death, or despairing of his ultimate restoration to health-driven to madness by the thought of his mother's anguish-the loss of his brother, whom he dearly loved-tortured by the compunctions of consciencea prey to sufferings too great for endurance, the ill-fated Shreikenberger, in the agony of his soul, laid violent hands on himself, and died a selfmurderer.

After some weeks, made her appearance at the Pastors in Kötschau, a lady in deep mourning, and weighed down by sorrow even more than years. She begged of him to show her the spot where the unhappy student had been wounded, the bed where he had lain, and the place where his remains had been interred. She paid the host all his demands, and made him, over and above his bill, a handsome remuneration for his trouble and attentions-left the good curé alms for the relief of the poor and needy in the village, and a sum for raising a stone to the memory of one cut off before his time by an evil destiny. This stone stands as a warning record in the gottesacker, the churchyard, in Kötschau; and it is generally supposed that the lady in black was the mother of the youth.

ON CLARKSON STANFIELD'S PICTURE OF "THE DAY AFTER THE WRECK."

BY THOMAS ROSCOE.

So cold-so dread, type of thy race,

Of wrecks-eternal-past-to come, Tak'st THOU thy sad fame's destin'd place, The spectre-guest from ocean's tomb, Say, on the eve of peril, loom

Those dim-seen, visionary sail,

The boldest still, in-terror chase,
While every seaman's cheek grows pale?

Fate's emblem! ah, what memories press
Round thy majestic, shatter'd might!
In pomp and grandeur trimly drest,

Or tempest-struck in horror's night!
Nought round thee but funereal light,
The dying breath of glory's fire,

As nature's riven ties-to rest, On the wild ocean-bed expire.

Say, patriot spirits of the past,

On high adventure's towering hopeWho spread your broad sails to the blast, Nought less than unknown worlds,

your scope, TOL. VIII.

Did e'er your dauntless manhood droop, As that dark ship opprest the air,

As on fame's waves, you gladly cast Your bread of life,—to greatly dare?

Oh, not to such-to souls of light,

On truth and science, mission sent,
New realms to bind in holier might,
Than power and avarice' dark intent,
That pictured fate, its terrors blent
In hues to startle-to dismay,

That blast the pirate-miser's sight,
Orround the murtherous slave-thief, play!

Nor when on honour's bright wings borne, For country-friends, we brave the deep,

When parents, lovers, exiles mourn,

Or orphans their young sorrows steep In the lone sea-waves' dreamless sleep, Com'st thou, in airy terrors clad,

For theirs, a farther, happier bourne: Thy spectre forms but fright the bad.

66

SKETCHES OF DIALOGUE AT DENBIGH.

BY UNCLE SAM.

THE reading, if not the locomotion, of that ubiquitous gentleman, "Everybody," has made a pedestrian trip in Wales, shadowed forth with cascades and water-ripples, rocky mountains, scantily-clad heaths, and the "Dym Sassenach" of the peasantry, quite familiar. But the same kind of study or peregrination has not made "Everybody" acquainted with the curious dialogues sometimes to be heard in the public room of a country public inn. Indeed, there are many travellers who scorn to have any curiosity on the subject. Tourists generally allow themselves to be thrown into a room apart from the villagers or townspeople, and at their inn they hear nothing, see nothing but the houses on the opposite side of the street, with the tradesfolk waiting for customers, and the small discords and dull joking from the idlers in the market-place. A few sketches of dialogue at the ancient, but small town of Denbigh, in North Wales, will, therefore, have the advantage of novelty.

It was the day after an election at Denbigh, and a Saturday, and the castle clock would have stricken five, if there had been a clock to the old castle, but, in default, the Castle Tavern clock did strike five, as I entered to take mine ease in mine inn after a walk of a score of miles.

Tired, hot, dusty, hungry, and thirsty, yet all these feelings appear allayed when you cross the threshhold of a house in which the common comforts and necessaries of life will be supplied at the tinkling of a small bell. Cheer up, then, heartily. There's water in the bedchamber, a lazy-looking "boots" at the door, watching the dog-fight, a cool room with the window open, cold lamb and salad in the larder, and some Denbigh old ale in the cellar. A little water and the "boots" make the dust vanish like smoke! How easy is it, then?

"Waiter, some dinner, and a glass of the oldest old ale." "Terectly, sir."

"Don't disturb the gentlemen there, and don't put down the window. Don't let the great coats remain on the sofa, and don't remove the book. Ah! capital book this!-'Pigott's Directory.'"

