town immediately after the assembly was dissolved, and galloped towards his castle, to see how his plans had fared. On his arrival he found that, agreeably to his directions, the men had started for Wahul, with the intention of stealing Eleanor, but had not returned, nor had any tidings of them been received. Unable to account for this, he became sorely troubled, and debated within himself whether he should not secretly go across to see how his scheme sped. But this, he thought, could be hardly safe; and he therefore determined to wait with patience until some one returned to acquaint him of the result. Twenty times, at least, did he mount the tower to look out, but not one of bis men could he espy. He therefore summoned old Eldrida, and consulted with her on the very unfavourable turn circumstances had taken; she, however, told him to take courage, and all would go well. She then informed him that every week the prisoner had become more impatient of confinement, but that her scheme of inducing him to believe that Wahul's daughter had proved false to him, had succeeded; and she dwelt with delight in her description of the agonies of Arthur, when she had tormented him with her vile tales. When she repeated the different threats and imprecations Arthur had uttered, Radwell became like a demon, and the old woman could scarcely prevent him from going down into the vaults, and taking summary vengeance upon his victim. She however succeeded at length in calming hin, and ordered the attendants to prepare supper. He ate little, but, as usual, drank deeply; and, as he drained his cup, his spirits rose, and he became quite elated. In the meantime Eldrida sent one of the retainers towards Wahul, with instructions not to leave until he had obtained some information concerning the others; for it had now become dark and late, and she herself grew fearful that all was not right. The man soon returned, in company with those whom he went to seek. As soon as they rang the portal bell, Eldrida met them, and learned that they had been entirely unsuccessful; they had waited in ambush the whole of the day, without having caught a single glimpse of Eleanor. From some cause neither she nor the Lady Wahul had left the castle that day; and when they saw the baron and his friends return home, they judged it was still more improbable she would then go out. They waited until it grew dark, and then they collected together and returned, and met the messenger as he was proceeding across the meads to find them. The old woman went into the hall, and told Radwell, whose passion again broke loose, and the very figures on the tapestry seemed to tremble at his blasphemous revilings against his fate. Eldrida was again obliged to use her influence with him, and, filling his cup with more wine, she handed it to him, and urged him to take it. Relapsing from his former ire, he took a deep draught, and then retired for the night.

In the morning he rose moody and disappointed at the ill success of his schemes, and after taking his breakfast, he mounted his horse, and rode to the forest accompanied by his rangers and deer hounds, more for the purpose of diverting his thoughts, than for the real object of sport. They had not proceeded far, ere they saw a couple of bucks, which, upon the blast of the rangers' horn, separated, undecided which way to take. The hounds were slipped, and they singled out one which broke through the thicket, and got away into the open country. A splendid chase was given for a full half hour, when the buck crossed the river, dashed into some underwood, and threw the hounds into check. As soon as Radwell and the foresters had come to the spot, they were surprised to find a party on horseback watching the chase. He found that it consisted of the Baron Wahul, the Botelers, and Saltier. After receiving and passing the morning salutations, Radwell invited them to join in the chase. The baron, unwilling that any outbreak between them should occur, answered for his friends, that they would be happy to do so, on conditions that he would afterwards join them at his castle to dinner. Radwell, equally anxious to preserve a fair appearance towards the party, expressed his delight at the arrangement, and turning round, directed the rangers to draw the stag from his covert. The hounds were sent in, and cheered on by the first ranger, who dismounted, and entered the thicket; and in a few minutes the stag broke out, and the hounds were instantly laid on. The rangers' horn called the company to the chase, and away they went, scouring across the country; the stag seemingly gathering strength and speed as the chase grew longer. Again crossing the winding river, he mounted the hill beyond Harewold; and taking another circuit, he tried to regain his old lair; spurring on, the company were compelled to be unsportsmenlike, and cross to the point he was making for, in order to keep in the chase at all. They succeeded in reaching the point in time to prevent him entering the forest; and, disappointed at being thus frustrated, he was again compelled to trust to his speed. Re-crossing the plain he set his head towards

