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haps-like Petrarch when he thought he discovered a gleam of hope dawning on the liberties of his country-fancy he heard the united spirit of the mighty dead

"Si faccia lieto, udendo la novella!

E dice, Roma mia sarà ancor bella."

But, if he appreciate these things justly, his joy will not be unmixed with melancholy; for he will feel that Italy is not now a worthy sanctuary for them: though he may still hope that by and through them she may become so. He will not dare to think upon the present; for if he did, it could only be to ask, with one of her own children, "Italia; che suoi guai non par che senta; Vecchia, oziosa e lenta;

e?"

Dormirà sempre?

or to exclaim with another, still more indignantly,

"Or va repudia il valor prisco, e sposa
L'ozio, e fra il sangue, i gemiti, e le strida,
Nel periglio maggior dormi, e riposa :
Dormi, adultera vil."

In short, in whatever way he may connect his thoughts with these deathless memorials of the glory of his country and of human nature, all his conscious elevation at the sight of them must spring from the past, --all his hopes and aspirations must rest upon the future.

GRIMM'S GHOST.

LETTER VIII.

My letter before the last exhibited Captain Augustus Thackeray, in all his embroidery, preparing to partake of Mr. Culpepper's repast, at the residence of the latter in Savage Gardens. "Been to the Opera lately?" inquired the elegant stranger of Mrs. Culpepper, in a tone of such decided recitative, that I would lay an even wager upon its having been modelled upon part of the dialogue of Il Turco in Italia. Luckily the tremulous lady of the mansion was prevented from answering the question, by an exclamation of " Dinner, Jack, directly!" from the hungry lips of her impatient spouse, which gave the Captain time to forget that he had propounded it. The slayer of men now conducted himself according to the laws of Ton, in that case made and provided. He' first planted himself with his back to the fire, with either leg sprawled out, like a pair of animated compasses: he next drew from his sabretash a snuff-box, which he deposed to having purchased in the Palais Royal. To drive away the particles of Prince's mixture, which had impertinently planted themselves upon his mustachios, producing a prolonged sneeze, he drew from the same receptacle a pocket-handkerchief of crimson silk: he then fixed his eyes upon a paper trap, which hung from the ceiling, to catch flies, and partly whistled and partly sung "Sul Aria:" he, finally, strolled toward the window, the edge of his swordsheath, like the rattle of the American reptile, giving due notice of his locomotion: and, after surveying the White Tower of Julius Cæsar and the foliage of Trinity square in momentary apathy, "my pretty page looked out afar" no longer; but, turning to Mr. Culpepper, said,

