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LOCHANVRI;

A BORDER ROMANCE. For the Olio.

Rock on rock confused piled,
Mountain torrents fierce and wild,
Linn and loch and ravine deep
Guarded fell Lochanvri's keep,

Whose towers so wildly high, Look'd down on Criffel's stately crest, In blooming summer verdure drest; And Solway rippling by, Reflecting in its glassy breast

The sunlit summer sky.

But now that sun was sinking fast,
Its gorgeous dyes no more were cast
Around the heaven of June:
That gold and purple blended zone
Of clouds, that linger'd o'er his throne,
Had faded into gloom :

But scarcely had their last of light
Exhaled into the deepening night,
Ere every eastward bending rim,
Distinguish'd faint by starlight dim,
Were silver'd by the moon;
And as with slow and silent march
She wended up the spangled arch,
Her radiant beams begun
Calm on the giant pile to sleep,
The rampart wall, the donjon keep,
And moat and portal dun.
Firm planted on the danjon high,
Lochanvri's flag of sable dye

Sail'd heavy in the wind;
Came on the ear the sullen swell
Of watchword pass'd by sentinel,

Whose armour, where the moonbeams fell,

In dewy lustre shined.

And sweetly stream'd her cloudless rays
O'er brimming Solway's myriad waves
Swift undulating on;

And o'er them fell in rainbow dyes
The starlight of the sapphire skies!

Sweet stole the sea-maid's song;
The curlew circling far and wide,
And shallop bounding o'er the tide,
In breezy radiance shone.
Within his chamber's solitude
Lochanýri sat in musing mood;

Fall ficrce his dark eye roll'd,-
His felon soul developing
All-all that fiercely strove within
That baleful lustre told.
Beside him on a table lay

A lamp, whose feeble, quivering ray
Could ill dispel the chilling gloom
That reign'd around the vaulted room;
Its fitful light fell dim

On corslet, targe and morion

On brand that murd'rous deed bad done;
And flooded with still brighter glow
The chieftain's darkly scowling brow,
His blood-streak'd visage grim.
Forth from his belt Lochanvri drew
A dirk, whose crimson-spotted hue
Told murder oft time done;
Seem'd on his cheek a tear to roll
As down the blade his fierce eye stole;
That blade he strove to shun.

Full sudden on his feet he flew,
A searching glance around him threw,
And dash'd the lancet wide,

And hurl'd the blood-stain'd weapon through;
It sunk beneath the tide.

That moment on the glittering sea,
What seem'd a wreath of mist to be,
A gallant ship became;
Fanu'd by a south breeze, gallantly
She strove the shore to gain.

As o'er the foamy surge she hore,

That surge now robed in gloom, The sky a changed aspect wore, Each cresset seem'd the hue of gore, Blood red became the moon. Full many a form in frightful guise Pace down the decks Lochanvri eyes; Full many a startling sound he hears; And as the shore the shallop nears, Their thrilling revelrie

Far louder grew.-and thus the crew Troll'd forth their mystic glee.

SONG.

Proudly skim the surges o'er Boany shallop, cheerily;

Thy shaven decks shall run with gore
When night scowls dark and drearity.
The osprey wings her rapid flight
Across the booming ocean,

And speeds our barque in goodly plight
To raise the brave commotion.

Now cringe and cower ye foemen all,
And hang your heads in sorrow,
For, lo! our barque o'er the surges dark
Comes fleet as outlaw's arrow.

The felon sits within his tower,

Nor dreams of dool nor sorrow;
But soon his heart shall feel the smart
Of Innisfillan's arrow.

Now fast and black the vessel bore
Along the surge and gain'd the shore;
One form, the host among.
Glared fiercely on the chief, who still
Leant passive on the lancet sill,

Mute gazing at the throng.
"Thy hour is come, Lochanvri, now!"
That form exclaim'd,-the chieftain's brow
Assumed a deadly shade.