66

"

'Yes, sir, they reads nothing else in this room.' "Sensible people! There's nothing else to read."

"Oh yes, sir, here's another!"

"History of Denbigh Castle.' Excellent! Take away Pigott's light reading for travellers, and let me have the historical history. But, above all be quick with the dinner and the oldest old ale."

The joys of dinner are evanescent and not worth thinking of, much less repeating. Take thine ease on the sofa, friend Self, and read in the book the bloody deeds of Denbigh Castle.

There were only two other travellers in the room at this time, one of whom continually complained that he had a large family, and could not afford" as one might say" to drink wine, and yet contrived to gulp down a pretty considerable quantity, urging his less eager companion to do so likewise; the conversation between the two bagmen" being a conglomeration of the latest state of all the drapers

trades in the principality, and their fluctuating tendencies between cash payments and the Gazette. The man of the large family soon, however, announced that "the best friends must part," as he swallowed the last half glass of the expensive beverage, and ordered out his gig, "leaving it," as he philosophically observed, "to Time to determine at what inn he should again have the pleasure to take wine" with his dinner companion.

Here comes a duplicate arrival-two collegians with fishing-rods and two baskets, one enclosing some spare linen, and the other sparingly supplied with fish, stiff from the day's sport.

"Waiter ahoy! bear a hand. Dinner for two, and cook these fish. Bring everything you have, and send out for more. Hungry as a hunter! Egad, I'm as hungry as the Devil and Doctor Faustus! Let's have some ale at once. As parson Adams used to look out for a house, convenient to the road-side, in which to enjoy his ease, his inn, and his jug of foaming ale: we'll imitate the clerical example, and discuss the tipple of Denbigh."

"Ah, this is the best sport of the day! D all fluxions, conic sections, and the mixed and pure mathematics; the first six, and the eleventh and twelfth books of Euclid, algebraic formulæ, the differential calculus and fishing-rods. Denbigh ale for ever!"

"Talking of things, or anything, for ever, what a number of cussed bills there are on the wall opposite, with 'Rumblegrib for ever!' and 'Muddleford and Principle!' These Denbigh people have been doing an election, you may depend upon it, which accounts for those fellows being so drunk, and asking us if we had seen anything at the end of our fishing-rods."

The collegians soon fell to work with huge appetites.

After taking a short ramble, I, on my return to the traveller's room, found a fresh group occupying the centre table, the college students having vacated it. There was a portly-nosed attorney drinking a magnum-bonum glass of spirits, and his son John partaking freely of unripe gooseberries and bottles of ginger beer. There was the landlord of the house, a "well-spoken" man (that is, he spoke freely, and with good emphasis, like an auctioneer), in a great state of occasional anxiety respecting a cow, which he believed to be at the point of death a natural death-and there was a smiling, smirking, silly looking Welsh farmer, yclept Morgan Jones, who, every time he put his glass to his mouth, drank to the health of "Mr. Pland," the landlord. As soon as I was seated with these worthies, the landlord, with the air of a person who thinks he has just told a capital tale, and is delighted at the prospect of a good listener whilst he repeats it, turned himself in his easy chair, and commenced, or re-commenced, as follows:

"I was saying, sir, that I was this afternoon at as melancholy a sight as ever I saw in the principality-the funeral of a drover. He was a rich man, and has left his family well off; but his death was so sudden, that, from the mother to the youngest child, the affliction is dreadful. And the cause of his death is so provoking—a trumpery bet, sir, made in this room. This Hugh Evans, the drover, never got drunk more than once a-year on an average, and this time last year was the last time but one before his death. On that occasion, sir, he drove his herd over the mountain heath, eight miles from here, after nightfall, and as he turned the corner of a rocky projection, near one

of the lakes, he saw-or thought he saw-the supernatural appearance of three of his dearest friends whom he had left in Denbigh. The first apparition was covered with blood, the second flourished a halter and a large razor, and the third carried a small hamper of marrowbones and a box of soapsuds. He fainted away, and was found the next morning lying in the road, with the herd of cattle around him; and he swore that, from that time, he would never drive his cattle over the mountain heath, and by the lakes and rocky projection."

"Goot healt, Mr. Pland," interposed the farmer.

"Hold your noise, Morgan."

"Goot healt."

