lic Accuser is designated in law Latin as the King's or Royal Accuser; that is to say, Devil," Diabolus Regis." The word is flat and plain enough, and very edifying. How simply is the frightful supernatural caution of the Apostle thus converted into the most natural of all cautions?

there is nothing more graceful, is planted of this tree; and so is that cradle or close walk, with that perplexed canopy which lately covered the seat in his Majesty's garden at Hampton Court; and, as I now hear, they are planted in perfection at New Park, the delicious villa of the noble Earl of Rochester, belonging once to a near kinsman of mine, who parted with it to King Charles the First of blessed memory. These hedges are tonsile; but where they are maintained from fifteen to twenty feet height, which is very frequent in the places before mentioned,' they are to be cut, and kept in order with a scythe of four feet long, and very little falcated; this is fixed on a long sneed or straight handle, and does wonderfully expedite the trimming of these and the like hedges. An oblong square, palisadoed with this plant, or the Flemish ornus, as is that I am going to describe, and may be seen in that inexhaustible magazine at Brompton Park, (cultivated by those two industrious fellowgardeners, Mr London and Mr Wise), affords such an umbraculum frondium, the most natural, proper station, and convenience for the protection of our orange-trees, myrtles, and other rare perennials and exotics, from the scorching darts of the sun, and heat of the summer; placing the cases, pots, &c. under this shelter, when, either at their first peeping out of the window conclave, or during the increasing heat of the summer they are so ranged and disposed, as to adorn a noble area of a most magnificent Paradisian dining-room, to the top of Hortular pomp and bliss, superior to all the artificial furniture of the greatest prince's court. Here the Indian narcissus, tuberoses, Japan lilies, jasmine, jonquils, periclimena, roses, carnations, with all the pride of the parterre, intermixed between the tree-cases, flowery vases, busts and statues, entertain the eye, and breathe their redolent odour and perfumes to the smell. The golden fruit, the apples of the Hesperides, together with the delicious Ananas, gratify the taste, whilst the cheerful ditties of canorous birds recording their innocent amours to the bubbling fountain, delight the ear. At the same time the charming accents of the fair and virtuous sex, preferable to all the admired composures of the most skilful musicians, join in concert with hymns and hallelujahs to the bountiful and glorious Creator, who has left none of the senses which he has not gratified at once with their most agreeable and proper objects.

"Be sober, be vigilant (says the Greek-English), for your adversary the Devil walketh about, seeking

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whom he may devour."

But Be sober, be vigilant (says the proper English-English), for your adversary the Accuserwalketh about, seeking whom he may devour."

Here is a a poor mistaken human being, instead of a prowling Satan; and what can be more natural, simple, or reconcileable with God's goodness and pre-eminence, and the working of an improveable weakness and blockish mystery, instead of a malignant might?

To shew how accustomed we are to follow up the spiritual analogies suggested by all kinds of reasonable and loving faith, we will close this article with a copy of verses which we wrote last winter, after we had been thinking of some beloved friends who have disappeared from this present state of being.

At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed: as we shall know for ever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths,-angels, that are to be,
Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,-
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

THE WEEK.

From Wednesday the 17th, to Tuesday the 23rd of September.

A HEDGE FOR YOUR WALKS; AND A NATURAL PAVILION.

[From EVELYN'S 'Silva, or a Discourse on Forest Trees.'] EVELYN is a writer hardly good enough to come under our head of Celebrated Authors;' but another specimen of him will do capitally well in this portion of our Journal,-not that the department excludes celebrated authors; the reader knows to the contrary; but because of his fitness for a flowery sojourn, and his love of nature. The present passage seemed particularly suitable to us this week, because it concludes with expressing the same faith in that double garden of here and hereafter, which we have touched upon in the preceding article. Evelyn, by education and one part of his nature, was much of a formalist, and not a little of a pedant; neither was he free from certain fallings-in with expediency, which would have better become a more stirring and less pretending character; but he had a genuine love of the world he lived in, as well as a pious sense of another; and was the honoured friend of Cowley.

The present extract is from the account of the Hornbeam in his famous work on Forest Trees, which is thought, with reason, to have inspirited the growth of timber in this country, and strengthened its "wooden walls."

But, to return to Brompton. It is not to be imagined what a surprising scene such a spacious saloon, tapestried with the natural verdure of the glistening foliage, presents the spectator, and recompenses the toil of the ingenious planter; when, after a little patience he finds the slender plants (set but at five or six feet distance, nor much more in height, well pruned and dressed) ascend to an altitude sufficient to shade and defend his Paradisian treasure, without excluding the milder gleams of the glorious and radiant planet, with his cherishing influence and kindly warmth, to all within the enclosure-refreshed with the cooling and early dew, pregnant with the sweet exhalations, which the indulgent mother and teeming earth sends up to nourish and maintain her numerous and tender offspring.

