seemed to increase in the 
 size and loveliness in proportion to the fading of its parent 
 flower. 
 
 Mrs. Wallingford had hardly departed when Agnes re- 
 ceived the following letter :— 
 
 'Berwick, Nor. 23. 
 
 " My Dsar Friend, 
 
 " It is with very sincere sorrow 1 inform you that last night, 
 without any reason that 1 can discover, your sister left my house ; 
 and all attempts to trace her, during the day, have been ineflfec- 
 tual ; lately she manifested a great uneasiness and restlessness of 
 disposition, which I tried in vain to combat ; perhaps she hjis 
 returned to you ; let me hear immediately ; and, praying to the 
 Almighty to preserve you and yours in peace and happiness, 
 
 " Believe me your truly affectionate 
 
 " T. MlDDLETON." 
 
 Agnes sat, with the open letter in her hand, more like a 
 thing of marble than a breathing creature ; and when her 
 husband came in she presented it to him, and covering her 
 face with her hands wept long and bitterly. 
 
 " Hinton knows of this, Edward," she said at last, " and 
 must be spoken to on the subject." 
 
 " Hinton knows no more of it than you do; how could 
 he ? To my certain knowledge he has never been one day 
 or night from home since she left, and how could he get to 
 Berwick and back in that time, think you ? Poor Jessy ! 
 it would have been better she had married Hinton than ran 
 off with no one knows who; indeed, Agnes, you were wrong 
 in sending her from us ; but troubles never come alone — 
 
 the last frost has got into the pinery, and Mrs. Cecil 
 Wallingford says it's my fault ; that proud lady must alter 
 her tone, or she'll get served out like her neighbours- 
 there are ways of bringing fine people down — Mr. Flyhill's 
 barns and kennel were burned last night." 
 
 " What awful times'" ejaculated Agnes; " but I know 
 you better, Edward, than to believe you would ever approve 
 of such dreadful doings ; you know your duty to your God, 
 your country, and your neighbour; and nothing, I am sure, 
 would ever induce you to act contrary to it. But as to 
 
 Hinton, I believe he is engaged in these horrid acts nay, 
 
 Edward, you cannot deceive me, I have combated your ex- 
 traordinary infatuation in his favour by every means in my 
 poor power — you will not hear me, Edward; you are deaf 
 and blind as regards that evil man; and nothing now is 
 left for me, but to weep and pray in solitude and silence- 
 to pray for you, my own dear and beloved husband, that 
 God may lead you to see the error of your ways, and con- 
 duct you again into the right path !" 
 
 Edward kissed her brow, as it rested on her hands, in 
 silence, and almost with the love of by-gone days. That 
 religion which he had once considered her brightest orna- 
 ment he now called "the weak point of her character," 
 and thought he was doing what was very praiseworthy in 
 bearing with it so quietly. He immediately wrote to some 
 friends in Scotland, about Jessy, and applied to the nearest 
 magistrate to know what means it would be necessary to 
 adopt to trace out the lost and unfortunate girl. Hinton 
 protested he knew nothing of the matter — swore by all 
 that was sacred he had never heard from her since she left 
 MoBspits — but failed in convincing Agnes of the truth of 
 one word he uttered. 
 
 '• You have studied the character of St. Thomas, at all 
 events," said her husband, in a sneering tone, "and taken 
 a lesson in unbelief." 
 
 " If I could find out what it is that Hinton believes in, 
 and he would swear by it, then I might believe him," re- 
 plied Agnes mildly. 
 
 Day after day, week after week, passed, and no tidings 
 came of the lost Jessy. Much did Agnes wish that the 
 wandering girl, whose mysterious prophecy seemed rapidly 
 fulfilling, would again flit across her path; and often did 
 she watch the highway, hoping yet dreading that the tat- 
 tered cloak and light form of the strange being might issue 
 from it towards Mosspits. Although Edward was more and 
 more estranged from his home, he thought it necessary to 
 apologise occasionally to Agnes for his absence: ill at ease 
 with himself, he could not be expected to be kindly towards 
 others ; and she felt how very bitter it is to be obliged to 
 take the cold leaden coin of civility, in lieu of the pure 
 and glowing gold of warm affection. It is utterly impos- 
 sible to describe how the alteration in a cherished and 
 beloved object affects her who loves more fondly and 
 fervently, after years of union, than she did when, like the 
 
 121 
 
most admirable of Shakspear's heroines, she bestowed 
 herself at the holy altar to the one being almost of her 
 idolatry, wishing 
 
 •• That only to stand high on his account 
 
 She might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends. 
 
 Exceed account." 
 
