I wish the poor wench had left that name unspoken, sir, for it called up tumults into my heart which had long been tranquillised. 'Ay,' said I, 'and drank Aour life-blood in return. But there is a GOD above all; and theirs will pay for it.'

And so, being obstinate, I would pass the Place, for it was a fine, bright, sunshiny day; and the old groves in the adjoining gardens of the Tuilleries were gay with their chestnut blossoms, and the air was sweet with lilies. But just as we reached opposite the street leading to the Boulevards, there came a sight that made the very gardens themselves look gloomy; however, no sooner was its coming perceived, than the people gathered forward in all directions, so that, for my life, I could not have dragged off Madelaine through the crowd. Believe me or no, sir, but from the moment I heard the charioteer flogging on his horses at a distance, and saw the commissaries with their staves, bound with tri-coloured ribbons, making way among the people, I felt as sure as of a judgment day, that Alphonse St Aignan was in the cart! And there, indeed, he sat, with an old greyheaded priest on the one side, and a fair-faced woman on the other, with his own face white as ashes, and his eyes hollow and dim, as though half dead already. His lips quivered too, but whether from fear, or that he were muttering an Ave Maria to keep himself in heart, I cannot say. But just as they came where Madelaine and I were standing, in our holiday gear, | with the gay sunshine streaming upon us, the care I was taking to support and cheer the poor girl, whose head was drooping on my shoulder, attracted his notice, and I saw him cast a glance downwards on us; and there was a bitterness in the look which dwelt in my mind for years. Black must be the pang that can add to the bitterness of such a death as his !

Well, well, there is justice for all men, here or above. And so, sir, Madelaine and I were soon among the fields again; and cheerful as you may think the glades of Etiolles to-day, I warrant you they looked brighter and happier to us, who had tasted so much affliction since we left the village. Old Gabriel was gone, but father still sat in his chimney corner, and right glad was he to have us with him again. Still there was an uneasy thought in his mind.

'Pierre, my lad,' said he one day soon after my return, thou knowest that the old marquis is dead and gone, and the young count dead and gone; and if they were unlawfully removed, heaven forgive those that removed them. But thou art to learn that the Countess Alphonse, who is marchioness now-that is Citoyenne (mercy me, that I can never bring myself to remember all these changes), the Citoyenne St Aignan has a young child-a son born since her father was condemned; and instead of quitting Luzières, as any reasonable soul would do, and making the best of her way to her relations in England and Germany (for here, as she well knows, they are under the surveillance of the revolutionary tribunal, whose severities are getting fast from bad to worse, and may soon reach from worse to worst), nothing will serve her but to talk of the young heir of the house of Luzières, and the allegiance of the tenants, in a touch-me-whodare sort of style, for which the day is past. Twice -thrice-I cannot count the times have I been up to the chateau, and ventured to tell her truths she little liked to hear. Only two days ago I presumed to say, that since she would not quit the country, she might at least conceal herself here at the farm till the dark days of the times were past. My son, I did not know with whom I had to deal. You should have heard the clamour of indignation with which she accused me of insulting her, by inviting her to rest under such a roof as mine! She, a widow, whose husband's headless trunk is lying yonder under the quicklime of the Madelaine! she, a mother, who might preserve her child by so small a concession!'

'Don't trouble yourself further about her, father,' said I, for I was stung to the quick by his account of the woman's gracelessness. 'Her life is not worth the preserving.'

'Nay,' replied the good old man, but her father and mine fought together at Fontenoy; and I have eaten these people's bread; and for all that is come and gone, I will yet do my best for the family.'

'Father!' cried I, 'your gun! Madelaine, up to the granary and lock yourself in without light.' And taking what weapons I could collect, I made off to the village, and in twenty minutes gathered together a troop of hardy young fellows, my fellow-labourers, who, for the honour of the pays, would do much to defend the Chateau de Luzières. But by the time we reached the avenue, the old mansion was sending up in two places a dense smoke, which soon burst out into flames; and all that now remained was to save the lives of those who might be within. The villains were ransacking the house in all directions; but our heart was good. We had a dreadful struggle-a deadly struggle. I can scarce talk of it now, sir; for at the close my poor old father lay dead at the entrance of the marchioness's apartments; and though the Jacobins were driven off the field, it was not till there was nothing left to save. The flames had gained the mastery; and as to the woman, the woman whose obstinacy had caused my father's death, don't ask me, sir, to tell you all that befel her, or what manner of death she died. Her fate was fearful, fearful! May it procure her the mercy and pardon of the Almighty!

It was the dead of the night, sir, before I got back to the farm; and I had to press through a crowd of the villagers collected to look upon the fire. There's Pierre,' said the women as I passed; 'don't speak to him-don't question him-he has lost his father! But, thank God, our men have pursued the murderers down into the river, and it will go hard if any one of them escape.' 'But why was not Pierre with them, why did he remain behind up at the chateau ?' said one woman. 'Hush, imbécélle,' cried another; can't you guess that he was removing his father's body ?'

But they guessed only half the truth. As soon as I crossed the threshold of the farm, I drew bolt and bar, and instead of replying to Madelaine's embraces and inquiries after my father-Into bed with you,' I exclaimed; take this poor orphan into your bosom; and should the troop return and force the doors, swear that it is your own.' Then giving into her arms, still covered with its mother's blood, and stunned with the blow that finished her, the babe, the last of the St Aignans, whom I had withdrawn, poor helpless innocent, from its mother's side at the close of the massacre, I again secured the house, and darted off after the assassins.

