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newly created influence of the public in the House of Commons will bẹ too powerful for them. If they act wisely they will acknowledge the necessity of arranging their financial plans for 1833 with reference to this latter influence, and thus secure for themselves the only support which can keep them in their places.

Lord Althorp, in his speech, when preparing the budget on the 27th of July, said nothing that could lead us to form a rational expectation that the deficiency of the revenue on the 5th of January, 1833, would be less than the deficiency on the 5th of last July. He even admitted that the Customs revenue would necessarily continue to fall off. The dimi nution he estimated as follows.

Reduction of duties by the new customs act,

On corn imported,

£500,000

100,000

Loss of revenue by allowing for drainage on sugar,
Loss by allowing for duty paid on Wine in 1831,

80,000

120,000

£800,000

.

With respect to the excise revenue, Lord Althorp stated he expected there would be an increase in 1832 of about £250,000; but little dependence can be placed on such a loose conjecture. He seemed to rely chiefly, for an improvement in the relative state of the income and expenditure, on the reduction which he estimated would take place in the public expenditure in 1832; the parliamentary grants for 1832 being less than those for 1831 by two millions. But it is to be observed, that the grants for 1831 were of greater amount than the grants for 1830 by one million; and, in addition to this, it must be further observed, that whatever diminution has been shown on the estimates for 1832, no reduction whatever has been made in the great establishments of the country. The diminished grants for 1831 have been produced by not purchasing the usual quantities of naval stores, and by the expenses incured on the militia and yeomanry in 1831 not being continued in 1832. No reduction has been made in the army, or in the number of seamen and ships in commission. We have had a fleet cruising in the channel the whole summer, as if we were actually at war. No reduction has been made in the regiment of artillery, in the sappers and miners, or in expenses on military buildings at home and abroad. In point of fact, no real and honest reduction whatever has been made in the expenditure so as to secure permanently for the future a surplus of income over expenditure.

In a future article we shall show in what way such a reduction may, and ought to be accomplished.

NIGHT-BURIAL AT SEA.

It was a mariner bent and grey,
An English mariner old,

FYTTE I.

Came wandering by the church-yard way
While the slow death-bell tolled;-
He sate him down, and saw us lay
Our brother in the mould.

He saw us mourn, but not like those
Whose sorrow waits on Fear;-
For we had trust, that God, who chose
To call our brother dear,

Had crowned in death, with sweet repose,
His blameless sojourn here.

At the soft hour of even-fall
We made his quiet bed,
Beneath the ivy-green church wall,
Amongst the village dead;
And near the sunny fields, where all
His placid years had sped.

Now when our solemn rite had ceased,
The mariner rose, and said:
"Thus sleeps an infant, on the breast
Of a fond mother laid;—
For holy is the slumberer's rest
Within the altar's shade!

"And 'tis a blessed lot, to lie

Beneath familiar ground,
Where ever friends are wandering by,
And kindred sleep around;
And many a living memory
Clings to the burial-monnd.

"Such rest, since death is common doom,
With grief may scarce agree;
But would ye know how full of gloom,
And cheerless death may be,

Ye should stand by when the mariner's
tomb

Is made in the deep, deep sea!
"When, for his passing-bell, the gale
O'er the brief funeral raves;
For mourner's song, the sea-bird's wail-
For tomb, the dark sea-caves;—
Ay! I could tell a solemn tale

Of sailors' wintry graves!"

Thy words have strongly won mine ear-
Say on, thou aged man!

"Ay, me! how many a brave career"
(The mariner grey began)

"Hath closed on such a weltering bier!"

And thus his story ran;—

"And sad, in ocean dark and vast,
When death has struck his prey,
A parted brother's corpse to cast,
A lonely thing, away;

TALE OF THE ENGLISH MARINER. "Ye deem our course all storm and sport, Hot strife, and revel light;

To drift beneath the tombless waste
Till the great Judgment-Day!
"Yet have I stood where sick men dic,
Where slaughter rife hath been,
And learned to look with steadfast eye
On many a dismal scene;
There's one upon my heart would lie,
Though ages came between.

