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Farewell to the year!-There arises
A shout from fair Attica's shore;
Who Liberty's music despises,

May the song of her children deplore: No longer the slaves of oppression,

In freedom her warriors recline; Then, as Time notes the tyrant's confession, Farewell to the year twenty-nine! Farewell to the year!-It is written

In triumph on Mexica's coast, Where a despot's mad legions were smittenDefeated, ere silent their boast; And the barks that conveyed them so proudly, The cords of oppression to twine, Are now in state mourning-Come, loudly, Farewell to the year twenty-nine ! Farewell to the year!-The play-goers Should cheer the debutant's last scene; For Matthews again is at home"

With an actor far greater than Kean;
The Elephant, drest as a lady,

Might bit as a new Columbine ;-
Ah! the stanza is running quite jadey-
Farewell to the year twenty-nine !
Farewell to the year!-It had glories

For those who love looking at sights,
Though mermaids came not with their stories,
And ghosts kept away with their frights.
Chabert, who in ovens can breakfast,
Intends in Vesuvius to dine,
And in strong prussic-acid to give us,
"Farewell to the year twenty-nine!"
Farewell to the year!-It has wept o'er
The fate that the "Charley-men" grieve;
Their beats by "Policemen" are swept o'er,
And robbers no longer may thieve.
The watch-boxes all are in mourning;
What's to come o' them who can divine?
I fancy they'll aid us in burning
Farewell to the year twenty-nine !

Farewell to the year!-It has brought us
Its quantum of weal and of woe;
Its brethren, they had all taught us
That varied its hours would flow;
Here Tyranny proudly reposes;
There Liberty's bonfires shine:
Ah! poppies are plenty as roses ;-
Farewell to the year twenty-nine!
Farewell to the year!-It has gazed on
The joys and griefs of its part-
The glowing of breast's Hope has blazed on
The breaking of many a heart-
The few who are burden'd with treasure-
The many who starving repine :-
Farewell to its woes and its pleasure!
Farewell to the year twenty-nine!
Farewell to the year, and its follies!

May gents cease to bully like grooms!
May ladies dress more like the women,
And less like the Dutch" buy a brooms!"
May the foibles and vices of fashion,

On the tree that has borne them decline;
And folly down hill cease to dash on !
Farewell to the year twenty-nine!

Farewell to the year, and its wisdom!
May the truths it has taught never fade,
Though the schoolmaster" often is quizz’ų

on

By those who of truth are afraid! May the beams of the bright sun of knowledge In the breast of the meanest man shine; And gild upon cottage and college,

"Farewell to the year twenty-nine !" Farewell to the year, and the sorrows That crowded so darkly its scene! May distress and chill Poverty's horrors Be talked of as things that have been?

May the toil of the poor man be lightened,
May he cease at his lot to repine;
And sing, as his prospects are brightened,
Farewell to the year twenty-nine !"
Farewell to the year, and the shadows
Of happiness round it that sped!
For sunshine in winter can glad us,
Though quickly the pleasure is fled;
May the joys that in it have faded,
Like the ashes of Phoenix combine,
And, remoulded in fairer forms, whisper
Farewell to the year twenty-nine !"
Farewell to the year, and the paper
That scribblers have spoilt, as it past,
With prose that has ended in vapour,
And verses that die away fast.
To the auto, the tale, and the novel-
To the lays of the beautiful Nine-
To the legend of palace or hovel-

Farewell to the year twenty-nine !
Farewell to the year!-Come, ye topers,

Fill a glass" to the year that is fied!" Toasts ne'er should be thought interlopers, Though the living they tell of the dead. My pen wanders so, 'twere a pity

To add to its fever by wine;

While you're drinking, I'll finish my ditty:-
Farewell to the year twenty-nine!
R. JARMAN.

British Antiquities.

BINDEN HILL,

OR, THE CITY OF THE ANCIENT PHONE

CIANS.

By J. F. Pennie, Esq.

(For the Olio.)

