nized unknown recognised him whom she once joyed to call husband, the father of her children, the partner whom she had betrayed and deserted; and her, whom he had chosen for her successor, who now bore the name she once answered to, and who was now discharging the duties she had violated. Religion and repentance had in her so conquered the selfishness of human nature, that after the first pang, and it was a bitter one, had passed away, she returned thanks with heartfelt fervour to the Author of all good, that it was permitted her to see him, whose repose she feared she had for ever destroyed, enjoying that happines he so well merited; and ardent was the prayer she offered up, that a long continuance of it might be his lot, and that his present partner might repay him for all the pain caused by her misconduct.

She now turned into a shady walk, anxious to regain the support of her attendant's arm, which she felt her exhausted frame required, when the sounds of approaching voices warned her to conceal herself. Scarcely had she retired behind the shade of a luxuriant mass of laurels, when a youthful group drew near, the very sight of whom agitated her almost to fainting, and sent the blood back to her heart with a violence that threatened instant annihilation.

The group consisted of two lovely girls, their governess, and a blooming youth, on whom the two girls leant. Every turn of their healthful and beautiful countenances was expressive of joy and health; and their elastic and buoyant steps seemed scarcely to touch the turf, as, arm linked in arm, they passed along. The youngest, a rosy-cheeked girl of eleven years old, begged her companions to pause while she examined a bird's nest which she said she feared the parent-bird had forsaken; and this gave the heart-stricken mother, for those were the children of the unknown, an oppor. tunity of regarding the treasures her soul yearned to embrace. How did her bosom throb. at beholding those dear faces-faces so often presented to her in her troubled dreams!-Alas! they were now near her-she might, by extending her hand, touch them--she could almost feel their balmy breaths fan her feverish cheek, and yet it was denied her to ap proach them. All the pangs of maternal affection struck on her heart; her brain grew giddy, her respiration became oppressed, and, urged by all the frenzy of a distracted mother, she was on the point of rushing from her con

cealment, and prostrating herself before her children.

But this natural though selfish impulse was quickly subdued, when a moment's reflection whispered to her, will you purchase your own temporary gratification at the expense of those dear beings whom you have so deeply in jured? Will you plant in their inno cent breasts an impression bitter and indelible? The mother triumphed over the woman, and, trembling with emotion, she prayed that those cherished objects might pass from her view, while yet she had strength and courage to enable her to persevere in her self-denial.

At this moment the little girl exclaimed, "Ah! my fears were too true; the cruel bird has deserted her nest, and here are the poor little ones nearly dead ! What shall we do with them?"

"Let us carry them to our dear mamma," said the elder girl; " she will be sure to take care of them, as she says we should always pity and protect the helpless and forsaken." -. The words of the children struck daggers to the heart of their wretched mother. For a moment she struggled against the blow, and, making a last ef fort, tried to reach the spot where she had left her attendant; but nature was exhausted, and she had only tottered a few paces, when, uttering a groan of anguish she fell to the earth bereft of life, just as Francesca arrived to see her unhappy mistress breathe her last sigh.

HAIDEE; OR, A TALE OF SOUTHERN LIFE.

By Lord Porchester. THE following Story is not only founded on fact, but the circumstances recorded are strictly true. This is perhaps its

sole merit :

A broidered cap was on her brow; beneath
Her parted hair in rich profusion fell

Over a neck of snow. The orient pearl,
Pure emblem of her spotless mind; the flower
Bright symbol of her joyous path, were twined
Amid those flowing tresses. Night and morn
Seem'd mingling there, so sable were her locks,
So pale her marble brow. How fair she was-
How envied, and how rich-Rich in the gifts
That art yields not, that gold can never buy ;-
Rich in the faultless features of her race;

Rich, if the fervent love of faithful friends
Could make her wealthy. On that heavenly
brow
The high-born chieftain turned his rapturous

gaze;

The traveller felt the sunshine of her smile
Light up his weary way; and, as she passed,
The lowly hind forgot his wonted toil
To greet her with his humble benison.

