Chiariella, Little Clear One.

Angela, Angelica, Angel, Angelic.

Ginevra, Gineura, the Juniper. The name of Ariosto's mistress.
Fiordiligi, Flower of Lily.

Fiordispina, Flower of Thorn. A good name for an infant welcomed in the midst of distress.

Bianca, White, Very Fair.

Graziosa, Graceful or Gracious.

Erminia, Fond of Solitude? or from Ermine ?

Alba, the Dawn, Fair as Daylight.

Rosalba, Rosy Dawn, or White Rose.

Rosabella, Beautiful Rose.

Rosetta, Rosalia, Rosina, Little Rose. Fr, Rosette, Rosalie.
Rosaura, Air of Roses.

NAMES FROM THE ENGLISH POETS.

Una, the Only One. Unless it came from the Irish Oonagh, of which we know not the signification.

Amoret, a Little Love.

Florimel, Honey of Flowers.

Belphœbe, Fair Phoebe.

Marinel, of the Sea.

Elf, Elfin, Elfilin, Elfinore, Quick, Nimble Spirit.

Alma, Genial, Cherishing.

Calidore, Fine Gift, or Finely Gifted.

Calantha, Beautiful Flower.

Ariel is a Hebrew word, we forget of what meaning; but the reader may find it, if we remember, in Heywood's Hierarchie of Angels. The airy sound of it admirably suits the "delicate" sprite of the Tempest. Miranda, One to be Admired.

Silvia, see Hylas or Sylvanus.

Rosalind. We know not the etymology of Lind. But Shakspeare's heroine will warrant the name without the necessity of a meaning. Viola, a Violet.

Perdita, Lost; a Foundling,

Imogen. We believe an old German name; but are ignorant of the etymology.

Cordelia, Cordial. Unless it originally meant, with another accent, Heart of Leah.

Juliet, Little Julia.

Pamela, properly called Pamèla, All Apples.

Oriana, some allusion to Gold or Sun-rise.

Philaster, Star-lover.

Astrophel, the same.

Earine, Vernal.

Orders received by the Booksellers, by the Newsmen, and by the Publisher, JOSEPH APPLEYARD, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand.-Price 2d.

Printed by C. H. REYNELL, No. 45, Broad-street, Golden-square, London.

No. XX.-WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 23rd, 1820.

RONALD OF THE PERFECT HAND.

[The following tale is founded upon a tradition in Mrs. Grant's Superstitions of the Highlands. It was originally intended to be written in verse; which will account for it's present appearance.]

THE stern old shepherd of the air,

The spirit of the whistling hair,
The wind, has risen drearily
In the Northern evening sea,
And is piping long and loud

To many a heavy upcoming cloud,-
Upcoming heavy in many a row,
Like the unwieldy droves below
Of seals, and horses of the sea,
That gather up as drearily,

And watch with solemn-visaged eyes
Those mightier movers in the skies.

Tis evening quick ;-tis night:-the rain

Is sowing wide the fruitless main,

Thick, thick ;-no sight remains the while
From the farthest Orkney isle,

No sight to sea-horse, or to seer,

But of a little pallid sail,

That seems as if 'twould struggle near,

And then as if it's pinion pale

Gave up the battle to the gale.

Four chiefs there are of special note,

Labouring in that earnest boat;
Four Orkney chiefs, that yesterday
Coming in their pride away
From the smote Norwegian king,
Led their war-boats triumphing
Straight along the golden line
Made by morning's eye divine.

2nd Edition.

Ronald of the Perfect Hand

Has rowed the most of all that band;

And now he's resting for a space
At the helm, and turns his face
Round and round on every side
To see what cannot be descried,
Shore, nor sky, nor light, nor even
HOPE, whose feet are last in heaven.
Ronald thought him of the roar

Of the fight the day before,

And of the young Norwegian prince
Whom in all the worryings

And hot vexations of the fray,

He had sent with life away,

Because he told him of a bride

That if she lost him, would have died;

And Ronald then, in bitter case,
Thought of his own sweet lady's face,
Which upon this very night

Should have blushed with bridal light,
And of her downward eyelids meek,
And of her voice, just heard to speak,
As at the altar, hand in hand,
On ceasing of the organ grand,
"Twould have bound her, for weal or woe,
With delicious answers low.

