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At Vittoria a splendid victory was mily, and his language, will explain the na

ture both of the formation and the feelings gained over the French, and he was

of these guerilla corps better, perhaps, than lefi on guard

a far more detailed account of it. I asked " The streets of the town," he remarks,

him where he lived, and under whom he 4 were all bustle and confusion : here cars,

served ? Senor,' said he, 'I have no home, filled indiscriminately with French, English,

no relations, nothing save my country and and Portuguese, wounded, were convey.

my sword. My father was led out, and ing their groaning brethren to the convents shot in the market-place of my native vilallotted for their hospitals. The ground, lage ; our cottage was burned, my mother for nearly a square league, was covered died of grief, and iny wife, who had been ruwith the wreck of carriages, cars, chests, ined by the enemy, fled to me, then a voland baggage ; and here and there whole unteer with Palifox, and died in my arms, fields were literally white with thickly scat- in a hospital in Saragossa. I serve under tered papers. In their search for money, no particular chief. I ain too iniserable, I the widiers had ransacked everything and feel too revengeful, to support the restraint the soldiers had ransacked every thing, and strewn out papers, returns, and official doc. of discipline, and the delay of maneuvre. uments, that had been for years, perhaps, I go on any enterprise I hear off; if I am accumulating You saw the finest military poor, on foot; if chance, or plupder, have books and maps trod under foot, and utter. made me rich, on horseback : I follow the ly spoilt by the rain."

boldest leader; but I have sworn never to

dress a vine or ploughthe field till the enemy It would be perhaps difficult to se are driven out of Spain.'- I have often beard lect a more painful anecdote connected these Guerillas spoken of as irregular and with the battle of Vittoria than the fol

lawless banditti, who only fought for and

subsisted on plunder. It is true they did lowing...

subsist on plunder, but it was the plander of " A paymaster had two sons, lieutenants their enemies. They were not paid, and in the corps in which he served. He was a could not live without support. Feelings, widower, and hail no relation beside these deadly feelings of revenge, drove them to youths ; they lived in his tent, were his exchange the plough and the pruning-book pride and delight. The civil staff of a for the sword and the lance; and as their regiment usually remain with the baggage free and haughty spirit rejected the idea of when the troops engage, and join them with

ons engage and join them with serving in the ranks as soldiers, in no way t afterwards. In the evening, when this could they give up their time to war but by paymaster came up, an officer met hiin.- plundering where they conquered."

My boys,' said the old man,' how are In the midst of our animating career they? Have they done their duty. They of victory, when the heart of every have behaved most nobly, but you have lost - Which of thein ?' Alas! both;

soldier must have beat high at the idea they are numbered with the dead.'” of entering France with his triumphant

commander and army, our author was It is to the honour of our gallant destined to experience one of those insoldiery, that the bookseller in Vittoria, dividual reverses of fortune, which so who had a good assortment of classic often occasions private sorrow in the and French authors, declared that he midst of public joy. Upon one of the had sold more books to the British in a m

a mountainous beights on which his defortnight, than he had for two years to

tachment was posted to defend the pass, the French constantly passing through they were surprised by a superior force the city.

of the enemy, and our young officer Throughout the work before us we

we was taken prisoner. But he discovers have seen the Spanish character drawn the

in the same candour in the recollection of

- this painful scene, as in his other relather the following description of the tions. He tells us Guerillas will be thought to confirm

that he owed his

life to the care of a French officer, who this is questionable. There seems in

ere seems in exclaimed -- Un

v them that national taint of proud fero-en

Francais sait re v

specter les braves," and embraced.cious cruelty which so disgraced the Spa. He has entered into no further account niards in America and in the Nether- of his adventures.--Here he leaves us, lands.

and we too will quit, though not with " In a village three leagues from Pampe. out regret, the lively, interesting relator, luna I met with a very fine man, a native with whom we have travelled through of Arragon, and a Guerilla. He was wounded in the leg, and of course, for a

so many pleasant pages, with alnost time, incapable of service. The circum- the last anecdote he has given us.- His stances of his situation, the fate of bis fan most intimate and valued friend was

also brought in a prisoner from another enfans ces Anglais, ils pleurent." "Ah! part of the field. This meeting over- mon ami,” said his companion, “ vous came him ; and he shed tears. — “ Re- ne connoisez pas les Anglais ; ces ne gardez donc," said a vulgar looking sont pas les larmes de l'enfance qu'ils French officer, who was observing us, versent." Regardez donc comme ils sont des

(Lon. Mag.)
ORIGINAL POETRY.