""Tis fifty summers past and more;—
We had sailed in seventy-three ;—
For full two years since touching shore,
We cruised, and kept the sea :-
Our ship was a lovely forty-four-
A gallant bark was she!

And well our rugged life may court
The throb of wild delight;
And glad should seem their lion-port,
Who wield proud England's might !
"God wot, great joy it is, to range
The blue waves to and fro,-
A joy the mariner would not change
For all that crowns bestow:
But the sea hath seasons sad and strange,

That landsmen little know.

""Tis fearful, when the angry gale
Strips the curled ocean bare,
And the boiling spray and bitter hail
Are mingling sea and air;
And for all our light, the cloudy veil
Streams with the levin's glare.
""Tis awful, in the midnight lone,
When clouds are pacing slow,
To hear the sea-sprite laugh or moan
From the dull wave below,

In some loved mate's remembered tone,
Though buried long ago.

VOL. II.

"As fair and nobly did she ride,
As rarely scud and steer,
As though she answered to our pride,
And knew we held her dear ;-
Well might we love that ocean bride,
And boast her brave career!

"She was long and low, and sharp be-
low,

With a gently curved side,
With sloping stern and piercing bow,

And white decks, flush and wide,-
So sweet a mould you could not shew
In all the seas beside.

"Her yards were square, her spars were
slim,

Well set by stay and shroud;
Her snowy canvass, broad and trim,
Swelled o'er her, like a cloud;
It was a joy, to see her swim,

That made your soul grow proud!

And close and black, in grim array,
Her warrior-decks along,
The lips of England's thunder lay,
Right terrible and strong;—
God! what a stormy voice had they,
When battle gave them tongue!
"Her speed was as the arrowy sleet,
Winged by a northern gale;
And when away, with flowing sheet,
She loosed her broad mainsail,
The surge behind her rushing feet
Shone like a comet's trail.
"Her rest was as a giant's sleep;

Her chase, the stoop of war;
Her rush was like the eagle's sweep;
Her roar, the earthquake's jar;
Her prow, the sceptre of the deep;
Her flag, the ocean star!"

St. George! how proud the old man grew!
He rose, and waved his hand :-
Then, pausing, sate him down, and drew
Strange figures on the sand,

"Till with calm voice he gan renew
His tale, at my demand :-

E

FYTTE 11.

"There was a boy, a fair young lad,
Sailed in our frigate then-
A gallant spirit, warm and glad,
With heart enough for ten;
Ay me! too little strength he had
To bear the toils of men!

"All loved the child; for hope and joy

Like sun-light round him shone; We trembled for the noble boy,

And watched him night and noon, Lest the quick spirit should destroy His slender lamp too soon.

"And when he fain our watch would share,

And every storm abide,

We sought his tender years to spare,
But could not tame the pride
That bore him on to do and dare,

And might not be denied.

"Full little thanks the urchin bold

For all our cares repaid;

'He was,' said he, too stout and old
For fondling like a maid;
Nor did he fear, for toil or cold,

To learn his gallant trade.'
"The joy of every heart he grew,

The pride of every eye,—
There was not one of all the crew

But smiled as he went by;
And merry gibe, or question threw,
To meet his quick reply.

"But when the winter nights came on,

With sea, and snow, and gale; His little strength ran out anon,

And his fresh cheek grew pale ;—
The time was all too stern for one
So flower-like and so frail.
"Though nought would urge him to com-
plain,

We marked him wan and weak;
For the brave lad strove to hide his pain,
And bore, but did not speak ;—
And when we took him down, would fain
Have lingered on the deck.

"Alas! his eager spirit pined,

While idly sick he lay:

For all our cares, and tendance kind,
He withered day by day;

Silent and fast his life declined,

At length he passed away!
"He passed away, as the cold sun rose,
From the cold sea beneath;
Just as the night-watch sought repose,
The child had ceased to breathe!-
They hardly marked his eyelids close,
So peaceful was his death!
"Nor did he turn like other dead,
All ashen-white and cold,-
His lips still wore a faint, pure red,
Like rose-buds' inner fold;
And there a sweet smile lingered,
Even as it wont of old.