Well, sir, to cut short the history, for to you, who are not of the pays, it may appear tedious, we adopted the orphan boy for our own. At that time, to be the child of a ci-devant, was a bad certificate; and though it went to my soul to call the babe ours-for we had been but four months married, and my wife's good name was dear to me to all who were bold enough to say, Pierre, is the child thine ?" I answered, 'the child is mine.' And so," continued the crayfishcatcher, passing his hand across his eyes, "my father's old chair was removed from beside the hearth, and I wove a wicker-cradle for the orphan to supply its place. To be sure, many in the village must have known that the babe was none of ours; but it was given out that all had perished in the flames at Luzières, and I doubt whether any at Etiolles guessed whence we had the infant; more especially when, year after year, as little Albert grew up among us, they saw us working for him as our own, and loving him as our own; for we did love him. Parents could not have loved him better !"

'Were you ever a father, Pierre, that you venture to say that?' inquired I.

Hem! no! and I sometimes thank God for it: ay! even now that we are left alone in our old age; for with children of my own, I should have had no right to do all I did for Albert. You should have seen him, sir; what a noble young creature it grew under Madelaine's rearing! At six years old, not a lad in the village could hold head against Albert! When I saw the ruins of the Chateau de Luzières sold as national property, and the fine avenues cut down, and the gardens made grazing ground, and the fishpond dried up, and the woods destroyed, I own I could not help sometimes grieving that the little fellow should be deprived of what, after all, was his birthright. And many's the time I have had him kneel down and pray beside me, on a green nook among the plantain trees, where I had taken up my pick, a day or two after the fire, and laid all that I could make out as the remains of my father and the poor foolish marchioness. I dug but one grave for them, sir! Think what would have been her rage, had any one whispered to her, during her living days, that her last resting-place would be beside that of Pierre of Luzières.

Alas! the time of trial was quickly coming. The period which the bookmen call the Reign of Terror, was at its worst at Paris; and every now and then, bands of ravagers, who were little other than thieves and banditti, burst out into the provinces, on pretences of domiciliary visits and what not; but, in reality, to lay hands on all and every thing within their reach; burning, murdering, destroying and without hazard of punishment. One evening, sir, we were all sitting quietly at the farm (it was in autumn, and the vintage was just over); there was my father with his pipe between his lips, and Madelaine with her knitting needles, and I busy in a corner with my osiers, weaving a basket for my wife when, all of a sudden, old Castor, the house-dog, that lay before the fire, started up and began to yelp like a thing in purgatory; and as soon as we could still the beast, which was no easy matter, a trampling of many feet was audible, and, for a moment, we thought it even the vintagers coming home from eating their soupe de vendanges. But looking out, I saw a troop of some ten or twelve ill-ing us to happier times. We had wars and battles, looking dogs, armed with scythes, and bearing torches; and in a moment the thought struck me they were going up to the chateau !

'Well, better times were coming! The mad and the bad were slain in their turn. The blood-thirsty became at length satiated, and at last every man's thoughts seemed to turn upon repairing the mischief that had been done. Ere the waters of the deluge subsided, a mighty name was floating upon their troubled surface. It was that of a great hero-and we became a martial nation! Had it been that of a great statesman, we might perhaps have become a commercial one; for, in truth, we were inclined to follow any one who was inclined to lead, with promises of guid. ay! and victories, faster than I could count them. But I had other work on hand. We quitted the farm of Luzières when it became a stranger's property

(and, in sooth, the very walls bore with them a host of painful recollections!) and with the amount of my father's savings and my own, purchased the cot that had once been tenanted by Bertin, wherein Madelaine was born, and wherein I still abide; a poor place, you will say, but my own; a home for me, and a home for Madelaine when I shall be no more. And there it was that Albert grew up upon our knees.

It was not till he was about ten years old, sir, that I began to regret I had not the means of giving him as much book-learning as became the blood that was in his veins. By that time the hero of the nation had grown tired of being a hero, and got himself anointed emperor; and many emigrants had leave to return, and among the rest, one who called himself heir to the last Marquis of St Aignan. To hear this made Madelaine and me jealous in our minds. We had taught the boy all we knew it was not muchcrayfish-catching and basket-weaving were not for the like of him; and we had even gone poorly clad, and poorly fed, that Monsieur le Curé (the very curés were back again!) might add to the amount of his knowledge. Even that, I fancy, was not much; and one day when we went to fetch Albert home, as usual, the curé, who, from his office in the Confessional, knew what was the real parentage of the child, told us we had no right to trifle with Albert's claims, and that we must take him to Paris, and reveal all to his family. It was a sore day for us to make up our mind! Madelaine cried and sobbed, as I had not seen her cry since my father's death; for we loved the boy so dearly, that we fancied every one else must love him as we did, and be mad-eager to take him from us!

Not a bit! For all we could do, or all we could swear, the great lord to whom we addressed ourselves persisted that it was proved, by the procès verbal of the burning of the Chateau de Luzières, the marchioness and her infant had perished in the conflagration; and instead of providing for Albert's education, as we expected, he ordered us all three to be thrust out of his hotel into the street, as impostors! It was the happiest evening I ever spent, that on which we got back to Etiolles after this fruitless attempt! We had done our duty to the lad, and the repulse we had met with seemed to render him our own for ever. After rejecting his cousin in the face of his whole establishment, the head of the family could not claim him from us; and never did I see Madelaine caress his curly head so fondly, or call him her own so ten. derly as then.

'We must content ourselves with less for him,' said she. If Albert do not grow up so learned as the clerk of the peace at Corbeil, he will know more than we knew before him; yet we are better respected in the village than even was his father the marquis!'

With this reasoning I was forced to content myself, and one must have been difficult indeed not to have been contented with Albert! He was so handsome, so frank, so humane, so laborious, so gay! And what I loved best in him was, that, though he was well acquainted with his origin (for how could Madelaine keep such a secret from our nursling ?) he never seemed to desire that the mystery should be cleared up.

·

My family have cast me off,' he would say, 'I have henceforth none-no family, no friends, no benefactors, but you. Love me still, and Albert will be happy; but strive to cause my recognition by the proud man who is willing to take the livery and wages of one whom he holds to be an usurper, and I shall fancy you are tired of your burden, and grudge me my prospect of tending you, and labouring for you in your old age, as you have tended and laboured for me in my childhood !'