 How quickly does the ear note if the voice be not as 
 tender as in former days ! To father — mother — friends — 
 all may seem unchanged ; but the wife, who has dwelt upon 
 every look — who knows, as it were, even the number of 
 rays which the beloved eye throws forth — painfully sees 
 and feels the difference. The words, perchance, may be 
 as kind; but their tone is altered. What boots it to her 
 if the universe views her with admiration — if the wealth of 
 nations be piled at her feet! He is changed That 
 consciousness is the sword which, hanging by a single hair, 
 threatens, sooner or later, her destruction, and prevents her 
 enjoying any earthly happiness or repose. Not only 
 Edward, however, but circumstances, were also altering at 
 the Mosspits. The disturbed state of the country made 
 each person suspicious of the other ; and, as the winter 
 advanced, so did distress progress. In the neighbouring 
 districts workmen of all trades had refused to take employ- 
 ment without increased wages ; not a night passed but 
 cattle were destroyed, or outhouses, and in some instances 
 dwellings, burned to the ground. Landlords knew not 
 which of their tenants to confide in ; and the misery was 
 increased by soldiers being frequently distributed and 
 stationed where the people absolutely lacked the means of 
 supporting themselves. It was pretty generally rumoured 
 that Hinton was concerned in these transactions, though 
 no one exactly knew how. He was the principal leader of 
 a debating-society in Mondrich, which had the misfortune 
 to attract the attention of the magistrate, who sought to put 
 it down perhaps by measures that might have been called 
 violent. Be that as it may, he succeeded ; and it formed 
 a most desirable theme for the disaffected to dwell upon. 
 Hoskins grumbled incessantly at the magistrate's *' illegal" 
 proceedings ; and Agnes combated his arguments, or 
 rather his opinions, in vain. Christmas, that tryting-time 
 which generally brings an interchange of kindness and 
 social feeling amongst all classes of society had come ; and 
 a little episode, that occurred at Mosspits, will at once 
 show the state of feeling of both husband and wife. They 
 had been in the habit of exchanging presents, during 
 preceding years, on Chnstmas day, each anxious to surprise 
 the other with some more peculiar gift. Christmas eve, 
 Edward did not return until the village clock had chimed 
 eleven, and then he went sullenly to bed, without heeding 
 the little preparations that Agnes was making for the 
 approaching festival. She was alone ; for, finding that her 
 husband's habits prevented him from bringing home the 
 
 produce of his earnings, she had wisely parted with her 
 little servant, considering it was better to labour with her 
 own hands than to incur debt. " And," said she meekly, 
 when communing with her own thoughts, "if he will be 
 extravagant, the more necessity is there for my being 
 economical." 
 
 Hoskins was awakened the next morning by the sweet 
 kisses of his boy, while his wife, leaning over his bedside, 
 prayed that he might enjoy many happy returns of that 
 holy day. 
 
 " Say we, Agnes," interrupted Edward, " say we, 
 God knows, whatever happiness I enjoy, you ought to share; 
 for I make you miserable enough at times. Will you 
 forgive me ?" 
 
 The words were spoken in the tone that Agnes so loved, 
 and, unable to sustain her feelings, she flung herself upon 
 her husband's bosom, and burst into tears. 
 
 When Edward, dressed in his best suit, was preparing to 
 go to the Manor, his wife laid her hand on his arm, and, 
 encouraged by his kindness, in the gentlest manner reques- 
 ted him to read one, only one, chapter to her, before he 
 went out — it would not take him five minutes. He com- 
 plied with a tolerable grace; and, when he finisned, she 
 took a small, heart-shaped brooch from her bosom, and, 
 telling him that it contained their child's hair, fastened it 
 in his shirt. 
 
 " You did not forget, Agnes, though I did," said he ; 
 "but I will bring you something from Mondrich, where I 
 must go after 1 leave the Manor; and I will be back to 
 dinner at two, and remain with you all the evening." 
 
 Edward returned at the appointed time, but a cloud was 
 on his brow; he hardly partook of the dinner she had 
 prepared, and had forgotten the customary token. As the 
 evening was closing over a cold and snowy landscape, 
 " Agnes," he said, "I must go. I thought I could have 
 spent all this day with you but somthing has occurred 
 which must prevent it, I will, however, return early, and 
 do more justice to your excellent cheer at supper than I 
 have been able to do at dinner." 
 
 Never had his wife felt it so difficult to part from him. 
 She requested, entreated ; and for a long time his child 
 clasped its hands round his neck, and hung by his knees 
 even as he approached (he door. His departing footsteps 
 smote heavily on the heart of the affectionate Agnes, and, 
 as the last echo died upon her ear, she wept. 
 
 When eight o'clock came she looked from the window ; 
 but the fog was so intense that she could see nothing save 
 the fantastic boughs of the old oak, looking more like 
 deepened shadows of darkness than separate or distinct 
 objects. The song and cheerful laugh rang from two of 
 the neighbouring cottages; and at a third there was an 
 assembly of dancing rustics. Agnes thought it was the 
 first time the happiness of others had increased her misery, 
 and she hated herself for the selfish feeling. Nine, ten, 
 
