chapel of Henry, from all the sorrows and changes of her eventful life. Princely Bradgate sank with the fallen fortunes of its mistress. The house passed into the possession of a collateral branch of the family; and being, ere the lapse of many years, in great part destroyed by fire, fell into ruins. Grass of the brightest verdure still clothes its slopes; the wide-spreading chestnuts and the old decaying oaks still wear their most gorgeous livery; but Bradgate's proud towers are levelled with the ground. Save that velvet terrace, where the crown of England was given in project, and worn in fancy, and from which sweet Lady Jane would look up to the west at the sun's bright setting, and commune with the spirit of Plato-naught but crumbling walls and mouldering heaps of red earth, marks the site of its ancient magnificence. TO A NEW VISITANT, ON A SEPTEMBER EVENING. BY J. H. WIFFEN. "One that from some unknown sphere WELCOME, dear child, with all a father's blessing, To thy new sphere of motion, light, and life! After the long suspense, the fear distressing. Love's strong, subduing strife. Sealed with the smile of Him who made the Morning, Though to the matron charge of Eve consigned, Com'st thou, my radiaut babe, the mystic dawning Of one more deathless mind. 'Tis a strange world, they say, and full of trouble, Wherein thy destined course is to be run: Where joy is deemed a shadow. peace a bubble, And true bliss known to none.. Yet to high destinies it leads,-to natures To winged Beatitudes, for ever tending. Then, if thou'rt launched in this benign direction, We will not sorrow that thy porch is past : Come many a picture waits thy young inspection, Each lovelier than the last. What shall it be? on Earth, in Air, in Ocean, A thousand things are sparkling, to excite Thy hope, thy fear, joy, wonder, or devotion, Heiress of rich delight. Wilt thou, when Reason has her star implanted Shall sky-taught Painting, with her ardent feeling, Her rainbow pencil to thy hand commit? Or to thy fascinated eye, her mirror Will cost thee many a tear.»> She has a Castle, where, in death-like slumbers,' Full of wild dreams, she casts her slaves; some break After long hurt, their golden chains; but numbers Never with sense awake. 1 She it was dear, who in Greek story acted Such tragic masques: who in the grape's disguise; Choked sweet Anacreon, Sappho's soul dis tracted, And seared old Homer's eyes: Tasso she tortured, Savage unbefriended, O'er Falconer's bones the matted sea-weed spread: Chatterton poisoned, Otway starved, and blended White with the early dead! She too with many a smile thy sire has flattered, Promising flowers, and fame, and guerdons rare; Till youth was past, and then, he found, she scattered Her vows and wreaths in air. Shun then the Siren spurn her laurelled chalice, Though the bright nectar dance above the brim: Lest she should seize thee in her mood of malice, And tear thee, limb from limb. But to selecter influences, my beauty. Pay thy young vows,-to Truth, that ne'er beguiles. Virtue, fixed Faith, and unpretending Duty, Whose frowns beat Fancy's smiles. Look on me, love, that in those radiant glasses Thy future tastes and fortunes I may trace,O'er them alternate shade and sunshine passes, Enhancing every grace. Peace is there yet, and purity, and pleasure; With a foud vearning o'er the leaves I look: But the lid falls-farewell the enchanting trea sure! Closed is the starry book! We must not abruptly leave "the Annuals" even in the gale of their glory, without good wishes at parting. Summing up their merits collectively, they are equal to those of last year. The Keepsake is decidedly hetter. The pieces in most of them are of greater length: but the writers are paid by measure if not by value, and it is fit their souls should have elbow room. The reader will miss the Comic Annual. The witty editor has hood-winked us, and his Pantomime will not come out till after Christmas may it prolong the little joys which bad times and worse changes have left us, Mr. Hood's "revenue is his good spirits" and when his volume appears we hope to tax it highly. Printed and Published by J. LIM BIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset House, London; seld by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Markel, Leipsic; and by all Newsmen and Bookse lers. TRADITION has hallowed this islet as the spot where King John, in 1215, was compelled to sign Magna Charta and Charta de Foresta; which event has been nobly told by Thomson: "The barons next a noble league hegan; Both those of English and of Norman race Runnymede, a plain on the banks of the Thames has been celebrated as the place of signature of the Charter. Sir James Mackintosh, in his recently