9

far back as July, 1845, from which the following notes are extracted :

"Thanks to this strange production, we know that the famous La Palice died in losing his life, and that he would not have had his equal had he been alone in the world. Doubtless it is satisfactory to know that he could never make up his mind to load his pistols when he had no powder; and that when he wrote verse he did not write prose; or that while drinking he never spoke a word. notable details concerning the habits and character of this These are certainly great man, but it is also certain that La Palice had greater claims to admiration which may be brought to light in illustrating some stanzas of the biographical ballad. The song begins thus:

'Please you, gentlemen, to hear

The song of La Palice;
It surely will delight you all,
Provided that it please,'

Besides this proposition, the historian would have done well to tell us that La Palice was of noble race, for his grandfather, an earlier Jacques de Chabannes, after valiantly defending Castillon against Talbot, the English Achilles, died of his wounds at the siege of this city, which, two years afterwards (17th July, 1453), cost the life of his illustrious enemy.

'La Palice but little wealth

To his renown could bring;
And when abundance was his lot,
He lacked no single thing.'

Abundance of glory, of honours, of treasures, of war on battle fields; this was surely what the poet meant to say. He ought to have been rich indeed, when three sovereigns successively invested him with the titles of marshal of France, governor of Bourbonnais, of Auvergne, of Forez and the Lyonnais.

'He was versed in all the games

Played at the academy;
And never was unfortunate
When he won the victory.'

Those which he gained are faithfully chronicled in history. First, stands Marignan in 1515, next Fontarabia, in 1521 ; then Bicocca, in Lombardy, where La Palice, being second in command, made incredible exertions to recover the fortunes of the day; and last, Marseilles, which went to sleep one night Spanish, and woke up French the next morning, because a great Captain, Chabannes de la Palice, had scaled her walls, and effaced by dint of courage the shame with which the desertion of Bourbon had tarnished the name of French gentlemen.

To do and dare in his career,

He readily inclined;

And when he stood before the king,
He was not, sure, behind.

Fate dealt to him a cruel blow.

And stretched him on the ground;
And 'tis believed that since he died,
It was a mortal wound.

His death was sore and terrible,
Upon a stone his head;

He would have died more easily
Upon a feather bed.'

Chabannes made a sortie with a handful of brave fellows from the fort which he defended against the Spanish army, and saw all those who followed fall around him. A Spanish

soldier climbs over the barrier of corpses piled before him, aims a tremendous blow at his head, beneath which the brave La Palice fell senseless to the earth,

'Deplored and envied by his braves,

He shut his eyes to strife;
And we are told his day of death
Was the last of his life.

:0:

THE RIGHT AND MARVELLOUS HISTORY OF
JOHN SMITH.

JOHN SMITH he was a guardsman bold,
A stouter never fought;

He would have been a grenadier,

But he was one foot short.

But to a man of John Smith's mind
The love of power had charms;
So when his captain ordered him,
John Smith order'd his arms.
An active, bustling blade was he,
At drill and eke at mess,
Who never thought to stand at ease
When Captains called out
Attentive always to the word,

It never was his wont

66

dress,"

To turn his eyes or right or left-
When Captains cried "eyes front!"
Though he was ever thought correct,
Once, during an assault,
He ne'er advanced a single foot-
'Cause he was told to halt.
But still he was not coward called,
Why,we can soon detect;
His foes all fell dead at his feet,-
When his shots took effect.
But tired of knapsack and of gun
And firing in platoons,
The infantry he quitted when-
He entered the dragoons.

His saddle now became his home,
His horse and he seemed one;
And he was ne'er known to dismount,-
Unless he first got on.

How brave and bold a man he was,
From one small fact is clear;
Whole regiments fled before him when,-
He followed in their rear.

He was a steady soldier then
And sober too, of course,
And ne'er into a tap-room went,-
Mounted upon his horse.

In fact his conduct was so good,
His Captains all confess

He never got into a scrape,-
Though always in a mess.

Though as to what fights he'd been in
Men differed,- -none denied
That the last battle he e'er fought
Was that in which he died.

The soldiers there who saw him fall,
Exclaimed, as with one breath,
"Unless his wound's a mortal one,
It will not cause his death."

THERE was a man, so legends say,

And he-how strange to tell!—
Was born upon the very day,
Whereon his birthday fell.
He was a baby first. And then
He was his parents' joy;
But was a man soon after, when
He ceased to be a boy.