But, after all, let us not dwell here too long, whilst the inferences to be derived from those tempting and temporary objects prompt us to raise our contemplation a little on objects yet more worthy our noblest speculations, and all our pains and curiosity, representing that happy state above, namely, the celestial Paradise: let us, I say, suspend our admiration awhile of these terrestrial gaieties, which are of so short continuance, and raise our thoughts from being too deeply immersed and rooted in them, aspiring after those supernal, more lasting and glorious abodes, namely, a Paradise, not like this of ours, with so much pains and curiosity, made with hands, but eternal in the heavens, where all the trees are trees of life, the flowers all

amaranths;* all the plants perennial, ever verdant, ever pregnant; and where those who desire knowledge may fully satiate themselves; taste freely of the fruit of that tree which cost the first gardener and posterity so dear; and where the most voluptuous inclinations to the allurements of the senses may take and eat, and still be innocent; no forbidden fruit, no serpent to deceive, none to be deceived.

Hail! O hail then, and welcome you blessed Elysiums, where a new state of things expects us; where all the pompous and charming delights that detain us here awhile, shall be changed into real and substantial fruitions, eternal springs, and pleasure intellectual, becoming the dignity of our nature.

REMINISCENCES OF A JOURNEY, [WHEN we began to read this communication of our pleasant friend unknown, and came to the passage in which he speaks of angling, we had half a misgiving that he was some "impudent young dog" (to use the fatherly language of the plays) who proposed to banter us out of our ichthyophilozoosophy (fish-lifeconsidering-wisdom, as a German would call it). But something connected with the very excess of his elegancies on that point reassured us; and we read on to the end of his paper, not only to our own entire gratification, but to that of some friends who happened to be with us, and whose alternate laughter and gravity he would have been glad to see. The philosophy of the "box" and "luggage," the parson and his daughter, the green lane with its insect murmurings (as if they were the "voice of the sunbeams the music of warmth and light"), the old forest with its glooms, natural and supernatural, the shouts of the tempest, and the awful "talk of the trees,"-all, we venture to say, are excellent, and promise admirably for the writer, who describes it as his first performance. We know not who he is; but we conclude him to have too much heart, and too solid a foundation in knowledge, to be spoilt by this approbation. It is curious (though natural enough) that, in direct proportion to a correspondent's real abilities, we almost invariably find him modest and doubtful in the way in which he writes to us respecting his contributions. The one before us says he is not sure whether his paper is good, bad, indifferent, or even "execrable." The truth is, that genius is apt to know itself well enough on occasion, but its standards of excellence are so high, that when the impluse of composition is over, it reverts to them, and is filled with doubt by the comparison. Besides, in proposing an article for insertion in an other man's paper, there is another kind of doubt which seizes a mind of a right order, unconnected Our even with the consideration of literary merit. correspondent has honoured and obliged us.]

REMINISCENCES.

"Or whom?-by whom?"-Not one word at present, dear Reader, unravelling these mysteries. If I am worthy of being better known, proceed with me but for a little while, and our acquaintance will rapidly increase: in the mean time, be indulgent enough to prepare yourself for a

JOURNEY.

“Good bye, my dear Henry, do take care of yourself," are the parting words of an affectionate sister"Good bye." Bang goes the door, and at six o'clock, one clear cold morning in the latter end of August, I find myself in a long, dull, silent street, in a northern town of Scotland, making my utmost speed to the coach, to meet a friend with whom I had arranged to take a trip to the Highlands.

There is something rather noticeable in the appearance of a provincial town at this early hour of the morning, particularly when the houses, built of stone, present a dull, high, and heavy front, which prevails in that part of the country; they look like the corpses of buildings, and have an unnatural aspect. There is the silence of night, with the clearness of day: there is light, but no life: there they stand, gaunt and gloomy, and quite distinct the habitations, but where are the inhabitants? There are the dark glazed windows, but where the moving forms, the glimpses of life and activity, to be caught behind them? The doors too, are not only closed, but seem shut with a closeness determined to resist all future attempts at being opened. There are objects also to be met with at this hour, which you may look in vain for at another; there is the hungry, lean, spectral-looking dog, with brown, dingy hide, walking slowly up the street alone, anxiously peering round for the first refuse to be thrown out. There is the solitary beggar-woman, concealed in a dark brown tattered cloak, hanging from her head, and fastened tightly beneath her chin; a withered, miserable outskirt of humanity, cut off from the rest of her species, prowling about, with her staff projecting before her, on the same errand. And then amidst the

siderably softened in our sentiments by a tolerable breakfast. The day has likewise undergone a similar change. The sun has blent itself with the cool morning air, and not a tree, or shrub, or blade of grass, but sparkles up with an aspect clear and glittering, beaming with gratitude and cheerfulness: nay, even the bright buff road, with its margin of green, puts on a pleasant smile, and gives us a kind invitation to proceed. The sky is very blue, the breeze inspiring; from the woods are borne the most penetrating perfumes; and the streaks of sunshine, scattered hither and thither on the soft moss beneath the tall pines, and the deep mysterious glimpses we catch into the recesses of the forest,-all combine to excite in the mind the most pleasurable emotions. Now castle-building proceeds on a magnificent scale-what beautiful forms

are created-how soft are the smiles that beam on you-how sentimental your conversation unheardenjoyment! How the blood flows, and the pulse beats! humane your thoughts, and limitless your capacity of

Let me sniff up the scent of these fir trees-delicious! On one side of us there rises up a huge hill, or rather cluster of hills, covered with the dark green fir, with dusky ravines intervening, the dark shade on which quickens the imagination. Look over that mass of wood-what a huge group of trees!-how came so many to be congregated together? Far as your eye can reach, you may trace them till they are lost in an indistinct haze; the whole mass presents one uniform shade, save where it darkens in the clefts between the hills, and fades with grey in the distance. 'Tis a desert of tree tops.