 122 
 
eleven, twelve ! — Christmas day had ended, the revellers 
 had sought their homes, and no sound was heard save the 
 rushing of the storm amid the branches, whose outlines 
 were now lost in midnight obscurity. It would seem that 
 the ancient of days sturdily withstood the tempest, and 
 groaned heavily from the exertion ; the old rooks, who had 
 made it their habitation for ages, cawed their complainings 
 whenever the sweeping of the mighty blast passed on, as 
 if to remonstrate with the mysterious power that disturbed 
 their repose. She stood at the little window, and pressed 
 her forehead against the glass, that its coolness might be 
 imparted to her burning brow. Suddenly she thought she 
 perceived streaks of light, or rather (so deeply coloured 
 were they) of flame, intersecting the darkness, and gradu- 
 ally illuminating the distant sky. Before she had time to 
 draw any conclusion from so singular an appearance, she 
 started back with horror on observing, so close that she 
 almost fancied it touched her cheek, a thin, shadowy hand, 
 with the forefinger curved, as if beckoning her forward. 
 Despite her self-possession, she trembled violently, and 
 could hardly prevent herself from shrieking aloud, when, 
 she saw distinctly a white, ghastly face pressed to the glass 
 that separated her from this untimely visiter. A sort of 
 hissing and exulting whisper now came upon her ear. 
 "Don't you know me, Agnes Hoskins ? — don't you remem- 
 ber Lady Jane ? Come, come with me, and see how 
 bright the Manor is this gay Christmas night !" A horrid 
 suspicion — too horrid to be entertained — flashed across her 
 mind, as Agnes undid the door ; and, before the half- 
 crazed girl entered, she had sunk upon a chair, and with 
 difficulty retained her seat. For a few moments she could 
 not think ; and the half-maniac, with that feeling of 
 sympathy which rarely deserts a woman, looked mourn- 
 fully into her face. At length her eye rested on a flagon 
 of elderberry-wine that stood upon the table with the 
 untasted supper ; she poured out a large glass of it, and, 
 curtseying with mock solemnity to the trembling Agnes, 
 said, before she drank it ofi", " Health to you, my lady, and 
 a merry Christmas ! — a cellar full, a byre full, and plenty 
 of faggots ! See, see ! they blaze — they blaze !" she 
 continued, pointing to the sky, that was reddening higher 
 and higher. " Come with me, and I'll tell you as we go 
 how that will be the last fire Harry will light for many a 
 day ! He must have other darlings, indeed ! — but now he 
 can have only me, for none of his dainty dames will follow 
 him into strange lands — none but poor Jane! The police 
 have him by this time, and Hoskins too ; so you'd better 
 go and bring them all home to supper 1" 
 
 " Woman !" exclaimed Agnes, springing as in mortal 
 agony from her chair, " what do you say ? — Hoskins — my 
 Edward — my husband there — at the burning of Walling- 
 ford Manor !" She seized the girl fiercely by the arm, 
 but suddenly her grasp relaxed, and she fell stiff and cold 
 to the earth. How long she remained tnere she was 
 
 perfectly unconscious ; but, when she recovered, her frame 
 felt paralyzed, the air was bitter and piercing, the light 
 was extinguished, and all around was utterlj^ utterly 
 desolate. It was some time ere she was restored to the 
 recollection of what she had heard, and it was still longer 
 before she recovered sufficiently to be able to move, or 
 settle upon any plan of action. The very ticking of the 
 clock — that gentle, domestic sound — struck heavily and 
 painfully upon her brain ; and, when it gave warning that 
 another hour had passed into eternity, she could hardly 
 believe the sense was correct which counted four. She en- 
 deavoured to compose her mind by supplication, and the 
 Lord's Prayer occurred to her at once. She repeated the 
 words, until she arrived at the sentence — '' Deliver us from 
 evil," when the full consciousness of the evil that was 
 suspended over their devoted heads prevented her finish- 
 ing the holy and beautiful intercession. She arose from 
 her knees, and groped about until she procured a light. 
 She then endeavoured to arrange her plans. Her very 
 soul recoiled from the dreadful idea that Hoskins had any 
 thing to do at the burning which had but a little while past 
 streaked the everlasting sky with tokens of the wickedness 
 of man. The heavens were still as intensely black as when 
 first she had pressed her burning brow against the small 
 panes of the cottage-window, and looked earnestly and 
 hopingly for him with whom her heart perpetually dwelt. 
 
 While she paused, and paused, she heard the sound of 
 distant voices ; footsteps approached — not her husband's. 
 Her breath came short and thick, and, instead of passing 
 from between her unclosed lips, seemed to encrust itself 
 upon her tongue, and forbid the power of utterance. Men 
 — strangers, entered ; one she had seen — known — the 
 sergeant of police. He respectfully removed his hat, 
 " hoped that Mrs, Hoskins would forgive him for doing his 
 duty." If salvation had depended on it, she could not 
 speak ; but she looked in his face with so despairing, so 
 imploring a gaze, that the man turned from her, with 
 more emotion than could be expected from one who had 
 often witnessed distress in so many forms. When at last 
 she was enabled to ask a few questions, the answers she 
 received confirmed her worst fears. The out-offices of 
 Wallingford Manor had been set on fire ; Hoskins, 
 Hinton, and a pedlar of the name of Paul Dodder, had 
 been found on the spot ; and, added the man, " the Manor 
 itself must have taken fire had we not received intimation 
 immediately after it was kindled — long before there was 
 any appearance to indicate such rapid destruction." 
 
 The party then proceeded to search the cottage, but 
 found nothing which they considered necessary to remove. 
 "Matters may turn out better than you think for," said the 
 man kindly, " Can I take any message to your husband 
 — it may comfort him, for he seemed sadly put out — 
 stupified like." 
 
 " I will go ! — no — my child — I will — I must wait till 
 
 i2<. 
 
morning ! Tell him my blessing — and I will be with him 
 to-morrow. I shall find him, I suppose, in the — " Jail, 
 she would have said, but could not utter the hateful 
 word. 
 