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"Are these trees?" wondering, as well he might, that the natives of these Hyper-Borean regions should have acquired the art of arborization. "Trees! yes," answered the vender of slops, "what should they be? Oh, but I suppose you don't approve of railing in and planting that part of Tower-hill." The elegant stranger gently inclined his head, which the interrogator mistook for acquiescence, and thus went on: "You are quite right; I never liked it: I held up my two hands against it in the vestry, but I was out-voted. Ah, sir, in my time-when I was apprentice to old Frank Fit-out, the slop-seller in the Tenterground, that was all Tower-hill; smack-smooth as the palm of your hand then there was something like going on. I've seen Doctor Bossy, the quack, there, upon a stage with a blue and white check curtain; and I've seen a matter of ten boys at a time playing chuck-farthing ; ay, and a matter of five sailors abreast singing ballads and playing fiddles. Ah! that was something like!" Something like what?" inquired he of the sabre-tash, with eye-lids dropping until their lashes almost met his mustachios. Old Culpepper found it difficult to establish a simile, that should accord with so many discordant articles, and held his peace. There was something in the above barangue, short as it was, that was rather nauseous than otherwise to every one present: Mrs. Culpepper, who boasted her second-cousinship to a Serjeant, (whether at law or in the guards I have never been able to ascertain,) disliked the mention of old Frank Fit-out and the Tenter-ground; Miss Clara thought the objection to turning the hill into an inclosed square was meant as a fling at her rotatory flirtations with young Dixon in that hallowed sanctuary; and George, whose determination to sink the shop probably originated in an honest aversion to shop-lifting, heard the word " slop-seller" from his father's lips with that heart-sinking sensation which came across Blifil, when his uncle Alworthy asked him what he had done with his mother's letter. Then it was that the boy Jack opened the drawing-room door; and then it was that old Culpepper, concluding that he appeared to announce happiness, bawled out "Dinner, dinner!" and hunting every body before him, even as a Hampshire driver urges pigs, drove the whole herd down a steep staircase into the dining-room. If Nature had ordained man to feed upon napkins and horn-handled knives, the motion would have been most reasonable; for of aught else the table exhibited not the shadow. "What the devil's this?" cried the master of the house to the footboy, with a look in which authority and dismay were mingled. "I went upstairs, Sir," answered the latter, "to tell you that dinner would be ready presently." "Presently!" cried Culpepper, "psha! what signifies presently? however, since we are here, let us take our places: it will save time. Captain Thackeray, sit up by Madam; Clara, sit you on this side of the Captain; I don't ask you, Sir, whether you mind the fire-it's your business, you know, to stand it: ha, ha, ha! I beg pardon, but hunger sharpens wit; George, take your seat opposite. Well, now we look not a little like fools. This reminds me of a most extraordinary_circumstance which I would not miss telling for all the world. When I was apprentice to-But here comes dinner!" The " hold, break we off" of Hamlet was never delivered in so awful a tone. The aforesaid Jack, tottering under a tureen, now made his appearance, followed by the housemaid Jane, in a white cap and apron, and a spotted calico gown,

bearing the roast beef of the whole of Old England, if I might judge from its magnitude. To place these and other articles upon the table, over the shoulders of the sitters, required great delicacy of eye, united to great vigour of muscle. These opposite talents are seldom found united in one person. The consequence was, that in steering the beef over the shoulder of the shrinking dragoon, a slight driblet of gravy trickled down his right ear and cheek, and finally rested upon that portion of his shirt collar, which, like the blinker of a coach-horse, effectually prevented him from starting at the beauty who had seated herself beside him. Hot anger mantled in the offended cheek, and for some minutes kept the liquid from coagulation. He, however, said nothing, and was helped to vermicelli soup. If men with glass windows should not throw stones, by parity of reasoning, men with mustachios should not swallow vermicelli soup. The valiant Captain made the attempt, and only in part succeeded; the liquor indeed went down his throat, but the ropy ingredients refused so to do, and wound themselves around his mustachios, his nostrils, and his chin-tuft, to the no small glee of the master of the mansion. "Captain," cried the latter, "I don't dabble much in poetry, but I have read Monk Lewis's Alonzo and Imogine: I could swear I saw the spectre before me—

"The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,
And sported his nose and his whiskers about,

While the spectre addressed Imogine."

"Jack! do run to Seething Lane and bring back Bill Brim, the barber, with you. If the Captain is not shaved, my dinner will be saved, ha, ha, ha! I beg pardon, Captain, but I have not swallowed a mouthful yet; and hunger sharpens wit."

FOR THE TOMB OF THOSE WHO FELL AT WATERLOO.

Των εν Θερμοπυλαις θανόντων κ. τ. λ.

SPIRITS of the heroic dead,
Who of old in triumph bore
England's banner floating red
O'er the plains of Azincour.

SIMONIDES.

Shades of those whose dauntless might
Raised the leopards of your shield

High o'er Gallia's lilies white,
Flying swift from Creey's field.

Fathers of our warlike name,

View the pile which now we rear
To the children of your fame,
Mouldering on their bloody bier.
They, like you, a countless host
Vaunting loud its might defied,-
Smiling at the empty boast,

They, like you, victorious died.

Never bending back the head,

Never crouching low the knee,

Where they struggled, there they bled

Free, amidst the unconquer'd free.