"The ancient mates did then declare,

(I ween they deemed aright,)
His soul around its dwelling fair
Was hovering ere its flight;
They said it now would tarry there
Till close of that day-light.

"Then up and spake our captain brave,
(For that we loved him well,)
When he had heard those old men grave
Discoursing as I tell,—

Ye shall not cast him on the wave
Before the evening bell.'

"So we kept the child throughout the day,
A dull and sorrowing crew;
The air was chill, the sky was grey,

And the sea of sullen hue:
While as the day-light waned, alway
Wild, and more wild it blew.

"Ere the red sun sank down, the north
Lowered black and tempest-browed :
And when the evening bell rang forth,

The waves were singing loud :—-
We brought the body from its berth
Wrapped in a hammock-shroud.
"Mournful and slow, with heavy cheer,
By the lee gangway laid,

We stretched it on the simple bier,
Till the last rites were paid;
While somewhat of unwonted fear
The hearts of all dismayed.
"The night had fallen swift and black,
With spouts of sudden rain;
The swelling blast, at each attack,
Made our strong frigate strain,
And, plunging on her windward track,
Groan, like a soul in pain.

"An awful time it seemed, and fit

To match our task of wo:-
The shroud-hung lanterns wavering lit
The troubled groups below,
Whose lips compressed and brows hard-

knit

Looked spectral in the glow.

"Then some that watched to windward
said,

Right in the tempest's eye,
The Phantom-Ship, with sails all spread,
Swept in the darkness by;

Till, what with grief and ghostly dread,
Our hearts were like to die.
"And cheerless was our weltering plight
With pain and sea-spray wet,

And cold at heart with strange affright,
And cold with dumb regret-
Lord Christ! to think on that chill night,
It makes me shiver yet!"

And sooth, as leaves with winter's blast
Thrill in the withered brake,
The mariner, like a child aghast,
Through every limb did shake:
Long time he closed his lips: at last,
Gravely the old man spake :-

FYTTE III.

"Now when his stand the chaplain took,
He was a weak old man,-
So loud the grinding timbers shook,
So loud the wild sea ran,

Scarce could we hear, as from the book
The service he began:
"The resurrection and the life
I am,' the Lord hath said;
'And he shall live who trusts in me,
Although that he be dead;
Whoso on me doth rest, in faith,
His life is ransomed !'
"And ever as the rite was read

More shrilly rang the gale;
And heavier rain, in torrents shed,
Hissed in the panting sail;
Thus few of all the words he said
Might o'er the din prevail.

"I know that my Redeemer, Christ,
In heaven liveth aye;

And he shall stand upon the earth

In the great Judgment-Day:

Yea, though the worms my dust consume,
As for this mortal clod,
Even in the flesh, I yet shall see
The presence of my God!'

"And when he breathed that holy word
The gust it raved so loud,

That further speech might none be heard,
So rattled sail and shroud :
Still we could see his thin lips stirred,
And oft his head he bowed.
"The burdened mainsail, smitten sore,
Strained wild at brace and sheet;
The climbing seas, with hoarser roar,
On the crushed bulwarks beat;
And, hissing, as the ship lay o'er,

High washed the corpse's feet.
"Great awe was ours, and whispering
spake

Each man to man around,
That the great sea-snake lay in our wake,
That laughs when fleets are drowned:
The next brief lull, this sentence brake
Through the vexed waters' sound:

"When thy strong breath doth scatter
them,

Even as a sleep they pass:
All suddenly they fall away,
And perish like the grass:
At morning, green it flourisheth:
Lo! ere the even-tide,

Its beauty falls before the sithe,
Is withered up and dried.'

"At once the gale uprose again :
It seemed, that instant still
Were breathing space for louder strain;
For, trumpet-voiced and shrill,
It came with such a gush of rain,
As though the ship must fill.

"Unheard, thenceforth, the chaplain read;
He had as well been dumb ;

But we saw his face by the lamp o'er head,
And when the time was come,

He made a sign to cast the dead

Forth to its stormy tomb.