It appears somewhat strange, that in neither the first nor second edition of Hutchins's History of Kent, is any notice taken of a lofty eminence called Binden Hill, in the parish of West Lulworth. It forms a part of that grand cliff-scenery which towers in the magnificence of nature along the coast of Dorset from the Druid island of Purbeck-or, according to the Phonecians, Pur-bec, the house of the Sun, the seat of the eternal fire, -to the sandy shores of Weymouth, or Melcombe in Regis, another compounded name, each part being of the same signification in Runic and Latin. On the eastern side of this eminence is plainly to be seen the original British trackway, which, coming out of Devonshire, the ancient dominions of a Celtic tribe, denominated the Cymbri, from their aboriginal founders, the Cymry, runs along the whole line of the Durotrigian coast, and on each side of which are numerous barrows of the remotest antiquity. This trackway leads from the outer rampart of an immense camp or British station, which seems once to have covered the whole summit of this hill of Binden, till it is lost in the tumbling crags and rocks which crown the verge of a stupendous cliff, that overhangs with majestic horror the ever toil

ing billows of the mighty deep; still pointing towards another camp or hillcity, but of a far different castramentation, on the opposite line of hills in the Isle of Purbeck.

This track way running as it does now over the edge of the ocean-precipice, proves what devastation the tempests and sea have in two thousand years made on the rocky mounds and vast bulwarks of our wave-encircled island.

To the north, the interior camp or suburb to this once mighty city amidst the clouds, is protected by a single vallum and fosse, for here the mountain is exceedingly steep as well as lofty; while on the south, the hill itself forms one continued and stupendous rampart from cliff to cliff. Here are still to be seen the numerous excavations, chiefly circular, but of various dimensions, over which the rude tents and booths of the ancient Britons were erected. In this suburb are three or four Celtic barrows. As you advance to the west, beyond the loftiest part of the mountain, which rises in the centre, and, from thence is called, vulgo, the Swine's back, you approach the middle camp or chief city. This is in the shape of a parallelogram of great extent, and is divided from the outer camps to the east and west by the remains of immense walls of stone, but without the least appearance of cement or that vitrified matter which is found in the walls of certain hill-fortifications in some parts of Scotland, and which has puzzled so much the brains of our most learned antiquarians. In the eastern wall, which is more than twentyfive feet in thickness, and crosses the hills to the south, ending where the descent is almost perpendicular, appears a grand entrance, nearly central, on each side of which are the foundations of two circular towers, of more than a hundred feet in circumference; and in the western wall, on the outside of which is a lofty rampart, are two smaller gates or entrances, without towers, leading into another suburb, or outer camp. On the north, the wall is also twenty-five feet in thickness; here the declivity of the hill is much easier than elsewhere, and therefore beyond this wall is another outer wall, twelve feet in breadth, and on the outside of that a dyke, and in some places a double fosse protects the approach on this side to the city.

The whole foundations of this oncenoble station, of which no antiquary has ever taken any notice, are above the soil, and numerous fragments, and large stones are scattered on every side; no doubt the village, which lies in a deep glen beneath, was originally built in part, if not

wholly, with the stones taken from these vast bulwarks of the aboriginal inhabitants of the coast.

From the western camp, which appears to have been weakly fortified compared with the central one, there is a dyke which runs down the steep side of the hill, and originally crossed the narrow valley where part of the village of West Lulworth now stands, as it is plainly seen in a meadow on the other side, and is carried up to the edge of the cliffs on the west. This dyke completely cut off the communication between the valley and cove or small bay of Lulworth, and was the barrier against the incursions of a wild and roving foe, whose war-barques visited the coast for plunder, and often, no doubt, lay secure from the destructive visitations of winds and billows, in the circular and land-locked harbour of Lulworth.