the Bletshoe copses; the rangers knowing how difficult it would be to recover him from these intricate coverts, urged their hounds on, and as they mounted the hill, they saw that he was distressed and going with difficulty. The hounds, on descending, appeared to receive new vigour, and the hills re-echoed their deep melody; every moment they gained on him, and this the noble fellow knew too well, but his strength was gone; he was anable any longer to keep up his speed, and his little taper legs trembled beneath him. He knew that he was in the power of his enemies, but his noble heart did not fail him. Crouching down for a moment's rest, he turned his ear to catch the bay of the hounds, and not until they were almost upon him, did he attempt to rise. When the hounds were within a few paces of him, he sprung up, and stood erect, with his brave antlers standing a full yard above his forehead, and his bright eyes flashed fire upon his noisy tormentors. One hound sprang at his throat, but was received upon the horns, and almost ripped. Another sprang too, and was more successful; he seized the stag by the throat; another followed, and another, and the noble creature, with one spasmodic bound in the air, yielded up his life. By this time the rangers came up, and one of them drew his knife across the throat of the brave game; whilst another embowelled him, and flung the reeking entrails to the hounds as their perquisite and reward. The stag was then slung over one of the horses, and the party proceeded towards Wahul, discussing the merits of the brilliant chase. The baron was particularly eloquent in his praises of the splendid animal which had given such sport, and he begged that the antlers might be put up in his hall, for a memento of the glorious run.

On reaching Wahul castle, they found that the feast had been awaiting their arrival for some time; so, after a hasty ablution, the hunting party joined the lady of the castle and Eleanor at the table. Courteous greetings passed between them, and Radwell, who was not willing to risk a second repulse from the elder lady by too much familiarity, was therefore not sorry that the Botelers separated him from them. The baron relieved Radwell and his own friends from any embarrassment, by again dwelling upon the delightful sport they had enjoyed that morning, and the theme was as fully enlarged upon by the elder Boteler, who courteously expressed his regret that the ladies had not been able to participate in it. Radwell, in his heart regretted this too; as then his plan of capturing the maiden would probably have succeeded that day better than on the previous one. Soon after the feast was finished, and the noble host had been duly pledged in the wine cups, Radwell took his leave and returned home. Of the events that followed, we must make mention in another chapter.

Maiden Queen Lodge, Bedford.

[To be continued.]

EVENING.

I love to stray when the sun's last ray

Is gilding the heath-clad hill,

When the evening breeze sighs through the trees,

And all around is still.

I love to stand on the pebbly sand

Of some lone highland lake,

And watch the stag on the distant crag,

Retire to the heathy brake.

I love to trace the headlong race

Of some wild mountain stream,

When the wave is bright with the silvery light
That plays from the pale moon beam.

I love to hear by the moon light clear
The sound of the water fall,
Born down the vale by the gentle gale
That fans the pine tree tall.

I love the hour-with soothing power,.
Thought flies to the shadowy past,
And scenes appear to friendship dear,
Like dreams that vanish past!

Travellers' Rest Lodge, Norwich.

C.

AN INQUIRY INTO THE IDEA OF THE POETICAL.

[Concluded from page 103.]

In our short search after a few of the places and times in which the poetical has existed, we have seen it in various forms-in the great external civilization of Egypt, in its massive buildings, expressions of hearts that must have had powerful feelingswe have seen it in early Greece, in the wild and clamorous life of its heroes, and the gentler habits of its states-in the rash and dim-eyed enthusiasm of Mahommedanism, bent on the extension of a truth which gave hem strength-in the happy life of the Arcadian shepherds, and teaching us in the early Scriptures.

None of these days remained long unchanged. That which we conclude must have been poetry to the early Egyptians, was nothing to their successors-that which was powerful enough to be satisfied with nothing less than the pyramids, was unknown to, and unguessed at, by a later age. The feelings which inspired the old heroes were also subject to decay, and men admired, but could not imitate. Mahommedan power suffered decay also; having only one object, to establish the unity of God among an ignorant people, and the inspiration of man amongst people whose faith was fading, the first step being gained, the aim must be renewed, or the system must partake of the mortality of all establishments. The shepherd's poetry is also gone-its beauty, like that of other ages, consisted in the room left to the eye to fill up; and was more poetical to those who looked on, than to those who partook of it, without the necessary mental perceptions for its enjoyment. And, we may add with St. Pinh sacrifices are now neglected; their beauty lay in a meaning not understood by any who usea them, and only existing as some dim notion of grandeur in the minds of others, in a meaning which was connected with their infantile state.

