the fear of God, hatred of Mammon, love of truth, love of their fellow-creatures, and that they be men of good name.

The Miracle of the Rock.

The turning of the rock into water was the turning of the property of judgment, signified by the rock; into the property of mercy, signified by the water.

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

When Moses held up his hands in prayer, the house of Israel prevailed; and when he let down his hands, the house of Amalek prevailed. Hence, persons that were infirm and unable to hold up their hands in their afflictions, were induced to cry with the strength of their voice, "The spirit is willing, (but, alas !) the flesh is weak." And also, in the old astrology, a planet was said to be in its exaltation when it was in that sign of the zodiac in which it was supposed to exert its strongest influence; the opposite sign was called its dejection, as in that it was supposed to be weakest.

Mendicant-Mendiants or Mendinants

Therefore we mendiants we sely freres,
Ben wedded to poverte and continence,
To charitee, humblesse and abstinence, &c.

From this extract in the " Sompnoures Tale," the word mendicant is clearly derived, and not the silly appellation given as a conundrum, in its usual acceptation of a poor wretch beyond the JOIDA. power of mending.

tinguished them by three several names, Scrobiculus, Ara, and Altare.

SCROBICULUS was a furrow or pit, containing an altar within it, into which they poured down the blood of the beast slaine, together with milk, honey, and wine, when they sacrificed to an infernal god.

called

ARA, the second altar, was so called, ab ardenda, because their sacrifices were burned upon it, or for their imprecations used at that time, which in Greek was agws. It was made four square, not very high from the ground, and upon this they sacrificed to the terrestrial gods, laying a turf of grass on the altar, and this gave Virgil occasion to call them Aras gramineas, that is, grassy altars.

ALTARE;, the third sort was so called, either because it was exalted or lifted up somewhat high from the ground, or because he that sacrificed (by reason the altar was so high,) was constrained to lift up his head in altum, on high. Upon this altar they sacrificed to their celestial gods only.

LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP.
(For the Olio.)

If Love be blind, to tell my mind,
I think that it would thrive us,
To lead the boy, whose greatest joy
Is headlong on to drive us.

For what's a guide, without he's eyed,
Or arm'd for our protection?
He's worse than he who cannot see
A bribe at an election.

Then tempt not fate, the danger's great,

But if you'd have a suitor,

Scorn not my muse, let reason choose,

And prudence be your tutor.

For oft we find, that those are blind
Who love, as well as Cupid;

Their ardent sighs have closed their eyes,
And render'd them quite stupid.

That one should see you'll all agree,

I think, without extortion; For if the blind should lead the blindA ditch will be their portion. G.T E

Subject of the Vignette.

GASTON DELAMERE.
(For the Olio.)

Zephyrs softly, sweetly sighing,
Birds to tree and thicket flying,
'Bees well laden homeward bieing,

Tell the reign of daylight done;
Fragrant dews the herbage greeting,
Springlets wildly, blithly leaping,
Stars around the welkin peeping,

Sinks apace the sultry sun.
But, lo, where yonder lovely maid
Advances down the forest glade,
How graceful in the broad moonbeam
She speeds her palfrey o'er the green,
And bears her slender form,
And sounds anon with merry mien,
Her silver bugle horn.

The wild buck bounds across her path,
An arrow glitters on her bow,
Like lightning flies the feathered shaft,

And strikes the antler'd monarch low.
But, lo, the moon becomes o'ercast,
And hollow night-gales hirtle past,
Short thunder peals roll loud on high,
And meteors gleam athwart the sky;
Anon a dazzling lustre came,
And form'd a diadem of flame

Upon the maiden's brow;
Her palfrey, frighted at the roar,
Which swift succeeded, madly tore
The gloomy forest through.

'Her cries soon brought her sire to hand,
Who, severed from his trusty band,

Had scour'd each maze and glade, To join again his scatter'd train,

And seek the absent maid,

Scarce had they met, when, lo, the storm
In distant mutterings died,

And soon the round resplendent moon
Shone forth in regal pride;

Sweet smell the flowers, light fans the breeze,
The damsel's blanched brow,

Which, changing fast from fear to joy,
Resumes its wonted glow,

List," she exclaim'd, as suddenly
A witching strain of minstrelsy

Stole on her list'ning ear;

These words, and softest note distinct,
Proclaim'd the minstrel near:-

SONG

"Let others dwell in stately hall,
And feast 'neath golden canopy,
But let me dwell where torrents brawl,
And breezes stir the greenwood tree;
Where the hunter's horn,

At peep of morn,

Comes echoing wild and merrily,

And the red-deer bound

O'er the gleby ground,

And the mounting lark sings cheerily."

