old the bower of brave lords and ladies bright-while the harper, as he sang his song of love or war, kept his eyes fixed on her who sat beneath the deas. The days of chivalry were gone-and the days had come of curds and cream, and, preferred by some people, though not by us, of creamcheese. Old men and old women, widowers and widows, yet all alike cheerful and chatty at a great age, for often as they near the dead, how more life-like seem the living! Middle-aged men and middle-aged women, husbands and wives, those sedate with hair combed straight on their foreheads, sun-burnt faces, and horny hands established on their knees, these serene with countenances many of them not unlovely-comely all-and with arms decently folded beneath their matronly bosoms-as they sat in their holiday dresses, feeling as if the season of youth had hardly yet flown by, or were, on such a merry meeting, for a blink restored! Boys and virgins-those bold even in their bashfulness, these blushing whenever eyes met eyes-nor would they could they have spoken in the hush to save their souls-yet ere the evening star arose, many a pretty maiden had, down-looking and playing with the hem of her garment, sung linnetlike her ain favorite auld Scottish sang! and many a sweet sang even then delighted Scotia's spirit, though Robin Burns was but a boy-walking mute among the wild flowers on the moor-nor aware of the immortal melodies soon to breathe from his impassioned heart! Of all the year's holidays, not even excepting the First of May, this was the most delightful. The First of May, longed for so passionately from the first peep of the primrose, sometimes came deformed with mist and cloud, or cheerless with whistling winds, or winter-like with a sudden fall of snow. And thus all our hopes were dashed-the roomy hay-waggon remained in its shed-the preparations made for us in the distant moorland farin-house were vain-the fishing rods hung useless on the nails-and disconsolate schoolboys sat moping in corners, sorry, ashamed, and angry with Scotland's springs. But though the " leafy month of June" be frequently showery, it is almost always sunny too. Every half hour there is such a radiant blink that the young heart sings aloud for joy; summer rain makes the hair grow, and hats are of little or no use towards the Longest Day; there is something cheerful even in thunder, if it be not rather too near; the lark has not yet ceased altogether to sing, for he soars over his second nest unappalled beneath the sablest cloud; the green earth repels from her refulgent bosom the blackest shadows, nor will suffer herself to be saddened in the fulness and brightness of her bliss; through the heaviest flood the blue skies will still be making their appearance with an impatient smile, and all the rivers and burns with the multitude of their various voices, sing praises unto heaven. Therefore, bathing our feet in joy, we went bounding over the flowery fields and broomy braes to the grovegirdled Craig-Hall. During the long noisy day, we thought not of the coming evening, happy as we knew it was to be; and during the long and almost as noisy evening, we forgot all the pastime of the day. Weeks before, had each of us engaged his partner for the first country-dance, by right his own, when supper came, and to sit close to him with her tender side, with waist at first stealthily armencircled, and at last boldly and almost with proud display. In the church-yard, before or after Sabbathservice, a word whispered into the ear of blooming and blushing rustic sufficed; or if that opportunity failed, the angler had but to step into her father's burn-side cottage, and with the contents of his basket, leave a tender request, and from behind the gableend, carry away a word, a smile, a kiss, and a waving farewell. Many a high-roofed hall have we, since those days, seen made beautiful with festoons and garlands, beneath in presence of these strange plants, the hand of taste and genius decorating, for some splendid festival, the abode of the noble expecting a still nobler guest. But oh! what pure bliss, and what profound, was then breathed into the bosom of boyhood from that glorious branch of hawthorn, in the chimney-itself almost a tree, so thick-so deep-so rich its load of blossoms,-so like its fragrance to something breathed from heaven-and so transitory in its sweetness too, that as she approached to inhale it, down fell many a snow-flake to the virgin's breath-in an hour all melted quite away! No broom that now-a-days grows on the brae, so yellow as the broom-the golden broom -the broom that seemed still to keep the hills in sunlight long after the sun himself had sunk-the broom in which we first found the lintwhite's nestand of its petals, more precious than pearls, saw framed a wreath for the dark hair of that dark-eyed girl, an orphan, and melancholy even in her merriment, dark-haired and dark-eyed indeed, but whose forehead, whose bosom, were yet whiter than the driven snow. Green-houses, conservatories, orangeries are exquisitely balmy still-and, one could believe that he had been transported to some rich foreign clime. But then we carry the burden of our years along with us-and that consciousness bedims the beauty of the blossoms, and makes mournful the balm as from flowers in some fair burial-place, breathing of the tomb. But oh! that Craig-Hall hawthorn! and oh! that Craig-Hall broom! they send their sweet rich scent so far into the hushed air of memory, that all the weary worn-out weaknesses of age drop from us like a garment, and even now-the flight of that swallow seems more aerial-more