Such was the beautiful object which called forth this hasty effusion, as I saw her for the first time by the glorious

light of a southern sun, on the 4th of September, 1827. I met her shortly after my departure from Ovar; she was journeying towards Oporto, attended by three servants. I greeted her, according to the custom of the country; and, as we were travelling on the same road, we naturally fell into a conversation, which she kept up with liveliness and spirit. Her servants were barefooted; they wore a red sash, a laced jacket with rich silver buttons, a large hat, and ear-rings of solid gold. The curious mixture of familiar dialogue and good-natured authority which appeared in her intercourse with them excited classical associations, illustrated the simple manners of an earlier age, and seemed to realize the description of the Grecian dames amid their handmaids: other circumstances contributed to keep up the illusion. Her regular and noble features reminded me of those beautiful models of ancient art with which no modern sculpture can bear competition. She was herself probably aware of the peculiar style of her beauty, for her costume might in some degree be considered classical, and unlike that usually worn in her country. It was, indeed, most admirably adapted to set forth the faultless outline of her face. She stopped at a friend's house near Oporto, and we separated; but we afterwards renewed our acquaintance, and I heard from her own lips the story of her life-a simple, but romantic tale. It is but short, for she was still very young.

She became acquainted, at the early age of sixteen, with a young man, only a few years her senior, but greatly her superior in rank. Acquaintance gave birth to attachment, and the difficulties which prevented their union heightened that feeling into the most ardent love. Her lover's family contemplated the possibility of such an event with dread; but her father encouraged their intercourse, and the plighted couple met every evening under the shade of the garden fig-tree, and exchanged vows of eternal fidelity. The impetuous but resolute attachment of her young admirer at length appeared to overcome the opposition of his family, and he arrived one evening at the trysting-place in high spirits, and entertaining sanguine hopes. They spent a few delightful hours in the full enjoyment of reciprocal confidence, and separated with the belief that they would be speedily united to part no more; but from that hour they never met again, either in sorrow or in joy. Her lover's father, anxious to avert from his family the disgrace of an unequal

alliance, had appeared to relent, for the purpose of executing his designs with greater facility. He had already conferred with the civil authorities, and that very night his son was arrested and conveyed to a place of strict confinement. There he was seized with an infectious fever, of which he died in the course of a few days, in spite of every exertion to save him.

She married two years afterwards, and confessed to me that she was perfectly happy. A prior attachment sometimes continues to exist in a woman's mind long after marriage; but, except in persons of deeply-rooted affections, rarely survives the birth of a child-from that hour the current of her thoughts becomes changed: new duties, new feelings, new hopes arise to banish former regrets, and

"She who lately loved the best,

Too soon forgets she loved at all."

I observed in my pretty heroine a of quick and sensitive feeling, which striking instance of those sudden bursts seem inherent in the southern tempera ment. Although she spoke of her first ill-fated lover with calmness, almost with indifference, and confessed that she had long ceased to regret the difficulties which prevented their union, yet once, as she dwelt upon past scenes, and recalled a thousand instances of his boyish devotion, her voice changed, her dark eyes filled with tears, and her whole soul seemed to revert with undiminished affection to the object of her early love. Her emotion was but transient; yet I am convinced, that while it lasted she would have renounced every human being, to be restored to the unforgotten youth who had been the first to win her affections, and was then mouldering in

the

grave.

The sombre turn of these tales re

quires relief, and no pages of the volume are more to this purpose than

CHACUN A SON GOUT.
WHEN dandies wore fine gilded clothes,
And bags, and swords, and lace;
And powder blanch'd the heads of beaux,
And patches graced the face:

When two o'clock was time to drive
And not the finest folks alive

To flirt it in Hyde Park;

Took morning drives till dark: When people went to see the plays, And knew the names of players; And ladies wore long bony stays, And went about in chairs:

When belles with whalebone hoops and tapes

Defied each vain endeavour

To trace their forms, and made their shapes
Much more like bells than ever

When chaste salutes all folks exchanged
(A custom worthy, such is,)
And ladies to be served, stood ranged,
As kings would serve a duchess:

In those good days, a widow rare
Astouish'd half the town:

So gay, so sweet, so blithe and fair-
. Her naine was Mistress Brown.

This widow Brown bad diamond eyes,
And teeth like rows of pearl,
With lips that Hyhla's bees might prize,
And loves in every curl.

And more, this beauteous piece of earth
(And she could make it clear)
Had stock and property, quite worth
Four thousand pounds a-year.