STANZAS
TO THE MEMORY OF RICHARD ALLEN.

Thou know'st, that we two went to school together --Shakspeare.

Filch'd the gold apricot, to eat
In darkness, as a pillow treat,
Or " urged the flying ball!"

6.
Supreme at taw! at prisoner's base
The gallant greyhound of the chase !

Matchless at boop and quick,
Quick as a squirrel at a tree
And where's the trout could fleeter be

Through the wave, than thou, dear Dick ?

WHAT! School-fellow, art gone ?-It nigh
Staggers my heart that Thou should'st die,

Life seem'd in the eterne!
Oh Dick ! if death could quiet thee,-
Man may conless the mastery,
And mutely wait bis turn!

2.
Dead ! Gallant Dick !-Companion boon
Of my wild Thursday afternoon !

No longer we shall thread
The bedges wherë the linnets build,
Nor have our pockets marble fill'd ;-
I'm married : thou art dead!

3.
Let me remember thee awhile !
Thy restless eye and constant smile,

Thy sbape so blythe and slim ;-
It is my comfort now, and joy,
I knew thee nothing but the boy,

The veriest soul of whim!

But all is over |--we no more
Shall, arm in arm, the fields explore !

Or o'er the self-same book,
Sit through a holiday, and con
The life of that lone Robinson
Who to desert Islands took :

8. The grass is o'er thee !-Kingcups now Hang their gold bells above thy brow ?-

And sweet will be thy sleep : In a country church-yard thou art laid ;And the trees, beneath which thou hast play'd Will their summer singing keep !

9.
Well-thou art dead and it is best
That thou should'st go all Youth to rest!

Age waits to prey on joy :
Earth, wben it took thee, never gave,
Dear Dick, to the remorseless grave,
Such an untamed boy!

Edward Ward, Jum

What is that light and shining hair

the grave ?--Those arms, free as the air, Straighten'd by thy cold side ?-And can those feet that ran with mine But yesterday,Those feet of thine,

la wasting sloth abide ?

5.

Thou wert the blithest lad, that ever Haunted a wood, or fish'd a river,

Or from the neighbour's-wall

(Gentlemau's Magazine, May.)

TO LORD BYRON.
On reading his “ Stanza on the Silver Foot of a Skull mounted as a Cup for Wine.”

BY THOMAS MOORE.

WHY bast thou bound around, with silver trim,

c ypeopled palacefthe Look on it now ! deserted, bleacher, and grim,

Is this, thou feverisb man, thy festal bowl? Is this the cup wberein thou seek'st the balm,

Each brigbter chalice to thy lips denies ? Is this the oblivious bowl wbose floods becalm,

rue worm that will not sleep and nover dies?

Woe to the lip to which this cup is held !

The lip that's palled with every purer draught; For which alone the rifled grave can yield

A goblet worthy to be deeply quafied.
Strip, then, this glittering mockery from the skull,

Restore the relic to its tomb again ;
And seek a healing balm within the bowl,

The blessed bowl that no cr flowed in vain.

(Europ. Mag.)
THE SON AND HEIR.

I do not wish to mention how the following pages came into my possession. I scarcely know to whose history they relate : but have ai times imagined to that of an Earl of A 1, wbose story bore some resemblance to the circumstances here mentioned. These papers, few as they are, seem evidently imperfect, and were, I should think, bastily and carelessly written. I have inquired in vain after those which are wanting, for the conclusion is certainly abrupt and unsatisfactory.

