Symud i'r prif gynnwys
Cuddio Rhestr Erthyglau

9 erthygl ar y dudalen hon

.... - - -, L i'L'E RATTJH…


L i'L'E RATTJH to. I _u, -r-o, -n. JOHN AND JANE OF LLANGULLE VALE. A BALLAD. One winter's morn I»ef.>TO the ctawn, In and dr dry weather; To market went together They would net start with lnrse and cut., Thtiv wanted something new P" John took JfJ.J¡,. to. oner by train, T" tr how that w mid d<». Jan e's years were few, hut twenty-two, Whils John's Trerr fifty- four Clean an 1 dressed up m his younger by a score. While by side, by unin they ride, From fam'A Llangollen ale He pledg'd his love, by ab She vow'd n' should tail." (They laugh and smiis then chat 1I.Nhih,. Of poultry, eow<», and slitrp, Of Dick nnd Dan, of K ile and N' n, And baby left asleep.; Fair Oswestry, at length they see, Surpris' d they came do «»n, For when the thoy drove up there, They did not leach 'till noon. Both fowl and geese, eggs pence a-piece. And batter, June must sell; John first went down, then Ill) the town, But why, he could not teH. The day wet, his friend he met, With each must have « glass. Of Iukcrman, and Fort Redan, Tliuv sung—an<l sweet th' hours pass. While fresh with ale; R haunch of veal lie bought—fed at the Bell; The butcher swears, and oft declares, Veal must be basted well." Twice and again, John sought for Jene, Jane, oft had sought for John But when they met, both ringing "11:" The train fur six had gone. (John wet within, with ale and gin; But Jane ia vet with rain, She called him eot," and said .he'd not With such a man remain." She meurn'd, wet through, what shall I do, Two hours more to wait, The boy will cry to fits and die, With sleepy Naa and Kate." Slow time &t last c&me creeping past, And both got in the train, look'd, awry, John well knew why, And yet, he would complain. When he reprov'd, she sat unmov'U, Then neither of them spoke, Like man and wife, in silent aUi f«S Each bore the bitter yoke. Rock'd on the rail, John Held the veal, And gently fell asleep, Young Jinney's charms, nor lovei alarma, Could wakeful vigile keep. In silent grief, Jane sought relief, And aigh'd, for joy had fled, An old man's wife, plagu'd off her life, She wish'd, that she were dead. They soon atopt by the station nigh Jane got her parcels out; But as the train mov' d on again, Cried, what is John about i" (The truest heart is doom'd to tmart: Poor Jam waa left alone, The darkest night—heaven gave no light— And she two miles from home.) John slept thuI far and dream't ofwlr, And mow'd the Russians down, CI Sebastopol," he said, shall fall, Come boys, we'll storm the town." The train mov'd on with sleeping John, He heard the battle roar, He thought of Jane, and wept with paia, And the battle o'u. The engine Bee," new o'er the DM; Cefn, Cefn," the porter bawls Ruabon past, she flies as fast, Then Wrexham," Broster calls. A Wrexham man stept in the ran, And eat down by his side, Who saw him weep, while fast asleep, To wake him twice he tried. Come friend awake, make no mistake Here's Gresford station nidi," John rais'd hia head, and grutHy said, What's that to you ?— you lie." ) The whistle sounds, the vale resounds, I The steam rose strong and high. I Puff, puff, again; off went tha train, And Roosott" was the cry. J"] n heard the word, but how absurd Russians," he said, are seen," Death or glory is before me— I'll die for England's Queen I" The cannon's roar, on 6aa and there, The Malakoff gives way, John shouts, advance, England and France, And win a glorious day. I (Courageous John, a bold yeoma*, I How bravely he could fight; He would not fail, if gin and ale. Could put his foes to llight.) John's dreaming day soon away, The train by SaltflcT j Your tickets, please," tha porter eays, 1 Then came the guard, Jarnes John's arm he shook, the tickets touk, His belt shone bright and clear, Job* ope'd his eyes—with great surprise— Shouts Spare mc, granadier;" Wood said, he's blind, your ticket find, For I must see the aauie"— John fumbl'd fast, and found at latt, When out his ticket came. Wood said aloud, Llangollen Road," There's three-and-nine te pay, And if you fail, must go to jail, Come, come, make no delay." The fare John paid, 'twas all he had- Wood took every fraction, John witness called, and loudly 01 wId, I'll enter on an action." A 41 friend" stood by, who said" 0 fie, To lawyers for the law, Thee'll have to pay thy cash away, For every line they draw." John pale and sad, grew wild and mad, lie swore he'd smash the train Took up his load—asking the road, Trudg'd back to hia dear Jane. Wrexham. J. n., PABSEIl,n.a. SLAVE TRAFFIC.