As the echoing cadence died away
Like a strain of aerial melody,

A form rose on the sight,
Of goodly shape, of graceful mien,
In broidered suit of forest green,
And cap of steel bedight;
Onward he sped, and thus again
Full loudly rose the jovial strain :-

SONG CONTINUED.

"Let others don their silken sheen,
And dive in lust and luxury,
But let me don the forest green,
And chase the roebuck merrily;

26--VOL. V.

2 C

Or watch the moon, So calm and bright, Arising soft and dreamily,

To chase the gloom,
And glad the night,

And silver o'er the greenwood tree."
Some time the Baron and the maid,
At random through the forest stray'd,
No egress could they find;
Thick clumps of giant oak and ash
Now bar their path; now torrents dash
Full in their van; now marshes drear
Before their startled gaze appear;
Anon, emerging from the shade,
They came unto an ample glade,

Where bright the moonbeams shined;
A form strode past. "Ha! who goes there?"
The Baron cried:-the form replied,

""Tis I-'tis Gaston Delamere !"

The frighted maiden swoon'd and fell,
When Gaston, with exulting yell,

Caught up her lifeless form;

In that same moment, near at hand,
Loud wound a bugle horn,
And straightway bounded on the glade,
Some threescore, armed with bow and blade.
"Yield, slave!" the leader cried;.
"Yield, miscreant! yield thy felon life!
Thy doom's at length arrived!"
Around him whirl'd in mad career
The sword of Gaston Delamere,

And frantic grew the fray;
But soon his foe, with deadly aim,
Clove burgonet and skull in twain,
And prostrate on the thymy plain,
The scowling ruffian lay.
"Speak, who art thou?" the Baron said
The victor slowly from his head

His cap of steel withdrew;
And straight adown his shoulders roll'd,
In clust'ring wreaths of gleamy gold,
His flaxen hair;-that form so bold
Full well the maiden knew.
Oft had he sought her father's halls,
And linger'd 'neath its ancient walls,
At fall of balmy even,

"Till night had spread her starry wings
Around the tranquil heaven.

His treacherous kinsman once descried,
As sylph-like through the greenwood hied
The unattended maid,

And straight his heart was made to feel
A pang which she alone could heal;
He bounded from the shade.

Loud shrieked the Dame--but help was near,
And forthwith Gaston Delamere

Lay stretched upon the glade.

But ah! how fierce his bosom burn'd,
When sense of baffled love return'd,-
Revenge was all his care;

He saw amid the lightning's gleam
The damsel hurrying o'er the green,
Then started from his lair.

He tracked her, sleuth-hound like, and long,
The gloomy forest depths among,

But little wist he of the band

That lurk'd unseen so near at hand;

Thus, as our story hath reveal'd,

The miscreant's fate at once was seal'd.

Now onward sped the jocund crew,
The moon-lit forest nimbly through,
And mossy glades along,
While sang the merry wights amain
Their jovial forest song:-

THE FORRESTERRE'S LAYE, "Sorrowe ande griefe go flee, go flee,

Care come thou not nigh,

Ande a foamyng flaggon we'll quaffe to thee,
Of Sherris ande Burgundy;

1.86

Ob, tys pleasaunt to dwelle in the gaye grenewode,

Ande rove 'mid its leafy bowers, And slaye the redde-dyr for our daintie food, And slumber on new blowne flowers;

Sing hey the grene holly,

Sing ho the grene holly,

fell on the polished throat with the rich mellowness of a moonbeam. She was a brunette-her hair of a glossy black, and the blood melting through the clear brown of her cheek, and sleeping in her lip like colour in the edge of a rose. The eye was unfinished. He could not paint it. Her low, expressive forehead, and the light pencil of her eyebrows, and the long, melancholy lashes were all perfect; but he had painted the eye a hundred times, and a hundred times he had destroyed it, till, at the close of a long day, as his light failed him, he threw down his pencil in despair, and resting his head on his easel, gave himself up to the contemplation of the ideal picture of his fancy.

"I wish all my readers had painted a portrait, the portrait of the face they best love to look on--it would be such a chance to thrill them with a description of the painter's feelings. There is no

melancholie.

Notices of New Books.

T. F.

The Legendary, Vol. II. 278 pp. 12mo. Goodrich, Boston ; & Kennet, London. WE took occasion sometime since to notice the first volume of this very interesting work, which we spoke of in terms of praise. The second volume is under cognisance, and we are free to acknowledge that its contents are as rich and as interesting as those of the preceding one. The Americans have often felt the lash of criticism, and it cannot be denied that it has been necessarily and properly applied in some instances; but it would be ungenerous in us to disavow that the literature of our trans-atlantic brethren is far, very far, from despicable. We have occasionally met with pieces of sterling merit which do credit to the heads and the hearts of the writers; and thus much can be said of many articles in the volume before us, which is a pleasing melange of poetry and prose. From its interesting contents we transplant

to our pages

66

THE PAINTER'S REVELATION.