As syrup in the summer's sun
The buzzing fly attracts,

So Mrs. Brown-the lonely one-
Was subject to attacks:

And tall and short, and rich and poor,
Pursued her up and down;

And crowds of swains besieged the door
Of charming Mrs, Brown,
Among the rest, a worthy wight
Was constant in her suite:
He was an aldermau and knight,
And lived in Fenchurch-street.

He wasn't young-if he's call'd old
Who fifty-nine surpasses-
He sugar bonght, and sugar sold,
Aud treacle, and molasses.

But he was rich, dress'd fine, was gay,
And mighty well to do;

And at each turn was wont to say-
Hah! Chacun & son goût.

This was his phrase-it don't mean much,
He thought it rather witty;

And, for an aiderman, a touch

A bit above the city.

Sir Samuel Snob-that was his name-
. Three times to Mrs. Brown
Had ventured just to hint his flame,
And thrice received-a frown.
Once more Sir Sam resolved to try
What winning ways would do;
If she would not, he would not die,
For-chacun à son goût.

He sallied forth in gilded coach;
And in those heavy drags,
No stylish knight made his approach
Without his four fat nags.

But gout and sixty well spent years,
Had made his knightship tame,

And, spite of flannel, crutch, and cares,
Sir Sam was very lame.

"Is Mrs. Brown at home?" said he.
The servant answer'd " Yes."

"To-night, then," murmur'd he, "shall see My misery or bliss."

And up he went--though slow, yet sure,

And there was Mrs, Brown.

“Madam," said he~" I know," she cried,
"I'll save you half your job:

I've seen it-though disguise you've tried—
You want a Lady Snob !"

"Exactly so, angelic fair!
You've hit it to a T.

Where can I find one-where, oh! where,
So fit as Mrs. B. ?"

The dame was flutter'd, look'd aside,
Then blushingly look'd down
But as Sir Snob her beauties eyed,
He saw no chilling frown.

At length she said, "I'll tell you plain
(The thing of folly savours)-
But he who hopes my heart to gain
Must grant me two small favours."

"Two!" cries the knight-" how very kind!
Say fifty-I'm efficient!"

"No," said the dame, "I think you'll find The two I mean, sufficient."

"Name them!" said Snob-" I will," she cried, "And this the first must be :

Pay homage to a woman's pride,

Down on your bended knee!

"And when that homage you have done,
And half performed your task,

Then shall you know the other boon
Which I propose to ask.

"Comply with this," the widow cries,
"My hand is yours for ever!"

"Madam," says Snob, and smiles and sighs,
"I'll do my best endeavour."

Down on his knee Sir Snobby went,
His chair behind him tumbled,
His sword betwixt his legs was bent,
His left-hand crutch was humbled.

He seized the widow's lily hand
Roughly, as he would storm it:
Now, lady, give your next command,
And trust me, I'll perform it.”

She bit her fan, she hid her face,
And widows have no feeling-
Enjoying Snobby's piteous case,

Was pleased to keep him kneeling.

A minute pass'd:-" Oh speak! Oh speak!" Said Snob -" dear soul, relieve me!" (His knee was waxing wondrous weak) "Your ne plus ultra give me!"

"One half fulfill'd," says Mrs Brown,
"I shall not ask in vain

For t'other favour—now you're down,
Sir Snob-get up again !”

Vain the request-the knight was floor'd;
And-what a want of feeling !—
The lady scream'd, while Snobby roar'd,
And still continued kneeling.

The widow rang for maids and men,
Who came, 'midst shouts of laughter,
To raise her lover up again,

And show him down stairs after.

They got him on his feet once more,
Gave him his crutch and hat;
Told him his coach was at the door-
A killing hint was that."

"Such tricks as these are idly tried,"

Said Snob-" I'm off- adieu !

To wound men's feelings, hurt their pride,

But- Chacun à son goût."

"Forgive me, knight," the widow said,

As he was bowing out.

"Your Chacun à son goût,' I read

As Chacun à son gout.'

"That you could not your pledge redeem

I grieve, most worthy knight

A nurse is what you want, I deem;
And so, sweet sir, good night."

He went was taken to his room-
To bed in tears was carried;
And the next day to Betsy Broom,
His housekeeper, was married.

