free range of a few acres of warren, man, and a dear, dear man!”

and-you are a true gentle

Then there is the " blue," the fast woman of letters, who has her conversaziones, and her literary soirees,-who brushes back her fading locks in order to exhibit her forehead,-who dotes on Phrenology, and despises fashion,-who sees company (as she informs you) merely to "study character," and who entirely forgets her possession of a heart in her immense solicitude for the welfare of the head. She is odious-make way for her!

Thou of the sunny curls, thou of the fair face, thou of the downcast eyes, in what art thou fast? in nought surely? Aye, aye, in many things, in most is she fast. Although she would certainly curl her pretty lip in pretty scorn at the mention of anything so vulgar as a "Pic-nic;" yet at a "Fetè-Champetre" on my Lord so and so's soft fresh turf—with plenty of those "foolish young loungers," and those "charming officers" to walk and to flirt with, she would be merry, none merrier. She does not ride because it is unfeminine, and she has a great idea of the feminine. She has (keeping her eyes modestly down-bent withal) studied all people, knows all people, and winneth the hearts of all people. Are you a rhyme-stringer, she will cap original verses with you; will make all sorts of awkward mistakes therein, that she may cast an exculpatory glance upon you from the corners of her large blue eyes, and suddenly bending them down again, in the midst of a faint blush, may murmur through her white teeth-"But I am a foolish thing, very, Mr. and you must forgive me!" Are you merely an admirer of the gods of letters,—she will revel with you heartily in the sunbeams of Moore,-will use her delicate cambric in tender action to the pathos of Byron,—will listen thoughtfully to the sweet love tale of the "simple Isabell," "whom," as she exclaims, clapping her hands, "I do so love:" and then slowly passing the bright thread through her canvass, remark with a short sigh,—" I am afraid hearts are not as they used to be; I fear we are all growing colder, my Lord!" Or else (as the humour is with her) she will affect a pretty shudder at the morbidity of its conclusion, and playfully observe, "Suppose my Lady Wagley, or poor Edith de Ruth, who they say did so love that young Count Boaz, were to go all the long way to Germany, and root up his head with her hands-(they say she has the prettiest hand in London, I don't know) root up his head as poor Isabella did-what should we think of it ?"

Are you a military man,-she will "adore the army," and discourse on chivalry, on Sydney and Bayard. Are you a stupid

fellow that knoweth nothing but politics,-she "would so like to hear a debate! and you must let her know when you speak, really!" Are you in the Ministry and fresh from your country hamlet, she "should love to live in the dear, dear country," and she would "be delighted to teach the dear nice children to read, and sew;" she is "tired, really, of town." Are you sentimental, she will exceed your finest strokes. Are you witty, she will turn your shafts back on yourself. Are you a poor gentleman, and "dying for her," she will be equally perishable for your sake; but will be "too young," "too foolish," and "too poor" to marry you, but will "wish ever for your happiness, although she may not share it.” After which follow sobbings unlimited, and tears in proportion, a convulsive farewell, an exit, and the lady rushes up to her room to-weep? No! to see if her eyes are red; to put on her cheeks the "smallest bit of rouge," and to torture her maid for two whole hours with the managing of her hair! "It is the ball at my Lady -'s to night, and the young French

Count is to be there!"

Such are fast girls; if the list appears imperfect I may plead that there are indeed many, many more; but that to most, except those of whom I have spoken, decorum is a foolish mask, fashion a good weapon, and honour "a mere scutcheon," and ends my catalogue!"

Sonnet,

ON VIEW OF THE SEVERN FROM HALLOW PARK.

BRIGHT Seem thy waters in their sunny course,
View'd in the distance from this grassy mound,
Stream of the west; and he who looks around
These vallies, and those skirting woods across,
Where thou meanderest gracefully, and hears

The gentle sound of the church-going bell,
Might dream of peace, and, fondly dreaming, tell
Visions unwarped by this world's hopes and fears.
Yet those fair-shining waters, as we near

Thy verdant side, seem turbid as they flow,
And on thy breast sails many a heart of woe,

That sheds upon it an unconscious tear.

Thus life, in distant prospect fair and bright,

Approached, is clouded oft with care's dark hovering night

T. RAGG.

Y

Fools.