"I cannot paint it !'exclaimed Duncan Weir, as he threw down his pencil in despair The portrait of a beautiful female rested on his easel. The head was turned as if to look into the painter's face, and an expression of delicious confidence and love was playing about the half parted mouth. A mass of luxuriant hair, stirred by the position, threw its shadow upon a shoulder that but for its transparency you would have given to Itys, and the light from which the face turned away

its delirium. Why-think of it a moment! To sit for hours gazing into the eyes you dream of! To be set to steal away the tint of the lip and the glory of the brow you worship! To have beauty come and sit down before you, till its spirit is breathed into your fancy, and you can turn away and paint it! To call up, like a rash enchanter, the smile that bewilders you, and have power over the expression of a face, that, meet you where it will, laps you in Elysium !-Make me a painter, Pythagoras!

He

"A lover's picture of his mistress, painted as she exists in his fancy, would never be recognised. He would make little of features and complexion. No-no-he has not been an idolater for this. He has seen her as no one else has seen her, with the illumination of love, which, once in her life, makes every woman under heaven an angel of light. knows her heart, too-its gentleness, its fervor; and when she comes up in his imagination it is not her visible form passing before his mind's eye, but the apparition of her invisible virtues, cloth. ed in the tender recollections of their discovery and developement. If he remembers her features at all, it is the changing colour of her cheek, or the droop of her curved lashes, or the witchery of the smile that welcomed him. And even then he was intoxicated with her voice--always a sweet instrument when the heart plays upon it and his eye was good for nothing. No-it is no matter what she may be to others-she appears to him like a bright and perfect being, and he would as soon paint St. Cecilia with a wart as his mistress with an imperfect feature.

"Duncan could not satisfy himself. He painted with his heart on fire, and he threw by canvass after canvass till his room was like a gallery of angels. In perfect despair, at last, he sat down and made a deliberate copy of her features the exquisite picture of which we have spoken. Still, the eye haunted him. He felt as if it would redeem all if he could give it the expression with which

look

ed back some of his impassioned declarations. His skill, however, was, as yet, baffled, and it was at the close of the third day of unsuccessful effort that he relinquished it in despair, and, dropping his head upon his easel, abandoned him self to his imagination.

"Duncan entered the gallery with Helen leaning on his arm. It was thronged with visiters. Groups were collected before the favourite pictures,

and the low hum of criticism rose con

fusedly, varied, now and then, by the exclamation of some enthusiastic spectator. In a conspicuous part of the room hung The Mute Reply, by Duncan Weir. A crowd had gathered before it, and were gazing on it with evident pleasure. Expressions of surprise and admiration broke frequently from the group, and, as they fell on the ear of Duncan, he felt an irresistible impulse to approach and look at his own picture What is like the affection of a painter for the offspring of his genius? It seemed to him as if he had never before seen it. There it hung like a new picture, and he dwelt upon it with all the interest of a stranger. It was indeed beautiful. There was a bewitching loveliness float ing over the features. The figure and air had a peculiar grace and freedom; but the eye showed the genius of the master. It was a large, lustrous eye, moistened without weeping, and lifted up, as if to the face of a lover, with a look of indescribable tenderness. The deception was wonderful. It seemed every moment as if the moisture would gather into a tear, and roll down her cheek. There was a strange freshness in its impression upon Duncan. It seemed to have the very look that had sometimes beamed upon him in the twilight. He turned from it and looked at Helen. Her eyes met his with the same-the self-same expression of the picture. A murmur of pleased recognition stole from the crowd whose attention was attracted. Duncan burst into tears- -and awoke. He had been dreaming on his easel.

Do you believe in dreams, Helen ?' said Duncan, as he led her into the studio

After an account of the finding the manuscript "under the foundations of the Roman Catholic Chapel joining the Court House," the writer gives us an essay on Dreaming," which evinces considerable research and learning in such matters; and the following names are quoted to support the theory advocated by the author: Homer, Aristotle, Socrates, Plato, Xenophon, Cicero, Pliny, Baxter, Locke, Addison, Bishop Bull, Dr. Young, &c. &c. Accounts of a great number of remarkable Dreams of celebrated persons, both ancient and modern, are also given; of which, perhaps the following, as, happening in our times, is not the least interesting. We have reason to believe the account to be well authenticated in which case, the greatest sceptic must admit it at least to be an extraordinary occurrence.