The widow Brown, so goes the song,
In three weeks dried her tears,
And married Colonel Roger Long,
Of the Royal Grenadiers.

Thus suited both, the tale ends well, As all tales ought to do;

The knight's revenged, well pleased the belleSo-Chacun à son goût.

We intended to leave the Plates to their own showing; but it would be treasonable to be silent on such merit. The Frontispiece is Haidee, the heroine of one of our extracts; by C. Heath, after Eastlake. The Title-page is a classic medallion, in a frame-work of much chasteness, by H. Corbould. Juliet, painted by Miss Sharpe, and engraved by T. C. Edwards, is a fine impersonation of Italian beauty. Mima, a village girl seated at a spring, curiously enough"drawn by Cristall," is delicately engraved by Charles Heath. The Use of Tears, by C. Rolls, painted by Bonington, is excellently engraved, but it deserves a better accompaniment or illustration than is given to it. Nestor and Tydides, at the siege of Troy, is a striking scene, after Westall; yet we question whether its details will bear scrutiny. The Sea-shore, Cornwall, engraved by W. Miller, after Bonington, is one of the most exquisite pictures ever beheld: its nature is worth all the tinsel of fancy subjects. How this little print will delight our sea-lov ing and shore-haunting Correspondent, Vyvyan. Adelaide, a romping little girl, is in Chalon's romping style, and well engraved by Heath: yet how can the foot and leg be reconciled with the head, neck, and arms? Turner has contributed two fine river scenes-the famous city of Nantes, and the little town of Saumur, on the Loire: both are superbly engraved. The interior of Milan Cathedral is next, in which the vastness and minute beauty of the architecture are admirably combined, as well as aided by the contrasting emmet congregation it is drawn by Prout, and executed by Wallis, the engraver of St. Mark's Chapel, in the Landscape Annual. Two intriguante plates succeed: the Secret, after Smirke; a pair of female listeners at a closed door, and a chair with hat, cane, and handkerchief make up the print; yet what interest do they bespeak. The other subject illustrates Chacun à Son Gout, with the city knight" in a fine frenzy" stamping, the beauteous Mrs. B., and, of course, a peeping and listening Abigail

at the door. The artist is Stephanoff, and the engraver F. Bacon.

The Xris.

THE present volume is quite equal to its predecessor, and, though we have room to extract from it but charily, we must spare room for notice of its Engravings. They are chiefly from the old masters: thus, St. John, after Dominichino, by Finden; Virgin and Child, after Correggio, by A. Fox; Poussin's Deluge, by E. J. Roberts; Christ blessing the bread, after John, after Murillo, by S. Davenport; C. Dolci, by W. Ensom; Infant St. Rembrandt and the Pieces, by Haddon; and Titian's Christ and Mary, by Ensom; added are West's Nathan and David, and Sir Joshua Reynolds' "Nativity"— all are for the most part, admirably managed. The engraving of one of them actually cost the proprietor one hundred guineas!

tributes more than editors generally, and The Editor, the Rev. T. Dale, conhis pieces are worthy of his devoutlyelegant pen. We quote

DALE ABBEY.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.

open meadow, and a small Oratory, more anA solitary Arch, standing in the midst of an cient than the dilapidated monastery itself, and now the chapel for the hamlet, are alone conspi

cuous, of all the magnificent structures which once occupied this ground. The site is about five miles south-east of Derby.

1.

THE glory hath departed from thee, Dale!
Thy gorgeous pageant of Monastic pride.
-A Power, that once the power of Kings defied,
Which truth and reason might in vain assail,
In mock humility, usurped this vale,
And lorded o'er the region far and wide-
Darkness to light, evil to good, allied,
Had wrought a charm which made all bearts to
quail.

What gave that Power dominion o'er this ground,

Age after age ?-The word of God was bound.

At length the mighty Captive burst from thrall, O'erturned the spiritual Bastile in its march, And left, of ancient grandeur, this sole Arch, Whose stones cry out, "Thus Babylon herself shall fall."

More beautiful in ruin than in prime,

Methinks the frail yet firm memorial stands,
The work of heads laid low, and buried hands-
Now slowly mouldering to the touch of time,
It looks abroad, unconsciously sublime,
Where sky above, and earth below, expands—
And yet a nobler relic still demands
The grateful tribute of a passing rhyme.