And when he got to middle life,
To marry was his whim;
The self-same day he took a wife,
Some woman wedded him.
None saw him to the other side

Of Styx by Charon ferried;
But 'tis conjectured that he died
Because he has been buried.

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,

Invites each passing stranger that can pay ;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign.
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,

The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ;
A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread :
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread :
The Royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,

And brave Prince William shew'd his lamp-black face :

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd,

And five cracked tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board;

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay

A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

BEAUTIES OF THE GREAT MASTERS.
THE STREET ARTIST.

WHERE sturdy beggars, blocking up the way,
Molest each passing pilgrim that can pay;
Where generous souls, unused to sights of pain,
Toss half-pence to the cripples in the lane;

There on a wintry morning, clad in rags,
The Kid found Tompkins shivering on the flags-
A ragged beard disguised his sallow cheeks,
Which plainly showed he hadn't shaved for weeks;
And o'er the pavement-green, and blue, and red-
In coloured chalk, his paltry pictures spread;
Maxims of charity were there in view,

And next a bunch of grapes the artist drew,
Then half a mackerel, (or perhaps a plaice),
And great Napoleon showed his well-known face-
The morn was cold-he takes with down-cast eye
The offerings of the pitying passers-by-

How changed the scene, when, to his home returned,
He meets his pals, and boasts the tin he's earned—
With steaks and beer his vigour is restored,

And crack companions grace his festive board-
He dons a coat-his rags he throws away-

A swell by night—a beggar all the day.

The Month. By Albert Smith and John Leech. Dec. 1851.

:0:

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

The following imitation was originally published by Messrs. Parker, of 377, Strand, London, but no date is given.

THE DOOMED VILLAGE.

A Poem, dedicated to the Right Honourable John Bright.
"SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,"
Could thy true Poet visit earth again,
How would his patriot spirit grieve to see

A hundred Auburns doomed to die like thee!
The decent church abandoned to the owl,
The ruined parsonage, the roofless school,
The village of its preacher's voice bereft,
The little flock without a shepherd left,
Without the man to all the country dear,"
Whose part it was to teach, to warn, to cheer ;
"Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
Still in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds and led the way."

Will then the State suppress the godly man,
And bid him buy his dwelling if he can,
That hospitable roof and open door
Sought by the friendless, loved by all the poor,
Steal the small stipend from a treasure paid
Which pious ages gifts to God had made,
Leave the bewildered peasant tempest-tost,
His faith unaided and his altar lost,
To quit for distant lands his long-loved home,
Or helpless sink beneath the foot of Rome?
Where shall he look for succour? shall he trust
That Royal womanhood will still be just?
Will their dear Queen their loyal love disown,
And let her statesmen drive them from her throne?

The man of State who wants a heart to feel
Wants that which most concerns the public weal;
No nice distinction will he stoop to make
Between the power to seize, and right to take.

"The Lord forbid it," cry the poor "that we
Should give our fathers' heritage to thee."
False allegations then a pretext yield;
And Ahab takes possession of the field.
Wild as the wind is such a Statesman's mind;
No law can fix him, and no treaty bind;

He burns the poor man's charter with its seal,
And bids him trust in voluntary zeal,

Go beg the bread that has been all his own,
Along a road untravelled and unknown,
Ardent alike to pare a Church away,
And lay a tax for charities to pay.

Why are so many Auburns doomed to groan?
Whither are Equity and Pity flown?
Are all the virtues melted down in one,
Of neutral colour much resembling none?
A large, loose, LIBERALITY of mind,
True to no faith, not generous, just, nor kind.
Time was, each Virtue was distinctly known,
And Faith and Justice sat beside the throne;
Time was, when Justice owned prescriptive right,
And Policy disdained to side with spite,
Not hounding on the envious pack which pant
To tear away the bone they do not want,

Ere yet she summed each ancient grievance up,
As if they all still mantled in the cup,
And loved by antiquated tales to shew,
How Britain always has been Erin's foe;
Till Erin dreams she feels a present grief,
And seeks in self-inflicting blows relief.

b

Behold! a glorious band by Heaven inspired,
By many hearts revered, by all admired;
In Erin's sky as burning lights they shone ;
Will Erin cease to claim them for her own?
Will she no more repeat her Usher's a name,
Of old ascendant on the rolls of fame?
Will she her Bedell's pious memory blot,
With the blest book he gave the Irish cot?
Will it grate harshly on her altered ear,
Of Taylor's golden eloquence to hear?
Will she no longer boast that God had given
"To Berkeley d all the virtues under heaven ?"
Deems she what was, and is, should ne'er have been,
The Norman Conquest, and the British Queen?
Are these the thoughts that vex the Celtic heart?
Beneath such wrongs do Erin's millions smart,
The signs and records of an alien band,
Which troubles with its rule a peaceful land?