"In the night of the 11th of May, 1812, Mr. Williams, of Scorrior House, near Redruth, in Cornwall, awoke his wife, and, exceedingly agitated, told her that he had dreamed that he was in the lobby of the House of Commons, and saw a man shoot, with a pistol, a gentleman who had just entered the lobby, who was said to be the Chancellor; to which Mrs. Williams naturally replied, that it was only a dream, and recommended him to be composed and go to sleep as soon as he could.

"He did so; but shortly after he again awoke her and said that he had, a second time, had the same dream; whereupon she observed that he had been so much agitated with his former dream, that she supposed it had dwelt on his mind, and begged of him to compose himself and go to sleep, which he did.

A third time the same vision was repeated, on which, notwithstanding her intreaties that he would lay quiet and endeavour to forget it, he arose (then between one and two o'clock) and dressed himself. At breakfast the dreams were the sole subject of conversation, and in the forenoon Mr. Williams went to Falmouth, where he related the particulars of them to all his acquaintances that he met. On the following day, Mr. Tucker, of Trematon Castle, accompanied by his wife, a daughter of Mr. Williams, went to Scorrior house on a visit, and arrived about

dusk. Immediately after the first salutations on their entering the parlour, where were Mr. Mrs. and Miss Williams, Mr. Williams began to relate to Mr. Tucker the circumstance of his dreams, and Mrs. W. observed to her daughter, Mrs. T. laughingly, that her father could not even suffer Mr. Tucker to be seated before he told him of his nocturnal visitation; on the statement of which Mr. Tucker observed, that it would do very well for a dream to have the Chancellor in the lobby of the House of Commons, but that he would not be found there in reality. And Mr. Tucker then asked what sort of a man he appeared to be, when Mr. Williams described him minutely; to which Mr. Tucker replied, Your description is not at all that of the Chancellor, but is certainly very exactly that of Mr. Perceval, the Chancellor of the Exchequer; and, although he has been to me the greatest enemy I have ever met with through life (for a supposed cause which had no foundation in truth,-or words to that effect), I should be exceedingly sorry indeed to hear of his being assassinated, or of any injury of the kind happening to him."

6

"Mr. Tucker then inquired of Mr. Williams if he had ever seen Mr. Perceval, and was told that he had never seen him, nor had ever written to him, either on public or private business; in short, that he had never anything to do with him, nor had he ever been in the House of Commons in his lifetime. At this moment Mr. Williams and Mr. Tucker, still standing, heard a horse gallop to the door of the house, and immediately after, Mr. Michael Williams, of Trevince (son of Mr. Williams of Scorrior,) entered the room, and said that he had galloped out from Truro, (from which Scorrior is seven miles distant) having seen a gentleman there who had come by that evening's mail from town, who said that he was in the lobby of the House of Commons on the evening of the 11th, when a man, called Bellingham, had shot Mr. Perceval; and that, as it might occasion some great ministerial changes, and might affect Mr. Tucker's political friends, he had come out as fast as he could to make him acquainted with it, having heard at Truro that he had passed through that place in the afternoon, on his way to Scorrior.

"After the astonishment which this intelligence created had a little subsided, Mr. Williams described most minutely the appearance and dress of the man that he saw in his dream fire the pistol at the Chancellor. About six weeks after, Mr. Williams, having business in town, went,

accompanied by a friend, to the Houseof Commons, where, as has been already observed, he had never before been.. Immediately that he came to the steps at the entrance of the lobby, he said, This place is as distinctly within my recollection, in my dream, as any room in my house,' and he made the same observation when he entered the lobby. He then pointed out the exact spot where Bellingham actually stood when he fired,. and which Mr. Perceval had reached when he was struck by the ball, where he fell. The dress both of Mr. Perceval and Bellingham agreed with the description given by Mr. Williams, even to the most minute particulars.'

To look into futurity, to withdraw the curtain that hides it from our view, has been an object of intense desire to mankind in all ages; and amongst the means which have been resorted to, in order to accomplish it, the " interpretation of dreams" has been most generally relied

on.

As might be expected from such a subject, a vast deal of discussion has arisen, the" believers" relying generally on such facts as that above quoted; to which their opponents answer-" admitting the coincidence in this instance, how many dreams have you had which have not been realized?"-Between these parties we do not pretend to decide, nor even to give an opinion; but to those who " have faith," or who wish to make an experiment, we can safely recommend: this book as an entertaining and ingenious work, and certainly the best on the sub. ject that has yet been given to the public.