That hour of richness, soft, and deep
Intense, and fraught with feeling,
As tho' a sigh before its sleep
From Nature's soul came stealing.

As if the thought of midnight gloom
Oppress'd its gentle heart,

And glimpes of a silent tomb,
In which we all must part.

Away we rumble ;--the air blows freshly, all are in good humour; and the gibe, the laugh, and cursory remark, are rife amongst the passengers as we pass along. Some muffled themselves up in cloaks, but I courted the breeze, unbuttoned my coat and vest, and had serious thought of pulling off my neckkerchief. With bounding spirits, as mine were that morning, the difficulty is to sit upon a coach. If one could but run or walk, or hop, or leap, or throw a summerset-but to sit on one spot without moving, certainly

amongst the trials of life it is not the least.

On, on, we rumble-the country glistens up freshly and cheerfully around us. Wherever a labourer is to be seen, he throws down his implements of husbandry, and comes forward to gaze on the coach. Let us observe this one;-he has already descried us, although we are yet a considerable distance from him, his spade is deposited in the ground with due care, and he marches deliberately up to the road side, that he may be in perfect readiness to have a complete and satisfactory stare. He is for no half measures; the thing must be done well; he must have all his senses in the most perfect order, and in the happiest circumstances for enjoying the gratification. There is no hurry, no agitation in his manner; it is calm and solemn, it is an important matter, and must be proceeded with cautiously. He has now reached the stone dyke, and slowly he folds his brawny arms, and places them steadily upon it. He is not satisfied till he finds that they have a firm and comfortable lodgment. And now comes a still more important point, the chin must be planted on the arms in a favourable position: - he has achieved it! How squash and square it is, presenting a noble base for the upper works, from which the eyes gleam out, encircled by numerous wrinkles, indicating a rigidly scrutinizing power. A cannon ball would rebound from that head, it is placed so firmly. The time has been computed accurately, for at the instant he seems in perfect readiness, the coach passes. Interesting moment! We are the honoured objects of his careful inspection; we pass, but his eyes still follow us. At length he is satisfied, slowly his arms are unfolded, and with measured step he retraces his way, and deliberately resumes his labour. Let us take another specimen. There is a surly, independent-looking man, who seems ashamed of such idle curiosity. Three times he has laid aside his hoe, and as often returned to it with a dogged determination to proceed with his work: he takes another stolen side glance. "Ah! it is unusually crowded: what a quantity of luggage and a new leader!" He is fairly overcome-his implement is thrown on one side, and he gazes his fill.-Certainly government need be at no charges for coach inspectors in Scotland.

Now we pass the parsonage ;-yes, there he is, the shrewd old boy, patroling his garden, hands behind his back, coat blackish-brown, breeches untied, neckcloth white, face unshaved, inquisitive wrinkled eye, sagacious wordly look about him; and no doubt a very pleasant fellow over a bowl of punch. But see, there is a flutter at the window. What! a bevy of butterflies? Ah, I see, the head of the parson's daughter, covered with curl papers-peeping little puss! very curious and very shy. But be cautious, be exceedingly cautious, for if a young man takes a glance at the parson's daughter, the parson's daugh

ter takes to her heels!

On we go-but—

"The bright sun is extinguished, and the stars Do wander, darkling in the eternal space." Astounded Reader-I merely mean that the sunny smiles which lately overspread the countenance of our fellow travellers are clouded, and in their eyes there is visible an unquiet restlessness-they shift to and fro on their seats, conversation flags, and their spirits are drooping low. They turn round anxiously to see how the leaders get on, and fancy that the coachman might just use his whip a leetle more-now there is almost universal silence, only broken at intervals by a deep sigh. The spirit of melancholy has descended upon us-depression has wrapped us up in his grey cloak-can you expound the mystery? One word will dispel your ignorance-breakfast!The digestive organs, like all idle beings, are becoming unruly for want of employment, and the inward derangement causes outward distraction. But let us pass the disagreeables. For fifteen minutes, men and women, lubberly boys, and eager-eyed girls, have snatched and devoured, growled and gormandized, spluttered with knives and forks, tea-spoons and cups, as if-but no, there is no earthly comparison for it; their only excuse is, that it is done from compassion to their digestive organs-disinterested humanity!