 The man understood her, and replied "Yes," — the 
 monosyllable of hope, but, in this instance, the herald of 
 despair. They then departed, and went to Hinton's 
 dwelling, where they remained much longer. The ser- 
 geant, with real good feeling, knocked at the door of a 
 respectable resident at Mosspits, whom he knew was 
 esteemed by Agnes — told her the circumstances— and the 
 woman needed no farther intimation to hasten to one whom 
 she both loved and respected. 
 
 When she entered the cottage, Agnes was weeping bit- 
 terly over her unconscious boy, who, despite her loud 
 sobbings, slept as calmly as if the very breath of happiness 
 had hushed his slumbers. She extended her hand to Mrs. 
 Lee, and said, in broken and hardly audible tones, "They 
 will point at that innocent child when we are both dead, 
 and call him, in bitter mockery, the orphan of the house- 
 burnerl And wiio has brought this bitterness upon us? 
 Pray for me, Mrs. Lee, pray for me I — I cannot pray for 
 myself now! Oh, that God in his mercy had left us 
 childless, and then I might have borne it ! Wicked that I 
 am ! Will he not be, perhaps, the only thing on earth left 
 
 me to love, when — when " She pressed her hands 
 
 firmly on her temples, and her friend almost feared that 
 the violence of her grief would destroy her reason. The 
 feelings that had long been pent up within her own bosom 
 had at last vented themselves both in words and tears, and 
 before nine o'clock she had apparently regained much of 
 her usual serenity. She dressed her child, who added 
 unconsciously to her misery by perpetually enquiring tor 
 "papa," and placing a cup and chair for him before the 
 untasted breakfast. She then summoned resolution to 
 change her dress; and, tying a cottage-bonnet closely 
 over her face, proceeded, with a sorrowing heart, towards 
 Mondrich. 
 
 Mrs. Lea kindly took charge of the little boy ; and to do 
 justice to the inhabitants of the cottages, not one but 
 saluted her kindly and respectfully as she passed. 
 
 "Poor thing!" said Mrs. Lea, "she has borne a great 
 deal lately; she looks now ten years older than she did 
 this time twelvemonths." 
 
 "Pm truly sorry for her," responded Miss Nancy 
 Carter, famous for clear-starching and scandal, who had 
 come on purpose to Mosspits to find out, as she expressed 
 it, " the truth of every thing." " Pm truly sorry for her; 
 but she always carried her head very high, as if she were 
 better than a servant, forsooth ! Pm very sorrv for her 
 for all that \" 
 
 "So you ought to be. Miss Nancy, for she sent you 
 plenty of black-currant jelly when you had a sore throat, 
 last winter," observed Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " Do you think that poor Hoskins will get off wit 
 transportation?" persisted Nancy. 
 
 " I could never think him guilty of setting fire to 
 Wallingford Manor, for one," replied the kind hearted 
 Mrs. Lee. "He was on the spot, I suppose, or they could 
 not have taken him there ; but I am certain it was to save, 
 not to destroy." 
 
 " Well, time will tell," said the gossip, who, finding 
 that Mrs. Lee was charitablygiven, thought she would seek 
 some "kindred soul" with which to communicate; "Time 
 will tell; only what did he want with seven firebrands, tied 
 in red tape, a cask of powder, and three mould candles ? 
 You may smile if you please, Mrs. Lee, but it's true, 
 every word of it! Three mould candles, with the ends 
 scorched, and a quarter of a pound of wax-ends. I had it 
 from the very best authority, for Pd scorn to say any thing 
 without a good foundation !" and off walked Miss Nancy 
 Carter. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the feelings with 
 which Agnes entered that abode of misery called a county 
 jail. Snow and ice had accumulated in a little court she 
 had to cross, to such a degree that she could hardly extri- 
 cate her feet from the humid mass. As the rusty key 
 turned in its lock, she clung to the slimy walls for support ; 
 and. when the door was thrown open, she had scarcely 
 power to crawl into the dismal cell where her husband was 
 confined. Hoskins sat upon a low bed. which evidently 
 had not been discomposed, his elbows resting upon his 
 knees, and his face buried in his hands. Agnes could not 
 speak, but she sat down by his side, and, passing her arm 
 round his neck, endeavoured to draw his head so as to 
 rest it on her bosom. He shrank from the touch, and a 
 low and bitter groan was the only reply to her caresses. 
 
 " Keep a good heart, measter," said the jailor, " keep a 
 good heart, and it may all go well. Bless ye ! Measter 
 Hinton doesn't get on so, but has taken something to keep 
 life in him." 
 
 No answer was returned to this consolatory speech, and 
 the man left them, observing that they must not remain 
 more than two hours together. 
 
 Not many, but kind and tranquillizing, were the words 
 which this admirable woman breathed into her husband's 
 ear. She kissed his cold and clammy hands, and tried, 
 though in vain, to prevail upon him to taste of the refresh- 
 ments she had not forgotten to bring with her. For a 
 length of time she obtained no word from his lips; and at 
 last she sat silently gazing on him — as the mariner who 
 looks upon a rock close to his native home, where he 
 sported in infancy, and formed his plans of future greatness, 
 but which, on his return from a long and prosperous 
 voyage, with the harbour in view, had wrecked his vessel, 
 and consigned his all to destruction ! Silence is the 
 nurse of sorrow : Agnes would have given worlds to have 
 heard the sound of his voice; and, when at last he did 
 
 124 
 
speak, his tone was so fearfully changed — so hollow, so 
 agonized — that she could hardly believe it to be that of her 
 own Edward. 
 
