Imatges de pàgina
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used in the sense of fermenting. Effervesco, to ferment, boil, or rise bubbling up, would have been much nearer the sense ; this is “ spumo," which latter will apply to liquids on which froth is raised by agitation in any direction or mode. I am of opinion that the derivative from “ effervesco," would have been used by the poet, to indicate the bubbles that arise from the fermentation or froth of effervescing wine. This quotation too, about champaign, has been a joke in every French book of gourmandize and gourmetize for the last hundred years.

Doctor. I am sorry we differ on this matter, Professor.
Egrappé. De Doctare love to be von ver singular man, and

Professor. Be silent, brazen fronted Gaul.* We will peace, and our will is law.

Dean. Let us not deviate into starchness or reserve in our opinions. I would as lieve mingle wine, law, and mathematics.

(To be continued.)

ILLUSTRATIONS OF DARTMOOR.
MANATON CHURCH.YARD.-THE UNKNOWN FEMALE.
BY J. E. READE, AUTHOR OF “ ITALY," “ CATiLine," &e.

Be a gradual ascent
Along the hill-side the steep pathway led
To Manaton, whose church with grey square tower
Had been our landmark long, while toiling up
The road precipitous winding from the moor.
We entered suddenly a grassy area,
Call it the village green of Manaton,-
Girdled and over-shadowed by ash trees,
Guarding the scene with a protecting look ;
Cottages filled the intervening space,
That wide enclosure far encircling round.
The scene conveyed impressions deep of home ;
Haven of shelter and repose to him
Who pilgrimaged amidst the lonely hills.
It was a quiet and a holy spot,
The heart with fond associations hallowed,
While dwelling on its beauty. The ash trees
Their mossy boughs bent o'er that living green,
Like the grey locks of careful watching age
O'er the young cheek of infancy. The Cots
Stood like grey monuments of life inert :
Or when the blue smoke from their thatched roofs rose,
Like Altars of Tranquillity!

No sound
Broke on that sylvan solitary scene,

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Save that, most grateful to the musing ear,
And eye and heart that loves humanity, -
Voices of happy children stretched beside
The mossed trunks of the trees, which rose, at times,
In tones of momentary grief or joy.
The tear forgot ere dried : th' inconsequent laugh;
The vague and ever restless search for trifles
Worthless when found ; filling the time we filled,
By trifles, now, of louder sound absorbed ;
We saw our childhood mirrored back to us,
Ere the great metamorphoses began
By life, and time, and human passion wrought.
Each stood abstracted in his saddening thoughts :
Seeing the outward change upon himself-
Feeling, alas! the inner, deeper still.
The how and then-our moment-and their own :
Each sand-grain by the one so hoarded up;
So carelessly by the other tossed aside
In very waste of prodigality!
The gulph between us spread so fathomless
Of thought, and feeling, habit, life, and time;
Justice of life severely meted out
Alike to both, of joy and grief, with death
The inscrutable-end of consciousness to both :
Each hastening on, Life's solemn tasks begun;
They, fountain drops, new driven from their Source,
Reflecting yet the Orient : we, earth stained,
Who vainly would arrest our hurried course,
Ere merged for ever in the absorbing Deep!

A moss-grown wall between the Church-yard rose,
And village green : by mutual consent,
Moved by one common thought, we there adjourned.
Those happy voices in the distance softened,
Seemed like the echo of departed days;
And spake of Nature's great equality.
A harmony that soothed yet saddened us,
Quietly sitting where the journeying
Of human life with all its tears doth end,
A gratefulness we felt for life allowed.
Mindful of its uncertain pulse, and love
Towards humanity; and gratitude
To Him who watched above, whose Spirit of Love
Brooded o'er that grey Church and sanctified.
It was an Altar worthy of the Lord,
That work of gone-by centuries; it bore
A castellated form that wanted not
Loophole, and casement, crenels, vantage-coigns.
The corners of the pile formed buttressed towers,
Grey, time-worn, weather-stained ; autumnal tints
With the brown heather harmonizing well.

The Sunlight on the painted casements falling,
The Church's holy eyes reflected back
Pale Martyrs' sainted forms in rich relief,
Painted by hands long mouldered in the dust.
Beneath the eastern oriel, on his tomb
A Templar's mailed form reclined; his hands
Folded in prayer : his knees that formed the Cross,
Showed he had pilgrimaged the Holy Land
Ere he came here to lay his bones in peace!
His bruised effigy, his date of death,
His shield once raised through many a foughten field,
Broken, with its armorial signs effaced,
Spoke more than eloquence in this lonely place,
Of the poor vanity of earthly fame!
The grassy dormitory spread beneath,
Where slept so many, now their days of care,
Disease, or heart-aches o'er, no pride revealed.
None had enduring marbles to proclaim
That dust was laid beneath them : the heaped turf,
Fresh, green, and dewy, laughing flowers among,
Showed only where the Cottagers had taken
Their beds of slumber. One gigantic yew
Threw its dark shadows o'er that burying ground:
Beside it silently we took our seats.
The Sun's rays, now, were setting on the Tower ;
The silent hills, the place, and our own hearts
Inspired tranquillity.

The Vicar stood,
And pointing to a Cot that rose apart,
Adorned above the rest, he thus began :-
“ Not to gaze on the beauty of this Scene,
Or draw from it those higher impulses
That purify the heart they elevate,
Leading to Him, the Fount of Purity
And Holiness, did I invite you here.
I had a human interest in view,
Inspiring vital sympathies; not barren,
But such as, calling forth its natural powers,
Invigorate the heart from which they spring.