Beneath yon cliff, an humble roof behold! Poor as our Saviours birthplace: yet'the fold, Where the Good Shepherd, in this quiet vale, Gathers his flock, and feeds them, as of old, With bread from heaven-I change my note; The glory of the Lord is risen upon thee, Dale!

All bail!

Sheffield, 1830.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A MURDERER.

OUR counsel was taken together-the plan was at my instigation-the measures for accomplishing it were chiefly directed by me. But on the horrible night, when my fellow - ruffian accomplished our joint purpose, I stood aloof through cowardice or caution; and when subsequently he was arrested for the murder which he had committed, avarice absorbed all other feelings, and my evidence in a court of justice doomed him to death.

We had been schoolfellows, and he

once had traits of character which rendered him a choice companion and gentle friend even in his debasement, a vein of that original purity remained; and as I went down from the witness-box, his eye fell upon me, and I read on his suffering countenance, a tale of other days. There was no vindictive passion towards his betrayer; he was sorrowful, but calm; and in silence he gave me a token that he had pardoned his treacherous comrade.

*

One event, that even now would curdle up the blood in a thousand veins, if for a moment thought upon, was, as it were, the seal set upon my misery. I entered into a vulgar alehouse, and seated my self in a side parlour, to be away whilst it was possible, from the ordinary haunt of village tipplers. The furniture or arrangement of the room did not provoke my observation. The boy brought me what I ordered, and as he left the room, loitered in the doorway to examine my appearance, as I afterwards discovered, though I was then unconscious of his motive. When I looked up, he re treated; but his stupid eye was glistening with unwonted insignificance. Presently, another came into the apart ment, for some foolish pretence; sauntered here and there, and went away in much the same manner. Lastly, the master of the house himself advanced, and stood full fronting me for a minute or two, with his eyes raised above my head, and uttering a few words to me about ordinary matters, as if to allay my suspicions, and concluding with some such sentence as this, with which he broke forth, abruptly and incoherently -"Nonsense! It cannot be! I said so before; it cannot be the same!"he left me to myself, and I rose, to ascertain if possible the meaning of this

mystery. It was soon apparent. Suspended against the wall, immediately above my head, was a rude, harsh print, freshly fitted to an old frame, and my own name was under it in huge letters, with a sentence lower down, in smaller characters, announcing the particulars of my recent life. The lineaments were coarse and ill-favoured, as the artist would naturally ascribe to such a character; but the resemblance might be confidently traced. My soul sunk into its uttermost depths, for I knew that my concealment could no longer be hoped for; I knew that my label was on my forehead-my curse was everywhere!

The Gem,

With the judicious aid of Mr. Cooper, work of art. The literature is not far the Royal Academician, ranks high as a below in merit. One of the prints, the Portrait of a Boy, engraved by Thomson, after Sir Thomas Lawrence, is in itself a gem; the young Crab-catchers, and the Standard-bearer, two battlefrom Collins, is next; Bothwell Brigg pieces, by Mr. Cooper, are spirited productions; and La Tour du Marche, at Bergues, near Dunkirk, is engraved in masterly style by W. J. Cooke, from a The List of drawing by Bonington. writers; but the papers are pleasant, Contributors does not include any titled light, sparkling, and occasionally grave.

Our extract is

LA TOUR DU MARCHE, BERGUES. By Thomas Roscoe, Esq. BERGUES, or Berg St. Vinox, is a fortified town situated upon the river Colne, in French Flanders. It lies to the east of Gravelines, not far from the city of Calais, and twenty leagues north-west of Douay; is a place of considerable strength, the fortifications having been constructed by the celebrated Vauban; and, from a late census, it is stated to contain 5,667 inhabitants. Bergues is, moreover, considered a chief town of the district, licensed by the Government to conduct the public posts; has a regular office; and, from the frequency and ac tivity of its fairs, is much resorted to by neighbouring proprietors and farmers: while its manufactories of lace, and its tanneries, tend still farther to promote the interests of trade.

Among the public buildings, its ancient church, with the market-house and tower; afford the most conspicuous objects; and the first impression on the eye of the tourist is at once imposing and picturesque.