 " I deserve this, and worse, Agnes," he said, " for I 
 have cast the blessing of the Almighty far from me. And 
 you, who ought to curse me, to find you thus ! Do not 
 touch me, Agnes. I could bear your reproaches; but your 
 kindness scorches my very heart. Yet Agnes, I solemnly 
 call God to witness, that I am innocent of any participa- 
 tion in the burning of Wallingford Manor ; I cannot now 
 dwell upon it ; but, as you have borne much, bear yet a 
 little more — bear with my silence ; but believe me inno- 
 cent of any participation in that crime. However I may 
 be otherwise guilty — however despicable — I repeat 
 that I had nothing to do with the burning at 
 Wallingford." 
 
 How sweet and how natural is it to believe in the 
 innocence of those we love ! Although Agnes well remem- 
 bered the fearful habit of falsehood which her husband had 
 contracted — although he had so often deceived her — yet 
 she clung to the belief that he was guiltless, and blessed 
 God for it, as though it were an established fact in the eyes 
 of those judges before whom he was shortly to appear as a 
 fettered culprit, whose life only might appease the offended 
 laws of his country. 
 
 "Would to God it were come — that dreaded, dreadful 
 day!" she murmured, in her cottage-solitude. 
 
 It was now nearly three weeks since her first interview 
 with her husband ; a slow, consuming fever had been 
 preying upon her strength, and utterly prevented her using 
 the smallest exertion, or crawling to his prison. The kind 
 neighbour, Mrs. Lee, undertook lo visit him daily, and to 
 see that all his wants were cared far; the little boy was 
 often her companion. 
 
 " Thank God !" said his poor motlier, kissing his rosy 
 cheek, " thank God that he is too young to remember his 
 father in a prison ! Were he even a year older its memory 
 might dwell upon his mind and wither his young spirit 
 within him." 
 
 It was early in the month of February, and still she had 
 been unable to reach Mondrich, although nearly every day 
 the physician described her as growing better. The 
 clergyman's visits afforded her much consolation, particu- 
 larly as he told her how completely and truly penitent her 
 husband was ; this, with the assurance, repeated in every 
 communication she received from him, of his perfect in- 
 nocence, made her hope for the best, though how that in- 
 nocence was to be proved remained a mystery ! 
 
 Mrs. Lee had taken her boy out one day, earlier than 
 usual, to see Mrs. Middleton; and, as Agnes looked forth 
 on the clear morning, she fancied she felt stronger than 
 she had been for a long time. The crisp hoar-frost hung 
 in fantastic forms on the young shoots of the early-budding 
 trees. The robin hopped among the lower branches of| 
 
 the oak, and, seeing the hand resting on the window where it 
 had so often been fed, flew tothesill,andfearles8ly pecked the 
 crumbs she threw to her little dependant. The air, she 
 thought, was almost fragrant; and, ere the casement was 
 closed, she had resolved to exert her strength, and walk as 
 far as the stile that divided the Mondrich meadows. She 
 sat for a few moments on the step ; and, urged by the eager 
 desire again to see her husband, after a little considera- 
 tion, determined to reach the town. She walked better 
 than she anticipated ; and felt much pleasure at perceiving 
 that now but one field separated her from the turn that 
 led directly to the prison. Suddenly she became rooted to 
 the earth ; her features assumed the rigidity and colour of 
 death; and she cast off the bonnet, which had been tied on 
 so firmly, to catch every note of the awakening sound that 
 passed over the town. Again ! — was it a dream ? — or 
 could it be really the trumpet — the awful trumpet that 
 heralds the approach of him who is to sit in judgment on 
 the crimes of his fellow-beings ! 
 
 "It is come! — it is come !" she exclaimed, "the daj' — 
 the very hour of his trial, and they told me not of it ! 
 Father of Mercy!" — and as she spoke she sank on the ice- 
 bound and crackling grass, and stretched forth her white 
 attenuated arms towai-ds heaven — " Father of Mercy, 
 remember mercy, for the sake of thy blessed Son ! 
 Mercy ! — mercy ! — mercy ! Lord, this cup may not pass 
 away, but crush me not utterly in this dreadful moment! 
 Mercy! mercy! my God!" 
 