There was no answering him! I loved him too dearly to attempt it!

I would fain linger in my story now, sir; for those were the happiest years of my life! There was sunshine under our roof, there was joy, there was promise. But though I grudge not my time in the telling, your patience must be wasting. On, therefore, on to the end!

You may be sure, that, loving Albert as we did, something was laid by, after the half-yearly payment of our contributions to the state, to make up a redemption-fee for our boy, when he, too, should be claimed for its service. This sum did we, for securitysake, lodge in the hands of a great notary at Corbeil. Security! ere the day arrived when Albert underwent the fate I had borne before him, of falling to the conscription, the guardian of our deposit had made a fraudulent bankruptcy; and because he saw fit to take himself off in his carriage to Havre, and embark for America, the lad was fain to march off for the army of Germany! Poor Madelaine was like to break her heart; so young as he was to leave us, and for such a service! For all this chanced not till victory had grown weary of hovering over the eagles of France.

Albert, in spite of his struggle to disguise his joy, for fear of giving us pain, was full of glee at his opening prospects of distinction, for still there lived the saying among the people, that every French conscript, on quitting his village, bore in his knapsack the truncheon of a field-marshal! And so, by way of cheering up Madelaine's heart on the eve of his departure, I sang our old canteen songs, and told our old bivouac stories of Versailles; and related all I had learned of the glories of Marengo and Austerlitz-and how the dying grenadier's last moments on the field of battle had been cheered by receiving the cloak of le petit C'a

At length the necessity of providing a shelter from the weather supplied him with an occupation that served in some measure to divert his thoughts. He built himself two huts with the wood of the pimento tree, thatching them with the long grass which grows upon the island. One was to serve him as a kitchen, the other as a bedroom. But yet, every day for the first eighteen months, he spent more or less time on the beach, watching for the appearance of a sail upon the horizon. At the end of that time, partly through habit, partly through the influence of religion, which here awakened in full force upon his mind, he became reconciled to his situation. Every morning after rising, he read a portion of Scripture, sang a psalm, and prayed, speaking aloud in order to preserve the use of his voice; he afterwards remarked, that, dur. ing his residence on the island, he was a better Christian than he had ever been before, or would probably ever be again. He at first lived much upon turtles, which abounded upon the shores; but afterwards found himself able to run down the wild goats, whose flesh he either roasted or stewed, and of which he kept a small stock tamed, around his dwelling, to be used in the event of his being disabled by sickness. One of the greatest inconveniences which afflicted him for the first few months was the want of salt; but he gradually became accustomed to this privation, and at last found so much relish in unsalted food, that, after being restored to society, it was with equal dif ficulty that he reconciled himself to take it in any other condition. As a substitute for bread, he had turnips, parsnips, and the cabbage palm, all of excellent quality, and also radishes and water-cresses. When his clothes were worn out, he supplied their place with goat-skins, which gave him an appearance much more uncouth than any wild animal. He had a piece of linen, from which he made new shirts by means of a nail and the thread of his stockings; and he never wanted this comfortable piece of attire during the whole period of his residence on the island. Every physical want being thus gratified, and his mind soothed by devotional feeling, he at length began to positively enjoy his existence, often lying for whole days in the delicious bowers which he had formed for himself, abandoned to the most pleasant

sensations.

to him, and the strangers were for a time so surprised | the picturesque solitude of a glen beneath the brow
by his rude habiliments, long beard, and savage ap- of Largo Law. But nothing could compensate fo
pearance, as to be in much the same condition. But the meditative life which he had lost.
A .ength
in a little they were mutually able to make explana- having formed an attachment to a rustic maiden,
tions, when it appeared that the two vessels, called named Sophia Bruce, whom he met in the glen just
the Duke and Duchess, formed a privateering expe- named, he suddenly disappeared with her, and never
dition similar to that of Dampier, but under the more was seen at Largo. He seems to have lived
command of Captain Woodes Rogers, the former with his mistress, without demanding the sanction of
commander being here employed only as a pilot. matrimony, till in 1717 he once more went to sea.
Dover, the second captain, and Fry, the lieutenant, Nothing else is known respecting him, except that
of Rogers's own vessel, were of the boat party, and, he died in the situation of lieutenant on board the
after partaking of Selkirk's hospitality, invited him ship Weymouth, in the year 1723, leaving a widow
on board. But so little eager was he to leave his soli- named Candis, who afterwards realised his patrimony
tude, that he was not prevailed upon to do so, till at Largo, consisting of one small house.
assured that Dampier had no situation of command
in the expedition. He was then brought on board
the Duke, along with his principal effects, and, by the
recommendation of Dampier, who said he had been
the best man in the Cinque Ports, was engaged as a
mate. He now found that if he had remained on
board the Cinque Ports, he must have experienced a
worse fate than his late solitude, for, soon after leav.
ing Juan Fernandez, Stradling had been obliged to
surrender himself and his crew to the Spaniards, on
account of the leaky state of the vessel, and had ever
since been in confinement.

A few weeks after leaving the island, Selkirk was appointed to the command of a prize which was fitted out as a privateer, and in this situation he conducted himself with a degree of vigour and prudence that reflects credit on his character. The business in which he was engaged was certainly one by no means calculated to give play to the more amiable qualities of human nature; but even in the sacking of coast towns, and expeditions of plunder into the interior, which for months formed his chief employment, our hero seems to have mingled humanity in as high a proportion as possible with the execution of his duty. The expedition of Rogers was as remarkable for steadiness, resolution, and success, as that of Dampier had been for quarrelling and indecision; and it excites a curious feeling of surprise when we learn that the church of England service was regularly read on the quarterdecks of these piratical vessels, and all hands piped to prayers before every action. Selkirk proved him. self, by his steadiness, decent manners, and religious turn of mind, a most appropriate member of the corps commanded by Rogers, and was accordingly much valued by his superiors. At the beginning of the en suing year, the vessels began their voyage across the Pacific, with the design of returning by the East Indies, and in this part of the enterprise Selkirk acted as a sailing-master. They did not, however, reach England till October 1711, when Selkirk had been absent from his country for eight years. Of the enormous sum of L.170,000 which Rogers had realised by plundering the enemy, Selkirk seems to have shared to the amount of about eight hundred pounds.