That this was a station in forming a treble camp of the Durotrigians, cannot, it appears to us, be contended against, with any degree of probability, and a station too of great consequence, to which all the neighbouring population, with their cattle and wealth, resorted in times of danger and invasion. And frequently did these barbarous invasions take place; for ancient writers assert, that the Britons delighted in picking quarrels, and it was their daily exercise and pleasure to be skirmishing; that they were continually going out in parties, fortifying and entrenching, many times rather out of delight than any security.*

From this lofty and commanding fortress of Bindon, the Cymry could behold many of those hill-cities which belonged to their tribe. Here, as the early landscape gleamed shadowy in the grey tints of the dawn, and the wide ocean blushed with the roses of morning, they walked forth from their tents, they bowed in homage to the rising sun-god, as he tipped the tall cliffs with wavering fire, and lighted up the voluptuous woods with gorgeous splendours. From hence they beheld on the estuary of the Frome the strong though lowland town of Moriconium,† to the north, the beautifully situa

• Britannia Antiqua Illustrata.

its being a Roman station, we have not in our

+ That Wareham was a British, previous to

own minds a shadow of doubt. Such a fine

situation for strength as the peninsular on which Wareham stands would hardly be overlooked by the ancient Britous. On the north it has a steep ascent, moated by a river; on the east and south the sea once encompassed it, and to the west, where it is connected with the main land, they threw up an immense intrenchment, which also surrounded the whole area of very considerable extent, and which, in part remains to this day. These ramparts, and the circular tombs of that once great and

while around the outer barriers which repelled the intruding ocean, the upwardleaping billows uttered their angry murmurs in wild and solemn music.

Such was the situation of this strong hold of the hill, placed like other fortified stations of various remote nations and ages, on the cloud-capped eminence, and the lofty summit of the isolated rock. (To be continued.)

ted station of Iburnium of Woodbury-
hill; and towering in the horizon far
beyond, the lofty ramparts of Badbury,
with an immense extent of territory, va-
ried with mountain, valley, sea and river,
heath and forest. When the worshipped
orb of day sunk amid the amethyst and
opal clouds of the west, his last rays, as
the smoke of the evening sacrifice arose,
fell on those lofty and wonderful ram-
parts, which, surpassing in strength and
duration the majestic walls of Nineveh
and Babylon, surrounded Dunium or BAZAARS.
Maiden Castle, the capital of their pro-
vince; a work which to remotest genera-
tions will speak the strength and warlike
abilities of a once mighty people, now
vanished from the earth like the shadow
of a fleeting cloud. To the south lay
before them the everlasting ocean, stretch-
ing out in its undulating grandeur and
sublimity to meet the horizon, hung with
its cloud-tapestry of a thousand brilliant
dyes and pictures. To the west appeared
the island or peninsular of Vindelia and
its neighbouring shores, beyond which
the sun-beams fell like a sparkling sheet
of silver on the waters of the great west-
ern bay, rolling its eternal billows on.
ward to the land of the Cymbri. Turn-
ing again to the east, a shadowy line of
cliffs met their view, ending with the
bold and deep-based promontory of St.
Aldhelm's, the white precipices and rocks
of Guithor's romantic island closing the
distant prospect.
Below them lay the
richly tinted cliffs and scattered rocks that
encircled the sheltered bay of Lulworth,

warlike people, the Cymry or Kimmerians, still to be seen on every side on the wild heath that encircles the town, are all which remain to tell us who once inhabited that impregnable fortress, hemmed on all sides with thick forests, rivers, ramparts, morasses, seas, and dykes. Caesar, speaking of the capital of Cassivellanus, in which multitudes of men, women, and cattle were shut up together, says, "The Britons call a place a town, when they have fortified thick and impassible woods, by vasion of enemies." Wareham is no doubt

means of a vallum and fosse, to avoid the in

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THE ROYAL LONDON BAZAAR. (For the Olio.)

IF we feel justified in noticing Bazaars, it is because they are of a light class, and by their being patronised, serve to employ many females in their several departments in an industrious and laudable occupation. The great noise the 'Soho' and 'Maberly' Bazaars made when first opened to the public, and the countenance they received, encouraged other similar stand;' some of places to venture a which, varied in their pretensions, now, we rejoice to say, are devoted to science and the Fine Arts.' It is not that articles and specimens are purchased more cheaply at Bazaars than at shops, or that they are of better qualities, but the jaunty and foreign character assumed by the sellers and purchasers in them, with the liberty of mixing in a tasty and tattling promenade, of seeing every thing and hearing aolians and musical boxes. Here the hungry may be refreshed by pastry. The bride or widow choose her caplovers select presents-married ladies buy infants' dresses. Children may be treated with toys, books, enamels, crayons, scraps, albums, dolls, jewellery, wax, Cutlery, glass wares, shells, turnery; in short, the varieties are so many and the opportunities so inviting, no generous dispositions can quit Bazaars without tokens of their visit. Tired of playing at draughts with the dual Siamese, weary of laughing at the Pantomimes, doubtful of keeping company with the Lady Elephant, lest rivals should call us to Chalk Farm, we seek after the next whim of fashion, and burst the last bubble of novelty. · The Royal London Bazaar' is a fine building, over the 'Horse Repository, Gray's Inn Lane.' There are two entrances which are tastily fitted, and by flights of steps lead to the great room, the ceiling of which is richly embossed by medallions and flower leaf; the gilt moulding and architectural entablatures, relieved by pink and green, with the light opening of two elegant

