contradictory cross-examinations, of verbose, unintelligible speeches, haunt him, shriek in his ears, "Shame on the infamous ingratitude," and avenge the cause of the bullied witness.

But let not any ungifted person presume to think that he can be nonsensical in either of the ways which I have mentioned. Neither are to be attained without considerable natural talents in that line. In the first place, impudence irrefragable; in the second, fluency inexhaustible; in the third, a quick eye, and ready invention, to seize the moment of letting fly at the victim the full torrent of humbug.

The astounding and awe-infusing Nonsense, besides being appropriated by nature to German Romancers and Travellers, is in great request among the proficients at St. Stephen's. What is more common, than for a politician to preface his objections to a Railway-Improvement Bill with protestations of its ruinous nature to King, Lords, and Commons, and a dreadful enumeration of the stabs and thrusts which our happy Constitution will receive from it.

As the Counsellor and Fortune-hunter would have reason to complain if they themselves were tied down to common Sense, the usurers, stock-brokers, and tradesmen of most kinds, would not be less injured if other people were purged of their folly. What, too, would the old maid say, if every action, look, or word of her neighbours were kept under the guardianship of that duenna of duennas, Sense? she would be reduced from harmless embellishment to point-blank invention, by which her too tender conscience might possibly be afflicted, and, moreover, nobody, if sensible, would believe her.

Last, not least, in the tribe of Nonsense, the Etonian cannot deny her his most cordial and unlimited gratitude. How, without this resource, could he get through his verses and theme on a hard week? What would he say, to have every exercise torn over, which was not in strict concordance with the rules of Sense; to have his verses pared from a magnificent copy of sixty or seventy, to the concise brevity of his number?

Sense, perhaps, will lay claim to the philosophers and essayists; we will yield them to her, though more from easiness and good-nature than from conviction of the justice of her claims: but nobody can deny Nonsense to be the lady paramount of all novels and romances, and by far the greater portion of the poets. All Adelinas, Euphemias, Angelicas, and Aramintas, all midnight apparitions and haunted castles, all despairing Corydons and dying Thyrsises, all sonnets to Mary or Ellen, may pretty safely be appropriated to her. Indeed I myself had some idea of becoming one of the latter class of her partisans, solely and purely from veneration for our Patroness, and of chaunting her praises in "lofty rhyme," beginning, of course, with a congenial invocation to divine Nonsensia, and ending with a high-flown apostrophe to that division of Eton College, which, from her, has received its name.

THE SIEGE OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

O'er Byzantium's leaguer'd walls

Calmly the light of morning falls;
And calmly shines the Crescent's pride
Reflected in the Euxine's tide.

Hear

ye the sounds that are borne on the gale, The shout of joy, and the shriek of wail;

Hear the songs of the Faithful rise,

And "God and the Prophet" rend the skies;
Hear, with cadence sad and slow,
Resound the Christian's notes of woe;

So melancholy are the cries,
They seem the city's obsequies.
The trumpets thrice the signal sang,
With "Alla" thrice the welkin rang,
The Moslem's cry of might;

The horse-tails in the breezes danc'd
As Anatolia's bands advanc'd,

And mingled in the fight.
The strife begins. Amid the lines
Each Janissary's falchion shines,
As on they rush'd, with eager course,
To stem the charging Christian's force.
Then vain was Grecian sword and spear
Against the Moslem's wild career;
As leaves before the breath of heav'n,
Back to their gates the foe is driv❜n.
But who is he, whose giant form
Seems like a beacon midst the storm?
Who, through the war's conflicting wave,
O'erthrows the bravest of the brave,

And urges on his foaming steed
Obedient to his Prophet's creed,

Which says, through Christian blood is giv'n
The Moslem's surest path to heav'n.

"Tis Hassan-he whom

eager zeal

Bears through th' opposing front of steel;

Who burns in fiercer fight to close

With those, the Crescent's deadliest foes.

He flies, where from the Grecian fire

Dismay'd the Turkish hosts retire.

Quick from his hand the reins he flings,
Quick from his charger's back he springs,
One bound he gave-unseen by all,

He gain'd the summit of the wall,
And midst a thousand hostile brands
Alone, yet undismay'd, he stands;

One Greek alone has tried his might,
And dared the Moslem to the fight;
Nor dared in vain. In Hassan's eyes
The flames of anger sparkling rise;
With flashing course his falchion sped-
The Greek is number'd with the dead.
But fiercer soon their vengeance glows,
Thicker the Christian squadrons close.
Still Hassan fights, until a dart
Has drunk the life-blood of his heart.
Meantime each turban'd band appears,
And nearer gleam the Turkish spears;
Then peal'd the cannon's echo loud,
Then widely roll'd war's sulphurous cloud,
As sword to sword, and breast to breast,
Upon the foe the Moslem prest.

But, like an ocean-beaten rock,

The Christians bore the hostile shock,
And firm remain'd, though myriads bled,
Until proud Genoa's leader fled.

"On, Moslems, on! the Grecians yield,
"Justiniani quits the field.

"On, Moslems, on!" fierce Mahmoud cries, "Alla has will'd to us the prize;

66 Feel ye that pure, that madd'ning zeal,
"Which none but Mussulmen can feel?
"See ye the dark-hair'd Houris wave
"Their welcome to the slaughter'd brave?"
But then was seen the Christian's rout,
Then peal'd the conquering Moslem's shout;
While worthy of his former name
Amidst his native city's flame,
Deserted by his recreant bands,
The last of all the Cæsars stands :
With brow serene, unmov'd by fear,
He saw the victor's fierce career;
Unmov'd he view'd the tottering wall,
Unmov'd he mark'd each soldier's fall
Then, dashing madly through the strife
Resign'd the worthless boon of life.

;

REMARKS ON GIFFORD'S "FORD."

(Continued from page 133.)

Our limits will not allow us to be as lavish in our quotations, as the admiration we feel for genius, and the wish we have to communicate that admiration in our humble sphere to all those from whose libraries the early dramatists have hitherto been aliens, would prompt us to be. But, before we leave "The Broken Heart," we must recommend to the reader of taste and feeling, the exquisite pathos displayed in the fifth Scene of the third Act, where Penthea bids a last farewell to "the stage of her mortality," and intrusts to Calantha, as to her executrix, the legacies of her youthful affection.

Pen. I have left me

Cal.

But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is
My Youth; for tho' I am much old in griefs,

Pen. To virgin wives, such as abuse not wedlock;

May those be ever young!

Cal. A second jewel

Pen.

Cal.

You mean to part with?

'Tis my Fame; I trust,

By slander yet untouch'd; this I bequeath
To Memory, and Time's old daughter, Truth.
If ever my unhappy name find mention,
When I am fall'n to dust, may it deserve
Beseeming charity without dishonour !

How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport
Of mere imagination! speak the last;

I strangely like thy Will.

Pen. This jewel, madam,

Is dearly precious to me; you must use
The best of your discretion to employ
This gift as I intend it.