Cyril. August the 1st, A. D. **** My youth was passed in the thoughtT DO heartily thank my God, that I less and extravagant gaiety of the I have at last determined to write French court My temper was always down in detail many circumstances con- violent; and I returned home one nected with the event which has made morning, long after midnight, frantic my life on earth a state of shame and with rage at some imaginary insult misery. I am a less wretched creature which I had received. My servant than I have been ; but there is no rest endeavoured to speak to me as I enterfor my wounded spirit. till it shall ed the house, but I repulsed him vioplease the blessed God to take me from lently, and rushed up to my rooin. I this world. I dare to hope that death locked the door, and sat down instantwill take with my poor mortal body, ly to write a challenge. My hand tremthe load of guilt and anguish which bled so much that it would not hold the now lieth heavy on my spirit. I found pen: I started up and paced the room : not this hope in myself: I knew not of the pen was again in my hand, when I it, till I read of one who washeth with heard a low voice speaking earnestly at his blood the guilty conscience : who the door entreating to be admitted. with his searching spirit visits the loath. The voice was that of my father's old some chambers of the heart : and ale and favourite servant. I opened the though bis light showetb there sins long door to him. The old man looked upforgotten, or all unobserved till then, on me with a sorrowful countenance, each one bearing a visible form and and I hastily demanded the reason of substance ; yet there is a peace that his appearance. He stared at me with the world knoweth dot, which cometh surprise, but spoke not : he walked to often where tbat purest light had shi- the table where I had sat down, and ned long. Do I dream ? or hath not took from it a letter which in my rage this light, this sacred peace, come into I had not noticed. It announced to my sad heart? the light and peace are me the dangerous illness of my father; but one spirit, but the nature of that it was written by my mother, and inspirit is such, that, till it hath purged treatingly besought me instantly to re. from the sight its dull and mortal mists, turn to them— Before dawn I was far the soul seeth nothing but its dazzling from Paris. My father's residence was brightness. Then gradually doth the in the north of England. I arrived light take unto itself a form, even that here only in time to follow the corse dove-like form which descended visibly of my beloved father to the grave. on the head of the meekest and holiest Immediately on my return from the son of man.

funeral, my mother sent to me, reWhat I am about to write, I wish to questing my attendance in her own be seen ; I would make my story a apartment. Traces of a deep-seated warning to others. I would wish my grief were fresh upon her fine countecrime to be known, my memory to be nance, but she received me with calm execrated in this world, if by means of seriousness. Love for her living child my example the remorse which I feel had struggled with her sorrow for the might be spared to another ; if the re- dead; and she had chosen that hour to membrance of my guilt might cool the rouse ine from the follies, from the Ĩ of some individual whose disposition always a superior woman. I felt, as may resemble mine.

I listened to her, the real dignity of a

Christian matron's character. She won years had passed away, and every day me by the truth, the affection, the gen- endeared my sweet wife to my heart, tleness of her words. She spoke but I was not quite happy. We had plainly of my degrading conduct, but no child; I had but one wish ; one she did not upbraid me. She set be- blessing seemed alone denied the fore me the new duties which I was birth of a son. My thoughts, in all called upon to perform. She said, " I their wanderings, reverted to one hope know you will not trifle with those du- the birth of a son-an heir to the ties. You are not your own, my son ; name, the rank, the estates of my fayou must not live to yourself ; you pro- mily. When I knelt before God, I sess the name of Christian, you can forgot to pray that he would teach me hold no higher profession. God hath what to pray for ; I did not intreat

thine heart. Have you given your to use what his goodness gave. No, heart and its desires to God? Can I prayed as for my life, I prayed withyou be that pitiful creature-a half out ceasing, but I chose the blessing.-Christian ? I have spoken thus, be- I prayed for a son-my prayers were cause I know that if you have clear at last granted, a son was born unto ideas of your first duties, and do strive us-a beautiful healthy boy. I thought to perform them, then will your rela- myself perfectly happy. My delight tive duties be no longer lightly regard- was more than ever to live in the ed. Oh my son, God knows what I pleasant retirement of my own house, feel in speaking to you thus in my hea- so that year after year passed away, viest hour of affliction, and I can only and only settled me down more entire speak as a feeble and perplexed woman. ly in the habits of domestic life. My I know not how to counsel you, but I boy grew up to be a tall and healthy do beseech you, to think for yourself, lad; his intellect was far beyond his and to pray earnestly to God for his years; and I loved to make him my wisdom and guidance." Before I left companion, as much from the charm. my mother's presence, she spoke to me ing freshness of his thoughts, as from also on my master passion, anger, mad the warınth of my attachment towards ungovernable rage. She told me that the child. I learned to wonder at the even in the early years of my child- satisfaction I once felt in mere worldly hood, she had trembled at my anger, society, as I studied the character of she confessed that she had dreaded to my son. He was not without the hear while I was absent, that it had faults which all children possess, which plunged me into some horrid crime.- are rooted deep in human nature ; but She knew not how just her fears had in all his faults, in all bis deceits, and been ; for had not my father's death what child is not taught deceit by his recalled me to England, I should pro- own heart? there was a charming awkbably have been the murderer of that wardness, an absence of all worldly thoughtless stripling who had voknow- trick, which appeared then very new to ingly provoked me, and whom I was me. I used all my efforts to prevent about to challenge to fight on the morn- vice from becoming habitual to him ; ing I left Versailles.