published History of England, after describing the position of King John and the Barons-nearly equal to what in modern language would be called the nobility and gentry-snys, "A safe conduct was granted by John at Merton, on the 8th of June, to the deputies of the barons, who were to meet him at Staines; and, two days afterwards, he being at Windsor, agreed to a prolongation of the truce to Trinity Monday. On that day, Rymer, i. 129. VOL. XVI. 2 I the 15th of June, both parties advanced to a plain called Runnymede, on the banks of the Thames, where they encamped apart from each other, like declared enemies, and opened conferences, which were not concluded till Friday, the 19th of June, 1215. The preliminaries being agreed upon, the barons presented heads of their grievances, and of the means of redress,t in the nature of the bills now offered by both houses for the royal assent, except that the king, instead of a simple assent, directed, according to a custom which prevailed long after, that the articles should be reduced to the form of a charter; in which state he issued it as a royal grant, with all the formalities and solemnities which in that age attended the promulgation of fundamental laws. Copies were forthwith despatched to the counties and dioceses of the kingdom." These details may be sufficiently mi-. nute for historical record. The precise topography of the district, however, remains to be stated, viz. that John's consent was extorted at Runnymede, whereas "the charters were actually signed, as traArticull Magna Charta. Rymer, i 129. 467 ditionally reported, in an island between Runnymede and Ankerwyke House. This island,, still called Charter Island, is in the parish of Wraysbury, in Bucks."* Mr. Hakewill, likewise, in his Views round Windsor, thus denotes the spot: "Near Runnymede, on the river, is Magna Charta Island, the temporary and fortified residence of the barons, to which they retired from the pressure of the surrounding multitude assembled on Runnymede, that they might better obtain King John's signature, confirming Magna Charta: it is now nearly covered with willows, that shade the hut of the fisherman." The "Island" derives some additional poetic interest from its being included in the fascinating prospect from "Cooper's Hill," and consequently part of the scenery of Denham's poem of that name; the first specimen," at least amongst us, of a species of composition that may be denominated local poetry, of which the fundamental subject is some particular landscape, to be poetically described, with the addition of such embellishments as may be supplied by historical retrospection, or incidental meditation." Perhaps there are few finer embellishments than this islandcradle of liberty has kindled in the warm fancy of the poet. One of these tributes has been furnished by Akenside, designed as an INSCRIPTION FOR A COLUMN AT RUNNYMEDE. Thou, who the verdant plain dost traverse here, While Thames, among his willows, from thy trees Retires-O stranger! stay thee, and the scene The prospect, and the whole of the vicinity is described with much graphic beauty in a paper in the Third Series of the London Magazine, we believe from the pen of Mr. Charles Knight. "From an elevation of several hundred feet," observes the writer, "you look down upon a narrow fertile valley, through which the Thames winds with surpassing loveliness. Immediately at your feet is the plain of Runnymede, where the great battle between John and the Ba The Ambulator, 12th edit. 1820. † Johnson's Poets, Denham, vol. rons was fought; and in the centre of the river is the little fishing-island, where tradition says that Magna Charta was signed. At the extremity of the valley is Windsor Castle, rising up in all the pomp of its massive towers."‡ Egham annual horse-races are now held on Runnymede; so that these sports being considered relics of chivalry, are not altogether unassociated with the olden glories of the spot. Of contemporaneous interest with Runnymede is the mention of Holms Castle, built by the earls Warren, at Reigate, in Surrey; under which Camden says he saw an extraordinary passage, with a vaulted room, hewn with great labour out of the sandy stone of which the hills about the town are composed. Here, we are told, the barons who took up arms against King John had their private meetings, and espe cially the evening before the celebrated congress at Runnymede. A gate, with round towers, still remains; and it seems but a few years since we played urchin games about their niches and loop-holes. The recollection enables us to sigh forth with Gray : Ah! happy hills, ah pleasing shade! A year or two passed away, and we began to view these ruins with the eye of an embryo