But then 'a change came o'er'
My spirit a change of fear-
That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
But deep beneath the basement floor
A Dungeon dark and drear!
And there was an ugly hole in the wall-
For an oven too big,-for a cellar too small!
And mortar and bricks

All ready to fix,

And I said, 'Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!—
That horrible hole!--it seems to say,

"I'm a Grave that gapes for a living prey!"''
And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad—
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.
Alas! and alack!-'tis sad to think

That Maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
Should here be compelled to grow blear, and blink,
Or be closed for aye

In this kind of way,

Shut out for ever from wholesome day,
And wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,
No light, no air, no victuals, no drink!
And that Maiden's lip,

Which was made to sip,

Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!
That wandering glance and furtive kiss,
Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,
Should yet be considered so much amiss
As to call for a sentence severe as this!
And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh
The
poor lone victim's stifled cry,*

Could wall

Well! I can't understand

How any man's hand

up

that hole in a Christian land !Why, a Mussulman Turk

Would recoil from the work,

And though, when his Ladies run after the fellows, he
Stands not on trifles if maddened by jealousy,

Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,
In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,
"When all 's said and done, far better it was for us,
Tied back to back,

And sewed up in a sack,

To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus !"
Oh! a Saint 'twould vex

To think that the sex

Should be treated no better than Combe's double X.

• About the middle of the last century a human skeleton was discovered in a recess in the wall among the ruins of Netley. On examination, the bones were pronounced to be those of a female. Teste James Harrison, a youthful but intelligent cab-driver of Southampton, who 'well remembers to have heard his grandmother say that "Somebody told her so."

2

Sure some one might run to the Abbess and tell her A much better method of stocking her cellar."

If ever on polluted walls

Heav'n's red right arm in vengeance falls,-
If e'er its justice wraps in flame
The black abodes of sin and shame,
That justice, in its own good time,
Shall visit for so foul a crime,
Ope desolation's floodgate wide,
And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

Lo, where it comes !-the tempest lours,
It bursts on thy devoted tow'rs;
Ruthless Tudor's bloated form

Rides on the blast, and guides the storm;
I hear the sacrilegious cry,

'Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!'

Down! down they come-a fearful fall-
Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree and all,
Storied pane, and sculptur'd stone,
There they lie on the greensward strown-
Mouldering walls remain alone!

Shaven crown,

Bombazeen gown,

Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown!

VOL. X.

And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze
Upon that grey and mouldering wall,
The glories of thy palmy days
Its very stones recall!

They come like shadows, so depart'-
I see thee as thou wert-and art—

Sublime in ruin!-grand in woe!

Lone refuge of the owl and bat;

No voice awakes thine echoes now!

No sound-Good Gracious!-what was that?
-Was it the moan,

The parting groan

Of her who died forlorn and alone,

Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?--
Full and clear

On my listening ear

It comes-again-near, and more near-
Why, 'zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer!
-I rush to the door-

27

Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng
A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,'-
And a screeching fiddle and 'wry-necked fife'
Are screeching away, for the life!-for the life!-
Danced to by All the World and his Wife.'
Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there,
Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!-
Two or three Chimney-sweeps, two or three Clowns,
Playing at pitch and toss,' sport their 'Browns,'
Two or three damsels, frank and free,

Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea.
Parties below, and parties above,

Some making tea, and some making love.
Then the 'toot-toot-toot'

Of that vile demi-flute,

The detestable din

Of that cracked violin,

And the odours of 'Stout,' and tobacco, and gin!
'-Dear me !' I exclaim'd, 'what a place to be in!'
And I said to the person who drove my 'shay,'
(A very intelligent man, by the way,)

This, all things considered, is rather too gay!
It don't suit my humour,-so take me away!
Dancing and drinking!-cigar and song!
If not profanation, it's "coming it strong,"
And I really consider it all very wrong.—
-Pray, to whom does this property now belong?'-
-He paused, and said,
Scratching his head,

'Why I really do think he's a little to blame,
But I can't say I knows the Gentleman's name!'

'Well-well!' quoth I,

As I heaved a sigh,

And an unbidden tear-drop stood in my eye,
My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt
That some day or other you'll find him out,
Should he come in your way,

Or ride in your "shay,"

(As perhaps he may,)

Be so good as to say

That a Visitor, whom you drove over one day,

Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized,
Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized,

And thus of their owner to speak began,

As he ordered you home in haste,

'NO DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN,

BUT-I can't say much for his taste."

T. I.

Adieu, Monsieur Gil Blas; je vous souhaite toutes sortes de prospérités, avec un peu plus de goût !-Gil Blas.

FIDELITY AND SAGACITY OF A DOG.

HENRY DAWSON, a young gamekeeper on a manor in Oxfordshire, had reared and trained with great care a retriever-puppy, in the hope of deriving future advantage from its services in the field.

was the retriever called) had attained the age of fifteen months, and already possessed some of the accomplishments usually taught to her sagacious tribe, when the manor was given up by the proprietor, and H. Dawson left without employment. Under these circumstances, he thought it would be better for him to pay a visit to his father, an old man, whose years amounted to fourscore-and to ask his counsel and assistance in finding another place.