 The trumpet-sound had ceased, and the bustle of the 
 county-court subsided, when Agnes Hoskins — her mantle 
 shrouding her entire figure, and its hood held closely round 
 her face, glided, almost like a spectre, into a corner nearest 
 the dock, where the three prisoners stood arraigned for 
 trial. With tender care for the feelings of him she loved, 
 she concealed herself effectually from his sight; knowing 
 that it would increase his misery to see her there. To the 
 indictment they all pleaded " not guilty ;" but Edward 
 Hoskins laid his hand on his heart, and, looking firmly in 
 the judge's face, added, in a low impressive tone, "so help 
 me, God!" The bearing of the unfortunate culprits was 
 strongly contrasted : Paul Dodder's chin had sunk on his 
 breast, and he looked down with the sullen expression of 
 one who knew the worst was come, and cared not for it. 
 Harry Hinton had thrown back the light and glowing curls 
 that crowded over his brow, and his eye seemed enlarged 
 by the bold front he carried ; his features were high and 
 regular; and the uaobserving would have imagined the 
 firmness with which he regarded, and even analyzed, the 
 countenances of his judges, little betokened the hardihood 
 of guilt. Edward Hoskins stood as a sorrowful and heart- 
 stricken man — ashamed of his offences, yet confident that 
 he was not guilty of this particular crime. His suit of 
 solemn black seemed still more dismal beside the smart 
 blue coat and light waistcoat in which his unabashed com- 
 
 1-2 f. 
 
panion was arrayed.. The first person examined was the 
 police-sergeant by whom the prisoners had been taken into 
 custody. The counsel for the crown, who, as usual, scented 
 the blood afar off, lost no opportunity, in his opening 
 speech, of stating the worst, and dwelt particularly on 
 Hoskin's ingratitude to Mrs. Cecil Wallingford ; while the 
 counsel for the prisoners seemed equally anxious to foil his 
 brother, and, if possible, make a way for his clients to 
 escape. 
 
 The sergeant deposed to his finding Dodder and Hinton 
 close to the burning barn ; the latter, when first he saw 
 him, was on his knees, in the very act of blowing the flame; 
 the other held a quantity of combustibles (which he 
 described), and was laying a train to communicate with 
 the stables. Hoskins, he said, was near the spot, but 
 made no attempt to escape. This statement went so clear- 
 ly against the prisoners that the jury looked at each other, 
 as well as to say, " What need we of further witness ?" 
 One of the police confirmed all that the other had stated ; 
 and at evei-y word they uttered As^nes felt her heart beat 
 slowly, and still more slowly, until, at last, she scarcely 
 breathed or lived. 
 
 " The case, my lord, against those unhappy men seems 
 so fully made out," said the counsel for the crown, ad- 
 dressing the bench, "that I need hardly trouble the court 
 with the examination of other witnesses; unless, indeed, the 
 jury require it." 
 
 "My lord," observed the prisoners' counsel, " I particu- 
 larly wish that a girl of the name of Jane Hoole be called 
 up; much depends upon her evidence." 
 
 "My learned brother has chosen a strange person," 
 replied the senior barrister; " I was anxious to spare the 
 feelings of his clients ; but, by all means, let Jane Hoole be 
 brought forward." 
 
 All eyes were turned upon the wild fantastic girl who 
 now ascended the witness-bex. Her rich golden hair had 
 been curled and arranged with much attention ; her pallid 
 cheeks were tinted by that fearful, but beautiful, hue 
 which too truly indicates consumption, and her deep blue 
 eyes were of a dazzling and wandering brightness; her 
 dress was of faded silk, and a wide red sash girdled a figure 
 of light and elegant proportions. She seemed much terri- 
 fied, and trembled violently. 
 
 "The prisoner, Hinton, intimidates our witness, my 
 lord," observed the counsel; and a shudder passed over 
 those who saw the expression with which he regarded the 
 unfortunate victim of his wickedness. 
 
 " Let Henry Hinton stand down," said the judge. 
 After a little time the poor creature seemed at ease, and 
 collected; Agnes, who had been roused by her appearance, 
 thought she was a much more rational being than she had 
 imagined during their foimer brief meetings. 
 
 " You know the prisoners at the bar," commenced the 
 counsel. 
 
 " I do, sir." 
 
 After a little more questioning, the rod was presented to 
 her, and she was directed to place it on the heads of those 
 who were present at the burning at Wallingford Manor. 
 With a trembling hand she let it descend on the heads of 
 Hinton and Dodder, then held it for a moment or two sus- 
 pended over Hoskins, and, after some consideration, was 
 about to return it to the ofiicer. 
 
 "Were only these two men present?" inquired the 
 counsel, while a thrill and murmur of mingled quality 
 passed through the court-house. 
 
 " Though I am only a poor half-witted creature," said 
 the girl, looking round with an imploring air, "I want to 
 tell the truth, which I will if you let me do it in my own 
 way. He was therein body but not in spirit; don't you 
 see the difference? He didn't mean to be there for harm ; 
 he was there for good. But let me go on my own way, and 
 then you'll understand me," 
 
 She then, in wandering but simple language, stated that 
 Harry Hinton had often employed her to procure materials 
 for various burnings, and that she did as he desired, "for 
 the love that warmed her heart towards him," That he 
 often promised to marry her, but the fancy he took to Jessy, 
 had, she knew, prevented it ; and so she thought, if he was 
 once to be sent beyond seas, she would follow him, and have 
 him all her own. He always promised to give Jessy up; 
 but she found that he had got her back from Scotland, after 
 her sister had sent her there, and resolved to punish him 
 for his infidelity by telling the police, which she had done ; 
 and she hoped, now she had told their lordships the truth, 
 they would send Jessy far, far away, and make Harry 
 marry her at once ; she would go with him any where — 
 that she would — for she loved him with all her heart. 
 