"It is not we who troubling Liffey's stream
Foul it with blood," the threatened sheep exclaim;
"It was your fathers then that fouled it so,"
Retorts the wolf "a hundred years ago."
The shepherd comes; he hears the distant howl
Of the wild beasts that o'er the country prowl;
In his right hand he wields a butcher's knife,
And bids the lamb lie still and yield its life,
An offering to peace, a needful feast,
To stay the hunger of the savage beast.

The neighbouring swains, to whom for help it cries,
Applaud the prudence of their Chief's device,
The struggles of the bleeding victim mock,
And join the wolf in ravaging the flock.

But oh! may Heaven avert the fatal end,
And Britain's heart to juster counsels bend,
Raise many a champion through the land to lead
A growing host for poverty to plead,

b William Bedell, Bishop of d George Kilmore. c Jeremy Taylor, Bishop of Dromore: Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne.

a James Usher, Primate of Ireland.

The sacred voice of conscience wake within,
Forbid the fatal policy of sin,

Leave the just laws to deal with factious hate,
Calm down the public mind, and save the State.
Pause, Britain, pause, ere yet advanced too far
Thy hand lets slip the dogs of civil war,
Ere yet the vultures hovering in the sky
On the self-immolated quarry fly.

So shall pure Faith's long-hallowed altar stand!
Still unprofaned by state-craft's ruthless hand;
So shall the threatened Auburn cease to weep,
Peace be restored, and passion lulled to sleep;
So shall the flood of Ultramontane pride,
By justice checked, within its banks subside;
So shall the Candle, which the Lord has lit,
Revived and cherished, well its place befit,
And through the time to come serenely bright
Shine forth a beacon-flame of Gospel light.

Immortal Light, that can'st alone control
The brutal instincts of the savage soul,
'Tis thine to teach the murderous bands of strife
The deep significance of human life,

Teach the wild untaught Kerne who knows not God,
The awful sanctions of His penal code;

Teach Faith her hope and end in LOVE to read,
The height and depth of every Christian's Creed.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

SWEET London, loveliest village of the plain,

Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid,
And the rich summer dinner-tables laid.
Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease,

Seats of my youth when every card could please,
How often have I done thy park so green
Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene;
How often have I paused the throng to tell,
Th' unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell,
The never-failing talk, the riders' skill,
The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill,
The moving row with spots beneath the shade
For timid horseman's ease and whisperings made:
How often have I blest the late-born day,
When play remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village swells from dinner free,
Led up the sports that fashion loves to see,
While much flirtation circled in the shade,
The young ones spooning as the old surveyed,
And many a galop frolicked o'er the ground,
And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round;
And still as each repeated partner tired,
Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired.
The dancing man, who simply sought renown
By leading all the cotillons in town,
The swain mistrustful of his smutty face,
While secret riddles tittered round the place,
The younger son's shy sidelong looks of love,
The chaperons who would those looks reprove,
These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these
With sweet succession taught e'en town to please,
These round thy bowers their genial influence shed,
These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled,
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn,
Within thy doors upholsterers are seen,
And water-carts alone the park keep green;
Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain,

Of all thy people none with thee remain.
No more thy babbling talk reflects the day,
But in the country winds its shallow way;
Along thy park a solitary guest,

A sole policeman now laments the rest,
Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils,
Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils;
Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all,
And early bed o'ertops the byegone ball,
And trembling, lest they last should join the band,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey,
Where working men increase and swells decay,
Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade,
Hardy may make them as Walpole has made,
But fashionable swells, their country's pride,
Once out of town can never be supplied.
The Tomahawk, September 7, 1867.