Among the quadruped inhabitants of the isle were multitudes of rats, which at the first annoyed him by gnawing his feet while asleep. Against this enemy he found it necessary to enter into a treaty, offensive and defensive, with the cats, which also abounded in his neighbourhood. Having caught and tamed some of the latter animals, he was soon freed from the presence of the rats, but not without some disagreeable consequences, in the reflection, that, should he die in his hut, his friendly auxiliaries would probably be obliged, for their subsistence, to devour his body. He was in the meantime able to turn them to some account for his amusement, by teaching them to dance and perform a number of antic feats, such as cats are not in general supposed capable of learning, but which they might probably acquire, if any individual in civilised life were able to take the necessary pains. Another of his amusements was hunting on foot, in which he at length, through healthy exercise and habit, became such a proficient, that he could run down the swiftest goat. Some of the young of these animals he taught to dance in company with his kittens; and he often afterwards declared, that he never danced with a lighter heart or greater spirit than to the sound of his own voice in the midst of these dumb companions. Selkirk was careful, during his stay on the island, to measure the lapse of time, and distinguish Sunday from the other days of the week. Anxious, in the midst of all his indifference to society, that, in the event of his dying in solitude, his having lived there might not be unknown to his fellow-creatures, he carved his name upon a number of trees, adding the date of his being left, and the space of time which had since elapsed. When his knife was worn out, he made new ones, and even a cleaver for his meat, out of some hoops which he found on the shore. He several times saw vessels passing the island, but only two cast anchor beside it. Afraid of being taken by the Spaniards, who would have consigned him to hopeless captivity, he endeavoured to ascertain whether these strangers were so or not, before making himself known. In both cases he found them enemies; and on one of the occasions, having approached too near, he was observed and chased, and only escaped by taking refuge in a tree. At length, on the last day of January 1709, four years and four months from the commencement of his solitary life, he had the unspeakable satisfaction of observing two British vessels approach, evidently with the intention of touching at the island. The night having fallen before they came near, he kindled a large fire on the beach, to inform the strangers that a human being was there. During the night, hope having banished all desire of sleep, he employed himself in killing goats, and preparing a feast of fresh meat for those whom he expected to be his deliverers. In the morning he found that the vessels had removed to a greater distance, but, ere long, a boat left the side of one of them, and approached the shore. Selkirk ran joyfully to meet his Countrymen, waving a linen rag to attract their attention; and having pointed out to them a proper landing-place, soon had the satisfaction of clasping them in his arms. Joy at first deprived him of that imperfect po wer of utterance which solitude had left bably has some degree of truth in it.

His singular history was soon made known to the public, and, immediately after his arrival in London, he became an object of curiosity, not only to the people at large, but to those elevated by rank and learning. Sir Richard Steele, some time after, devoted to him an article in the paper entitled the Englishman, in which he tells the reader, that, as Selkirk is a man of good sense, it is a matter of great curiosity to hear him give an account of the different revolutions of his mind during the term of his solitude. "When I first saw him," continues this writer, "I thought if I had not been let into his character and story, I could have discovered that he had been much separated from company, from his aspect and gesture; there was a strong but cheerful seriousness in his look, and a certain disregard of the ordinary things about him, as if he had been sunk in thought. When the ship which brought him off the island came in, he received them with the greatest indifference with relation to the prospect of going off with them, but with great satisfaction in an opportunity to refresh and help them. The man frequently bewailed his return to the world, which could not, he said, with all its enjoyments, restore him to the tranquillity of his solitude. Though I had frequently conversed with him, after a few months' absence he met me in the street, and though he spoke to me, I could not recollect that I had seen him: fa. miliar converse in this town had taken off the loneliness of his aspect, and quite altered the air of his face." What makes this latter circumstance the more remarkable, is the fact of nearly three years having elapsed between his restoration to society and the time when Sir Richard Steele first saw him.

In the spring of 1712, Selkirk returned on a Sunday forenoon to his native village, and finding that his friends were at church, went thither, and for some time sat eyeing them without being recognised, a suit of elegant gold-laced clothes perhaps helping to preserve his incognito. At length his mother, after gazing on him for some time, uttered a cry of joy, and flew to his arms. For some days he felt pleasure in the society of his friends, but in time began to pine for other scenes, his mind still reverting with regret to his lost solitude. It would appear, indeed, that so long an absence from society had in some measure un. fitted him for it. He tried solitary fishing, built a bower like that of Juan Fernandez in the garden behind his brother's house, and wandered for days in

This is somewhat inconsistent with other accounts, but pro

The house in which he lived during his last residence at Largo is still occupied by the descendants of his brother, who preserve his chest and cup. His flip-can exists in the possession of another relation, who once did the present writer the favour of show. ing it to him; and his gun has for some years been the property of Major Lumsden of Lathallan, near Largo. It only remains to be mentioned, that a memoir of Selkirk, treating his adventures more in detail, was published a few years ago by Mr John Howell, an ingenious townsman of our own, who has distin guished himself by the composition of various other books commemorative of extraordinary adventures.

ENGLISH SONGS.
FIRST ARTICLE.

THOUGH England boasts no ancient inheritance of popular vocal poetry, such as has so long cheered the Scottish peasant at his daily toils and by his winter fireside, her educated poets have produced many songs of the highest excellence. By song, we may here mention, we mean exclusively a piece of poetry adapted for mu sic, and embodying some sentiment or description above what is common, and which the heart is naturally disposed to utter in musical strains, merry or melancholy. It is needless, like Ritson, and other editors of English songs, to trace such compositions from the early times of the minstrels. The reign of Queen Elizabeth is almost the earliest period productive of what are now considered as songs; and there accordingly we shall commence our little disquisition.