—The commerco is significant: Angila and Jalo have only dates to send in exchange for corn and the fow manufactured articles which the lllde life of these people requires. At uncer- tain and long intervals, however, when the great caravan from Wady arrives, life is given to the commerce of Benghazi. Then the old picture of Cyrenian commerce is for a short time is renewed. The deaert, for weeks, is ulive with long files of camels, v-hioh arrive ladou with ivory and gum; Cui with them, alas as in old times, hundreds ei unhappy creatures—the spoil of war—condemned to slavery, who come halting in at the end of this first hundred days' stage or tneir misery, iiow many happier than their fellows, have been exhausted on the dreary road! Twenty-one degrees thoy tra verse, on foot, exposed to the rays af a tropical sun, when.for twelve days at a time no water is found without clothing, and having a handful or meal lor their daily food. Fatigue and thirst in rain lessen the numbers of the melancholy earavan Aud to think that t single wore from England could arrest these horrors!— Wanderings in North America ly J. Hamilton. CitosiwuxL's MELANCHOLY — A gloom-thu usual precursor of all great mental changes—over, shadowed him a do p, black melancholy—like that which drove Luther to wander night and day through tho cloisters of Erfurth, crying, My sin, my ein W esley to dream ef hell at Oxford and J'uscal to see graves opening at his l'uet—pressed down upon his brain. This melancholy is now as well known a symptom of religious enthusiasm as a red cheek is of a fever, or a pale one uf dropsy. Cromwell's mind was alternately torn with doubts, lacerated with fears, and paralysed by despair. He was drifted in the whirlwinds, and smitten with momentary lightnings Now hell seemed boiling at his feet, and now heaven was ready to rain fire upon his head; and over all, and through all, and above all, was night—tangible, solid with its grave- like darkness. Sir Phillip Warwick illtyg a Hun- tingdon physician told hiiii thtt, attliistiytio, Crom- well would frequently eend for him even at mid- night, believing that jJ8 was dying and when he wolked abroad, he would tremble to puss nsar the town-cioss, or the church tower, Je^t they snould fall upon him. In the same crisis, Fox, the quaker tasted, and hid himself ;n hollow trees, till hIS ieaid God audibly apeak, and BunyaM was shaken by terrible draams, and voices, from the darkest abysses of hell. It is such spiritual con- tlict. as these, that fill our mad-houses yearly WItt raligioue enthusiasts. It hears no mure reeeiubliaice to healthy religion, than a madman's strengt does to one in the normal state, but it i, a stage through which religious thinkers frequently pass, i The moment of deliverance comes, the climax, that j ■_ r j ftla felt it, when he saw the Trinity upon tfie steps of the Church at Rome. St. Therese, when the angel pierced her heart with a golden arrow. Fox ] awoke from his trances to do good in his own crazed j way. Bunyan. purified and chastencd, to guide men to the bright city whither he had himself been the weak mind sinks at such times into insanity, but the strong awake from their sleep, like Sam- son, to snap the green witha that bind them.-Art Imd Nalure, by lpvt. Thornbury. OLD ENGLISH MANSIONS. —Oh, privilego of h:rth to think that a man cin buy ready-made ) I venues, old mansions, ten-stalled siables, excellent pinery, ghost, See., included, and yet cannot pur- chase a set of family traditions; cannot look at unchanged land thut his fathers lookod at, pictures they loved, rooms they hallowed. The self-risen man has other iiol)cs, and looks forward, like a con- I queror and a discoverer but he has no tradition- ary greatness to incite, to warn, and soothe and strengthen him. Ho is a first man, and has to name his creatures and map out his world It may be better to he the first than th<3 last, but the ideal of family feeling he cannot know. That rich heirloom he Icav 3 for his children. If ever there was a luelmg which incited to true patrietism, which bus been the basis of many nations' great- ness, which is holy, admirable, and excellent, it is that regard for anjestiy. which Rome and Venice once knew, and England still boasts. The love of soil