"Look on this steel!-its gory hue"-
The round moon pour'd her crimson glow
Full on the blood-splash'd blade.
Loud startling cries Lochanvri heard,
The clang of mail, the clash of sword,
And ruddy fire-light fiercely glared
Amid the gloom beneath!
Wild exultations loud and long
Arose one moment from the throng,
Then sunk profound as death.
The keep's alarm'd-red taper gleams
From lanect, loop and grating streams,
On porch and buttress dun;
The inmates shouts now join the cries
That from the castle's base arise-
Lochanyri's horde in mailed guise
Pour swift the walls upon.
Hark! hark! the horrid tumult now-
Behold the fire's ascending glow !—

Loud roars the levell'd gun!
Amid the reddening fire-light falls
Lochanvri's clansmen, from the walls
Some panic-stricken run;
But he, high towering 'mid the rest,
Display'd around his dragon crest,
Nor sought the foe to shun.
Fearless he paced the rampart o'er,
Begrim'd with mire and splash'd with gore,
Till totter'd on its base of rock
The giant pile!-A second shock
Ensued, and in a moment more,

'Mid wreaths of smoke and Blame the tower Uprisen, on the rocky shore

In deafening thunders rung.

THE WILL: A SKETCH.

For the Olio.

T. F.

ONE Wednesday, about the middle of January, 182-, a knot of persons

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"Oh! oh!" whistled the other, "what's this?- Sedwick Simpkins and Company, Broad-street, merchants, so far as regards Jeremiah Sedgwick, Esquire.' Why, how the deuce is this? I thought the firm was as close as the borough of Newark."

"Your surprise is not singular, Mr. Snipe," remarked a third: "they do say in the Rotunda-but I say nothing;" --although the wink of the eye, and the knowing twist of the nose, meant a great deal.

"What! hey!" exclaimed he of the spectacled nose, hastily pocketing his seven-penny worth of news; any thing queer, Mr. Parkins?"

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"I say nothing," rejoined the said Perkins, with mysterious significance. There's no knowing what would have become of the hitherto unimpeachable credit of the firm of Sedgwick, Simpkins and Co., had not one of their head clerks accidentally passed, and stopped the tide of calumny, by informing the three gossippers, that the head partner had gone out of the firm on account of the death of a cousin, to whom he was heir, and in consequence of whose demise he had become possessed of a considerable estate in Kent.

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," continued the clerk, "for although Colonel Seymour has left his wife and daughter with nothing but their war-office pension, Mr. Sedgwick has come in for a good thing. It is so unbusiness-like to die without a will!" “Oh! Sedgwick will make all that right, I'll be bound," ejaculated Mr. Snipe.

But those who knew Jeremiah Sedgwick better than Mr. Snipe, would not "be bound" for any thing of the kind. He was a selfish, avaricious, nay, grasp ing character; yet, singular as it may seem, the grand object of his life was to appear liberal; thus, he would not mind paying a liberal price for any article he might happen to purchase, let the charge for it be ever so exorbitant;

but if he were called upon to aid the needy, his natural stinginess would evince itself; and such an application would either meet with a decided refusal, or he would grant the favour with the accompaniment of a long lecture, in which he would laboriously attempt to show how easily he could perform a good action. After cogitating on the best manner of making the most of an act that every body else would consider a duty; but which he chose to qualify by the adjective "generous," he resolved to write a long letter, embodying an invitation to Mrs. Seymour and her daughter to share the board and house, which, but for the improvidence of Colonel Seymour, would have been their own. Accordingly, a sheet of foolscap was duly blotted and transmitted to the ladies at Calais. An answer was speedily returned, which, with far more delicacy than he deserved, gave Mr. Jeremiah Sedgwick to understand, that his "generosity" was not so highly appreciated as he expected; but on account of most of her friends being in India, Mrs. Seymour would do herself the pleasure of becoming his guest.

Mr.