Rich in every department of imaginative literature, and particularly in the drama, always so intimately connected with vocal poetry, the age of Elizabeth and her immediate successors abounds in fine songs. Bishop Still, who lived early in the reign of the maiden queen, was the author of the admirable panegyric upon ale, which Washington Irving has rendered familiar to modern readers:

I love no rost but a nut-browne toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire:

No frost, nor snow, nor winde, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wolde,

I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt
In jolly good ale and olde.

This charming old folly appeared first in Gammer
Gurton's Needle, a very early specimen of comedy,
the humour of which turns upon the loss of a needle
by Gammer Gurton while mending a certain vest-
ment belonging to her husband, and which, after a
whole neighbourhood has been thrown into confusion
in search of it, discovers itself by pricking the flesh
of honest Gurton, having been in reality lost in some
of the manifold sinuosities of the said garment. Chris-
topher Marlow, the immediate predecessor of Shak-
speare, and the first writer of passionate tragedy in
England, was the author of the beautiful pastoral
quoted by Isaak Walton-

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That groves and vallies, hills and fields,
And all the steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals-&c.
The songs of Shakspeare, especially considered in con-
nection with the beautiful music to which they have
been set, in most cases, by Bishop and others of the
best English composers, are a never-failing treat.
What could be more delightful than

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes,
With every thing that pretty bin;
My lady sweet, arise;

Arise, arise,

"With every thing that pretty bin"-how delicious

mirth

How stands the glass around?

For shame! ye take no care, my boys;
How stands the glass around?

Let mirth and wine abound.
The trumpets sound,
The colours flying are, my boys,

that word "bin !" But the pleasure inspired by such | days, all of whom sank in their bloom amidst the | hardly know whether to give way to melancholy or to "When icicles hang by the troubles of the civil war. Before the age of twentypoetry can only be felt. wall"-the most descriptive of songs. "When daisies eight, at which he died, he had distinguished himpied and violets blue, and lady-smocks all silver white" self as a soldier in the wars of Gustavus Adolphus, -pretty but naughty. But the most charming of all as a fine gentleman in the court of his sovereign, and is the carol in "As you like it," so appropriate to that as a poet. His Ballad upon a Wedding contains some sylvan playdescriptive passages of unapproached excellenceHer feet beneath her petticoat Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light; And oh, she dances such a way! No sun upon an easter day

Under the green-wood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry throat
Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here he shall see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live i' the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

Content with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here he shall see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

The songs in Macbeth are not perhaps worthy of being alluded to on their own account; but every one who is capable of deriving pleasure from music, must delight in the airs to which they were set almost two centuries ago by Matthew Lock. Those airs are among our most precious treasures; and such also is

the capital thing composed at a still earlier period by Thomas Morley, and still usually given as a finale to the opera of the Duenna, "Now 'tis the month of Maying." To sit in this year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five, and feel the delightful impulses given to fancy and feeling by those old compositions, which a few kind and brilliant natures effused in long past ages for the benefit of their race, and which have been charming unnumbered hearts ever since, is a fine contemplation. It carries man beyond the limit of his own little lifetime and his own narrow place, and connects him, by a kind of freemasonry, with the dead, the living, and those who are yet to live. Dear old Morley-excellent Lock-glorious Purcell what an enviable fate is yours! thus to be everlasting sources of pleasure, and to be thanked and blessed by all the fine spirits of all time!

As we advance into the reign of Charles I., the lyrical spirit even improves. What could be better in their way than the songs of Ben Jonson ?-all married, too, to the fairest of music

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,

And I'll not look for wine

what need of more? Beaumont and Fletcher, too

Lay a garland on my hearse,

Óf the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear

Say, I died true.

My love was false but I was firm

From my hour of birth;

Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth.

Is half so fine a sight.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly;
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.
Suckling raised a troop for the king's service, at an
expense to himself of twelve thousand pounds, and is
said by one account to have died of grief for the mis-
fortunes of his sovereign, his friends, and himself.
But another tradition represents his death as having
been occasioned by a strange accident. In the course
of a mission from the king, his servant deserted him
at Calais, carrying off his portmanteau, in which were
some valuable papers, besides money. Sir John no
sooner learned his loss, than he leaped on horseback,
and pursued the faithless valet. In the act of pulling
on his boots for this purpose, he felt an unaccountable
pain, but did not think of inquiring into the cause, till,
after riding two or three posts, he overtook the ser-
vant, and recovered his property. He then fainted
away through excess of suffering, and the pain was
discovered to proceed from a wound in his foot, occa-
sioned by the blade of a penknife, which the servant
had stuck into the sole of his boot, in order to disable
him for pursuit. This wound became so much in-
flamed as to excite fever, of which the unfortunate
poet died in a few days.
Waller, though he survived till a later age, belongs
to this tribe of songsters. Shall mankind ever forget
Go, lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,

How small a part of time they share,

That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
Now closes the period during which the English poets
wrote under the influence of sentiment; and accord-
ingly, as vocal poetry depends chiefly on sentiment,
now closes the early golden age of English song. The
school of Dryden and Pope, unrivalled in the poetry
of reflection, produced hardly any thing worthy of the
name of song; and for a century or more, the only
such compositions which obtained any popularity
were generally of a convivial or homely character, and
the productions of a humble and obscure class of ver-
sifiers, such as Tom D'Urfey, Harry Carey, and many
who are nameless. To D'Urfey we rather believe be-
longs the whimsical philosophico-bacchanalian rant,
apparently written at the beginning of the last cen-
tury:-

Let us drink and he merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice:
The changeable world to our joy is unjust,
All treasure's uncertain, then down with your dust.
In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence;

The poetical people of those days were conceited-For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence. but such conceits! I wish we had a few of them to

give flesh and blood to our modern verse. Another
specimen, and let it be from Lovelace-like Carew, a
courtier and cavalier-

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That, from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

Conceits like these live for centuries. Sir John Suck-
Hing was another of the gay poetical courtiers of those

To fight, kill, or wound:
May we still be found

Content with our hard fare, my boys,
On the cold ground.

