hour in the morning, I have urged him to lay aside his book. It required some extravagance to rouse him to join heartily in conversation: to tempt him to avoid the chimney-piece, on which commonly he had laid the open volume. "If I were to read as long as you do, Shelley, my hair and my teeth would be strewed about on the floor, and my eyes would slip down my cheeks into my waistcoat pockets; or at least I should become so weary and nervous, that I should not know whether it were so or not." He began to scrape the carpet with his feet, as if teeth were actually lying upon it, and he looked fixedly at my face, and his lively fancy represented the empty sockets; his imagination was excited, and the spell that bound him to his books was broken, and creeping close to the fire, and, as it were, under the fire-place, he commenced a most animated discourse. Few were aware of the extent, and still fewer, I apprehend, of the profundity of his reading; in his short life, and without ostentation, he had, in truth, read more Greek than many an aged pedant, who, with pompous parade, prides himself upon this study alone. Although he had not entered critically into the minute niceties of the noblest of languages, he was thoroughly conversant with the valuable matter it contains. A pocket edition of Plato, of Plutarch, of Euripides, without interpretation or notes, or of the Septuagint, was his ordinary companion; and he read the text straight forward for hours, if not as readily as an English author, at least with as much facility as French, Italian, or Spanish. "Upon my soul, Shelley, your style of going through a Greek book is something quite beautiful!" was the wondering exclamation of one who was himself no mean student.

As his love of intellectual pursuits was vehement, and the vigour of his genius almost celestial, so were the purity and sanctity of his life most conspicuous. His food was plain and simple as that of a hermit, with a certain anticipation, even at this time, of a vegetable diet, respecting which he afterwards became an enthusiast in theory, and in practice an irregular votary. With his usual fondness for removing the abstruse and difficult questions of the highest theology, he loved to inquire, whether man can justify, on the ground of reason alone, the practice of taking the life of the inferior animals, except in the necessary defence of his life and

of his means of life, the fruits of that field which he has tilled, from violence and spoliation. "Not only have considerable sects," he would say, "" denied the right altogether, but those among the tender-hearted and imaginative people of antiquity, who accounted it lawful to kill and eat, appear to have doubted whether they might take away life merely for the use of man alone. They slew their cattle not simply for human guests, like the less scrupulous butchers of modern times, but only as a sacrifice for the honour and in the name of the deity; or rather of those subordinate divinities, to whom, as they believed, the Supreme Being had assigned the creation and conservation of the visible material world; as an incident to these pious offerings, they partook of the residue of the victims, of which, without such sanction and sanctification they would not have presumed to taste. So reverent was the caution of a humane and generous antiquity!" Bread became his chief sustenance, when his regimen attained to that austerity, which afterwards distinguished it. He could have lived on bread alone without repining. When he was walking in London with an acquaintance he would suddenly run into a baker's shop, purchase a supply, and breaking a loaf, he would offer half of it to his companion. "Do you know," he said to me one day with much surprise, "that such an one does not like bread; did you ever know a person who disliked bread?" and he told me that a friend had refused such an offer. 1 explained to him, that the individual in question probably had no objection to bread in a moderate quantity, at a proper time and with the usual adjuncts, and was only unwilling to devour two or three pounds of dry bread in the streets, and at an early hour. Shelley had no such scruple; his pockets were generally well stored with bread. circle upon the carpet, clearly defined by an ample verge of crumbs, often marked the place where he had long sat at his studies, his face nearly in contact with his book, greedily devouring bread at intervals amidst his profound abstractions. For the most part he took no condiment; sometimes, however, he ate with his bread the common raisins, which are used in making puddings, and these he would buy at little mean shops. He was walking one day in London with a respectable solicitor, who occasionally transacted business for him; with his accustomed

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precipitation he suddenly vanished, and as suddenly reappeared: he had entered the shop of a little grocer in an obscure quarter, and had returned with some plums, which he held close under the attorney's nose, and the man of fact was as much astonished at the offer, as his client, the man of fancy, at the refusal. The common fruit of the stalls, and oranges and apples, were always welcome to Shelley; he would crunch the latter as heartily as a schoolboy. Vegetables and especially sallads, and pies and puddings, were acceptable: his beverage consisted of copious and frequent draughts of cold water, but tea was ever grateful, cup after cup, and coffee. Wine was taken with singular inoderation, commonly diluted largely with water, and for a long period he would abstain from it altogether; he avoided the use of spirits almost invariably and even in the most minute portions. Like all persons of simple tastes, he retained his sweet tooth; he would greedily eat cakes, gingerbread, and sugar; honey, preserved or stewed fruit, with bread, were his favourite delicacies, these he thankfully and joyfully received from others, but he rarely sought for them or provided them for himself. The restraint and protracted duration of a convivial meal were intolerable; he was seldom able to keep his seat during the brief period assigned to an ordinary family dinner.

New Mon.