While we leave Mr. Jeremiah Sedgwick to screw the utmost penny out of his quondam partners, and Mrs. Seymour and her daughter to complete their journey to town, we will introduce the reader to a personage of whom we have not yet had occasion to speak, Cornelius Sedgwick, son of the aforementioned Jeremiah and his departed wife. Cornelius, although possessed of a sound heart and unquestionable morals, was most egregiously addicted to the romantic. He had imbibed the insipidity of the Minerva Press with his pap-Della Crusca was his literary dry nurse-and he was bred up with the fear of Monk Lewis before his eyes, seeing that his mamma was a bit of a blue,-" a silly 'oman as wrote novels and all manner o' stuff." Poor creature! both herself and her books died long before the period to which this sketch refers. It is no wonder, then, that Mr. Cornelius Sedgwick aspired to the honours of literature,-no wonder that he dressed himself according to the most approved print-shop likenesses of Lord Byron, no wonder that he always turned his shirt collar down, and frequently turned his eyes up; but it is a wonder, how his father, a man of the world, could have been so blind as to fancy his son a genius,—such, however, was the fact. When novel-readers, in the course of their researches,

come to a passage which, for aught they know to the contrary, may be Greek, or German, or Sanscrit, they immediately applaud the learning of the writer of the said novel, simply, and for no other reason, than because they do not understand what he has quoted. By a similar course of reasoning, did Mr. Jeremiah Sedgwick become possessed of the like opinion in reference to his son. He had seen several of Cornelius's poetical effusions, and for aught he knew, they might have been sense, or they might have been nonsense; but this he did know, that each line began with a capital letter-Byron's productions did no more; there was a similarity of sound in the termination of Cornelius's doggrell; Mr. Sedgwick could discover no greater ingenuity in the compositions of Moore. In short, both father and son fell into the same error, viz. a conviction that the latter was a poet.

In due time, Mrs. and Miss Seymour arrived in town; Mr. Sedgwick settled all his business, and Cornelius having laid in a stock of novels and romances, the whole party took their departure for the estate in Kent. During their journey, Mr. Sedgwick made sundry attempts to expatiate upon his own liberality, but the commanding mien and superior manners of his female travelling companions, prevented him from applying his remarks to their case. Cornelius, as might be expected, fell desperately in love with his cousin, and evinced his passion by reciting some passages from his last new sacred poem, the manuscript of which, (fortunately for his hearers) he had left with his publishers in Newgate Street.

Three months passed away, without the occurrence of any incident worthy of record. Mr. Jeremiah Sedgwick took every opportunity of blazoning his generosity; and Cornelius did the sentimental with Miss Seymour, much to her amusement. Mary was a very pretty, lively, giddy creature,-pretty, because she had a pair of speaking black eyes, a head of glossy hair, a complexion as white as alabaster, and nearly as transparent,-lively, because she was ever enjoying or creating mirth. To mis-quote Shakspeare, she "Found PUNS in trees, wIT in running brooks, BON-MOTS in stones, and FUN in every thing. And giddy, because she was pretty, and lively, and seventeen years of age. To such a disposition, a character like Cornelius's could not fail to be amusing. For if, by any chance, Miss Mary Sey

mour suspected herself of being dull, his company was most welcome, as, in the absence of all other resources, she would say his presence always afforded her "something to laugh at."

They were returning from a long walk one evening, and Cornelius was expatiating upon the stars, and attempting to be poetical by comparing them to his cousin's eyes, when the course of his rhodomontade was arrested by the sound of footsteps. Mary turned her head, and when her eyes fell upon the tall figure which was following them, her surprise found vent in a shriek. The stranger rushed forward and embraced her, while Cornelius stood with open eyes and distended mouth, looking for all the world like a Dutch nut-cracker.

The first sounds which met his ear after recovering from his surprise, were those of a fine manly voice, modulated into tenderness. But as he unfortunately did not understand Spanish, he was unable to catch the purport of the stranger's conversation. He gleaned, however, from the satisfaction expressed in the countenance of his cousin, that she not only understood every word of it, but that it was anything but disagreeable to her. They appeared to be old friends, and seemed so well pleased with each other's society, that they did not even notice Cornelius, until he reminded them of his presence by muttering audibly about "ungentlemanly intrusion," and quoting from a novel about" revenge." Poor Mary blushed intensely, and made many awkward attempts at introducing the gentlemen to each other. The Spaniard made a stiff bow, which was answered by Cornelius with a theatrical scowl. At length Mary succeeded in making her cousin known to the stranger, and somewhat alleviated his curiosity by introducing him to Senior Isadore Valquez, a young gentleman who had been a friend of her father in Paris.