 A great portion of this was unintelligible to both judge 
 and jury ; but the witness evidently interested them ; and 
 though the counsel frequently interrupted her, saying that 
 what she stated had nothing to do with the transaction, 
 yet they were obliged to let her go on her own way, as the 
 only chance of getting at the truth. As to Hoskins, "he 
 certainly was," she said, " at Wallingford, but not to burn 
 it." It was in vain that the counsel for the crown declared 
 that hearsay evidence should not be received; — the judge 
 was of opinion that she ought to be permitted to goon ; and 
 the counsel for the crown resigned her to the cross-exam- 
 ination of the counsel for the prisoner. 
 
 " You have stated, young woman, that Edward Hoskins 
 did not aid and abet in the burning which took place on the 
 night of the twenty-fifth of December, 
 
 " I have, sir. I was up in the loft where they met, and 
 when he found out what they were after he prayed and 
 begged them not to go on; and then my Harry made like 
 to give It up — and Hoskins went home, as we thought, for 
 my Harry sent me down to the Manor with the chips for 
 burning, and promised to come after ; but, at the Manor, 
 
 126 
 
dark as it was, I saw Hoskins, who let himself in with a 
 private key to the out-places, examining and looking about 
 as if to see all safe. And I wondered what kept Harry 
 away, and went back ; and on the road I met Dodder, and 
 a little behind I saw Harry — my Harry, talking to the girl 
 I hated ; and I made my mind to tell that minute and 
 bring the police to them ; and, meeting one, I gave him a 
 hint, and returned to the out-house, at Wallingford; and 
 there was Hoskins and Harry quarrelling, and one re- 
 proached the other — and Edward Hoskins thought to put out 
 the fire — and I was sorry when Harry struck him; and 
 then Paul Dodder went on lighting the fire that Edward 
 tried to put out — and was like one frantic, and Harry and 
 him struggled hard, and came so near the spot where I was 
 crouching, that I ran off to tell Agnes Hoskins of it, and 
 saw the police coming — and she can tell you," continued 
 the girl, turning round to the spot where Agnes had fancied 
 herself perfectly concealed — "there is Mrs. Hoskins. I 
 dare say she remembers what I said." 
 
 Edward Hoskins sprang to the side of the dock, and, for 
 a moment forgetting the propriety he had hitherto main- 
 tained, shook the bars violently, and, finding that he could 
 not escape to her side, exclaimed, "Support, support her! 
 — will no one look to her ! — she is fainting !" But she did 
 not faint — she approached the bar with a blanched cheek, 
 but a step of almost supernatural firmness, and, passing 
 her thin, cold hand through the aperture, rested her clear 
 blue eyes upon the jury; and in a low voice, which, not- 
 withstanding its weakness, was so earnest as to be heard in 
 every corner of the court — 
 
 " Forgive, gentlemen," she said, " a wife's presuming 
 to remind you that more than one life hangs upon your 
 verdict; and" — she was interrupted by a scream, so wild 
 and piercing that every eye was again turned to the 
 witness-box, from whence it came. 
 
 " There — there — there she is !" exclaimed Jane HoUe. 
 " She has followed him even here to take him from me. 
 But you will not let her!" She leaped down the steps, 
 and, in an instant, before the officers had time to interpose, 
 she had torn off a cloak and hat, in which the unfortunate 
 Jessy Grey had endeavoured to enshroud herself; but 
 which could not deceive her lynx-eyed rival. " Here she 
 is, my lord ! — here she is I Agnes Hoskins, I will trust 
 her to you," she continued, dragging her forward. Agnes 
 did not see the deceiving and degraded sister. She only 
 beheld the child of her father's old age — the girl she had 
 loved with a mother's tenderness, and cherished with a 
 mother's care. Turning from the dock, she opened her 
 arms, but Jessy fell at her feet and hid her face on the 
 earth. It was in vain that order was endeavoured to be 
 restored. Agnes Hoskins and her virtues were known to 
 every individual in the court. Husbands had often 
 pointed her out to their wives as a model of virtue and 
 propriety— fathers had wished for such a daughter, and 
 
 young men for such a partner. And as she stood struggling 
 with emotion, and caressing the poor lost creature, who 
 twined around her with all the contrite feeling of an hum- 
 bled sinner, the judge waited patiently till the feelings that 
 had thus agitated every member of the assembly should 
 subside. 
 
 "I have made one effort, Agnes, to repair my many 
 crimes," whispered Jessy to her sister: "I have no 
 evidence to offer in favour of him ; but I believe I can con- 
 firm the statement just made by that unhappy girl, as to 
 your Edward's innocence." This information was conveyed 
 to the counsel for the prisoners; and, as the poor changed 
 creature was about to ascend the box, Agnes threw her own 
 cloak over her shoulders, to conceal a form that called a 
 crimson blush to her faded cheek. Her quiet and distinct 
 account of the transaction fully corroborated what the wild 
 girl had sworn to. Unknown to her deceiver, she had 
 witnessed the quarrel which took place between them on 
 that awful night ; and had wandered over the country 
 ever since, " seeking rest but finding none" — not daring 
 to pollute her sister's cottage with her presence, and 
 resolved not to visit the author of her misery, lest he might 
 alter the fixed purpose of her soul — that of appearing at 
 her brother-in-law's trial to testify his innocence. She 
 was supported down the steps, and clung to her sister's 
 shoulder during the jury's deliberation. Without leaving 
 the box, they returned a verdict of guilty against Hinton 
 and Dodder, and acquitted Edward Hoskins. Agnes might 
 well be excused for forgetting Jessy's feelings in the over- 
 whelming gratitude she experienced for the preservation of 
 her husband's life. So completely were her ears closed by 
 a new sensation of joyfulness and hope, that overflowed as 
 it were all her senses, that she hardly understood, when 
 the judge had absolutely pronounced sentence of death on 
 his wretched companions, the meaning of his words. One 
 of Jane Hoole's frightful shrieks aroused her from those 
 visions of returning happiness which flitted around her. 
 