THE GIRL OF CADIZ. WRITTEN BY LORD BYRON.*

Oh never talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies;
It has not been your lot to see,
Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz.
Although her eye be not of blue,

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses,
How far its own expressive hue

The languid azure eye surpasses! Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole The fire, that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel And curl'd to give her neck caresses. Our English maids are long to woo, And frigid even In possession; And if their charms be fair to view. Their lips are slow at Love's confession : But born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, And who,-when fondly, fairly won,Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz?

From the eighth volume of the New Edition of Byron's Works, published by Murray.

The Spanish maid is no coquette,
Nor joys to see a lover tremble,
And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble.
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold-
Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely;
And, though it will not bend to gold,
'Twill love you long and love you dearly.
The Spanish girl that meets your love
Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial,
For every thought is bent to prove

Her passion in the hour of trial. When thronging foemen menace Spain, She dares the deed and shares the danger; And should her lover press the plain, She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. And when, beneath the evening star, She mingles in the gay Bolero, Or sings to her attuned guitar

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, Or counts her beads with fairy hand Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, Or joins devotion's choral band,

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper. In each her charms the heart must move Of all who venture to beho'd her; Then let not maids less fair reprove

Because her bosom is not colder; Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam Where many a soft and melting maid is, But none abroad, and few at home, May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz.

BARON GERAMB.

SOME not unamusing gossipping anecdotes are just now floating through society in Paris respecting an individual nearly forgotten by the worldnamely, the once celebrated Baron Geramb. Few of our English readers are unacquainted by reputation, if not personally, with the Baron, whose superb moustaches and immense spurs, some twenty years ago, created a world of admiration in London, where he did a thousand strange things; among others, it is said, made proposals of marriage to one of the English princesses! Sic transit gloria. The Baron is now, and has been for years, an inmate of the monastery of La Trappe, where he shines as much among his brother anchorites by his superior sanctity and the severe austerities of his life, as when he shone the "admired of all admirers" among the fashionables at Almack's. The life of "Frere Joseph," as the Baron is now called, is a veritable romance. Hungarian nobleman by birth, almost on his first appearance at Vienna, he had an affair of honour with an English colonel, the curious conditions of which were, that the duel was to take place on the edge of the crater of Mount Etna, and that the combatant who might be killed or wounded, should be thrown into the volcano by his antagonist. There the duel took

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place, and fortune favoured the Englishman; but he generously omitted to fulfil the condition which would have effectually prevented his wounded opponent from ever becoming a Trappist. At the peace of Amiens, the Baron had another duel; this time it was with a young French officer of Hussars, in consequence of some expressions derogatory to the French army. His an

tagonist was M. Valabregue, who afterwards became the husband of the celebrated Catalini; the Baron received a severe wound on this occasion, and narrowly escaped a long imprisonment, the laws against duelling being at that time excessively severe at Vienna. He was, however, pardoned, in consequence of the severity of the wound, and M. Valabregue was set at liberty, at the instance of the French Ambassador, M. Champigny, now Duke de Cadore. Geramb afterwards raised a regiment of cavalry, and fought in the Spanish campaign. He then went to England, where, after "astonishing the natives" for some time, and being engaged in a variety of warlike and other adventures, he was sent out of the country under the Alien Act, and landed at Hamburgh. Hamburgh not being a fighting city, the Baron betook himself to writing against the Imperial French Government, for which offence he speedily found himself transferred to a dungeon in the chateau of Vincennes, where he remained until the Allies entered Paris, and set him at liberty.During his captivity, when in expectation of being shot, he made a vow, that should he live to be released, he would become a Trappist, which vow he has faithfully kept. Frere Joseph is, it is said, about to be chosen by his order to be sent on a mission to Palestine, and it is expected he will be created a cardinal on his return. What denouement to the romance it would be, were it to terminate in the Fapal chair!The circumstance that has recalled Geramb to public recollection, is a letter from him to his former adversary, M. Valabregue, which has appeared in some of the journals, thanking him for a generous inquiry after his fate, and offers of assistance. After describing the state of privation and poverty in which he dwells, which is in truth frightful enough, and speaking of his family, he adds "You alone, my dear Count, known as I am to all Europe, if I may be allowed so to say, have expressed an interest in the fate of poor Geramb. On the day of our duel, who would have

said that I should one day address you from La Trappe! Mutability, my friend, is the universal law of this world of human nature, from the vicissitudes of which I must, however, except your own generous heart, and my gratitude for your kindness."

PICTURES IN THE PEAK.
BY HORACE GUILFORD.
FOR THE OLIO.