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Although the curiosity of Cornelius had vanished, his dislike for the intruder remained; and during the rest of their walk he had plenty of time to feed it, as his companions were too busily engaged to trouble him much. So, after a train of singular mental argument, he set down the Spaniard as a villain. He wore a large cloak-so did all the villains in his favourite romances; his upper lip boasted of mustachios-so did that of Melmoth the Wanderer; and the only thing wanting to make him a murderer, was the absence of a mask and a slouched hat; he no

doubt carried a stiletto, but that might have been hid under his dress. Our hero, having coolly come to the conclusion that he and his cousin were in the company of a desperado, determined to rid them of it as soon as possible; and after having settled as to the most impressive manner of communicating his ideas to Mary without the knowledge of her companion, he hemmed thrice, and uttered the word "beware!" accompanied with a pressure on his cousin's arm. But the poor girl was too busily engaged in talking Spanish to notice his salutary warning. With like illsuccess did he repeat the ominous word three times, consecutively with "Danger." Finding his efforts vain, he determined to separate himself from the party, and secretly watch their movements; this resolution he carried into effect without difficulty, as his absence was not noticed. Accordingly, he lay in ambush in sight of the house, (for they had nearly reached home). Presently he saw Mary and the Spaniard approach the door arm in arm, and what was his surprise and amazement at beholding the Spaniard, despite his cloak, his mustachios and concealed dagger, hand in Mary, and enter the house himself, like an ordinary individual.

Cornelius entered shortly after, with as good an imitation of calm grandeur as he could give, and marched into the drawing-room, where he found the ladies giving and receiving congratulations, &c. in Spanish, and his father grumbling in pretty plain English, scolding Mary for neglecting his son, and rating her mother for introducing a foreigner into his house.

"Had I known I should have been unable to see whom I pleased," said Mrs. Seymour, "I should never have consented to become your visitor."

"I hate foreigners," retorted the polite old gentleman, "and if you must have a parcel of Frenchmen running after you, the sooner you get a house of your own the better."

"Unless I am mistaken in the contents of this packet," rejoined Senior Valquez, in broken English, "you will not have to go far to suit yourself, Mrs. Seymour.'

He took from under his vest a sealed packet, which, on being opened, proved to be a large parchment with a seal in the corner, and indorsed, "The last will and testament of Henry Seymour, Colonel in His Majesty's 79th Regiment of Light Infantry," &c. The bearer, after apologising for not delivering it

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One Saturday, about the end of September, 182-, three persons were seen earnestly conversing together, under the east colonnade of the Royal Exchange.

"So Sedgwick has returned to the old concern, hey, Mr. Perkins?" said a stock-broker with a pen behind his ear; " he did not enjoy his good luck long.' "No; here comes one of his clerks he will tell us all about it."

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Accordingly, they inquired, and were informed by the clerk, that Colonel Seymour, having left his family at Paris to go to Madrid, caught a fever there, made a will in favour of his wife and daughter, entrusted it to a revolutionary officer, and died. This officer, having been engaged in the internal squabbles of his country, was obliged for six months after to play at hide and seek, to save his head; he at length, however, found his way to England, and placed the will in the hands of the widow and her daughter.

When the clerk had finished his narration, an elderly gentleman, with spectacles, read the following passage from the Times newspaper :-" Married on the 21st inst., at Rochester, Isadore Valquez, Esq., to Mary, only daughter of the late Colonel Seymour.' Among the hearers of this announcement, was a young gentleman with a novel under his arm, who, when the name of Mary Seymour reached his ears, struck his forehead with his hand, and rushed into the gunsmith's shop just outside the Exchange gates! W. II. W.

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Heaven saw-with pity saw the future prief,
Felt for her worth and flew to her relief;
Preventive mercy kiudly bade her go
To scenes incapable of earthly woe;
Hence do I learn this self-consoling task,
Seldom we know what good or ill we ask;
Thankful for punishment in anger given-
Unthankful most when most indulgent heaven.
What shall I say?-reproaches rise in vain,
Mary's superior spirit laughs at pain,
Else had she dropped the poison bowl,
Nor fixed her dagger in her father's soul;
Else had it stung her with a deep remorse,
To think what thorns lay scattered in her

course.