Such has been the fate of some of our most poetic ages. The poetry of Rome was worked out at a time when it had few or no poets, when it was rising to supremacy. At its height it found poets to express some of its long strivings, but at this very time the real poetry of the empire ceased. The aim of Rome was universal empire, and we may connect with this idea, absolute government, perfect submission of the subjects, perfect brotherly union, peace and universal plenty and happiness. Virgil did so, and sung in words what Rome was in part endeavouring to work out. Virgil saw the abstract tendency of such things, and looked at the ideal good; but it is also to be remarked that he wrote at a time when corruption was beginning to undermine the very structure that he admired. We may see that whenever the original aim was carried on as far as the time or circumstances permitted, the poetry of it ceased. The poetry resided in the higher aim, the power to go beyond the thing seen; when intellect came to fix the idea, to define the feeling distinctly, then the poetry ceased.

Another movement in society is worthy of remark. We have seen the Roman poetry of universal empire become a subject of intellect, which had left behind it some traces of the beauty of universal peace. We find the poets deduce the one idea through the other, as if connected by an evident association of ideas; and the idea of universal brotherhood first grew in them from the same chain of thought. We may also see in the gallantry towards woman, which arose in the middle ages, a similar instance of an end being gained somewhat different from that first set out with. It began with manly acts of courage, with bravery in its various shapes, and excited resolution and determination both of body and mind. It became the source of many varied every day, as well as holiday, thought; and took command of all the poetic feeling, and all the highest feeling of mankind, somehow connecting itself with all that could be found both in the church and in the state, in the field and in the city. Woman was given a different position; her claims began to be intellectually considered, and she now stands very differently from what she once stood; but also different from her middle age state, when she was pre-eminently held as the end of all perfections. It took its place among the furniture of society, not as a supreme idea, but as an important one, to give her a station differing from her original one.

The poetry of the early christians and martyrs was of a very powerful kind. It began. like many other species, with a limited view, but a determination corresponding to it. It began, at the first, to aim at the highest attainable point; but as the idea ripened, the length of the road was seen, and the necessity of passing over much ground

before gaining it, was reluctantly admitted. There came, then, gradually a calmness over the new feelings; and they began to cultivate the original motives, not for sudden 'bursts of action, to be performed once in a lifetime, and to attain their end thereby, but as a means of improvement through life, and comprising every position. How gradually these first views of christians have been extended throughout society-how they have been used for so many purposes-how they have been incorporated into states and towns, and into our manners and customs, is an interesting inquiry; but true it is, that those which seem least obeyed are overpowering us, and the excitement at the Reformation and similar periods, has never fallen without leaving not to be effaced remains. They may begin in all the glow of fanatic feeling, but when spread over society, they are quietly acted out by the aid of intellect and manners.

We cannot suppose a stationary nation to think or act poetically, except in that line of thought which is neccessarily produced by the progress from youth to manhood and age. No doubt, China, when it rose, acted with that fire and determination which characterize the rise of all other nations, when their institutions take a shape. The term celestial alone speaks of great aims, and great commotion of feeling, as well as of towns and provinces in danger. When the end is gained, or believed to be gained, the poetry ceases; it becomes then a fact, a thing that a man may see and touch. It loses its power of extension, its craving after a something greater than the eye sees.

Let us look elsewhere, for example, to science. That is not a science which a man can learn by rote, and that is not a scientific man, who knows merely all the facts, or all the laws of any science. A man may learn astronomy well, and retain little more than to be called a learned mechanic; or he may learn chemistry, and be only a well-informed workman. A science has always a something, the end of which not being perfectly seen, is covered in a halo of poetry. The adaptation of nature's laws to each other are probably infinite, and until we can see them all, they can never appear to us in the light of machinery. If we could see them all at once, we know not what effect this might have upon us; but at present we know that there is a time, when a truth, once followed after with enthusiasm, being found and long examined, ceases to act on the feelings; it has become a fact-it has, to us, lost its poetry. Such is, more or less, the case in all men. A man may think, as many do, on gravitation, as a mere property of bodies, and as a mechanical power which attracts; but to look on it as a power binding all material things, produces ideas which cannot soon become familiar, from their vastness, and the difficulty we have of grasping them.