 " Death! — not death — notdeath, for Harry !" vociferated 
 the maddened craeture : " It is transportation — not death ! — 
 you won't kill him!" At the same instant Agnes felt the 
 grasp, that her sister had so firmly fixed on her arm, relax ; 
 she looked upon her — her hands were stretched towards the 
 dock; and, as her gaze rested upon Harry Hinton's face, 
 which was turned towards her, those beautiful eyes grew 
 yet more dim; her livid lips parted over her white and 
 glistening teeth; and, with a frightful convulsion, the 
 ardent, misguided spirit of Jessy Grey passed from its 
 earthly dwelling. 
 
 Months and years have gone by — the Mosspits are quiet 
 and beautiful as ever — but the curate of the parish, a mild 
 and benevolent young man, dwells in the cottage that had 
 
 127 
 
once been gladdened by the presence of the excellent 
 Agnes. She had passed with her small household to 
 another land, where we will for a moment follow — it is even 
 in the new world ; and there, in a well-built dwelling, on 
 the borders of a green savannah, is the final resting-place 
 of Edward Hoskins and his now numerous family. 
 
 The sun is setting behind the dense and magnificent 
 woods that seem to mount even to the heavens ; and its 
 parting rays linger, as if loath to part from the richly-culti- 
 vaied corn and meadow-land that surrounds his house. 
 There, literally under the shadow of their own vine and 
 fig-tree, are this once more happy family assembled. 
 
 "And will you never return to England, father?" demand- 
 ed the first-born, as he carefully examined the contents of 
 a huge chest which had just arrived from Europe. 
 
 His mother replied, " Could we be happier there than we 
 are here ?" 
 
 Her husband thanked her with a look that told of 
 gratitude unspeakable ; and when the group hand separa- 
 ted, and only Edward and his cherished wife remained to 
 enjoy the deep tranquillity of the balmy twilight, he dis- 
 turbed the meditation, which the question had occasioned, 
 by the utterance of a natural but painful idea. " If our 
 children should ever go to England, Agnes, they will hear 
 a sad story of their father ; but they would hear also of 
 their mother's virtue ; had you been unkind — had you even 
 been what the world calls just to yourself, I should have 
 been a banned and a blighted man, but you did — " 
 
 " Only what every woman, who truly loves her husband, 
 would do," interrupted the unchanging Agnes. ' " And, 
 behold, the Lord has been not only merciful, but boun- 
 tiful;— the treasures bestowed upon us on earth (she 
 pointed to their children who were assembling for evening 
 worship within the porch) can only be exceeded by the 
 treasures appointed for humble believers in heaven." 
 
 AN INQUIRY AFTER HAPPINESS. 
 
 BT MRS. CARTER. 
 
 The midnight moon serenely smiles 
 
 O'er nature's soft repose, 
 No lowering cloud obscures the sky, 
 
 Nor ruffling tempest blows. 
 
 Now every passion sinks to rest, 
 The throbbing heart lies still ; 
 
 And varying schemes of life no more 
 Distract the labouring will. 
 
 In silence hushed, to Reason's voice 
 Attends each mental power; 
 
 Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy 
 Refiectiou'g favourite hour. 
 
 Come, while the peaceful scene invites, 
 Let's search this ample round ; 
 
 Where shall the lovely, fleeting form 
 Of Happiness be found ? 
 
 Does it amid the frolic mirth 
 
 Of gay assemblies dwell ? 
 Or hide beneath the solemn gloom 
 
 That shades the hermit's cell? 
 
 How oft the laughing brow of joy 
 A sickening heart conceals ; 
 
 And through the cloister's deep recess 
 Invading sorrow steals. 
 
 In vain through beauty, fortune, wit, 
 
 The fugitive we trace ; 
 It dwells not in the faithless smile 
 
 That brightens Clodio's face. 
 
 Perhaps the joys to these denied, 
 The heart in friendship finds ? 
 
 Ah ! dear delusion, gay conceit 
 Of visionary minds. 
 
 Howe'er our varying notions rove, 
 
 Yet all agree in one, — 
 To place its being in some state 
 
 At distance from our own. 
 
 blind to each indulgent aim 
 
 Of power supremely wise. 
 Who fancy Happiness in aught 
 
 The hand of Heaven denies ! 
 
 Vain are alike the joys we seek, 
 
 And vain what we possess, 
 Unless harmonious Reason tunes 
 
 The passions into peace. 
 
 To tempered wishes, just desires, 
 
 Is Happiness confined, 
 And, deaf to Folly's call, attends 
 
 The music of the mind. 
 
 7^ 
 
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