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and drive a smart tilbury. But they set no value upon money, and throw it away on any object or in any manner that first presents itself, merely to have it off their hands, so that you wonder what has become of it. The second class above spoken of not only make away with what belongs to themselves, but you cannot keep anything you have from their rapacious grasp. If you refuse to lend them what you want, they insist that you must; if you let them have any thing to take charge of for a time (a print or a bust) they swear that you have given it them, and that they have too great a regard for the donor ever to part with it. You express surprise at their having run so largely in debt; but where is the singularity while others continue to lend? And how is this to be helped, when the manner of these sturdy beggars amounts to dragooning you out of your money, and they will not go away without your purse, any more than if they came with a pistol in their hand? If a person has no delicacy, he has you in his power, for you necessarily feel some towards him; and since he will take no denial, you must comply with his peremptory demands, or send for a constable, which out of respect for his character you will not do. These persons are also poor-light come, light go—and the bubble bursts at last. Yet if they had employed the same time and pains in any laudable art or study that they have in raising a surreptitious livelihood, they would have been respectable, if not rich. It is their facility in borrowing money that has ruined them. No one will set heartily to work, who has the face to enter a strange house, ask the master of it for a considerable loan, on some plausible and pompous pretext, and walk off with it in his pocket. You might as well suspect a highwayman of addicting himself to hard study in the intervals of his profession.

There is only one other class of persons I can think of, in connexion with the subject of this essay-those who are always in want of money from the want of spirit to make use of it. Such persons are perhaps more to be pitied than all the rest. They live in want, in the midst of plenty-dare not touch what belongs to them, are afraid to say that their soul is their own, have their wealth locked up from them by fear and meanness as effectually as by bolts and bars, scarcely allow themselves a coat to their backs or a morsel to eat, are in dread of coming to the parish all their lives, and are not sorry, when they die, to think that they shall no longer be an expense to themselves according to the old epigram:

"Here lies Father Clarges,
Who died to save charges!"

WM. HAZLITT.

WYOMING.

BY AN AMERICAN POET.

"Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St Preux, mais ne les y cherchez pas,"

THOU Com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last,
"On Susquehannah's side, fair Wyoming!"
Image of many a dream, in hours long past,
When life was in its bud and blossoming,
And waters, gushing from the fountain spring

Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes,

As by the poet borne, on unseen wing,

I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies,
The Summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies.

I then but dreamed :-thou art before me now,

In life, a vision of the brain no more.

I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow,
That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er :

And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore,
Within a bower of sycamores am laid;

And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore

The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade,
Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.

Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power

Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured: he

Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour

Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery

With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
Known like old friends and greeted from afar :
And there are tales of sad reality,

In the dark legends of thy border war,

With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are.

But where are they, the beings of the mind,

The bard's creations, moulded not of clay,

Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned

Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave-where are they?

We need not ask. The people of to-day

Appear good, honest, quiet men enough,

And hospitable too-for ready pay,

With manners, like their roads, a little rough,

And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, though tough.

Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate,

And the town records, is the Albert now

Of Wyoming; like him, in church and state,

Her Doric column; and upon his brow

The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow,
Look patriarchal, Waldegrave 'twere in vain
To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow
That stands full-uniformed upon the plain,

To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain.

For he would look particularly droll

In his "Iberian boot" and "Spanish plume,"
And be the wonder of each Christian soul,
As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom.
But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom,
Hath many a model here; for woman's eye,
In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home,
Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high
To be o'er-praised even by her worshipper-Poesy.

There's one in the next field-of sweet sixteen-
Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born
In heaven with her jacket of light green,
"Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn,"
Without a shoe or stocking-hoeing corn.
Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there,
With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne,
I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player

The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire.

There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old,
Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped

Upon their day of massacre. She told

Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept,

Whereon her father and five brothers slept

Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave,
When all the land a funeral mourning kept.

And there, wild laurels, planted on the grave

By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave,

And on the margin of yon orchard hill

Are marks where time-worn battlements have been ;
And in the tall grass traces linger still

Of "arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin."
Five hundred of her brave that valley green
Trode on the morn in soldier-spirit gay:

But twenty lived to tell the noon-day sceneAnd where are now the twenty? Passed away. Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle day? F. G. HALLECK.

JACK WHITE'S GIBBET.

BY GEORGE C. DYKE.