All this is past, and we are again on our way, con

Reader, if you have a fancy for a life of solitude, picture yourself dropped into the midst of these wooded hills, wandering over the soft unechoing ground, consisting of the dead leaves of hundreds of years, presenting one shade, one aspect, that of decay -no sky above your head, no air breathing on your face of a branch tingles in your ear, and seems to startle -where the silence is so profound that the snapping the whole forest.

In travelling in Scotland, you are frequently carried over ground so high, that you can overlook a great extent of hilly country. The reader must bear in mind, that he is not exactly looking up to the hills, else he will have a poor idea of the magnificent prospect his eye can comprehend.

But now we come to a softer feature in the land

scape, and one of peculiar beauty. The coach passes a stretch of hollow ground, which intersects the vast forest; and in the midst of this dell, as lovely a lane as ever tempted the footsteps of romantic pedestrian, pursues its solitary way, and walks fearless up into the very bosom of the dark mountains.

the golden rays of the sun), intermixed with the Luxuriantly fringed with broom (now basking in purple heath, and here and there sweet spots of verdure glittering with daisies, does it not entice you, gentle Reader, to saunter for an hour or two, and dally with its sweets?" I thought so:-give me your hand, let me retain it-this is the way to perambulate the hills, to roam the forests-who would think of offering an arm, of poking an angular sharp bone into a lady's softly-rounded waist, when he has a hand to give! Ah! what a spot for a declarationsunny and secluded, breathing intense life and enjoyment, and creating a strong feeling of mutual consciousness. Picture the sauntering slowly along the softly blushing cheek bent downwards, and a little on one side, while the fragrance and beauty of the scene lend a richness, a tenderness, an intensity to your words, which you feel a half-conviction must make their way to the little palpitating heart so close to yours,—almost fluttering against you.

through the solemn gloom around,-follow it; now it is lost, now appears, again you see it far up in the distance, penetrating into that dusky ravine, like to the subduing smiles of a young girl of sixteen, making their irresistible way into the hoary and shaggy heart of a great sulky grandpapa, not over well pleased at the favour requested.

If we had time, we might roam as far as that ravine, and there behold the brook tumbling down from rock to rock, plunging and leaping on its solitary course, nothing near it but the dark woods, and the grey rocks through which it foams. The eye of man rarely rests on it, though congregated multitudes might well assemble to yield it their applause: but it shuns society; it is a gloomy and scornful spirit, that gains a proud satisfaction in the mournful and indignant tones in which it thunders out its wrongs. The trees too seem imbued with the same feeling; they raise up their tall, dark, solemn forms in the air, but disdain to utter their griefs, save when the blast cleft; perhaps in early days it wronged themcomes rushing with its thousand wings through yon far distant times, long since buried in that tombless grave, oblivion ;-or mayhap it brings to their remembrance some dark calamity, or fearful revolution in the elder days, some tale of horror, mighty wrong, or overwhelming destruction; for certain it. is, that at his presence they roar out their indignant fury, and hiss like a thousand serpents; they wring their arms and lash the air, and with ominous gestures menace the world with vengeance. And the river breaks into a savage participation in their rage, and raises his voice and growls out his anathemas in tones of thunder, as he bounds along his course, flinging up the foam of passion, gleaming white in the darkness. And at night, when the majestic masses of the woods are just visible in motion against the sky, and the torrent rushes past you like an enraged demon, and its roar mingles with the hissing of the pines, the scene is wild beyond description, and the mind is obliged to yield assent to the belief that the elements are actuated by feelings akin to those of humanity. But the wind wanes gradually away, and solemnity again resumes its sceptre; the pines present their former still, grave aspect, and the waters mutter in a more subdued voice their spleen.

But there are times when the winds and the woods hold more friendly intercourse with each other, when the former come sweeping from far off, in long solemn trains, with dirge-like music, and take up their abode in the bosom of the latter. Then there commences dim, wild, awful talk, mournful conversation, grave conferences on old primeval times, when creation had another aspect and allotment-and the river too, is admitted into their councils, and murmurs in a confiding tone his thoughts, and together they form a dreary and plaintive diapason.

I have stood, Reader, at the dead of night, by the roaring stream, rolling over rocks in vast foamy torrents; around me wood-covered hills, heaped on hills; dim glens, precipices, and ravines-the blast and the rain breaking on my face; and then nature seemed to utter a voice I never heard before; I felt that she did mean something!" And the wind, as it wailed in my ears, seemed to me the peaceless remnant of once omnipotent power wandering over its lost realm, alternately muttering in indignation and moaning in grief.

But we shall be growing too romantic, and therefore pause. We have arrived at the last town the coach can convey us to. We must now strike off into the wilds, while the stage proceeds on the high road. "Waiter, order a post chaise for T-!"—" The roads are impassable, sir; the floods have carried them away." "Never mind, we must go." "Won't you dine, gentlemen ?" "No, bring some biscuit and a bottle of sherry."

With your kind permission, courteous Reader, we will continue our journey next week.

S.

EDINBURGH.