AFTER a pleasant walk from the Peacock, by style and pathway, down green pasture hills and holmes, laced with a blue stream, and broidered with ash and sycamore, we enter from the east-south WINGFIELD MANOR HOUSE by a portal, leading into an outer court, then under another square embattled gateway into the inner court: the old part of the architecture is exquisitely chaste. In this inner court is one of the most elegant porches I ever beheld; it is a low square tower of perpendicular architecture; the parapet embattled, with an armorial shield in every battlement, and a larger one in the spandrils-a broad band of quatrefoils from the architrave; and a Tudor arch, with wreathy mouldings of flower work, and a beautiful transome window, add the last grace to the whole : this is the porch leading to the Hall, a superb apartment seventy-eight by thirty-six, lighted by nine cross lights, the windows long, of the Tudor arch, like Kenilworth; besides a broad arched window at the east end, now blocked up, and an enormous oriel exceedingly rich, with fretted tracery at the top, and very splendid mouldings,—this is quite a study. Thence through a suite of offices to the Buttery, whose gigantic battlemented chimnies rise like turrets among the thick bare trees, which raise their columnar trunks in every court and chamber of the beautiful wreck; their rude and majestic forms, as they spread over the pallid remains of architectural ornament, seeming to assert the permanent triumphs of nature over the ephemeral splendours of art.Thence into the Kitchen, which has a large window to the west, and two prodigious fire places joining each other at right angles. Most impressively do the ancient elm, ash, and elder trees, declare the lapse of time since savoury meats steamed through these apartments. I am interrupted by a large liver-coloured setter, who has discovered a hen's nest, and is amusing

himself with tossing up the eggs, and catching them in his mouth.

I now return to the Hall, which I perceive has been split up into two carolan and jacobin apartments, by a bisecting wall from east to west, while its noble proportions have suffered a similar curtailment in altitude, by a second floor which has been introduced at about the middle of its original height, so that the magnificent range of old windows, whose coloured lattices once illuminated in legendary or heraldic pomp the stupendous area of this august chamber, are now maimed and divided, so as to give light to both stories.

I now descend a staircase under the oriel into a large crypt forty-eight by thirty-six, bisected by four low and wide arches of the Tudor bend; the roof deeply ribbed, and the keystones large, round, and of superb rosework; from thence into another vault, whose centre is a similar pillar and keystone, and doubtless, this made a part of the other chamber, but has been parted off in the same way as the hall above it, whose whole length it traverses from east to west. At the north-east angle of the hall stands the Eastern, or Garden Tower ;-but the hall porch is decidedly the finest feature of this most ornate pile. Its detail is of the richest -its proportions faultless - and its effect magnificent.

The Chapel stretches at right angles with the hall, and has a handsome window looking north; close by which is the Chapel Tower; about thirty years back, there were apartments in use along the western front, and Colonel Halton was born in the chamber over the hall porch. I am now on the top of the great tower, and the pure and beautiful conclave of turret, porch, and battlement, lie stretched before me. I count from here no less than sixteen colossal chimnies, each with moulding and parapet, a turret in itself. The trees must be exquisite in summer; at present, all are in foliage except the ash and witch elm; the one black with rook-nests, the other yellow with its starry blossoms. There is a sweet view from hence over hill and dale, but the very rampart on which I lean is a picture in itself,—so broad in its callibre, its hue so clear and grey, and so brilliant in its living embroidery, where the delicate green leaves and pink petals of the wild geranium blend with the silvery storks and golden blossoms of the gilliflower, whose

odours embalm this soft May morning. There is also an extensive orchard of walnut, apple, and pear, in the interior court; and the snowy bells and rosetinctured buds of the two last form a fine relief to the ivy muffled building. I have been so absorbed in the interesting details of this lovely and extensive ruin, that I have deferred, till rather out of place, the picture of its general plan and appearance, which, however, is so magnificent, that I must not altogether omit it.

This fine manor-castle is distributed into two irregular courts to north and south. The grand entrance is in the eastern front, whose long facade, though disfigured by modern barbarisms, cannot be otherwise than striking, adorned, as it is, by the great east window and graceful gable front of the hall, and the princely eastern gateway. This last is a building of the boldest dimensions; a curtain wall containing a huge arch of great depth thickly ribbed, with smaller arches at the side, connects two square turrets, and forms a massive portal, whose original height is left to imagination, beautiful shrubs and herbage having rooted on its dismantled brow. This opens into the outer or southern court, which was doubtless once of majestic amplitude, though now deformed with all the unmentionables of a brick-yard. Here rises to view the great western tower, a singular structure,-in figure a parallelogram; it soars to a vast height, and consists of various stages adorned with beautiful windows; and at the highest stage, the tower splits its mural crown into three tall turrets, each of a different size; one elegantly pierced with quatrefoils; another embattled, and a third slender and long like a large chimney. A second square gateway with embrasured parapet leads into the interior or Northern Court, which was formerly dignified by the lordly range of state apartments, and whose remains of sculpture and architecture, particularly on the north side, exhibit a wealth of fancy and delicacy of taste only to be equalled by the almost oriental profusion with which they are spread over the grey walls. The stately towers the pompous porches-the tall foliated arches-the shafted windows- -the deep rosewrought oriel, and that shapely gable with the circular wheel-work of its lattice, all disclose their architectural beauties, with just such a canopy of ancient trees, as might veil their dis