1818.]

returning from collecting, and had only 130 franks about him, of which he was robbed, as well as of his watch, and ring. The charge of the gun was rammed down with a written paper. This had been carefully taken up, and carried away with the body. The writing was still legible. On this piece of paper there were expressions which are used in glass manufactories, and a date of near fifteen years back. Upon this single indication, the Judge went to the owner of the glass manufactory at Bilguy, examined his books, and succeeded in find ing an article relative to the delivery of some glass, of which the paper in question was the bill of parcels. The suspicion immediately fell on the son-in-law of this individual the latter had been out of the country for ten years. Order was given to arrest the person suspected. When the officers came to him, he was on his knees, praying. In his fright, he Confessed the deed on the spot, and even shewed where the watch and ring were, which were indeed found under the thatch of his house.

Anecdote.

The following anecdote of Professor John, in Berlin, whose system for making youth perfect in gymnastic exercises, has given rise to endless disputes in Germany, is highly characteristic. When the French were in Berlin, John went with his scholars to exercise on the heath out of the city. On his return he took it into his head, to ask a boy who loitered under the Brandenburg Gate, "What used to stand at this gate?" "The Victory!" "What is become of her?" "The French have carried her to France!" "What do you think of it?" "Nothing at all!" Upon this, John gave him a hearty box on the ear, with the serious admonition, "She was there, and may be fetched back again, if every one help!" The school never forgot it, though the citizens of Berlin, thought the Professor mad, because he required that a boy should think something at seeing the gate without the Victory, while thousands passed through it every day without thinking any thing.

Anecdote of Fouche.

The well known poet Raynouard once read his tragedy of Charles I. to a large company, in which Fouche was present.

All eyes were fixed on him, yet his features remained unchanged. The reading began; still he remained unmoved, though at many allusions the scrutinizing eyes of the hearers were turned upon him. When at last the minister of Charles I. defending his master, exclaims, "Le jugement d'un Roi n'est qu'un assassinat," the company were going to express their approbation aloud, but they were prevented by the presence of the minister. This did not escape him, and seemed to embarrass. him for a moment. When the reading was finished, every one went away, except Fouche. After some general remarks upon the plan, and the characters of the piece, he added, "in respect to that verse, I utterly despise it."

In

Raynouard did not answer, but Fouche walked up and down with long strides, and said, "the political part of your tragedy is very weak; you stand upon the tower of Notre Dame, instead of penetrating into the interior. politics every thing has a different point of view. Circumstances-you do not know the effect of circumstances." Raynouard interrupted him by repeating the verse; "le jugement d'un roi n'est qu'un assassinat," and Fouche

left the room.

Anecdote of Doctor Garth.

Doctor Garth, who was a great frequenter of the Wit's Coffee-house (the Cocoa Tree, in St. James's-street,) was sittingthe re one morning conversing with two persons of rank, when Rowe, the poet, (who was seldom very attentive to his dress and appearance, but still insufferably vain of being noticed by persons of consequence,) entered, and placing himself in a box nearly opposite to that in which the Doctor sat, looked constantly round, with a view of catching his eye; but not succeeding, he desired the waiter to ask him for his snuff-box, which he knew to be a valuable one, set with diamonds, and the present of some foreign prince; this he returned, and asked for so repeatedly, that Garth, who knew him well, perceived the drift, and accordingly took from his pocket a pencil, and wrote on the lid the two Greek characters P (phi rho,) which so mortified the poet that he quitted the room.— -Literary Gazette.

1818.]

THE PARTING.

(From the German of Breuner.)
The wind was wild, the sea was dark,
The lightning flash'd above;-the bark
That anchored in the rocky bay,
Bath'd its top pennon in the spray;
Hollow and gloomy as the grave
Roll'd to the shore the mighty wave,
Then gathering wild, with thundering sweep,
Flash'd its white foam-sheet up the steep:-
The sight was terror-but behind
Shouts of pursuit were on the wind;
Trumpet, and yell, and clash of shield,
Told where the human hunters wheel'd,
Through the last valley's forest glen.
Where, Bertha, was thy courage then?
She cheer'd her warrior, tho' his side
Still with the gushing blood was dyed,
Up the rude mountain-path her hand
Sustained his arm, and dragged his brand,
Nor shrank, nor sighed; and when his
tread

Paused on the promontory's head,
She smiled, altho' her lip was pale
As the torn silver of his mail.

All there was still-the shouts had past,
Sunk in the rushings of the blast;
Below, the vapour's dark grey screen,
Shut out from view the long ravine;
Then swept the circle of the hill,
Like billows round an ocean isle.
The ray the parting sunbeam ffung,
In white, cold radiance on them hung;
They stood upon that lonely brow,
Like spirits loosed from human woe;
And pausing, ere they spread the plume,
Above that waste of storm and gloom.
To linger there was death, but there
Was that which masters death, Despair-
And even Despair's high master, Love.
Her heart was, like her form, above
The storms, the stormier thoughts that
Earth

NEW MONTHLY MAGNO. 57.

A surgeon barber wore, And doubtless, too, these stirrups prized, By fell magician's skill disguised,

The recreant artist bore.