Why, soldiers, why,

Should we be melancholy, boys ?

Why, soldiers, why?

Whose business 'tis to die?
What! sighing, fie!

Drink on, drown fear, be jolly, boys!
'Tis he, you, or I.

Cold, hot, wet, or dry,

We're always bound to follow, boys,
And scorn to fly.

AMUSEMENTS AT MELTON.

THE BARON D'HAUSEZ, in his work entitled "Great Britain in 1833," gives the following account of some of the amusements of the higher classes in England. "It is at Melton, in Leicestershire, a mountainous and wooded country, intersected by valleys and deep rivers, by brooks, and hedges defended by double ditches, that the best hunting in England is afforded. The country is not remarkable either for the beauty of its sites, or as presenting those enjoyments which those comforts of which the English show themselves a small and anciently built town, totally deprived of so jealous, is the least calculated to yield. The sportsman, however, accords the preference to Melton, be cause it unites, and comprises within itself, all that variety of difficulties which a sportsman finds not only a pleasure but a glory in surmounting. It may be also that English foxes-like the amateurs who hunt them -appear to delight in dangers, and congregate in preference round Melton. They are found in the neighbourhood in sufficient quantity to furnish a supply for the considerable destruction which yearly takes place.

There is not a hunt which may not afford food for a fortnight's conversation. The brooks and ditches cleared, the rivers swam over, the broken limbs and ribs, the horses killed-such are the anecdotes which form the inevitable episodes of these charming parties! Caricature, which seizes on every thing in England, has not neglected so rich a subject; it has contrived to turn to humorous account the often tragical occur. rences furnished by such dangerous amusements.

This

From the

The keeping up of what is called an establishment at Melton entails a very considerable expense. species of luxury is necessarily limited to a very small number of wealthy people. No Meltonian can dispense with a dozen horses, each of which costs, at contain even thirty. The labour of a hunter is not the least, two or three hundred guineas. Some stables prolonged beyond three or four seasons. tendance of one groom. This may convey some ides care bestowed upon them, two horses require the atof the enormous expense incidental to this kind of enfilled up by brilliant assemblages at the country matjoyment. The intervals between hunting days are sions, by play, and by cock-fighting, which serve as pretexts to bets often amounting to a very considerable sum. Melton is one of the places in the world where one is most careless of one's purse and person, and where the one and the other are sacrificed with the greatest zest. If the character of nations were to be studied in their popular games, special attention should be bestowed on cock-fighting, which holds a high rank among the amusements to which the people of England are most fondly attached. In the

To a somewhat later period must be assigned the fine attention which is paid to the preservation of the race domestic song of "Winifreda"

How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue.
And when with envy time transported
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

And here also comes in "the Military Toper," as it
is senselessly called, to which Handel gave music, and
which Wolfe sung the night before the fatal day of
Quebec a lyric which appears at first sight a piece
of coarse drunken folly, but at bottom contains the
dier-all its perils and its glories, all its hardships and
whole romance and pathos of the condition of a sol-
consolations, and all so exquisitely balanced that we

of these birds, a spirit of order and perseverance is manifested. In the enormous bets to which cock. fighting serves as a pretext, is disclosed the taste for a species of chance, the caprices of which, nevertheless, offer the basis of a sort of calculation. In the courage of the bird, the idea of a resemblance with that of man presents itself; and in the tragical conclusion of the struggle, the need of an impression lively enough to excite imaginations which a slight movement of curiosity could not agitate. In the enthusiasm of the spectators of all classes to take part for such or such combatant, without any other motive than the idea of the moment and the inspiration of play, a similitude is afforded to that ardour which induces the English to engage themselves, fortune as well as person, in political quarrels with which they have no concern. In a word, in all the details of a frivolous amusement, a sort of summary of their conduct throughout life is manifested.

The aspect of a cockpit differs from all assemblages Celebrated by its fox-hunts, Melton is not less renowned by its cock-fights. In the environs of this that have pleasure for their object. He who has not town the most celebrated race of birds is bred and been present at the sittings of a certain assembly, here it is that all schemes are followed which are likely where graver interests are discussed, world find it to add to the purity of breed, and to increase, by cross-impossible to form an idea of the cries, the gestures, the applause, the blows, the stamping and clattering ing, the perfection of the cock. It is in the environs of Melton that, from the peer of the three kingdoms which the spectators resort to by way of expressing to the farmer, nay even to the groom, the passion of their impatience. There are only wanting, to complay confounds all ranks. Bets are here offered and plete the resemblance between a cockpit and the accepted without examining from whence they come, nameless chamber, those gross insults and menaces which are not allowed in the English assembly. In or into what hands they fall. People interest themselves no less about the genea- order to check the excess of turbulence, there is suslogy of a cock than about that of a race-horse. In pended from the ceiling, by means of a cord passed this classic land of social distinctions, aristocracy, through a pully, a large basket intended for the rewith all its pretensions and the rigour of its despo- ception of disturbers who transgress the limits-for tism, condescends to interfere in the manner of breed- the rest extensive enough-assigned to ill-breeding. France, which is so eager to model her institutions on ing fowls. Thanks to the care taken of the ancestry of the those of Great Britain, should resort to this means, cock-which is traced back through several genera- which perhaps would have more efficacy than a presitions-you are sure that the birds destined to fight | dent's bell." have what is called blood, that is to sav, they descend, by an uninterrupted succession of grandsires of noble origin, from a stock capable of furnishing. combatants well suited by their courage for the arena in which they exhibit their valour. Cock-fighting has its laws, as rigorously observed as those which regulated the passes of a tournament, or as the brutal rules observed in the boxing-matches of London.