EVERY man has his fool. There is the fool of private, and of public life in the equestrian, and domestic circle: but none of these consider themselves so; they constitute some other man their representative. There is the statesman, eloquent in debate, satirical in retort, crafty in intrigue, and sound in argument. He thinks well of himself, and perhaps has reason to do so, but there is another man who deems him a fool. The poet, shrouded in retirement, listening to the dropping of fountains and the music of birds in his beautiful and quiet retreat, calls him a fool, and why? Because he presses onward in the crowd of life, and jostles away with his neighbour. Because he robs himself of happiness and health in the pursuit of the meteor-fame. And all his honours and emoluments must end in dust,-for he, alas! cannot live on in greatness for ever! The poet is right, but he also shares his turn of folly in the opinion of the parliament-man. "He wastes his life in idleness," exclaims the latter, "writes odes to nothing, dreams of other worlds, of joys he shall never attain, and which never had existence. He sighs to an imaginary mistress, who exists but in his own wild and imaginative brain. He grasps at nothing,—creates for himself a new world, and calls every man an idiot for not living in it!"

Let us turn to the boards of a theatre, the mimic-representation of the great play of life. There are the hero, and the coward; the bravo, and the country-clown; the villain and the victim, who each perform "their exits and their entrances" for the amusement of their fellow-men. Yet what is the opinion of the spectators in regard to these their amusers? Why, that they are fools for their pains,—and in return, these players look upon their audience as fooled into a state of heart-harrowing grief, or extatic joy, by the mere expression of a countenance, or a few dashes of mock heroism.

So wherever we turn we find every man a fool, in another man's opinion. There (in religion) is the Mohammedan, the Deist, the Israelite, and Atheist, with the conviction reigning supreme in each of them that the other is a lunatic beyond all comprehension. The votary of pleasure deems the sober man a fool for not enjoying himself; and the sober man, the rake for ruining his health, and wasting his fortune. The indolent man stigmatizes the industrious one as such for hoarding up riches, when he cannot tell who shall

gather them,—and the industrious, the indolent one for losing time, and opportunity in the attainment of the universal goal of-wealth! Let us look at the fool in the circus, with his "Here we are again" eloquence, and what, pray, do the boxes, pit, and gallery think of him? His tailor, and his nonsense decide the question on his first appearance. But what does he think of the public? The broad universal grin at his ancient jest-settles that conclusively too!

True is it that our "wisdom is but folly." Life is an arena full of clowns, put on what disguise they may? Each can see the other's folly-but he who sees his own, is the wisest man amongst us!

ROCKS.

Love.

"How may we shut out love?"—" Strike out the eye,"

Said one, answering scornfully;

"'Tis the open door through which he flieth

Who closeth that, he love defieth."

I struck out the eye, and when he came

I saw him not, but I felt the flame
Of his eye on my brow, and quietly
I said he will go, he away will flee.
I said and listened, but still could hear
His light wings rustling ever anear-
And his moan of sorrow and tender cry
Smote on my sense reproachfully;
And I felt that not through eye alone
Marcheth love to his golden throne.
And again I spake to another, and he
Said, "Love is to hear as well as to see."
I heard, and I took from his hand a gourd,
And into mine ears three drops I poured,
And forth from that day I heard no more,
And I sat me down on the silent shore,

Stirring never-waiting the hour

When Love should come to prove his power.

He came : I saw not his eyes of flame—

I heard not his moan, though I knew 'twas the same,
For he kissed my lips, and he pressed my hand,
And sat him down on the soft sea sand;

And I knew that they lied, for ear nor eye
Had shut out Love, though he cometh thereby-
Though he cometh thereby, he needs not so,
But he findeth entrance wherever he go.

AIDYL.

Britannia Antiqua;

AN INQUIRY INTO

THE ORIGIN, HISTORY, MANNERS, AND CUSTOMS

OF THE ANCIENT BRITONS.

BY THOMAS RAGG.

MILTON introduces his history of the Trojan dynasty of Britain with the following observations :-" But now of Brutus and his line, with the whole progeny of kings to the entrance of Julius Cæsar, we cannot be so easily discharged. Descents of ancestry long continued, laws and exploits not plainly seeming to be borrowed or devised, which on the common belief have wrought no small impression; defended by many, denied utterly by few, and * * old and inborn names of successive kings never any to have been real persons, or done in their lives at least some part of what so long hath been remembered, cannot be thought without too strict an incredulity."

* *

The writers of old who received as truth the so-called history of the peopling of our island with "the noble stock of Troy the Great," are exceedingly numerous. Indeed, in early times this origin of the Britons was received without question. I shall only quote from two-the Chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and a paper in the Monthly Magazine for September, 1819.

The writings of Geoffrey of Monmouth being now easily obtainable, in consequence of the publication in "Bohn's Antiquarian Library" of the volume called "Six Old English Chronicles," it is needless to give any of that author's detailed account of the landing of Eneas in Latium-the expulsion of his grandson, Brutus, therefrom, for accidentally killing his father-his release of the Trojan captives from Greece-his search after the land which the consulted oracle had promised him--or his war with Goffarius of