riots, and how far the Ryots in India were excited by the slaughter of the Brahmin Bull. On all such public subjects I am less au fait than that Publicist the Potboy, at the public. house, with the insolvent sign, The Hog in the Pound." Polemics will be excluded with the same rigor; and especially the Tractarian schism. The reader of HOOD'S MAGAZINE must not hope, therefore, to be told whether an old Protestant church ought to be plastered with Roman cement; or if a design for a new one should be washed in with Newman's colors. And most egregiously will he be disappointed, should he look for controversial theology in our Poets' Corner. He might as well expect to see queens of Sheba, and divided babies, from wearing Solomon's spectacles! For the rest, a critical eye will be kept on our current literature, a regretful one on the drama, and a kind one for the fine arts, from whose artesian well there will be an occasional drawing. With this brief explanatory announcement, HOOD'S MAGAZINE AND COMIC MISCELLANY is left to recommend itself, by its own merits, to those enlightened judges, the reviewers; and to that impartial jury—too vast to pack in any case—the British public. THE HAUNTED HOUSE; A ROMANCE. "A jolly place, said he, in days of old, But something ails it now: the spot is curst." HARTLEAP WELL, BY WORDSWORTH. PART I. SOME dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Yet others of our most romantic schemes It might be only on enchanted ground; A residence for woman, child, and man, Unhinged the iron gates half open hung, No dog was at the threshold, great or small; No human figure stirred, to go or come, No face looked forth from shut or open casement; With shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd; O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear, The flow'r grew wild and rankly as the weed, And vagrant plants of parasitic breed Had overgrown the dial. But gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm, No heart was there to heed the hour's duration; The wren had built within the porch, she found The rabbit wild and grey, that flitted thro' The shrubby clumps, and frisk'd, and sat, and vanish d, But leisurely and bold, as if he knew His enemy was banish'd. The wary crow-the pheasant from the woods Lull'd by the still and everlasting sameness, The coot was swimming in the reedy pond, The moping heron, motionless and stiff, No sound was heard except, from far away, But Echo never mock'd the human tongue; And its deserted garden. The beds were all untouch'd by hand or tool; The vine unprun'd, and the neglected peach, Droop'd from the wall with which they used to grapple; And on the canker'd tree, in easy reach, Rotted the golden apple. But awfully the truant shunn'd the ground, For over all there hung a cloud of fear, The pear and quince lay squander'd on the grass; The marigold amidst the nettles blew, The gourd embraced the rose-bush in its ramble, The bear-bine with the lilac interlac'd, The sturdy burdock choked its slender neighbor, The very yew formality had train'd The fountain was a-dry-neglect and time The statue, fallen from its marble base, On ev'ry side the aspect was the same, For over all there hung a cloud of fear, |