however, rendered it impossible for me to recognise the spot on which we were. At last the roaring of the wind in the branches of a tree, which seemed to grow close to the pavement, convinced me that we must have approached the suburbs of London. The figure now appeared to be moving towards one solitary lamp a little a-head of us, which, like the last lamp of winter, stood burning alone, after the extinction of its companions. He reached it and stopped. When I came within a yard or two, I did the same. "At that moment another whistle, which seemed the very counterpart of what I had heard from the waterman on the river, echoed shrilly as if by my side. The creature started, turned round, and making me a low bow as if to thank me for my escort, it put into my hands the Montero cap, with a gesture expressive of gratitude for the temporary accommodation it had afforded to its cranium. The signal was repeated as if with impatience; and putting its hand in a significant way round its left ear, like a man adjusting his cravat, it gave a strange gambol with its legs as if commencing a pas seul, and disappeared. "A gust of wind coming howling from the west, at the same time extinguished the lamp, and left me in utter darkness. I knew not to which side I ought to turn, in order to regain my lodgings. I could not venture to stir from the spot, lest I should break my neck over some unknown obstruction, or drop plump down,' into some of those subterranean hells I had witnessed in passing. To my inexpressible relief, however, I saw a light approaching from the opposite side. It was the watchman. "Where in heaven's name am I?' said I, as the watchman, after turning the light of his lantern on my countenance, and satisfying himself that I was no thief but a true man, offered to assist me homeward. What strange quarter of the town is this?' 6 "This?' said the watchman; 'why, this is Tyburn Turnpike, and that there stone you see under that lamp, as was blown out just as I came up, is the old place where the gallows used to stand.' "I knew not exactly what followed. I have an indistinct recollection, as if the unnatural state of excitation, which had hitherto kept me up, failed me at this moment, and I sank down without further consciousness. When I came to myself, I was lying on Chesterton's bed, the bright beams of a morning sun in February were beginning to illuminate the apartment, and in a chair by the fireside, I saw my friend reading the Morning Post, and waiting seemingly with some anxiety for breakfast. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. The first thing I saw was the Montero cap, placed as it had been the evening before, on the top of the easel, and in the corner stood the lay-figure in its usual position, looking as innocent as possible of its street-walking gambols of the preceding night. "My dear fellow,' said Chesterton, rising and coming up to my bedside,' I am glad to see you have come to your senses again. You must have been conspicuously drunk last night. I was very late in returning to my lodgings, and when I came in then, you were at full length on the floor. I could not think of sending you home in such a tempest; so, without taking off your clothes, I put you into bed, and you have never opened your eyes till this moment.' "My clothes,' said I, 'why, they must have been wet through with the rain of last night.' 6 "Not a stitch of them,' said Chesterton. But how, pray, should they be wet? Though you moistened your clay pretty well, there was no occasion for moistening your coat too.' "It was with some difficulty I could bring myself to communicate to Chesterton the strange adventure of the night; but seeing that he was determined to set down the whole affair to the score of intoxication, a point on which I felt a little sore, I thought I was bound, in justice to myself, to set him right in this particular. I began, and he listened at first with an incredulous smile, but his interest increased as the narrative proceeded; the smile was succeeded by an air of deep attention, till at last, as I described the disappearance of the figure and the spot where it happened, he looked at me gravely for some time, and remained silent. "It is singular,' said he, after a pause, singular enough. Yesterday, I dined with the medical friend from whom I procured the skeleton for my lay-figure. The conversation happening to turn on anatomical subjects, I pressed him to tell me where he had got it, when at last he owned it was the skeleton of a criminal who had been executed at Tyburn many years ago, and which had for a long time ornamented the dissecting room at Grey's Hospital. It had been sold along with some other medical preparations, of which they happened to have duplicates, and had in this way fallen into his hands. The coincidence, however, with this ghastly dream of yours, for such of course it must have been, is remarkable enough.' "I said no more on the subject. I would fain have endeavoured to think the whole a dream; but a feeling of awe and painful recollection came over me as I looked at the figure, which even the bright and sunny morning, and the cheerful sights and sounds of day, did not enable me to overcome. I have an idea that my friend, though he did not own it, had something of the same feeling; for a few days afterwards, when I visited his apartment, I looked in vain for the companion of my midnight walk. It was gone, and from that day to this I have heard no more of the lay-figure. I had, in fact, almost forgotten the whole phantasmagoria, when that unlucky sketch, which, please Heaven, I shall burn before going to bed, recalled the scene to my recollection. But the bottle's out, I see— shall we ring for another ?" LINES ON A THRUSH CONFINED IN A CAGE NEAR THE SEA. BY LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. Poor solitary-melancholy thing! Where gleamed the leaves from the tree's ivy-fold, But here, disconsolate, joyless, captive! here Their soul of mournfulness through thy clear lay! Mourn thy sick heart away!-but once again INVOCATION. As the tired voyager on stormy seas Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore, To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze, Of dim sweet woods that hear no billows roar : So from the depth of days, when Earth yet wore Her solemn beauty, and primeval dew, I call you, gracious forms! Oh! come, restore Awhile that holy freshness, and renew Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre, Imperial in their visionary fire; Oh! steep my soul in that old glorious time, When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your clime! INVOCATION CONTINUED. AND come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen, As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight Ethereal cradle.-From your heart subdued All haughty dreams of Power had wing'd their flight, So in your presence, let the Soul's great deep THE SONG OF MIRIAM. A SONG for Israel's God!-Spear, crest, and helm, With her lit eye, and long hair floating free, Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain. A song for God's own Victory!—Oh, thy lays, RUTH. The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn, Fall'n in its weariness. Thy fatherland Home in affection's glance, for ever true Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue THE VIGIL Of Rizpah. "And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest, until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night."—2 Sam. xxi. 10. Who watches on the mountain with the dead, No, a lorn Woman!-On her drooping head, Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain; Only to scare the vulture from their bed. So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN. "And she answered, I dwell among mine own people."—2 Kings, iv. 13. Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thine; Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies: Weaving from each some link for Home's dear Charities. LYRICS OF THE EAST. BY MRS GODWIN. No. V. DYING REQUEST OF A HINDU Girl. Mora, to thy care I leave Keep, my friends, when I'm no more, No. VI. THE RUINED FOUNTAIN. Flow on, limpid fountain, though deserts surround thee, Though the weeds of neglect in their cold arms have bound thee, Thy marble so bright through the dank moss betrayeth But the clear wave hath ruin'd the urn where it playeth, It may be, thy music, in ages departed, The proud Courts of royalty cheer'd, While shapes of the lovely, the brave, the light-hearted, All glass'd in thy waters appear'd. But now, of the grandeur that was, not a token Like a wreath of wan vapour the breeze hath just broken, Thou only art spared, even as virtue endureth, When pride, wealth, and beauty decline, For the life that dwells deep in thy centre ensureth Lone fount of the wilderness! broken and slighted! Oh! how many like me in thy flow have delighted, VOL. XXXIII. No. CCVII. 2 Q |