In the arts, a picture, if representing a person, is not admired from its likeness to any known person, that is, if the picture belongs to the higher department of the arts. A countenance must not be merely human, it must also cause the human to be passing the usual bounds before it becomes poetical; it must have made greater progress than countenances in general make on the infinite line towards perfection before it is what it aims to be. Nor must it have left human feeling in doing this; we know that this would be a fault, but it is also unnecessary for a picture. We meet sometimes faces which attract us, whether their expression be good or bad, because, in them, some expression has advanced so far as not to be familiar to us; it has gone beyond the usual grasp of the mind; they have a something of the infinite to us, because the end of their movements is unknown, and they raise ideas which we call poetical. Motion on the sea was, at an early period of the world, quite a poetical idea; it soon became a fact. The voyage Dædalus himself through the air, has become a fact; and so has the dreamy notion of Roger Bacon, of coaches without horses.

of

What then, after all, is poetry? We have seen that it is not the action of the powers of observation, of the five senses-it is not the action of the reasoning powers, because the mathematician and mechanician can treat the highest powers of reason in a mere workmanlike style. Must it be in the qualities that feel then that poetry exists? Surely, to say the least, it cannot be when they are absent. From the fact, that what is before our eyes is not poetical, that which we see at a distance, and which we clothe with all that our faculties are capable of, being in advance of the real, is nearer the end which we call perfect, and is poetical. But if we picture to ourselves any such poetry, and see distinctly all its points, and understand distinctly all its feelings, this will lose its poetry, it would be just as present things are. A great portion must be left for still further advances; it must stretch forward further than the eye can see. For this reason it of necessity follows, that all strong feeling takes a poetical appearance; it has a long

advance of our judgment. The sublime and the beautiful are of this class-the calmness of an evening landscape - the impressions produced by the magnitude of the ocean,all these have received some attempt at expression, but there is still a great portion unexpressed by poets.

not so.

A flow of ideas is poetical; a close mass of ideas, coming to a fixed conclusion, is The rapid thoughts and aspirations of an enthusiast are poetical; the rapid rise of individual minds, and of great men in their progress through life-the rapid rise of nations, and the rapid growth of thought and feeling in general. This principle of onward movement in poetry, the tendency to advance further than the eye can reach, or the intellect grasp, seems to have led us to view poetry in the light of an ethereal being. We have placed its seat in the clouds-we have called the poets spiritual, and we have also some notion of poetic feelings being not of this earth; in accordance with some other opinions held that the things we commonly see and handle, and the thoughts we commonly have, are of this world, whilst our finer feelings are heavenly, or angelic. As we assert infinity, or infinite extensibility, to be a character of all poetry, so may we find in this much of its beauty, and much reason for cultivating it; if highly cultivated, there is often an enthusiasm which rushes blindly on to an end far too remote to be hopeful—if imitated, there is an anxious craving, seeking in little things for great results. Such poetical fanaticism is not uncommon, which seeks beauty in everything new or unknown before; or it may be in everything old, or unused by us. Poetical feeling is subject, therefore, to those distempers which accompany more or less all other feelings. It is difficult to express oneself in language not metaphysical, on points such as these, but it is to be hoped that all here stated is not quite unintelligible; and that it will give some clue to the judgment of a poet's writings, preventing us from considering that man who speaks in rhyme what he sees, to be an equal with him who, although somewhat misty, points out the road to lands rich and worth visiting, but afar off, to be found only by a future generation. I have looked on poetry, not as what men speak or write, but that which they live out, or which nations express in their actions, and which ages are active in uttering. There are still volumes to be written on the subject, but this is not the place for more detail.

THE COUNTRY GOSSIPS.

It was of May a lovely morn,
In truth a glorious one!

I had been to a neighb'ring height,
To wait the rising sun.

And I had sat upon a crag,

In the strange gloomy grey,
Until above the range before
Glimmer'd the coming day.

And with the rising glory there,
My soul, which had been pent
Where first the darkness had seem'd less,
In a deep mountain rent.

Higher and wider had outspread,

Till, with the orb unbound,

I felt as in the warming air,

It floated all around.

I had, with gladness, seen the blade
Of grass, as 'twere unfold,

And change its dusky robe of night,
For one of fairy gold.

R. S.