Accompanied by Rose, the young man travelled to Welton, a small village in Buckinghamshire, where his father lived, and where he found such a welcome as parental affection can offer even under the humblest roof. After discussing his future plans and prospects with his venerable parent, Henry Dawson resolved, though not without a struggle, to part with Rose, and to go by sea to Scotland, where he had already spent two seasons, and had reasonable ground for expecting to find employment. After spending two days at Welton, Henry Dawson took an affectionate leave of his father, and crossing to one of the stations of the Great Western Railway, went up in the train with Rose to London. He had not been there many days, when her obedience to command, and the spirit with which she dashed into the Serpentine to fetch out her master's stick, attracted the notice of Colonel Byrne, who happened to be walking in the park at the time, and who, being a keen sportsman, detected in these youthful feats a quickness and sagacity which promised at a later period the recovery of many a wounded hare, pheasant, or wildduck. The price asked by Dawson was liberal, but not exorbitant; and in a few hours poor Rose was separated from the instructor of her youth, and safely immured in a kennel at the back of her new master's house.

For the first day or two she did nothing but whine and lament; and, though the daintiest canine food was offered to her, she would scarcely touch it; but time and kindness will produce the same effect on quadruped as on human nature, and at the end of a week Colonel Byrne had the satisfaction of finding that Rose's tail wagged at his approach, and that when he held out his hand she would lick it, and give him her rough paw in return. Encouraged by these indications of growing attachment, Colonel Byrne ventured to take her out with him, and was pleased to observe the readiness with which she followed his horse, or went back for a lost glove, or brought his stick from the Serpentine. She had twice accompanied him in his morning ride in Hyde-park; the third time that she did so the Colonel met with a friend, who rode with him, and in consequence of some observation that fell from one of them respecting the paces of their steeds, they each mounted that of the other, and continued their ride.

In crossing Piccadilly they passed a number of carriages and horsemen, and Rose, having lost sight of her master, and probably confused by his having changed his horse, followed some other

rider down the street. The Colonel did not miss her for some minutes; then he returned to seek, whistle, and call her, but in vain; he inquired of policemen and passengers--no one had seen a dog answering the description, and he returned home dejected and wearied by his fruitless search. Determined, however, to leave no means untried for her recovery, he gave information at the police-stations, issued hand-bills offering a handsome reward; advertised her in the newspapers, and sent a faithful emissary to secure the good offices of a certain eminent dog-fancier, who lives in the centre of the metropolis.

He is a sort of cockney Rob Roy, who exacts from maidens, dowagers, and canine amateurs of every class, a heavy black-mail for the restoration of such favourite dogs as his myrmidons have stolen or enticed to his abode, the price being levied rather according to the wealth and station of the owner, and his supposed affection for his pet, than for the intrinsic value of the animal; if the ransom offered is not sufficient to satisfy the demands of this predatory chieftain, the unfortunate captive is put to death, and while his flesh furnishes the vealpies sold to the lower orders in the purlieus of St. Giles's, his skin finds its way to the shop of the glove-maker, or the vender of fashionable dog-skin boots.

All the endeavours of Colonel Byrne for the recovery of Rose proved unsuccessful She had been lost five days; numerous dogs had been brought to his door, many of them as like to her as Hamlet to Hercules,' and he had made up his mind to suffer, with as much philosophy as his nature would permit, the loss of his retriever, and of the ten guineas spent in purchasing her, when one morning, as he was sitting in his library, a strange step was heard at the door, and his servant ushered in an old man leading the much-regretted Rose. The Colonel jumped from his chair,-Rose leaped upon his shoulders, licked his face,-and in the extravagant joy manifested in their mutual caresses, it would have been difficult to see aught of that wide and impassable barrier by which the instinct of the brute is separated from the reasoning faculty of the man.

After indulging himself for some time in fondling his recovered favourite, the Colonel found leisure to bestow a more careful glance upon the stranger who had restored her to him. He was a spare old man, his hair silvered by the snows of eighty winters; and although his cheek still showed that ruddy complexion which fresh air and healthful exercise will often preserve to the most advanced age, there was an impaired strength in the tone of his voice, which proved that the withering hand of time had not left all his faculties untouched.

Tell me, my good friend,' said the Colonel, who you are--and how did you recover for me my dog?'

Please your honour, sir, I have been a keeper fifty-four years I have had many dogs to break, but none ever like Rose. She is the sagaciousest and lovingest thing alive, I do believe.'

'I believe it too, my friend,' replied the Colonel; but how did she come into your hands?'

Why, you see, sir, please your honour's worship, I am John Dawson, father of Henry Dawson, who reared and broke her. I learn from your honour's servant that you lost her in Piccadilly, last Monday morning. On Tuesday afternoon she found her way to the house where