The following Parody appeared in Vol. XVIII. of The Mirror:

"Lord John Russell, even amidst all the turmoil of Office has contributed :

LONDON IN SEPTEMBER

(Not in 1831),

By Lord John Russell.

(After The Traveller, by Oliver Goldsmith).

'REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,

A single horseman passes Rotten row;

In Brookes's sits one quidnunc to peruse

The broad dull sheet which tells the lack of news.

At White's a lonely Brummell lifts his glass
To see two empty Hackney Coaches pass;
The timid housemaid, issuing forth, can dare
To take her lover's arm in Grosvenor square.
From shop deserted hastes the prentice dandy,
And seeks-Oh bliss-the Molly—a tempora fandi.
Meantime the battered pavement is at rest,
And waiters wait in vain to spy a guest,
Thomas himself, Cook, Hanen, Fenton, Long,
Have all left town to join the Margate throng.
The wealthy tailor on the Sussex shore

Displays and drives his blue barouche and four,
The Peer who made him rich, with dog and gun,
Toils o'er a Scottish moor, and braves a scorching sun."

This favourite poem originally appeared in "The Vicar of Wakefield," which was published in the year 1765. Dr. Goldsmith was accused of having borrowed the idea of the ballad from "The Friar of Orders Gray," and in June, 1767, he sent the following reply to the St. James's Chronicle:

"A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published sometime ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next

time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a baliad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it."

In confirmation of this statement Bishop Percy afterwards added a note to "The Friar of Orders Gray," stating that it was only just to declare that Goldsmith's Poem was written first, and that if there had been any imitation in the case, they would be found to be both indebted to the beautiful old ballad Gentle Herdsman. This ballad is reprinted below, with Goldsmith's The Hermit, and a few verses from Bishop Percy's Friar of Orders Gray.

It will be seen that although the poems have several points of resemblance, yet each has a distinct individuality of its own.

"GENTLE HERDSMAN TELL TO ME." GENTLE herdsman, tell to me,

Of curtesy I thee pray

Unto the towne of Wallsingham
Which is the right and ready way?
"Unto the towne of Walsingham,
The way is hard for to be gone,
And very crooked are those pathes
For you to find out all alone."
Were the miles doubled thrise
And the way never so ill,

It were not enough for mine offence;
It is so grevous and so ill.

Thy yeares are young, thy face is faire, Thy wits are weake, thy thoughts are greene; Time hath not given thee leave as yet

For to commit so great a sinne !”

Yes, herdsman, yes, soe wou'dst thou say,
If thou knewest so much as I;

My wits, and thoughtes, and all the rest,
Have well deserved for to dye.

I am not what I seeme to bee,
My cloths and sexe doe differ fare ;

I am a woman, woe is mee!
Born to greeffe, and irksome care.
For my beloved, and well beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill;
And though my teares will naught avail,
Most dearely I bewail him still.
He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more sincere colde bee,
Of comelye mien and shape he was,
And tenderlye he loved mee.
When thus I sawe he loved me well,
I grew so proude his paine to see,
That I, who did not know myselfe,

Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.
And grew so coy, and nice to please,
As women's lookes are often soe,
He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth,
Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.
Thus being wearyed with delayes,
To see I pityed not his greeffe,
He goes him to a secret place,
And there he dyed without releeffe.

And for his sake these weedes I weare,
And sacrifice my tender age;
And every day I'll beg my bread,
To undergoe this pilgrimage.
Thus every day I'll fast and praye,
And ever will do till I dye;
And get me to some secrett place,
For so did hee, and soe will I.
Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more,
But keep my secretts I thee pray;
Unto the towne of Wallsingham

Shew me the right and readye waye. "Now goe thy wayes, and God before, For he must ever guide thee still; Turn down the dale the righte hand pathe, And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well."

:0: --

THE HERMIT.

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;

Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.'

"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want
still:
My door is open

And though my portion is but scant
I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn ;

Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them :

"But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn thy cares forego;
All earthborn cares are wrong :
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell :

The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch
Received the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest :

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily prest, and smil'd;
And skill'd in legendary lore
The lingering hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket churrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To sooth the stranger's woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,

With answ'ring care opprest:

"And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd

"The sorrows of thy breast?
"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?

"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's jest ;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex " he said
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest,
A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn." she cried;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray :

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.

"My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he ;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine

He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came;

Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd a flame.