And more he thought of, grave and sweet,
That made the thin tears start, and meet
The wetting of the insolent waye;
And Ronald, who though all so brave,
Had often that hard day before
Wished himself well housed on shore,
Felt a sharp impatient start

Of home-sick wilfulness at heart,

And steering with still firmer hand,

As if the boat could feel command,

Thrilled with a fierce and forward motion,

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As though 'twould shoot it through the ocean.

"Some spirit," exclaimed Duth Maruno, "must pursue us, and perpetually urge the boat out of it's way, or we must have arrived by this time at Inistore."* Ronald took him at his word, and turning hastily round, thought he saw an armed figure behind the stern. His anger rose with his despair; and with all his strength he dashed his arm at the moveless and airy shape. At that instant a fierce blast of wind half turned the boat round. The chieftains called out to Ronald to set his whole heart at the rudder; but the wind beat back their voices, like young birds into the nest; and no answer followed it. The boat seemed less and less manageable, and at last to be totally left to themselves, In the intervals of the wind they again called out to Ronald, but still received no answer. One of them crept forward, and felt for him through the blinding wet and darkness. His place was void. "It was a ghost," said they, "which came to fetch him to the spirits of his fathers. Ronald of the Perfect Hand is gone, and we shall follow him as we did in the fight. Hark! The wind is louder and louder: it is louder and many-voiced. Is it his voice which has roused up the others? Is he calling upon us, as he did in the battle, when his followers shouted after his call?”

It was the rocks of an isle beyond Inistore, which made that multitudinous roaring of the wind. The chieftains found that they were not destined to perish in the mid ocean; but it was fortunate for them that the wind did not set in directly upon the island, or they would have been dashed to pieces upon the rocks. With great difficulty they stemmed their way obliquely; and at length were thrown violently to

The old name for the Orkneys.

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shore, bruised, wounded, and half inanimate. They remained on this desolate island two days, during the first of which the storm subsided. On the third, they were taken away by a boat of seal-hunters.

The chiefs, on their arrival at home, related how Ronald of the Perfect Hand had been summoned away by a loud-voiced spirit, and disappeared. Great was the mourning in Inistore for the Perfect Hand; for the Hand that with equal skill could throw the javelin and traverse the harp; could build the sudden hut of the hunter; and bind up the glad locks of the maiden tired in the dance. Therefore was he called the Perfect Hand; and therefore with great mourning was he mourned; yet with none half as great as by his love, his betrothed bride Moilena; by her of the Beautiful Voice; who had latterly begun to be called the Perfect Voice, because she was to be matched with him of the Perfect Hand. Perfect Hand and Perfect Voice were they called; but the Hand was now gone, and the Voice sang brokenly for tears.

A dreary winter was it, though a victorious, to the people of Inistore. Their swords had conquered in Lochlin; but most of the hands that wielded them had never come back. Their warm pressure was felt no more. The last which they had given their friends was now to serve them all their lives." Never, with all my yearning," said Moilena, "shall I look upon his again, as I have looked at it a hundred times, when nobody suspected. Never." And she turned from the sight of the destructive ocean, which seemed as interminable as her thoughts.

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But winter had now passed away. The tears of the sky at least were dried up. The sun looked out kindly again; and the spring had scarcely re-appeared, when Inistore had a proud and a gladder day, from the arrival of the young prince of Lochlin with his bride. It was a bitter one to Moilena, for the prince came to thank Ronald for sparing his life in the war, and had brought his lady to thank him too. They thanked Moilena instead; and proud, in the midst of her unhappiness, of being of the representative of the Perfect Hand, she lavished hundreds of smiles upon them from her pale face. But she wept in secret. She could not bear this new addition to the store of noble and kind memories respecting her Ronald. He had spared the bridegroom for his bride. He had hoped to come back to his own. She looked over to the north; and thought that her home was as much there as in Inistore.

Meantime, Ronald was not drowned. A Scandinavian boat, bound for an island called the Island of the Circle, had picked him up. The crew, which consisted chiefly of priests, were going thither to propitiate the deities, on account of the late defeat of their countrymen. They recognized the victorious chieftain, who on coming to his senses freely Confessed who he was. Instantly they raised a chorus, which rose sternly through the tempest."We carry," said they," an acceptable present to the Gods. Odin, stay thy hand from the slaughter of the obscure. Thor, put down the mallet with which thou beatest, like red hail, on the skulls of thine enemies. Ye other feasters in Valhalla, set down the skulls full of mead, and pledge a health out of a new and noble one to the King of Gods and Men, that the twilight of heaven may come