"On the cominon, hard hy,

His gibbet was once to be seen."-SOUTHET.

NEAR the south-eastern extremity of the beautiful and fertile county of Somerset, stands the small, but ancient market-town of Castle-Cary, deriving its name from a castle, which was for some centuries the property and the residence of the noble family of Carey or Cary, earls of Monmouth, and lords of the manor on which the town stands. It is difficult to discover the precise period at which it was relinquished by its noble occupants; but thus much is certain, that it was a place of no small importance in the wars of the Roses, and that, during the troubled reign of the first Charles, it was garrison. ed for that monarch by a party of Sir Bevil Granville's cavaliers; in consequence of which, it was completely dismantled by Colonel Weldon, the parliamentarian commander, who passed through the town on his way to Taunton; and thus, after being the scene of many a splendid pageant, in which the "gentil knighte and fayre ladye" of the olden time displayed their prowess and their beauty, it has under gone the fate of all sublunary things, and its mouldering and ruinea walls are now used as a granary for the principal inn in the town. The spacious court, erewhile the theatre on which the steel-clad heroes of a former age exhibited their skill and courage, in the pompous and spirit-stirring tilt and tournament, and gained from applauding beauty the reward of successful valour, has now degenerated into an inn-yard, and the castle-moat administers to the comfort of the equestrian lieges in the shape of a horse-pond. Leaving to the curious in antiquarian research, who delight in dragging from their time-worn sepulchres the musty relics of antiquity, and who wade, with laborious and unwearied zeal, through the obscure records of bygone centuries, to demonstrate the etymology of a name, the task of deciphering the rude, and almost obliterated inscription which adorns the massy portal of the ancient edifice, I shall, sans farther introduction, proceed to state, that the town of Castle-Cary, like most country towns of a similar size, consists of one long street, which extends nearly a mile in an irregular line from north-east to south-west; and, from a narrow entrance at either end, descends by a very gra dual declivity to the centre, where it expands into an area of considerable size, from whence a branch diverging takes a circuit of a few hundred yards, and again merges in the main street. The street at

its greatest width, is denominated the market-place, in the centre of which stood formerly a stone cross, of elaborate and costly workmanship. Among the modern structures which surrounded it, and with which it had no sympathy, if we may so speak, the ancient column reared its venerable head, and seemed as much out of place as the gigantic John of Gaunt, in his mailed habiliments, would appear in an assembly of the starched and perfumed military dandies of the present day. A few years since, however, this vestige of poperya monument at once of the genius and the superstition of our ancestors-was removed to facilitate the approach and departure of the increasing number of stage-coaches to and from the principal inn. This structure, which stands directly opposite to the site of the cross, was then, and is still, known by the name of "The George ;" and the warlike saint himself, in close combat with his formidable enemy the dragon, rudely carved in stone, formerly adorned the key-stone of the spacious gateway which led to the interior of the inn. But, alas! for human vanity, however potent the doughty St George might have been in defending himself from the assaults of the poisonous monster, all his prowess was found insufficient to resist the silent and insidious attacks of time. The pride of a modern occupier aspired to decorate the building with a new front. Dragon, and steed, and hero, were taken down a few years ago, in a dilapidated state; and, like the cross, its contemporary, administered to the comfort of passengers by repairing the rutted street in front of the inn; but, in order that the fame of the champion might not be involved in the same ruin with his effigy, the zeal of the landlord and the pencil of a country artist have perpetuated the memory of the famous triumph of the saint over his scaly adversary, by rearing in the market-place, on the summit of a lofty pole, a painted resemblance of the stone figures which formerly announced to the weary traveller the welcome vicinity of "The George"-the modern sign being rendered still more attractive by the gaudy colours in which the florid fancy of the rural Rubens has exhibited it; to which might be added another advantage it has over its predecessor, in the gift it possesses of luring the benighted and way-worn passenger by the monotonous creaking of its rusty iron hinges; but which, for the hungry and tired pedestrian, has more charms than the sweetest note ever extracted from the " light guitar" by the skilful fingers of the Venetian serenaders, when seeking to gain the applause of his lovely mistress. At the time of which I am now about to speak, the year 1727, St George reigned in all his glory over the principal entrance to the chief inn in the town of Castle-Cary; and one evening, in the end of the month of October in that year, a tall, swarthy-looking man, habited in a sailor's garb, sought the hospitable shelter of that establishment to avoid a passing shower which

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