alive with Bliss his clay-built nest-the ancient long-ago blue of the sky returns to heavennot for many a many a long year have we seen so fair-so frail-so transparent and angel-mantle-looking a cloud! The very viol speaks-the very dance responds in Craig-Hall-this-this is the very Festival of the First Day of the Rooks-Mary Mather, the pride of the parish-the county-the land— the earth-is our partner-and long mayest thou, O moon! remain behind thy cloud-when the parting kiss is given, and the love-letter, at that tenderest moment, dropped into her bosom! DUELS IN FRANCE. DUELS had at one time become so frequent in France as to require particular enactments for their prevention; as, for example, when the debt about which any dispute occurred did not amount to five-pence. The regulation of the mode in which the barbarous custom might be maintained, had engaged the attention of several of the French kings. In 1205 Philip Augustus restricted the length of the club, with which single combat was then pursued, to three feet; and in 1260 Saint Louis abolished the practice of deciding civil matters by duelling. With the revival of literature and the arts, national manners became ameliorated, and duels necessarily declined. It was still, however, not unusual for the French to promote or to behold those single combats over which the pages of romance have thrown a delusive charm, and which were, in early times, hallowed, in the opinion of the vulgar, by their accompanying superstitious ceremonies.When any quarrel had been referred to this mode of decision, the parties met on the appointed day, and frequently in an open space, overshadowed by the walls of a convent, which thus lent its sanction to the bloody scene. From day-break the people were generally employed in erecting scaffolds and stages, and in placing themselves upon the towers and ramparts of the adjacent buildings. About noon, the cavalcade was usually seen to arrive at the door of the lists; then the herald cried, "Let the appellant appear," and his summons was answered by the entrance of the challenger, armed cap-a-pie, the escutcheon suspended from his neck, his visor lowered, and an image of some national saint in his hand. He was allowed to pass within the lists, and conducted to his tent. The accused person likewise appeared, and was led in the same manner to his tent. Then the herald, in his robe embroidered with fleur-de-lis, advanced to the centre of the lists, and exclaimed, "Oyez, oyez ! lords, knights, squires, people of all condition, our sovereign lord, by the grace of God, King of France, forbids you, on pain of death or confiscation of goods, either to cry out, to speak, to cough, to spit, or to make signs." During a profound silence, in which nothing but the murmurs of the unconscious streamlet, or the chirping of birds, might be heard, the combatants quitted their tents, to take individually the two first oaths. When the third oath was to be administered, it was customary for them to meet, and for the marshal to take the right hand of each and to place it on the cross. Then the functions of the priest began; and the usual address, endeavoring to conciliate the angry passions of the champions, and to remind them of their common dependence on the Supreme Being, may have tended to benefit the bystanders, although it generally failed of its effect with the combatants. If the parties persisted, the last oath was administered. The combatants were obliged to swear solemnly that they had neither about them nor their horses, stone, nor herb, nor charm, nor invocation; and that they would fight only with their bodily strength, their weapons, and their horses. The crucifix and breviary were then presented to them to kiss; the parties retired into their tents, the heralds uttering their last admonition to exertion and courage, and the challengers rushed forth from their tents, which were immediately dragged from within the lists. Then the marshal of the field having cried out, “Let them pass," the seconds retired. The combatants instantly mounted their horses, and the contest commenced. ROBERT MONTGOMERY'S NEW VOLUME.* WE think the author is more accurate and less bombastic in the present volume, than in his "Omnipresence of the Deity;" and there is certainly little trace of that uncharitable spirit that was so obvious in his " Puffiad” and his " Age Reviewed." It would be strange, indeed, if such a disposition were so conspicuously displayed in a work of this nature; though we are compelled to confess, that in the poem entitled "A Vision of Hell," the subject, though not the form, of which, must have been suggested by Southey's "Vision of Judgment," there is something of that daring presumption with which the Laureate has pretended to dive into the hidden Notwith councils of the Almighty. standing this, there is a great deal both of pious and poetical feeling in the volume; and as we are weary of pointing out his faults, as a poet, which, though less numerous in the present instance, are of the same description as those we have already brought fully home to the author, in our notices of his former works, we shall select a few of the best passages in the book, and make better use of our space than by appropriating any portion of it to unfavorable specimens. The first poem in the volume, entitled the "Universal Prayer," is the last in merit. It is a very feeble echo of the "Omnipresence of the Deity,” in A Universal Prayer; Death; a Vision of Heaven; and a Vision of Hell. By Robert Montgomery, author of the "Omnipresence of the Deity," &c. &c. 4to. London, 1828. A distant