"Now, when the corpse to sea we gave,
Christ! through the pallid night,
Full on the ship a whirlwind drove,
So swift and full of might,

It swept the unburied from the wave,
And bore it from our sight!

"And the mariners gave a shuddering cry,
A cry of wild dismay,

To see the corpse pass whirling by,
Ere it could break the spray.—
For thus, they deemed, the Enemy
Had torn the child away.

"Short leisure, 'midst the storm's descent,
For awe or thought had we,

As straight, through sails and rigging rent,
Down gushed the dark green sea;
While reeled our ship, as though she meant
To founder by the lee.

"Beneath the varying shocks o'er-strained,
A quivering hulk she lay ;
The waves, like monsters fiery-maned,
Seemed gathering o'er their prey;
Lord! how the deafening gusts, unchained
On every side, did bray!

"We could not hear the Captain's shout,
Yet well we guessed the word,
As, hissing loud, the waterspout
Burst terribly on board,

And from its flash the light flew out

Keen as a flaming sword.

"We could not aid the good ship's toil;
For masterless, and crossed
By countless blows, at each recoil,
More helplessly she tossed:
We could, but hear the mad sea boil,
And gave our lives for lost!

"But ere we drave ten fathoms wide,
After the corpse flew past,

The gale went down, and lulled, and died;
And the sea smoothed so fast,
That ere mid-watch, we seemed to glide
Across a waveless waste.

"And where the Eastern billows slept
In the moist starlight dim,
Uprose the loving moon, and pept
O'er the full ocean's brim ;-

And a faint murmur round us crept,
Sweet as a scraph's hymn.

"Then did our praise to Him who

wrought

That blessed calm, ascend;

But awe bechilled us, as we though t
Upon our parted friend;

Each questioned much, and answered

nought,

For none could counsel lend:

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SOME LATE PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF JOHN BULL, ESQ. (Continued from Page 599, vol. I.)

CHAPTER VII.

Shewing how Bill Boswain lost his Breeches, and what came thereof; the Stramash in John's Family, and the Rumpus at the Mitre.

BILL BOSWAIN did not well remember how he tumbled into bed on the night of the hop, after the dismissal of Gaffer; but all night long he dreams of the 'Squire transformed into a bear in a rage; and of Gaffer and his Broom talking; and of the message he behoved to send in the morning. And then, that his wenches were frying the old dish, and Hookey standing by, staring at him like a mad doctor, using a horn to make him swallow it. The message to Gaffer, to say truth, was ready cut-and-dry, long before; though Bill, poor soul, might not know as much.

Late in the morning he rubs up his eyes, with something of a head. ache, and perhaps, something of a heartache too, if he had owned it; but he put the best face on the matter. "Where's my wife?" quoth

he.

"In the back parlour with Hookey, darning a stocking;" for it was always making a pudding or darning a stocking she was. This good housewife was never meddling with John's matters-not she! "Then bring me my breeches," quoth Bill.-But up or down, high or low, no such article was to be found. "Where's my breeches," shouted Bill, manfully; for his wife was now gone out to chapel. "What a spot of work is here," quoth that pert gipsy, Jenny Driver; "I daresay that rogue, H. B. has stolen them to make a picture of them, and they may be in Rag Fair by this time." "I'll have my breeches," cried Bill; "If the 'Squire hear of this-" "Sure you have no more need of such an article than a Highlander for kneebuckles," said the forward, saucy wench, whose shrewish, merry humour made her a great favourite with Bill; "A'n't you a brisk Jack tar, and shouldn't sport shorts. There's Hookey on the stairs: throw any thing on you for decency; and get up, and put that prig Gaffer out of his pain. Here's an old petticoat of my mistress's, and here's a wrap-rascal of -'s." It was impossible to make out the name; whether the last flourish was the up-swirled tail of an n or r, or the sweep of an e or d, no man could tell; and of which garment Bill availed himself, or if he donned both, history is mute; but up he got, in time to hear that his mes sage to Greysteel had caused a commotion in John's family, to which all that had ever happened before was mere moonshine in water;

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