minute) in search of a sensation. I think, sir, I ought to come and relieve you of part of your work, and you spend a part of my day properly for me.

Stran. You do me honour, sir,-and honour to yourself. You speak like a friend of our house, who invited me (the more's the pity) to go down and spend a day or two with him this season at a delightful place called Bowering Park.

Mast. Oh ho,-you and I must be acquainted; for I suspect I know your friend. And so you are mad that you are not down to-day at Bowering Park? Well, so am I; for I was invited too.

Stran. You were, and did not go!

Mast. Come; we will console one another somehow. Let us begin by persuading ourselves that it is not the first of May.

Stran. A good proposition; but hark! They will not let us. See

who comes here.

Must.

Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The-

Chimney-sweepers, by all that's frightful.

[Enter Chimney-sweepers, in soot and tinsel, dancing. They cross the Stage; the Gentlemen giving them money, and urging them off.]

Mast. Get on, get on, ye poor devils. street ;-you'll do better in the next.

There's nobody up in this

Chimney-sweepers. God bless your honour. Any thing for your noble honour's sake.

Mast. Poor devils! I could find it in my heart to pelt them into their dens with hard money.

Stran. And I could see you do it with all the money out of our house.

(Exeunt all together. Scene is removed, and presents to the shouting spec tators the sight of their village green, with the dance going round the May-pole.)

RECORDS OF WOMAN -NO. I.

Imelda.*

"Sometimes

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,

And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda."-Rogers.

We have the myrtle's breath around us here,
Amidst the fallen pillars; this hath been
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear,
Flinging a gleam of silver o'er the scene,

Up through the shadowy grass, the fountain wells,
And music with it, gushing from beneath
The ivied altar!-that sweet murmur tells
The rich wild flowers no tale of woe or death;
Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain
Lay deep, and heavy drops-but not of rain-
On the dim violets by its marble bed,
And the pale shining water-lily's head.
Sad is that legend's truth.-A fair girl met
One whom she loved, by this lone temple's spring,
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set,

And Eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair,
With the blue heaven of Italy above,

And citron-odours fainting on the air,

And light leaves trembling round, and early love

Deep in each breast. What reck'd their souls of strife
Between their fathers? Unto them, young life

Spread out the treasures of its vernal years;

And if they wept, they wept far other tears

Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, that hour,
Speaking of Hope, while tree, and fount, and flower,

And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs,
Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows.

But change came o'er the scene; a hurrying tread
Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled,
Up where the cedars make yon avenue

Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught
-Was it the clash of swords?-a swift dark thought
Struck down her lip's rich crimson, as it pass'd,

And from her eye the sunny sparkle took,

One moment, with its fearfulness, and shook
Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast

Might rock the rose! Once more, and yet once more,
She still'd her heart to listen-all was o'er ;
Sweet summer-winds alone were heard to sigh,
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by.

That night Imelda's voice was in the song,
Lovely it floated through the festive throng,
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night,
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light,
And her cheek glow'd with Beauty's flushing dyes,
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies,

See Sismondi's Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, vol. 3, p. 443.

A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze
Follow'd her form beueath the clear lamp's blaze,
And marvell'd at its radiance. But a few
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue,
With something of dim fear; and in that glance
Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest,
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance,
Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest,
Comes not unmask'd. Howe'er this were, the time
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime,
Alike: and when the banquet's hall was left
Unto its garlands, of their bloom bereft,

When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane,
And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again
There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone,
Through the dim cedar shade; the step of one
That started at a leaf, of one that fled,

Of one that panted with some secret dread!
-What did Imelda there? She sought the scene
Where Love so late with Youth and Hope had been.
Bodings were on her soul-a shuddering thrill
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's rill
Met her with melody,-sweet sounds and low,
-We hear them yet-they live along its flow-
Her voice is music lost! The fountain-side
She gain'd-the wave flash'd forth-'twas darkly dyed
Ev'n as from warrior hearts, and on its edge,
Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep,
There lay, as lull'd by stream and rustling sedge,
A youth-a graceful youth.-"Oh! dost thou sleep?
Azzo!" she cried. My Azzo! is this rest?"
-But then her low tones falter'd:-" On thy breast
Is the stain-yes! 'tis blood!—and that cold cheek,—
That moveless lip!-thou dost not slumber-speak!
Speak, Azzo, my belov'd! No sound-no breath!
What hath come thus between our spirits?-Death!
-Death?-I but dream-I dream!"—and there she stood,
A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood,
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown,
Her form sustain'd by that dark stem alone,
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old,
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold;

66

When from the grass her dimm'd eye caught a gleam
-'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream,
Her brother's sword!-she knew it-and she knew
"Twas with a venom'd point that weapon slew !