Nor Venice riseth from the sea more fair
Than the regal city of the land :—she fills
The ideal eye with beauty, and the hills,
The everlasting hills, as a broach do wear
Her stately beauty. In this stilly air,
Swathed with the sunbeams, beautiful is she;
Her far-off presence is a stirring power;
Her shadow doth rejoice the lonely sea:

The Sailor, who hath voyaged the perilous breast
Of the broad waters,-spying from the shrouds
The city hanging radiant in the west,
The white towers, palaces, arise in crowds,-
Deems them perchance bright mansions of the blest,
A city fashion'd in the sun-lit clouds. J. C.

Real Wants Few.-If the philosopher be happy, it is because he is the man from whom fortune can take the least.-Rousseau.

QUEEN MARGARET OF NAVARRE'S ENTRANCE INTO FORT D'USSON. THE following sprightly bit of narrative is from a new historical novel just published, entitled “ Henrie Quatre, or the Days of the League." Margaret, who more upon her own account than as the wife of the Huguenot King of Navarre, is in a state of opposition to the court of her brother Henry the Third, tricks the Governor of Usson out of his post by the help of the vanity of his Seneschal, which is here excellently portrayed. The whole novel (we say it in a spirit of real respect, and out of no invidiousness) is a remarkable proof of the progress of knowledge among those whose education has not been very scholarly. Evidences to the latter effect lurk here and there, forming a singular contrast with the author's general command of words, even of the most scholarly nature. The fault of the book is that it is too much spun out, and deals in details not commensurate with the importance of what is going forward. The passing introduction of Brantome is very pleasant.

Navarre was known to be in Auvergne, and thither the happy travellers proceeded in search of him, arriving before D'Usson in the manner we have just A brilliant idea entered the mind of related. Margaret, when she beheld the lofty rocks on which the fortress was built, its impregnability and romantic site; but, without communicating her sudden rosolve, she simply requested the Baron to ask De Cœuvres the hospitality of the castle for a daughter of France.

Flushed with her scheme, she drew aside the curtain on approaching the gate-tower, and at the expected presence of the old governor; but in his place stood the smirking and bowing Pomini, who was dazzled with the beauty of the fair voyagers, and quite forgot the graceful Gabrielle. Margaret smiled inwardly at his officiousness, but she saw at a glance that he was her own, and might be moulded to her purpose. This was sufficient to induce her to return his civilities with condescension, and make him the proudest of men. He already fancied himself Monsieur L'Isle du Marais, and even went so far as to presume on the possible acquisition of a baron's coronet and mantling.

The cortège passed into the interior court, where the Queen and Emilie alighted, and were conducted by the enraptured Seneschal into the hall. Great was the indignation of the loyal governor, when one of the pages ran to inform him that his visitor was the Queen of Navarre; but as it was too late to proceed to the court-yard, where he could only dispute with his servant the honour of the reception, he wisely resolved to take up a position with his daughter in the saloon of state, and in order to increase the group, the page was desired to bring his fellow immediately, that they twain might be in readiness to do honour to royalty, and reflect a proper dignity on the rank of the governor.

But for this coup d'état there was more than abundant time; for Pomini indulged in his usual artifice with visitors, of conducting them through the entire suite of rooms of the castle, ere he introduced them to the Marquis; commenting the while on the antique beauty of the furniture, the lofty proportion of the chambers, and the historical importance of the royal chateau.

66

Stay! stay! Monsieur!" said the fatigued Queen of Navarre; "has not the Marquis a fair daughter a pearl of price? Let us not delay in doing her honour."

"Her beauty can only be eclipsed by the bright luminaries before whom I now stand!" replied the assiduous and crafty Seneschal: "and your Majesty shall see her soon.'

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But Monsieur Pomini had something yet in store for his new friends, ere their eyes were blessed with the presence of the Lady Gabrielle. To the surprise of the Queen and her suite, he opened a small door behind the tapestry of the last chamber, and disappeared from view of his visitors, but soon returned with a bundle of torches, which were speedily lighted. "What! torches in day-time!" cried Margaret in surprise. "Your Majesty must consider that it is the fault of the architect, not mine," replied the obsequious Seneschal.

Any one but De Nevailles would have dissuaded the Queen from proceeding further, but his curiosity and love of eccentricity were deeply interested in the denouement of this strange proceeding, and he resolved to let the Seneschal go to the full length of his

line.

The tapestry was put aside, and one by one follow. ing each other, the visitants passed through the narrow door-way, and entered on a stone gallery or corridor. The light of the torches displayed the rude

ness of the masonry, and the awful prison-like gloom of the gallery. The royal party began to doubt the sincerity of their guide.

"Is De Cœuvres a hermit?" exclaimed Margaret; "does he live in a cell ?"

Pomini made no reply, for he was preparing for his last effort.

A title which he wished to obtain in order to elevate

his stock.-ED.

"Where those torches burn are the dungeons of D'Usson," replied Pomini; "there, his Majesty, Louis, the eleventh of that name, of happy memory, kept the state prisoners, whose treason was manifest. Your Majesty's ancestor," continued the Seneschal, speaking to the Queen of Navarre, "was a wise prince-no one could escape from these depths."