I strove to teach him the government My mother did not speak to me in of himself, by referring not only every vain. I determined to turn at once action, but every thought, to one high from my former ways, to regulate my and holy principle of thinking and actconduct by the high and holy princi- ing to God; and I strove to build up ples of the religion I professed, and to consistent habits on the foundation of reside on my own estate in habits of holy principle. I was so anxious manly and domestic simplicity. about my son that I did not dare to

About three years after I had suc- treat his faults with a foolish indulceeded to the titles and possessions of gence. I taught him to know that I my forefathers, I became the husband could punish, and that I would be of the Lady Jane N- ve, and I obeyed; yet he lived with me, I think, thought myself truly happy. Two in all confidence of speech and action, and seemed never so happy as when sparkling eyes glancing with intellihe sat at my feet, and asked me, in the gence ; his fair brow contracted with eagerness of his happy fancies, more that slight and peculiar frown, which questions than I could, in truth, an- gives assurance that the mind shares in swer. I cannot go on speaking thus the smile of the lips. , Often do I see of those joyous times which are gone before me the pure glow flooding over forever-İ will turn to a darker sub- his cheek, the waves of bright hair ject--to myself. While I gave up my floating away from his shoulders, as he time, my thoughts, my soul's best en- gallopped full in the face of the fine ergies to my child, I neglected myself, free wind. the improvement of my own heart and My boy loved his Araby courser, as its disposition. This may seem strange all noble-spirited boys love a favourite and iinprobable to some. It may be horse. He loved to dress, and to feed, imagined that the habits of strict virtue and to caress the beautiful creature ; which I taught to my son would, in the and Selim knew his small gentle hand, teaching, have been learnt by myself; and would arch his sleek and shining and that, in the search after sound wis- neck when the boy drew nigh, and dom for him, I must have turned up as turn his dark lustrous eye with a look it were inany treasures needed by my- like that of pleased recognition on him, self. It would be so in most instances when his master spoke. perchance ; it was not so in mine.

My child was about eleven years old The glory of God had not been my at the time I must now speak of. He first wish when I prayed for a son. I usually passed many hours of the mornhad imposed upon myself in thinking ing in the library with me. It was on that I acted in the education of niy the 17th of June, a lovely spring mornchild upon that sacred principle. It ing, Maurice had been very restless was honour among men that I looked and inattentive to his books. The sunfor. I had sought to make my son beams dazzled his eyes, and the fresh every thing that was excellent, but I wind fluttered among the pages before had not sought to make myself fit for him. The boy removed his books,and the work I undertook. My own natu- sat down at a table far from the open ral faults had been suffered by me to window. I turned round an hour af. grow almost unchecked, while I had ter from a volume which had abstract been watchful over the heart of my ed all my thoughts. The weather was child. Above all, the natural infirmity very hot, and the poor child had fallen of my character anger, violent out- fast asleep. He started up at once rageous anger, was at times the master, when I spoke. I asked biin if he could the tyrant of my soul. Too frequent

[• say his lesson ? He replied, “ Yes." ly had I corrected my child for the and brought the book instantly ; but fault which he inherited from me ; but he scarcely knew a word, and he seemhow have I done so ? when passion- ed careless, and even indifferent. I ately angry myself, I had punished my blamed him, and he replied petulanıly. boy for want of temper. Could it be I had given back the book to him, when expected that Maurice would profit by a servant entered, and told me that a my instruction, when my example too person was waiting my presence below. often belied my words ? But I will I desired the boy, somewhat with an pass on at once to my guilt.

angry tone, not to stir from the room The Countess, my mother, had given till I returned, and then to let me bear to Maurice a beautiful Arabian horse. him say his lesson perfectly. He pro

manly exercises. While a mere child closet opening from the library ; the he rode with a grace which I have selwindow of this closet overlooks the dom seen surpassed by the best horse- stable. Probably the dear child obey. men. How pobly would he bear him. ed me in learning perfectly his lesson ; self, as side by side on our fleet horses, but I was detained long; and he went we flew over the open country! Often, to the closet in which I had allowed often do I behold in memory his clear him to keep the books belonging to

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