The great bets are made on the success of a series of fights between a certain number of cocks. Thus, each better fetches about thirty of these birds, and divides them into three parties. He opposes one of them to the bird presented by his adversary, and the bet is adjudged to the better whose champions have been most frequently conquerors, first in each party, and afterwards in two of the three parties.

Other bets are offered, even during the battle, on the chances which it presents: and it is thus that the tact and rapidity of judgment of the betters are called into exercise. A knowing eye conjectures, from the manner in which a cock enters upon and maintains a struggle; from the blows he gives and receives; from the effect produced on his countenance by a wound inflicted on such or such a part of the body, the probable issue of the contest; and from one end to the other of the cockpit, the spectators propose, or, to speak more properly, cry out bets, which are ac cepted with the same readiness, the proportions vary. ing according to the opinion which the better entertains of the result.

A circular hall, furnished with steps which enable you to descend into the pit, is filled with spectators. Two men appear, bearing silk bags, on which the escutcheons of their masters are richly embroidered. They draw forth the cocks which are to fight, and place them before a judge, who examines them, and who assures himself, by an inspection of their weight and conformation, whether they are of equal strength. This formality fulfilled, the cocks are returned to the men who have brought them to the pit, and are placed upon the turf which serves as the theatre for the combat. The birds are prepared for the combat in a manner suited to the occasion. The comb and such feathers are removed. Their heads are therefore stripped of these, and their wings reduced to an extent which only allows them to raise themselves to a small height. Their tail, which is cut square, gives them a martial turn, and imparts to their gait a spruce and easy appearance. Their spurs are armed with steel, very sharp and cutting, and of the form of a poniard. Like horses prepared for the race-course, cocks are subjected to a regimen, to which is to be attributed, in a great measure, the strength they put forth. The food they receive tends to prevent fat, and adds to the They are purged, energy and play of their muscles. are made to swallow stimulants, and kept in continual irritation, as well as in a forced exercise. The effect of these minute observances discloses itself by a rapidity and violence of movement, which gives to the birds thus treated an incontestible superiority over their fellows subjected to an ordinary regimen.

as would be both useless and inconvenient ornaments

SIEGES.

same character to the operations directed against them,
so, in those days, every thing was effected by daring
courage, without the aid of science; and gallantly
contending in individual combat, or fearlessly con-
fronting danger, were considered as the highest quali
ties of a besieger. Thus the contest dragged on for
months, in petty but sanguinary affairs; and the most
persevering or the most hardy troops, however ill or-
ganised or supplied, were the most dreaded, and not
unfrequently the most successful. But when artillery
became more moveable, and large quantities began to
be employed in sieges, lofty and exposed walls no
longer opposed any adequate barrier; large breaches
were speedily effected; places which had formerly re-
sisted for months were carried in a few days; and
hence, in order to restore an equality of defence, it
became necessary to screen the ramparts from distant
fire. The attempt to gain security by concealment
rapidly advanced towards perfection, whilst the means
of the besiegers remained the same; and between the
middle of the sixteenth and commencement of the
seventeenth century, works were so skilfully disposed.
and so well covered, that the defence of towns obtained
a temporary superiority over the attack, as the latter
was then practised. Of this the obstinate and success-
ful defences made by the Dutch against the Spaniards
during the reigns of Philip II. and Philip III. may
be cited as remarkable examples.

[It has always appeared to us that the most effectual means of
putting an end to war with all its horrors, would be the introduc-
tion into use of some species of enginery which would possess the
power of instantaneously destroying every individual who took
the field, thus rendering death so much a matter of certainty that
no one in his senses would thenceforward act in the capacity of a
But unhappily for this pre-eminence, Vauban ap
soldier. Until this end can be gained, it is of consequence to take
advantage of every means which science and skill can direct, to
render victory as certain and bloodless as possible. In no depart-peared on the scene, and, supported by Louis XIV.,
who brought to the attack of fortresses a vast and
ment of the military profession is the value of scientific know-
ledge so well demonstrated as in that of the attack and defence of costly preparation in ordnance, ammunition, and ma
fortified places, which, by a proper organisation of forces brought
against them, are certain to be subdued, whatever be their strength. terials, perfected in the early offensive campaigns of
that monarch a covered mode of attack, which, by a
An excellent account of the mode now pursued in conducting sieges,
will be found in the article Fortification, in the new edition of
that very valuable work the Encyclopædia Britannica, from which singular combination of science and labour, and by
the steady advances of a few brave men well trained
we extract the following interesting details.]
"A SIEGE being one of the most arduous undertak- to such work, rendered comparatively easy the reduc-
tion of places capable of for ever defying the rude
ings in which an army or corps d'armée can be em-
ployed; one in which the greatest fatigue, hardships, violence of multitudes. These increased means, of
and personal risk are encountered, and in which the attack, to which it was found impossible to oppose a
covering to be further studied, till at length, in well-
prize can only be won by complete victory, it is ob- successful resistance, caused the art of concealment or
vious that, upon the success or failure of such an en-
terprise may depend the fate of a campaign, sometimes constructed fortresses, not a single wall remained ex-
posed to view, and the sap and the mine became as
that of an army, and perhaps even the existence of a
state. Of this the failures before Pavia in 1525, be- necessary as the gun and the mortar to the success of
a besieger. To render this intelligible to the general
fore Metz in 1552, before Prague in 1557, before St
Jean d'Acre in 1799, and before Burgos in 1812, pre-reader, it may be proper to introduce here a descriptive
sent instructive examples. By the first, France lost sketch of the progress of a modern attack, from the
her monarch, the flower of her nobility, and all her excellent work of Sir John Jones.
Italian conquests; by the second, she was saved from
destruction, whilst thirty thousand of her enemies
perished; by the third, the greatest warrior of his
age, Frederick the Great, was brought to the very
brink of destruction; by the fourth, the most success-
ful general of France, and perhaps the greatest com-
mander that any age or country has produced, was
stopped short in his career of victory; and by the last,
a beaten enemy gained time to recruit his forces, con.
centrate his scattered corps, and regain that ascen-
dancy of which the victory at Salamanca had for a
time deprived him. Innumerable other instances of
the disastrous consequences usually attendant on the
failure of sieges might easily be produced; but those
which have just been referred to are sufficient to esta
blish the importance of the undertaking, and to show
that the dearest interests of a country may frequently
be staked on the sure and speedy reduction of a for-

tress.