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NEW year's day is a terrible day in France for those who have many acquaintances. It is a day both of expense and fatigue; for it is kept up with all the good old ceremonies of new-year's gifts and bonbons, which even the mania of the Revolution was not able to do away. For many days before, all the confectioners in France are engaged in fabricating sugar-plums of every kind and description; nor let it be supposed that this is a mere manual operation; it is one of the most trying exercises of the invention. A French confectioner's reputation, his honour, is at stake; and I should never be surprised to hear that some sugar artist, of nice feelings, had drowned himself in syrup, like a fly, if he were to fail in producing something for le premier de l'an such as had never been heard of before. It cannot be long, however, before their imagination must come to a standstill, for they have literally exhausted worlds and then imagined new; and during the week which precedes the end of the year, their shop-windows are filled with imitations, in sugar, of every thing he mind of man can conceive. The most disgusting, and the most tempting, filth and sentiment, refinement and indelicacy, are all jumbled together-a true picture of

the nation.

On the last evening of 1824, in buying the bonbons necessary for our visits of the next day, we saw a multitude of choice specimens. The shop of Monsieur Pagés, at Bordeaux, was filled to suffocation. The younger part of the community was eager after what are called cossaques; and perceiving that a body of young ladies, from the age of sixteen to eighteen

*It is a flattering politeness to the company to be waited on in the visit to the Rooms by men servants in green liveries with gold trimmings.

were making prodigious devastation on a pile of bonbons wrapped in paper couleur de rose, we took some out of curiosity. They consisted of super-excellent sugar-plums, enveloped either in a copy of tender verses, or a romance with the music. The first which I opened contained

L'INCERTITUDE. -ROMANCE. Musique de Mde. Duvivier. "Serait-il vrai? les entendrai-je encore Ces doux accens qui charmerent mon cœur ? Ou d'un bonheur detruit a son aurore, Le souvenir causee-t'il mon erreur ?"

Close by this sentimental heap was a pile of what appeared china-ware, consisting of certain utensils generally appropriated to bed-rooms; these we found to be made of sugar.

Besides the presents, of more or less: value, you are obliged to buy for all the children that you may be acquainted with, as soon as the eventful morning arrives, your purse-strings must be undrawn to all those who can raise the least pretension to having served you during the last year; for every one comes for his etrenne, and there is no danger of forgetting any. Sterne, if I remember right, met with but one pauvre honteux in the course of his travels; since then, the breed is extinct. The next thing is to pay your visits; and, provided with five hundred cards and a sack of bonbons, you set out to call upon every body you ever saw or heard of. The customs on this occasion vary in different parts of France, but generally the ladies are at home. You enter, converse for two minutes, pay your tribute of bonbons, which varies from half-a-pound to a pound, according to rank, &c. and then proceed somewhere else to go through the

same ceremony.

As all the male part of your acquaintance are actively engaged in performing the same duty, a card at their door is all that is required. Some families, whose acquaintance is large, and who do not receive in the morning, hang a box at their door for the cards. It has become rather bon ton now to send the visiting tickets; and in some small towns, the servants meet at a certain hour in the principal square, and exchange the cards of their masters, to save themselves the trouble of carrying them.