233

To vulgar eyes, the golden gleam
Shew'd but a poor brass bason's beam!
The gen'rous steed, an ass!
On thine and Quixote's noble soul
Sublimed from common thought's controul
The juggle could not pass.
O haste, pursue the fav'ring fates!
Perhaps that precious helm awaits
Thee in some barber's shed!
Be every shaver's shelves reviewed,
"Till thy discovering genius shrewd,
Shall fix it on thy head!

Or in thy great Museum shewn
With negro skulls and Mammoth's bone,
Be hung th' authentic beaver!
That thy collection may outshine
Whate'er the world has deemed most fine,
Of Hunter, Sloane, or Lever.

Makes the dread privilege of birth.
Passion's wild flame was past, but he
Who pined before her burning eye,
The numbered beatings of whose heart
Told, on that summit they must part-
He was life, soul, and world to her:
Beside him, what had she to fear?
Life had for her nor calm nor storm
While she stood gazing on that form,
And clasped his hand, tho' lost and lone,—
His dying hand, but all her own;
She knelt beside him, on her knee
She raised his wan cheek silently:
She spoke not, sighed not; to his breast,
Her own, scarce living now, was prest,
And felt, if where the senses reel,
O'er wrought-o'er flooded-we can feel-
The thoughts, that when they cease to be,
Leave life one vacant misery.—
She kissed his chilling lip, and bore
The look, that told her all was o'er.
The echoes of pursuit again

Rolled on-she gazed upon the main ;
Then seem'd the mountain's haughty steep
Too humble for her desperate leap;
Then seem'd the broad and bursting wave
Too calm, too shallow, for her grave.
She turned her to the dead:-his brow
Once more she gave her kiss of woe;
She gave his cheek one bitter tear,
The last she had for passion here-
Then to the steep!-away, away!
To the whirlwind's roar and the dash of the
spray.
PULCI.

THE HEART OF SORROW.

I knew a heart-its texture such
As seldom on this earth is found,-
A heart, on which the slightest touch
Would make a deep and lasting wound.
Alas! that heart, tho' truly good,
Has blanch'd its wounds in tears of blood;
VOL. X.
2 H

But still in upright deeds appearing,
No other comfort would it borrow;
Repeated shocks far fail'd in searing,
Ör binding up the Heart of Sorrow!
It knew no pride, but pride of soul-→→

A pride which even Angels love;—
It knew no law-own'd no controul,

But claim'd affiance with the dove. Yet bled it freely from each smart Of Hatred's bow, and Slander's dart; Tho' giant Pride, in strength appearing, Mark'd the tear through many a furrow, Still-oh! still-devoid of fearing

Boldly beat that Heart of Sorrow.
It beat:-Affliction long had worn
Those tender strings which health impart,
And many a brutal hand had torn

The reeking ruins of that heart.
And must the sting of haggard care,
Without sweet Hope, still fester there?
Would it were still, or void of feeling!

Grief drew the bow its peace to sever,
Inflicting wounds past ever healing :
It twang'd-and then it trembled ever.
It beat-for ev'ry silken vein

Rent, whene'er the arrow flew;
Its finest chords respons'd the strain
Which Discord set, and Malice drew:
For then its strings were loosen'd all,
As wither'd leaves in autumn fall.

But Hope still whisper'd-woe forgetting
"The Sun of Joy may rise to-morrow,"
Its cheering beams tho' now they're
setting,

Will yet light up that Heart of Sorrow.

[Oct. 1,

With her due Hymn to the Virgin, I have turn'd

Even from the glory of her eye, to weep, With sudden keenness of delight. Those tears,

On earth I weep no more-She's in the grave!

ODE

TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY.
Cecidit velut prati

Ultimi flos prætereunte postquam
Tactus aratro est!

CATULLUS, Car. II. Fair was thy thread of life, thou gentle maid, But quickly by the envious sisters shorn,

E'en as the rosebud from its stem
Is cropp'd-to bloom no more!

And like that flow'ret too, which tho' it fade,
Preserves a vestige of its former worth ;-
Is fragrant in decay,

And odorous in death:

So, tho' on earth thy form no more can wear,

The wonted semblance of its winning grace,
Yet shall thy virtues live,
And Time's rude hand defy.

Vanish'd are now thy flattering dreams of bliss,

Alike insensible to joy or pain;

A wakeless sleep thou sleep'st
Thy bed-the cold damp grave!

Still we may envy thee that peaceful rest,
Since ne'er again by human ills assail'd,
Shall thy too yielding soul
In fruitless sorrow pine.

STANZAS.

A. A. W.

The soul that was shrouded in sorrow's dark night

A peace-promising beam woke to gladness and light;

And the lute that so long, lorn, and tuneless had hung,

Once more with the wild notes of harmony rung!

Ah! why did that beam only shine to beguile, Ah! why did it teach the fond mourner to smile?

Why faithlessly grant him a seeming reprieve,

Then, leave him in sadness still deeper to grieve?

The light is gone by-and the music is o'er, And the feelings so lovely-are lovely po

more

That soul once again its dark vigils is keeping,
And the lute 'neath the cold chain of silence
is sleeping!
A. A. W.

ERRATA-In our last Number, in the" Sonnet to ****" line 6, for gift read debt and in the " Sonnet written at the Chateau de Clarens," line 13, for each read such.