It is therefore of the greatest importance to a state
that the sieges undertaken by its armies should be
carried on in the best and most efficient manner
possible, or, in other words, that, by a due combi-
nation of science, labour, and force, these operations
should be rendered not only short, but certain, and
unproductive of any great expenditure of life. But
the sieges undertaken by the British have almost
never united these three indispensable conditions;
and with regard to those which took place during
the contest in the Peninsula, it is well known that
various defects of organisation, and particularly the
want of a body of men, such as sappers and miners,
trained to the labour required at sieges, not to men.
tion the inexperience of the engineers, and an ade-

from all established principles and rules of attack, and
consequently led to a waste of life wholly unprece-
dented in modern sieges. Till late in 1813, the army
was unattended by a single sapper or miner: regular
approaches were therefore impracticable: it was ne-
cessary, in almost every case, to take the bull, as the
saying is, by the horns; the last operation of a siege
scientifically conducted, namely, battering in breach,
was the first, or almost the first, undertaken; and the
troops were marched to the assault whilst the defences
remained nearly entire, and exposed to every species
of destruction which the unreduced means of the be-
sieged could bring to bear against them.

As soon as the combatants are in presence, they look at each other with fierceness, and each in some sort measures and judges his opponent. Immediately after-quate supply of matériel, necessitated a departure wards, they give tokens of a fury, the gradations of which can be easily observed; incline their necks to wards the ground, and, after having preserved this attitude during some seconds, as if to gather,up their courage and their strength, rush towards each other. The bill is the first weapon of which they avail themselves, but the most formidable is the spur. They seek to strike each other with it in the head, upon the back, and in the sides. The blood runs from their deep and numerous wounds, from the bill, even from the eyes. Their fury increases in consequence; they watch each other's motions, and deal out fresh blows till one of the combatants drops. It often happens that while both lie dying in the arena, they summon up, as though by concert, a remnant of life, rush against each other, add to their wounds, and fall down again. But their fury has not forsaken them, and the gambols of their agony still wear the character of valour, and afford to the umpire the means of deciding with whom the vicWhen the fight is only disastrous to one of the combatants, the conqueror walks proudly round his fallen enemy, and attempts, with an exhausted voice, a crow of triumph, to which the acclamations of the enthusiastic spectators respond.

tory rests.

Prior to the sixteenth century, the art of disposing the several works of a fortress so as to cover each other, and to be covered by their glacis [sloping bank in front] from the view of an enemy, was either unknown or disregarded; whilst the small quantity of artillery in use, its unwieldiness, and the great expense and difficulty of bringing it up, occasioned so little to be used in sieges, that the chief object in fortifying towns was to render them secure against escalade and surprise, by means of lofty walls or altitude of situation. All places fortified prior to the sixteenth century are invariably of this construction. And as the simplicity of the fortresses to be attacked necessarily gave the

'The first operation of a besieger,' says that able and experienced engineer, is to establish a force able to cope with the garrison of the town to be atfrom its ramparts. This is effected by approaching tacked, at the distance of six or seven hundred yards the place secretly in the night with a body of men, part carrying entrenching tools, and the remainder armed. The former dig a trench in the ground pa rallel to the fortifications to be attacked, and with the earth that comes out of the trench raise a bank on the side next to the enemy, whilst those with arms remain formed in a recumbent posture, in readiness to protect those at work, should the garrison sally During the night this trench and bank are made out. of sufficient depth and extent to cover from the missiles of the place the number of men requisite to cope trench during the following day, in despite of the fire with the garrison, and the besiegers remain in the or sorties of the besieged. This trench is afterwards progressively widened and deepened, and the bank of earth raised till it forms a covered road, called a parallel, embracing all the fortifications to be attacked; and along this road, guns, waggons, and men securely view and the missiles of the garrison. Batteries of and conveniently move, equally sheltered from the guns and mortars are then constructed on the side of the road next the garrison, to oppose the guns of the town, and in a short time, by superiority of fire, principally arising from situation, silence all those which bear on the works of the attack. After this ascendancy is attained, the same species of covered road is, by certain rules of art, carried forward, till it circumvents or passes over all the exterior defences of the place, and touches the main rampart wall at a spot where it has been previously beaten down by the fire of the batteries erected expressly for the purpose in the more advanced parts of the road.

'The besieger's troops being thus enabled to march in perfect security to the opening or breach in the walls of a town, assault it in strong columns; and being much more numerous than the garrison defending the breach, soon overcome them, and the more easily as they are assisted by a fire of artillery and musketry directed on the garrison from portions of the road only a few yards from the breach; and which fire can, at that distance, be maintained on the defenders of the breach until the very instant of personal contention, without injury to the assailants. The first breach being carried, should the garrison have any inner works, the covered road is by similar rules of art pushed forward through the opening, and advanced batteries are erected in it to overpower the remaining guns of the place; which effected, the road is again pushed forward, and the troops march in secu. rity to the assault of breaches made in a similar manner in those interior works, and invariably carry them with little loss. But as it is always an object to preserve the life of even a single soldier, so, when time is abundant, the loss of men attendant on the assault of breaches under these favourable circumstances may be avoided, by pushing up the covered