antiquarian, and the fearful times with which they were associated as matter of grave history. Yet the antique glory of the spot where the old barons raised their patriotic resistance is well nigh forgotten. Reigate is a rotten borough; and its Castle is seldom seen but as the arms of the town banknotes. Sic transit gloria mundi ! DRUIDICAL SUPERSTITION. (For the Mirror.) OBSERVING in your number, 462, under the head of "English Superstitions," that you have alluded to the circle of stones at Rollrich, or Rollwright, on the borders of Oxfordshire and Warwickshire, and quoted a proverbial distich used by the peasantry in that neighbourhood; I have imagined that the popular "superstitious" history concerning these fearful stones, as I have frequently heard it recited, may be amusing to such of your readers as are not apt to credit the tales of ghosts walking down Long Compton Hill, every night, with their heads under their left arms. But it is This graceful paper will be found, though somewhat abridged, in vol. xii; of The Mirror. necessary to premise that the history is quite unauthenticated in respect of names and era. For such unnecessary information I was always referred to the "old people," and whenever I made inquiries of an elderly person, the reply was invariably-"I do not know, but my father, if he was alive, could tell ye all about it." The narration commences with "Once upon a time." Once upon a time, a certain foreign king wandered, and wandered, attended by his court, and guards, in search of Long Compton, because if he could once see it, he should by some fatality become King of England. Just in descending from the brow of the hill, under which the town lies snugly nestled, he met an old woman, and inquired for the desired place, adding "If Long Compton I could see, The King of England I should be." Now this personage to whom his majesty had addressed himself, was a witch or a sorceress, who in the triumph of a loyal and patriotic ardour, such as still animates all true Britons, replied- Rise up hill, and stand still stone For King of England thou'lt be none." > This mandate (mirabile dictu) was compulsory, and there stands to this hour, the invader himself in solitude, while his five principal courtiers, also petrified, are at a considerable distance with their beads inclining towards each other, and are thence named the "Whispering Knights." And in another place, about a hundred yards from the royal pillar, his guards are stationed, as stiff and solemn as if really drawn up on parade; but it is remarkable that in variance with modern custom, they are ranged in a circle. By some accident (which I could never clearly comprehend) the witch herself was metamorphosed into an elder tree, well known to the old peasantry for having retained the quality of shedding human blood whenever wounded by the thoughtless or cruel. This tree was demolished about forty years since, but I presume that it was dead by that time. The stone which represents the king is of a different kind from any of his attendants, being harder, and of a gravel colour, while the others are like the common stone of the surrounding country; and it is equally certain that to a person standing in front of this said royal personification, not a house of Long Compton is visible, but at a single pace distance on either side, the town is to be seen. This critical situation has, no doubt, given rise to the super stitious fiction; my affair, however, is not to account for, but simply to relate the popular legend. It is affirmed of the circle of guards (as of most, if not all other such Druidical remains in Britain,) that they cannot be counted by any possibility; the case only excepted of a baker, who, in ancient times did succeed, but immediately expired. A difficulty certainly exists, for I have myself made the experiment five times, and on the successive occasions found the numbers as follow: 62, 60, 63, 61, 59.* Each time have I noticed one or more pebbles left on each stone of the circle, which I suppose had been laid there by persons using that method of ascertaining the true number. The whispering knights are much more gigantic than any others, and it is said of them, that if any person conveys away a single particle of their material, he will never again enjoy rest at night until it is restored. This has been proved on several occasions: once by a little boy living at Shipston on Stour, and more remarkably by a farmer at Little Rollwright, who "once upon a time" thought these great stones were useless as they stood, and resolved to bring one away, in order to lay it over a brook to serve as a kind of bridge. He did bring it down the hill by the laborious exertions of twelve powerful