"After that fearful night, this time last year," continued the landlord, "Hugh Evans never took a glass too much-small praise to him, for he could stand a few quarts as well as here and there oneuntil a week ago, when he was unhappily overpowered by taking early in the morning too much soda-water to cool himself, and then too much brandy to warm him, after getting wet through; and he was in this room, sir, talking, as you may say, cheerfully to all his friends, and standing a few glasses round to those very men whom, twelve months ago, he thought were covered with blood, and carrying halters, razors, and marrow bones, at the corner of the rocky projection near one of the lakes. Well, sir, one of his friends, a butcher, and, remarkable enough, the very man he thought, twelve months ago, had carried the small hamper of marrow bones, proposed a bet of a turkey, with chitlings, with ale at discretion, and tumblers of brandy for four, that this Hugh Evans, the drover, would not dare to drive his cattle over the heath. The bet was taken. Hugh Evans departed on a new horse which he had purchased, and when he came to the rocky projection near one of the lakes, the horse shied at a pile of turf, threw his rider with his head against the rocky projection, and afterwards kicked him so furiously that he died."

"Singular !"

"It was the funeral of this man, sir, that I attended this afternoon. Whatever may have been his faults, I knew of none. He was a generous soul-always more ready to give than take, and never disputed his reckoning; he was gone to his long home, and the lamentations of his family made the funeral a grievous spectacle. When, as the custom is in this part of the country, they took the lid off the coffin previous to placing it in the grave, and the widow and children crowded round, and dropped their burning hot tears on his dead cold face, I was as agitated as they, and could only gain relief, as they did, by tears." "It must have been sorrowful, indeed.”

Carrotty Tavit say the cow ees cole, although she ees covered with

sacks."

"Send out some carpets, then. If this were slaughtering night, all would be right. I would then get Owen Owens, the butcher, to hand me the warm skins as he peeled them off the quivering mutton, and the warmth from the dead sheep would warm my poor cow better than all the blankets in Denbigh."

"Goot healt, Mr. Pland."

"Hold your noise, Morgan." "Goot healt."

A young man here came rushing into the room, followed by the landlady, and, in a theatrical manner, exclaimed

"Foulkes is dead!"

my

There was an instantaneous exclamation from all present, but self, of "Dear, dear !" and "Tear!"-the messenger, who appeared in an inebriated amazement consequent to the election, and the loss of a dear friend, standing in an attitude, door-in-hand, and looking at each individual separately. It appeared to me the most comical announcement of a death I had witnessed, and it is just possible the post-haste messenger might have guessed my reflection on this subject, as he presently quitted the door, and rolling towards the table, addressed me individually

"I say, sir, my friend Foulkes is dead!"

"Is he, sir? And so is my friend Smith," replied I. "An' the cow ees tying," said Morgan.

"And it'll soon be time for me to die, too," said the landlady; "for my bones is all cold with having such a large family."

The physiological connexion between a large family and cold bones it is not my business to examine; but I am inclined to consider the idea originated either with the landlady, or with M. de Lafontaine, the mesmerizer.

The death of the unfortunate Foulkes was caused, I understood, by an unlucky kick from an independent elector.

"You've had a severe time, during the election," I observed.

"Yes, sir, the pinks bottled three and twenty of us. They pinked them nicely. My father, poor fellow, was one;-an old man, sir, and they ought to have known better than to shove an old man up a ladder; and Morgan Jones here was another."

"The pinks called it habeas corpus," insinuated the attorney's gingerbeer son, John.

"An illegal act," said his father; "and I wish our side would allow me to trounce them for it. I think I should be very successful in practice before a Commons' committee. To be sure it was comical enough to see the poor fellows looking out of the window of the cockloft, in which they were penned up, half drunk, and not daring to cry out; for they were all put in by their best customers. Snow, Esquire, bagged nine of them with his own hand. A comical dog is Snow, Esquire. Every half-hour he went to the cock-loft, and cried out, at the top of his voice, "The independent electors who cannot vote are requested to drink up their heeltaps, and give three cheers for Rumblegrib !"

"Ha, ha, ha! Snow, Esquire, is a regular trump," said the landlord," although his politics are on the shady side of d-able. But talk of the devil, says the old proverb, and sure enough you see him."

"See him," observed I, in continuation of the landlord's metaphysical proverb-"see his highness i' th' mind's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling?"

"No, sir," responded the landlord, "I see him passing the door, and here he is, with Hugh Hughes the shoemaker, and Evan Evans the draper, two of the townspeople he bottled up yesterday."

Enter Snow Esquire, with his two bottled supporters.

"Rumblegrib for ever! and what will you drink all round? I've ten