"Let us away from the horrid sight," cried the Queen, who had retained the hand of Emilie out of fear.

As the road was straight, no great difficulty was found by the visitors in groping their way out of the gallery into the genial light of day, and the warm tapestried chamber. But their anger now vented itself against the Seneschal; he was surrounded by a circle of inquisitors, who threatened him with every punishment they could think of.

"If I had been anxious only to revenge an insult to my sovereign," said De Nevailles, " your body would have been flung after the torches."

64

But why show us these curiosities when the Marquis is waiting?" exclaimed Margaret, who could not repress a smile at the singular occurrence.

Pomini, who was taken off his guard by the cheerful speech of the Queen, replied with naiveté, “that since the visit of the Abbé Bourdeille de Brantome to D'Usson, he had taken his advice, which was to display the dreary depths of the prison caverns to visitors, ere he introduced them into the presence of the Lady Gabrielle, that her lightsome beauty might strike her beholders with all the force of intense contrast."

A peal of laughter followed this explanation, which was uttered in a tone which at once displayed the vanity and weakness of the Seneschal, at the same time that it bespoke the sincerity of the impulse. "Ah! the Abbé De Brantome is a man I reverence," said De Nevailles; "his wit leaves a rough mark on every softer mind it comes in collision with."

"TWO AGED OAKS" IN HYDE PARK. To the Editor of the London Journal.

Birmingham, Sept. 2, 1834.

DEAR SIR,-When I was in London, a few weeks since, I observed in Hyde Park, near the bridge over the Serpentine river, two very old and picturesque oaks, which are railed in from the public. The fact of these trees being enclosed has considerably excited my curiosity to know what particular history is connected with them, or of what interesting event they are the memorials. That they indicate the scene of some remarkable incident of past times, or at least of some incident worthy of remembrance, I do not doubt, as mere longevity or picturesqueness of appearance, would not, I imagine, have been sufficient inducements to make the authorities anxious to protect them, in a measure, from rude and destructive hands. As I am particularly curious in matters of this nature, and experience considerable pleasure from viewing existing memorials of every description of interesting event in our past history, or in the histories of distinguished individuals, I feel a strong desire to know all that is remarkable and memorable connected with these two spectre-looking oaks in Hyde Park. I have no friend in London who can afford me any information on this subject; and believing you to be a "good-natured man," and the last to be offended at a little freedom of this kind, I take the liberty of writing to you, for the purpose of making the inquiry. I shall feel very much obliged if, in your "Notices to Correspondents," you will have the goodness to satisfy my curiosity, by informing me on the above head, should you possess the necessary information.

Wishing you great success in your present undertaking,

I am, Sir, &c.

“There is no danger from this conceited fool," A REMINISCENCE OF THE FAIR OF whispered De Nevailles, who was close to Mademoiselle.

A CONSTANT READER

OF THE "LONDON JOURNAL." P.S. Many thanks for giving up the abominable page of advertisements.

[*** We are sorry we cannot give the information here required. Perhaps some of our readers can furnish it.—Ed.]

BARTHOLOMEW.

ALL unforgotten is that sunny day,
Ah! days were sunny then!
When I, a happy and a truant boy,
(Why are those synonymes?) bounded away,
All mud and mirth, and gingerbread, and joy;
Prancing in puddles, panting thro' each pen,
Into that Babylon of booths-the Fair:
Weeks had I vow'd, Bartholomew, to strive for't;
True to that vow, but little did I
care,
Though I, like thee of old, were flay'd alive for't.

Oh! joyous child! I mark'd the glittering shew.
Of wearied mountebanks; and envied much
Their recklessness of mirth-I deem'd it such;
For then it had not been my lot to know,
That Harlequins have griefs and even Clowns feel woe.

Saunders was lov'd and Gyngell deified;
None sure were happy if "the Players" were not.
To dreams of degradation, hints of pride,
The gorgeous Scowtons' troop replied,
Scout on, we care not.
Eighteen short summers syne-where have ye filed,
Dear wandering wonders-are ye old-or dead?
Have learned pigs "the way of all pork" gone?
Are thieves of that day, now at Sydney justling;

Yea! Chunee too, the Elephant, hath flown;
And "left the world" for greater beasts "to bustle in."
Prince of Morocco! I admir'd of yore;
Are ye in truth no more?

Jesters have sought the grave-wild men turn'd tame;
Mimes mute, and infant prodigies grown old;
Chabert, though dieted on fire and flame,
Despite his sulphur supperings, is cold.
Miss Biffen, without feet, her race has run,

The Spotted Boy visits this spot no longer;
The dwart's short thread of life is overspun,
And the strong man has wrestled with a stronger.

name.

Health to thee, relic of a by-gone day,

Last of a class who 're fading fast away; Though penny shewman! * For thou hast paced thy daily path in quiet; No creditor bewails thy heedless riot; Who calls thee debtor? No man.