A single hour of relaxation seems enough to intoxicate the French. Everywhere this is a day of bustle, confusion, aud gaiety beyond all description. Cabriolets, carriages, and vehicles of every kind and sort, are rolling about the streets in all directions. Every one you meet asks you how many cards you have left;

and proclaims his own feats. All the world seems mad, and the talismanic word is "Cartes."

FUNERALS IN FRANCE.

It was on one of the first days of the year that I saw the body of poor Lartique carried by my windows. I had dined with him a week before in high health, but a bilious attack and three French phy. sicians soon brought him to the last gasp. The day he died they ordered him to be put into a warm bath with two raw calves' feet, but he escaped the operation by giving up the ghost, and in fourand-twenty hours after they carried him to his long home; for the French are in as great a hurry to put the earth upon their dead as if they were afraid of their coming to life again.

Death, and all that appertains to death -that mysterious fate which we must all submit to that horizon of life's sky, where all earthly objects terminate, is ever an object of strange interest to man. It is singular, too, to observe how fond we are of decking out death with pomp. We cling to these last ceremonies, we give all the show of pride to our grief, Every nation, from the savage of the Pacific to the cultivated European, (as if there were an innate consciousness in man that death's sleep was but for a time,) loads the inanimate clay with honours, and carries it to the grave as if in triumph. There seems more in it than com

mon sorrow.

In France, the funerals are very various. In large towns there is generally a mixture of dustiness, and pomp, and indecorum, which leaves little solemnity. The choir go forth from the church to meet the body, and there would be something striking in the procession, with the symbols of our salvation carried before it, were it not for a man who plays upon the serpent to keep the others in time, and the evident inattention with which the whole party go through the routine.

The mourners, too, who consist of all, even the most remote acquaintances of the deceased, do not much tend to give solemnity to the scene; for, following two and two in a string, sometimes of several hundreds, they amuse themselves the best way they can by talking to their neighbour, and do not always keep up even the appearance of gravity.

The cemeteries are always beautiful. We must not examine into these things too closely. I have been told that there are people who pay the keepers of these gardens of the dead to do those little honours to the grave which they themselves are too negligent in doing; yet, if there

be but one in a hundred, (and I am sure there are more,) who, in the simplicity of their sorrow, with their own hands raise flowers in the turf which covers the last object of their love, it is a beautiful tribute to departed affection, and an honour to a nation not too much famed for steadiness.

The only funeral I have seen which struck me much in France, was at a village not very far from Calais. It was that of a country girl. The cross was carried in front by a little boy, and after him came the priest, a venerable old man, with his head bare. Several village girls held the pall, which was strewed with flowers; and then came the mourners, who were few, but they seemed sincere ones, and amongst them were six nuns of a neighbouring convent. The girl had been a favourite, it seems, of the good sisters; and their peculiar dress, and long black veils floating in the air, gave it a curious and solemn effect; while a simple child, clad in white, who went before the whole and strewed the way with wild flowers, seemed picturing the former existence of her they carried to her long home. Her way through life had been over flowers, like her path to the grave.

I wished to hear something more of her history, and inquired amongst the peasantry in the neighbourhood. She had been one of those creatures that seem placed out of their sphere. They told me that she had always been brighter, and gentler, and more beautiful than any in the village; but, as she grew up, her health failed, they knew not why, and she passed away like a bud too delicate to expand in this cold world. They had all loved her, they said, and they all wept

for her.

The manner of announcing the death of a friend in France is extraordinary. I copy one of these funeral letters, without any addition or alteration whatever, except in the names of the parties, which is evidently necessary.

"A Monsieur M. Y

"M.-Madame veuve Pontet, Monsieur et Madame Louis Pontet, Monsieur et Madame Augustin Brissac, Monsieur et Madame Girodin, Monsieur et Madame Felix Parny, Monsieur Leon et Mademoiselle Eliza Pontet, Monsieur Charles Brissac, Monsieur et Madame Claude Pontet, Madame Lanjay, Madame Pellon, Monsieur Charles et Mademoiselle Adele Girodin, Monsieur et Madame Jean Charles Pontet, Monsieur et Madame Jean Français Pontet, Monsieur Eugène Pontet, Monsieur et Madame Pierre Pontet, Madame veuve Pontet Crillard, Madame veuve Girodin, Madame et Mon

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