landscape, dawning forth amid From out the flower, nor sting his baby hand; morn With gleeful song, then o'er the bladed mead "And in the joyous eye of daily Life, How frequent Death will thrust his woful face! 30 ATHENEUM, VOL. 1, 3d series. See! where they come, the dark-robed funeral train, Solemn as silent thunder-clouds athwart The noon day sky: from heaven a radiance dyes The flowing pall with laughing hues of light; Around life moves his mighty throng, and deep The death-bells boom along the ebbing air: But one poor week hath vanish'd,-and that form, Now clay-cold in the narrow coffin stretch'd, Stalk'd o'er the street that takes him to his tomb! Before them with a busy hum, then close The following couplet is, we think, extremely pretty : "Poor lady! then her thoughts grew into tears, And every tear ran burning from her heart!" Our next extract is a touching description of a female dying of consumption. "A year hath travell'd o'er the sea of time; And now the shadows of the grave grow dark Upon the maiden; yet no mournful wail, Or word abrupt, betrays unlovely thoughts Of gloom and discontent within; she dies As gently as delicious sound; not false To present scenes, and yet prepared to die. Beautiful resignation, and the hopes That well from out the fountain of her faith, Have breathed around her a seraphic air Of wither'd loveliness. The gloss of life And worldly dreams are o'er; but dewy Morn, And dim-eyed Eve, and all the inward gleams Of rapture, darted from regretted joys,Delight her still: and oft when twilight comes, She'll gaze upon the damask glow of heaven With all the truth of happier days, until A sunny fancy wreathes her faded cheek ;'Tis but a pleasing echo of the past, A music rolling from remember'd hours." The following picture of virtuous old age is pleasing. To passion, and the wildering dreams of hope, The gray and venerable charm of years: The author next presents us with some reflections upon his own youth. "I sing of Death; yet soon perchance may be A dweller in the tomb. But twenty years Have wither'd since my pilgrimage began, And I look back upon my boyish days With mournful joy; as musing wand'rers do, With eye reverted, from some lofty hill, Upon the bright and peaceful vale below.Oh! let me live, until the fires that feed « Vision of Hell." Both these poems have passages worthy of quotation, but our space is limited. Then comes a poem entitled "Beautiful Influences," which proves that the author can fell deeply the attractions of external nature. The verses "On seeing a celebrated Poet" (who it could My soul, have work'd themselves away, and have been we cannot easily imagine), then, Eternal Spirit, take me to Thy home! For when a child, I shaped inspiring dreams, And nourish'd aspirations that awoke A harvest of sweet thoughts, for future years." The "Vision of Heaven" is the next poem, which is succeeded by the which, though sometimes fervent and impassioned, have too many of the author's peculiar faults to allow of our reading them with pleasure, conclude the volume. Whatever the author may think, we have perused his work, and written this brief notice of it, in the most indulgent spirit. THE WARDS OF LONDON.* THIS is one of those light, amusing publications, which may serve to wile away an idle hour, or to furnish the fireside of the busy citizen with a pleasant evening's reading. It contains an account of the topography and history of the various districts of London, information concerning the origin, structure, and object of the institutions and edifices within the range of the metropolis, and anecdotes, with brief portraits, of the eminent men who have been born, have lived, or died here, under circumstances of any peculiar notoriety. Its author has evidently exerted much industry in compiling his narrative from ancient and authentic sources; and though his work has no pretensions to what we may call a literary character, yet it is written in that lively, rambling manner, which is probably best adapted for a miscellany of the kind. Through the heavy mass of antiquarian lore, the histories of public places, and the records of worthies of the good old times, Mr. Thomas works his way with a sprightly vigor, that carries his reader unwearied to the end. It is indeed one of the most amusing local histories which we have lately met. There is a curious satisfaction in ex amining the ancient boundaries of the metropolis, and tracing its progressive advancement down to the present period, when it has become almost the capital of the civilized world—a little world within itself. We are glad to perceive that the author has not plunged, with malice prepense, into the darkness of the musty legends, which may do well enough for an occasional reference, but never fail to prevent a book from being at all readable. They are only brought in, when necessary to illustrate a description, or when containing in themselves something worthy of particular attention. We could not help smiling at a list which he gives of various companies, called into existence by the success of the famous South Sea imposture. Among these stand honorably conspicuous, one for insurance against divorces; another to teach men to cast nativities; a third, of vast importance to commerce, for making deal-boards of saw-dust; a fourth, equally essential to human comfort, for drawing butter from beech-trees; and sundry more, which we cannot well transcribe into our pages. There is also an amusing part of the volume, where he breaks into a pathetic lamentation over the * The Wards of London. Vol. I. By Henry Thomas. 8vo. London, 1828. |