Come thou, Bartholomew; much mirth and noise; Come renovate our rattles, tops, and toys,

Teaching one gentle truth

To soberer years; in mem'ry of past joys.

Oh! pardon the frivolities of youth;
Nor wholly curb the young and buoyant will,
But suffer children to be children still.

W. L. R.

A GOOD HINT FOR DANCERS [From the new French periodical, published in Paris and London, and entitled the "Caméléon."] THE existence of the country-dance is threatened. The galopade has been tried; but the galopade deranges the ladies' head-dresses, tumbles their clothes, and flusters their faces. As the ladies have no right to make themselves ugly, the galopade must be given up. The mazurka comes next, and it has numerous partisans. We shall see! While these revolutions are hanging over us, there is one thing which alone would keep a man from dancing at all; a difficulty that renews itself at every first dance. If you invite a lady to be your partner, she is engaged. What will you Ask another. Very good. But then it is as much as to say to the former, "I care no more for dancing with you than with any other;" and to the second, "I dance with you for want of a better, and because another has refused me!" How is this to be avoided? By not dancing at all; because the lady you first made choice of is no longer at liberty. But in that case it may so happen, that you pass the evening without dancing, however eagerly you may desire otherwise.

do?

In many towns to the south they manage after the following fashion. To each man, as he enters, a basket of artificial flowers is offered, that he may choose out of it. When he would obtain a partner, in lieu of the customary formula,-seldom relieved by the slightest variation,—“ Madam, will you do me the honour to dance with me?" he offers the flower, which the lady fixes in her belt till the dance is completed. By this means, no one exposes himself to the mortification and risk of asking a lady who is already engaged, since whatever fair one is still without a flower, is also without a partner.

ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.
XXXVII.-FIVE STORIES OF THIEVERY.

WE take these from one of those celebrated old bookstall books, which were written hundreds of years ago, when men only published because they were in earnest, and which, therefore, are interesting in their very errors and old-wives' fables. It is a folio, on all sorts of curious subjects, printed in an honest old type, and is a translation (through a French medium) from the Latin of Camerarius, a German scholar and essayist, famous in his day, but who has come to nothing with posterity, for a certain insufficiency of discrimination between good and bad,-between what is worthy of implicit acceptation, and what to be received with an accompaniment of doubt and a greater nicety of criticism.

As we do not vouch for the truth of all the stories, but have reason to do so for at least one of them, the first (which we have read often in authentic books), we have not divided them, as usual, under heads of their own, but have lumped all together. The concluding one will remind Chaucer's readers of his exquisite story of the Three Thieves. [By the way, when is Mr Clarke's Chaucer to appear, which is to enable us all to read the divine old poet in new spelling?]

There is a certain French booke (quoth our author) set foorth in our time (entituled An Introduction to the treatise of the conformitie of ancient wonders, with moderne, &c.) in which many notable pilferings are related, and some of them (to my seeming) almost incredible, as well for the bold parts down some of them, as they are found there. In the as the cunning tricks of the theeues. I will here set time of King Francis, the first of that name, a certaine theefe, apparelled like a gentleman, as he was diuing into a great pouch, which John Cardinall of Lorraine had hanging by his side, was espied of the King, being at masse, and standing right ouer against the Cardinall. The theefe perceiuing himselfe spied, held vp his finger to the King, making a sign that he should say nothing and he should see good sport. The King, glad of such meriment, and that he should haue cause to laugh, let him alone; and within a while, after comming to the Cardinall, tooke occasion, in talking with him, to make the Cardinall goe to his pouch, who, missing what he had put therein, begins to wonder; but the King, who had seen the play, was as merrie on the other side. But after the King had well laughed, he would gladlie that the Cardinall should haue had againe what was taken from him, as indeed he made account that the meaning of the taker was; but whereas the King thought he was an honest gentleman, and of some account, in that he shewed himselfe so resolute and held his countenance so well; experience showed that he was a most cunning thiefe, gentlemanlike, that meant not to iest, but making as if he iested, was in good earnest. Then the Cardinall turned all the laughter against the King, who, using his wonted oth, swore, by the faith of a gentleman, That it was the first time that ever a theefe had made him his companion.

The other theeuish trick was plaid in the presence of the Emperor Charles the Fift. He upon a day comanding a remooue, while everie man was busied in putting up his stuffe, there entred a good fellow into the hall where the Emperour then was, being meanely accompanied and readie to take horse. This theefe hauing made a great reuerence, presently went about the taking downe of the hangings, making great hast, as if he had much businesse to doe; and though it was not his profession to set up and take downe hangings, yet he went about it so nimbly that he whose charge it was to take them downe, comming to doe it, found that somebodie had already eased him of that labour, and (which was worse) of carrying them away.