The tenant of that Cot which stands apart,
Whose doors and windows now are closed-is dead.
Beneath this grassy mound so freshly raised
She rests; and little would the traveller deem
The spirit of the mind extinguished there.
The beauty that she walked in, for her form
Was as a temple lit with holy fires;
The passions wild that hurried her through life,
When sunk from her ascendant sphere, her guide
Lost in herself as heaven ; the despair

That, at the last, each faculty benumbed ;
That led her, daughter of the burning South,
Of proudest ancestry—for such her birth-
Her youth in luxury and grandeur nursed,
To pilgrimage to this most desolate spot:
To live-if life it was—'midst humblest peasants,
And here--ere middle youth was past—with gifts
Of beauty, genius, birth, to waste away,
And die--unseen, unknown, unwept, unmourned !
They of her kindred doubtless sought to place her
In their sepulchral domes of marble pride,
But never more shall find !” The Pastor here
Paused for a moment, for his eyes were full
And his voice faltered : sympathy we felt,
And inwardly responded —he resumed :-

(To be continued.)

THE REGICIDE MANIA.

BY R. H. HORNE. Amidst all the regicidal disturbances which have recently occurred, there has been no real attempt to assassinate Her Majesty. No inention of the kind has been demonstrated. A poor, imbecile, vacillating, vulgar, purposeless, external pretence, is all that has transpired.

Bad as the state of the country has long been, and great as the distress and disorganization that has existed among all classes, especially those which are in the worst condition, viz, the productive classesthere have been no violent and continuous outbreaks of popular feeling; no mobs, no signs of dark plots, conspiracies, or other co-operations, definite or indefinite, for the purpose of any attempt at outrage upon any individual of high station. “John Bull-or rather, John Oxhas jogged on with his yoke, in just his usual heavy, grumbling, Sweating, but submissive way. If he has ever paused, it was only to utter a roar, give a kick, shake his angry horns, and proceed with his load of duty. He tread upon a crown ? Not he-even though there were no royal head in it. The very shadow of it commands his habitual reverence.

As with the mass, so is it in this country with individuals, and to sort of sign of political desperation has been displayed in any quarter, or among any class of the community. Far less can we discover any fixed intention of a sanguinary kind in the acts of demented valgarity which have of late occurred. There is no definite cause for them. There is no popular excitement against Her Majesty; and of all the sovereigns who have sat upon the British throne, there never was one whose conduct was more blameless, or whose character more amiable, while, on the other hand, there have been many--but that is nothing to the present purpose. No definite cause of animosity exists against the Queen; but one day a man conceived a morbid idea of firing a pistol in the atmosphere round the royal head, of which same conception he was in due course delivered, after having taken care that the result should be abortive. Shortly after this, another half-witted rascal makes a similar display; and the brickdust is scarcely knocked out of his rusty pan, before a stupid ape drops a piece of tobacco-pipe into the tube of an old candlestick, and lies down in a ditch near to where Her Majesty is likely to pass. Sheridan's joke about an insurrection being traced to a back attic in which were found nine tailors and one pike, was not more ludicrous than are these “ regicidal” facts. The first idea of such attempts has no doubt been derived from France, (where the thing would really be done with “ intent to kill,”') but the main foundation of the Cockney mania is attributable to diseased vanity and destitution.

It has been discovered, that any poor and insignificant individual, with a personal character as destitute of all genuine merit and ability, as his circumstances may be of comfort or good prospect, can, with the least possible exercise of energy, and without the slightest need of skill, produce an effect that shall excite all classes of the community. Her Majesty is alarmed, or at least annoyed, and perplexed to know “ what she has done ?" Prince Albert and her royal mother are still more alarmed-so are other royal and dignified personages. The Premier waits upon Her Majesty- the Cabinet ministers are suddenly and specially assembled—the Maids of Honour are all pale, or in tears—business is suspended in the Houses of Lords and Commons-loyal, dutiful, and affectionate addresses and congratulations are presented to Her Majesty—the newspapers are all“ full of it”-huge placards are pasted over empty houses and walls, and brutes with tin horns deafen the streets with blowing and bawling, till the whole country is in one buzz of interrogative dismay. A long trial is minutely gone through, full of the most insignificant details; the poor ape, confounded by the excess of his own sudden importance, has not a word to say; and is sentenced to be hung, drawn, and quartered. After all these matters have raised the effect to its climax, the individual is reprieved, and dismissed to some comfortable confinement, or to his meditations in a foreign land.

But the life of Her Majesty must be protected. Certainly it must. As yet, however, it has not been really endangered. In only one case was a pistol fired (apparently without having been loaded with anything but powder and paper), and was pointed, as the honourable Colonel, one of Her Majesty's equerries, distinctly stated, at the centre of the wheel of the carriage! The “ pistols” of the other two half-idiots do pot deserve to be classed as weapons of any kind, as they were mere rusty worn-out things, which would, no doubt, have burst in the hand if they had been properly loaded and could have been made to go off, supposing “the regicides" had ever contemplated so sounding a demonstration.

But Her Majesty must be protected from offence and vulgar insult. Undoubtedly-and this is no more than every lady among her subjects, and every female, claims as a right of the laws, and of the manly feelings of the community. Should not these mock regicides, then, be

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