Painted alike to wound her own rash feet,
And make the sorrows of my path complete.
Reproach thee !-no! I dare not, if I would,
It sounds so like a curse it chills my blood;
And tho' I blame thee in my secret thought,
I could not curse thee if a father ought.
Pity meanwhite has many a plea preferred-
Pity and nature struggle to be heard,
With joint persuasion press their eager plea,
Too sure to find a partial friend in me;
Yes, my full soul from pity's fertile stores
Harbours to screen the madness it deplores.
No less ingenious nature's ready tongue
Frames a fond pardon for each cruel wrong,
And tho' in truth parental pride must sigh,
When all its bopes and all its blossoms die.
Believe me, Mary, 'tis for thee alone

SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A RUNAWAY,

For the Olio.

Moving accidents by flood and field.

In this age of scribbling, and printing, and puffing; when autobiographies, reminiscences, personal narratives, and personal memoirs are surfeiting even those reptalia of readers, the devourers of fashionable novels, the appearance of any thing by so humble an individual as myself may be viewed with disgust and received with coldness: I would, nevertheless, show just my head and shoulders in the literary arena, and, although these, my memoirs, may not be found so redolent of noble black legs and fashionable demi-reps, I still hope that what I may have to tell the "gentle reader" will not be found uninteresting. I have been informed that if I cannot write of routs and card parties; of opera intrigues, and other

These keenest pangs, these agonies are known. fashionable scandal, my work will be

Well, Mary, I tremble for thy future fate.
Love rashly formed too often comes to hate;
The impetuous tide of giddy passions o'er,
May soon expose thee on a friendless shore;
No power to rescue-no hand to save
Thy freighted treasures from the ruthless
grave!

Thy ampler store of life's prime treasures gone.

Thyself forsaken, shipwrecked and undone.
Oh, may I prove a faithless prophet bere!
But, Mary, much I love and much I fear.
Meanwhile thy conscience, at some future
bour,

Is sure to vindicate its slighted power.
As thy life (I trust it will) may prove
In purer luxuries of real love,

condemned before it be half read, and myself voted a dead bore: furthermore, I have had it hinted, that unless I set to work to defame some public character,. by introducing him under a fictitious name, and working the whole up into a novel, I might as well attempt to drain the ocean as aspire to literary fame.. Yet, with all this dismal croaking, I venture to put forth my plain" unvarnished tale," in spite of the prophecies of my advisers. It is to be regretted that our countrymen look too much to

Still wretched thought my child must one day precedent. Few Englishmen are seen

find

That worst of enemies-a self-stung mind!
No heart I fear can always hush to rest
The loud reproaches of the filial breast;
Thy sting, ingratitude, of all beside
The sharpest surely that the breast can hide,
Will make their way, and with resistless force
Fix in the soul the passion of remorse.
Ah, me! how fiercely will it rankle there,
Inflamed with horror, tortured with despair!
When keen reflection, as thy days decline.
Shall teach thy bosom half the pangs of mine,
How would it wring thee with distracted woe,
Thy poor sad father laid for ever low!
How wilt thou execute thy broken trust,
Those fondling arms for ever laid in dust!

How wilt thou moan this tender last embrace
How feel my agonies thy own disgrace!
Mercy forbid!-repent my child and live,
And heaven, as I do, pity and forgive!

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to adopt a fashion, or even an opinion,. until the prevailing taste is known.. But I, scorning alike both precedent and rule, throw myself upon the good? nature of my readers, and commence my narrative.

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I was born in the little village of Sin Gloucestershire, of, as the phrase is, poor but decent parents," who gave me as good an education as their means would allow. I picked up, besides, a. little by attending a Sunday school in the neighbouring town, and by the time I was sixteen years of age could not only read well, but could also write a very fair hand, and understood something of cyphering, or 'summing,' as the schoolboys call it. But, unluckily, besides this aptitude for learning, I had a fondness for all sorts of mischief; from hunting cats, dogs, and pigs, to terrifying old women, not one of whom in the village but often wished me at the devil.. No hoax was ever played; no poultry

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