But the boldnesse of an Italian theefe was as great, who plaied this part at Rome in the time of Pope Paul the Third. A certaine Cardinall hauing made a great feast in his house, and the silver vessells being lockt vp in a trunke that stood in a chamber next to the hall where the feast had beene, whilst many were sitting and walking in this chamber wayting for their masters, there came a man in with a torch carried before him, bearing the countenance of the steward, and hauing a jacket on, who praied those that sate on the trunke to rise vp from it, because he was to use the same; which they hauing done, he made it be taken vp by certain porters that followed him in, and went cleane away with it. And this was done while the steward and all the seruants of the

house were at supper.

In the same chapter there be other strange and notable tales of diuers theeueries; but it sufficeth to have pickt out these three which I take for the most memorable among them. I will here add a fourth, which seemeth incredible, and excelleth all the rest

for valour and boldnesse. Sabellicus setteth it downe with all the circumstances, and it is thus: A certaine Candiot called Stamat, being at Venice when the treasure was shewed in kindnesse to the Duke of Ferrara, entred into the chappell so boldly that he was taken for one of the Duke's domesticall seruants, and wondering at so much wealth, instead of contenting himself with the sight, he resolved from thence forwarde to commit some notable peece of theeuerie. Saint Mark's church, guilded with pure gold very neere all ouer, is built at the bottom round about within and without with peeces or tables of marble. This Grecian theefe, marueilous cunning and nimble, devised to take out finely by night one of the tables or stones of marble against that place of the church where the altar stands, called The children's Altar, thereby to make himself an entrance to the treasure; and hauing laboured a night, because the wall could not in that time bee wrought through, he laid the stone handsomely into his place againe, and fitted it so well, as no man could perceiue any shew of opening it at all; as for the stones and rubbish that he tooke out of the wall, he carried it all away so nimbly and so cleanly, and all before day, that he was neuer discovered. Hauing wrought this many nights, hee got at length to the treasure, and began to carie away much riches of diuers kinds. I did once see this treasure, and wondured at it, being admitted amongst the traine of the ambassador of Fredericke the Emperor. For besides an infinite number of precious stones set in worke, I saw there twelue crownes, and as many brest-plates of golde, set with an innumerable sort of jems, whose brightnesse would have dazzled the eyes both of the bodie and of the minde; more ouer, pots of aggat and other stones of price, the eares exceedingly high esteemed because of their value: also shrines, candlesticks, and manie other implements for altars, which were not only of pure gold, but also garnished with so many stones of worth, that the gold was nothing in comparison thereof. I speak not of the Vnicorne's horne which is infinitely estimated, nor the duke's crowne, nor the other peeces of exquisit worke, which this Greek monly said) adulterie and theft were neuer long time had carried away all by leasure. But (as it is comcouered, it so fell out that the authore thereof laid hid; and because this fault could not be so soon disit open, and the theefe bewraied himself. He had a compeere in the citie, a gentleman of the same Isle of Candie, called Zacharias Grio, an honest man, and of a good conscience. Stamat one day taking him aside neere to the altar, and drawing a promise should tell him, discouered from the beginning to from him that hee should keepe secret that which he the end all that he had done: and then carries him to his house, where he shews him the inestimable riches he had stollen. The gentleman being vertuous and conscionable, stood amazed at the sight, aud quaking at the horror of the offence, began to reele, and could no longer stand. Whereupon Stamat (as they say) like a desperat villaine, was about to have killed him in the place, and as his will of doing it increased, Grio mistrusting him, stayed the blow hy saying that the extreame joy which he conceived in seeing so many precious things, of which he neuer thought to haue had any part, had made him (as it were) beside himself. Stamat, conside, Grio receiued in gift of him a precious stone, tent with that excuse, let him alone. Of the other and of exceeding great value, and is the same that is now worne in the forepart of the dukes crowne. So, making as if he had some weightie matter to despatch, forth he goes of the house, and hies him to the palace, where hauing obtained accesse to the that there needed expedition, otherwise Stamat might duke, he reuealeth all the matter, saying withall rouse himself, looke about him, disguise himself, shift lodging or saue himself otherwayes with the words, he drew forth of his bosome the precious best of his booties. To giue the more credit to his stone that had been given him; which seene, some were sent away with all speed to the house, who laid hold of Stamat and all that he had stollen, amounting to the value of two millions of gold, nothing thereof being (as yet) remoued. So he was hanged between two pillars and the Informer (besides a rich recompense which he had at that time receiued) had an yearely pension out of the public treasurie for so long time as he liued.

Petrus Iustinianus reciteth the same story after Sabellicus, and withal setteth downe another of our time that fell out in the same citie of Venice. A Neapolitan found meanes with counterfeit keyes, to vnlock the common treasurer's chamber, and the yron chests that were therein, full of the common treasure, and carried away eight thousand crowns. But in a few days hee was taken, and by sentence of the Tenne, after hee had his right hand cut off, was hanged at an high gibbet set vp of purpose in the place called the Realte, neere to which the robberie

had been done.

To the aforesaid description of the treasure of Venice set downe by Sabellicus, I thinke not amiss to annexe that which Phillip de Commines, a witnesse worthie to bee credited, reporteth to haue himselfe seene. "There is at Venice,' saith he, "Saint