horses, during a long day; but in consequence, his rest departed from him, his ears were incessantly annoyed by whisperings and howlings, as of furious demons" haunting his pillow;" and these plagues increased every night, until in a paroxysm of inflamed rage he had the awful stone replaced; to effect which, (mirabile dictu again!) two horses were quite sufficient to draw it swiftly up the hill! When living in that neighbourhood, this was my favourite resort. I have been there at all hours, in sombre moonless night, and in the brilliance of a full moon-at the hours of sunrise, noɔn, and sunset, enjoying the lovely prospect of a fertile valley winding below me in a tortuous course towards the range of the Cotswold Hills. It is a scene of The circle has heen originally double, and I believe that the difficulty consists in the uncertainty of determining whether the prostrate masses of stone that are now almost concealed by long grass and moss, are each a separate stone, or merely a broken piece from another: and thus, it frequently bappens that the piece which in one circuit you pronounce a distinct stone, is on the next enumeration looked upon as but a fragment of an originally upright stone. Some allowance must also be made for a certain per plexity arising from walking round a circle. great beauty for an admirer of nature; but though frequently absorbed on this spot, in vast and solemn contemplation on Druidism, and repeating lines from Ossian, yet there is that in my nature which could also find something agreeable in the ignorant legend of the people. I may add that the surrounding fields abound in pieces of crystallized spar (though the Druidical stones are not at all of this nature) and I am told that the numerous rills of clear water which trickle down the hill possess a petrifying quality. This seems probable. On my last visit to this hill I was rambling about the fields in my descent, when, about half way down, I found almost concealed, a large collection of rough stones, all of which had been broken down; and a beautifully pure spring issuing from among them. I was carrying away a piece of the crystallized spar in my hand, and hurrying homewards, for it was becoming late in the evening, when a person came from his door, in Long Compton, and following me for some distance, begged me, if I valued my night's rest, not to steal any of the whispering stones. Having thanked him for his kind advice, I proceeded onwards, with about a dozen boys at my heels through the town. EGOMET IPSE. The Selector; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS. HOOD'S COMIC ANNUAL. HERE are a few scraps, or scenes and characters from Mr. Hood's new volume. The work itself will furnish bon-bons for the opening of our 17th volume. Meanwhile, the reader will be pleased to consider the following as a dress rehearsal of Mr. Hood's Pantomime-such as Managers get up for their friends on Christmas Eve: DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS. "I REALLY take it very kind, This visit. Mrs Skinner: I have not seen you such an age(The wretch is come to dinner.) "Your daughters, too, what loves of girlsWhat heads for painters' easels: Come here and kiss the infant, dears(And give it prhaps the measles.) "Your charming boys I see are home From Reverend Mr. Russel's: "Twas very kind to bring them both(What boots for my new Brussels.) "What, little Clara left at home! Well now I call that shabby: I should have loved to kiss her so(A flabby, dabby, babby.) "And Mr. S, I hope he's well, You're come, of course, to spend the day- "A BLOW UP." A GENTLEMAN is in the habit of occa sionally blowing up one of his powder magazines, just as any publisher might explode a New Monthly, merely for the purpose of advertising the commodity. The following effects of a blast are rarely told : THE dunniest heard it-poor old Mr. F. alarms, Mr. and Mrs. Fogg, Who lived like cat and dog, Were shocked for once into each other's arms. Miss M. the milliner, her fright so strong, Made a great gobble-stitch six inches long; The veriest quakers quaked against their wish; The "Best of Sons" was taken unawares, And kick'd the "Best of Parents" down the stairs: The steadiest servant dropped the China dish; For taking wine, With nervous Mr. Pyne, Bobb'd off her bran-new turban in the gravy; Grave Mr. Miles, the meekest of mankind. Was shocked to find, Only a pair of shafts without a horse. Out scrambled all the Misses from Miss Joy's, From Prospect House- for urchins small and big, Hearing the awful noise, Out rushed a flood of boys, Floating a man in black, without a wig;Some carried out one treasure, some anotherSome caught their tops and taws up in a hurry, Some saved Chambaud, some rescued Lindley |