is not. acnuired in lodgings, or picked up by 0 t teurists; it is too sacred a thing to be felt by shal- low-hearted prodigals, dandies, and fools. Intel- lectual selfishness strives to found a name. and not a family; it despises sympathy, and enrra not for a posterity to whose praises a dead man's ear will be deaf. But despise not, 0 Radical, the man who loves a birth-spot, where he emerged from I' eternity, where he saw his mother die, where he was first glorified by even a dearer love than that of a mother's—where he first heard a child call him father—w here he heped, sighed, prayed, wept, and taught—where he ran and walked, thought and wrote, married, and was buried. Angels are cos- mopolites hut how can man ba ? Philosophers, who love nobody but the whole human race-as an Irishman would ray-may be citizens of the world -sufEcient for me to love my own paternal hills, my river, my meadows, the one roadway that leads up to the one house where I sat and thought, and I 1 loved for a time, and waited to be told the secret of eternity.—Ibid. A SCENE IN THE ?CRtMEA.—Our road lay, through the Sardinian encampment. Our alHes are celebrated cut here for the organization of ) their army. It is acknowledged to be perfect in every respect, and even in the buiiding of their I huts we had evidence of it. The wooden huts are admirably made, with a little pretension to orna- ment, but in order to make them watertight, the- spare no expense in pitching the openings and crevices, and I regret to say, that in this particular our huts will not bear comparison with them for one Bees so very little pitch or tar upon the latter, that you might fancy such a preservative had never been heard of in England. Regularity in the size and position of the huts is another great feature, and when observed from an eminence, the model little camp is much to be admired. The village of Kamara is near-its Greek church, stands on a hill. It was only in the spring of last year that we got possession of this village. When Lip- randi's army retired, they destroyed everything ) but the church, and in that was found a large quantity of copper coins (copecks), left there as offerings by the peasants, for the speedy exterm- ination of the barbarians." Passing through a little opening in the mountain, looking down a deep and rugged ravin, and a great distance through its vista catching a view of the Tchernaya River and the snow-topped peaks of Baidar, upon a ledge of rocks immediately under our feet are observed some white tents. Picture the romantic chivalry of the scene, when they sun beams bright- ly out, and glitters upon the bayonets, waving plumes, tartans, and kilts of 1,500 of the High- land Brigade, drawn up for inspection. As we descend towards them, the bagpipes strike up and resound through mountain and glen, and one be- comes positively inspired with a touch of military ardour when he sees so much'romance in war. How happy must the genuine Caledonian soldier have felt, encamped there in the midst of his own nat- ive scenery I The lats IFar. LIFE IS HEAL—LIFE IS EARNEST."—Live for some purpose in the world. Fill up the measure of duty to others. Conduct yourself so that you will be missed with sorrow when you are gone. Mul- titudes of our species are living in such a selfish manner that they are not likely to be remembered after their disappearance. They leave behind them scarcely any traces of their existence, but I are forgotten as though they never had been. They are, while they live, like one pebble unobserved among a miliion on the shore, and when they die they are like that same pebble thrown into the sea, which just ruffles the surface, sinks, and is forgotten without being missed from the beach. They are neither regretted by the rich, wanted by the poor, nor celebrated by the learned. Who has been better for their life ? Whose tears have been dried up? Whose miseries, have they healed r Whose wants supplied? Who would un- bar the gate of life to re-admit them to existence, or what face would greet them back to our world with a smile ? Wretched, unproductive existence Selfishness is its own curse it is a starving vice. The man who does no good gets none. He is I like the heath in the desert, neither yielding fruit, nor seeing when good cometh stunted, dwarfish, miserable.—New Eng. Farmer. miserable.—A?M? ?.?7. 7'MrHi?-.


• • — , ■ ■ — ■ i ¡ THE EDINBURGR!MEAN…

[No title]



[No title]