They, when clash'd the ringing blade,
Sang the war-song shrill and deep,
Call'd your spirits to their aid

From the mansions of your sleep.
Then, amid the sulphurous gloom
O'er their heads in anger wreath'd,
Pour'd the volley's parch'd simoom,
From their fiery engines breath'd.
Forms of glory met their eye,

Sounds of triumph fill'd their ear,
Sable Edward hover'd nigh,

Henry whirl'd the unerring spear.
Gallia's sons the helmet clasp'd,
Twined the cuirass round the breast,
Fierce the gleaming lances grasp'd,
To the charge the courser press'd.
Slaves! nor spear, nor twisted mail,
Ridged in battle's grim array,
Aught against the free avail
When they urge their deadly way.
Britons-they no armour wore,
They the furious onset met
With the edge of the claymore
And the point of bayonet.
Freemen they o'er glory's field

Bore the breast-plate of the brave;
Every bosom was a shield,

Every arm a winged glaive.
Raise, then, high the sculptured pile
To the heroes of your fame;
Britain midst her tears shall smile,
Whilst she points to every name—
Traced in monumental stone,

On the tablets of her power,
Meteors of the battle shewn
Through futurity's dark hour!

SONG.

I CAN never believe that a Soldier brave
Would slight Woman, and yet do his duty;
For flowers would not bloom on a Soldier's grave
If unhallow'd by tears from Beauty.

And what could reward him for all his toils,
When the perils of war are over,

But the laurels he gathers in Woman's smiles
When she welcomes him home as a lover?

Nor ribbons nor stars would Soldiers prize,
Such baubles could never inspire them,
Were the ribbons not loved for the hand that ties,
And the stars for the eyes that admire them.

H. h.

Σ.

GERMAN POPULAR AND TRADITIONARY LITERATURE.

NO. IV.

"Now you must imagine me to sit by a good fire, amongst a company of good fellowes, over a well-spiced wassel-bowle of Christmas ale, telling of these merry tales which hereafter follow."-Preface to "the History of Tom Thumbe the Little." Lond. 1621. Black letter.

In spite of the benumbing influence of this age of reason, when (as the successor to the immortal Mr. Newbery informs us) even sober "History is introduced into the Nursery in the form of a Babytale," when even the cradle is to "keep pace with the improvement of time, and the rising generation is to reap every advantage from the progress of scientific research,"-experience tells us that the youthful breast yet beats high at the delights of fairy fiction, and warms at the adventures of Owl Glass and the Giant-killer, of Cinderella and the Sleeping Beauty. Like the Christmas pantomimes too, we suspect that these dainties not only tickle the palates of the young, but may safely be relied upon to rekindle joyous recollections and bright associations in the hearts of their elders. Be it so! we shall think the better of this plodding age, this "ignorant present time," as some of our friends like to style it, and shall at all times be disposed to pardon the truancy of those little wights whom we catch deserting "Marmaduke Multiply's merry method of making minor mathematicians" (as we see one of these products of "scientific research" is styled) to steal a peep at more engaging studies. We agree with them, that they may just as well now and then

Through mire and bush
Be lanthorn-led by Friar Rush,"

if indeed his memory still lives and retains its savor.

We can at any rate safely recommend many of our old acquaintances as fast friends and jolly company; they (as our motto, if we had continued it, would have told us) "have been the only revivers of drowsy age at midnight. Old and young have with [such] tales chimed mattens till the cocks crew in the morning; batchelors and maids have compassed the Christmas fire-block till the curfew-bell rings candle out; the old shepheard and the young plow-boy, after their day's labor, have caroled out the same to make them merry with; and who but they have made long nights seem short, and heavy toyles easie?"

We have before lamented the manifest corruption and neglect of those popular tales to which Hearne, Le Neve, Spelman, and many other worthies did not disdain to turn the light of their carefullytrimmed lamp, scanty and ill-furnished in many important particulars as it was; and we do hope, that before it is too late, some effort will be made to preserve the last wreck from perdition, or from that equally deplorable state of debasement in which it is our grief sometimes to see our old favourites. For such a work every facility is now afforded, particularly by the abundant acquisitions lately made to the stock of collateral information by our northern neighbours. We need only point to the very interesting disquisition on the subject which lately appeared in the Quarterly Review (No. 41), to shew how much has been done elsewhere, and how much might be effected here in the

VOL. IV. NO. XVI.

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