-Woe for young Love!-But Love is strong. There came
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame,
There came swift courage !-On the dewy ground
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round,
Like a long silken stole; she knelt, and press'd
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast,
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight!
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night!

-So the moon saw them last.

-The morn came singing Through the green forests of the Apennines, With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, And steps and voices out amongst the vines!

、

-What found that dayspring here?—Two fair forms laid
Like sculptur'd sleepers; from the myrtle shade
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave,

Still, mournful, sweet!-Were such things for the grave?
Could it be so indeed ?-That radiant girl,

Deck'd as for bridal hours!-long braids of pearl
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining,
As tears might shine, with melancholy light,
And there was gold her slender waist entwining,
And her pale graceful arms-how sadly bright!
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying,
And round her marble brow red roses dying.
-But she died first!-the violet's hue had spread
O'er her sweet eyelids, with repose oppress'd;
She had bow'd heavily her gentle head,

And, on the youth's hush'd bosom, sunk to rest.
So slept they well!-the poison's work was done,

Love with true heart had striven-but Death had won.

F. H.

LETTERS FROM THE EAST.-NO XV.
Jerusalem.

THE confined situation of the city is redeemed by the magnificent view many parts of it command of the Dead Sea, and the high mountains of Arabia Petræa, forming its eastern shore. This view is towards

the south-east, over the valley, between the hills of Judgment and those adjoining Olivet.

The strong and commanding position of Mount Zion could have been the only reason for fixing the capital of Judæa in so extraordinary and inconvenient a situation. Very many parts of the coast and the interior afford a far more favourable site in point of beauty and fertility, or for the purposes of commerce. The city, of old, was often subject to a scarcity of water, the fountain of Siloam and another on the east side, with the brook Kedron, being the chief supplies without the walls; but the latter, probably, possessed little or no water during the summer heats. It was reckoned as a memorable act in one of the kings, that he made a pool and a conduit, which are still called Hezekiah, and are at the end of the eastern valley. The whole compass of the ancient city, according to Josephus, was only thirty-three furlongs, so that an extension of half a mile along the plain of Jeremiah to the north, would give it its ancient size, and in a great measure, it is probable, its ancient position. The present circumference is, no doubt, correctly stated by Maundrell, to be two miles and a half. Josephus distinctly states "the old wall went southward, having its bending above the fountain Siloam," and this fountain in the side of Zion is not far without the present wall. Again the historian says, "the old wall extended northward to a great length, and passed by the sepulchral caverns of the kings," which caverns, or tombs of the kings, are now above half a mile without the walls to the north on the plain of Jeremiah. But the small valleys which divided the interior of the old city are now filled up, and many of the elevations levelled. The whole surface of the hills on which Jerusalem and its temple stood, of which Mount Moriah cannot now be distinguished,

were, no doubt, much loftier formerly, or else the hollows beneath have been partly filled up. The latter, it is very probable, has been the case. "These hills," the history observes," are surrounded by deep valleys, and by reason of the precipices belonging to them on both sides, they are every where impassable." This description does not apply to the present, appearance of either; no precipices, either steep or difficult, existing.

But, although the size of Jerusalem was not extensive, its very situation on the brink of rugged hills, encircled by deep and wild valleys, bounded by eminences whose sides were covered with groves and gardens, added to its numerous towers and temple, must have given it a singular and gloomy magnificence scarcely possessed by any other city in the world.

The most pleasing feature in the scenery around the city, is the valley of Jehoshaphat. Passing out of the gate of St. Stephen, you descend the hill to the torrent of the Kedron; a bridge leads over its dry and deep bed; it must have been a very narrow, though in winter a rapid stream. On the left is a grotto, handsomely fitted up, and called the tomb of the Virgin Mary, though it is well known she neither died nor was buried near Jerusalem. Being surprised, however, on the hills by a long and heavy shower of rain, we were glad to take shelter beneath the doorway of this grotto. A few steps beyond the Kedron, you come to the garden of Gethsemane, of all gardens the most interesting and hallowed; but how neglected and decayed! It is surrounded by a kind of low hedge, but the soil is bare, no verdure grows on it, save six fine venerable olive-trees, which have stood here for many centuries. This spot is at the foot of Olivet, and is beautifully situated; you look up and down the romantic valley; close behind rises the mountain; before you are the walls of the devoted city. While lingering here, at evening, and solitary, for it is not often a footstep passes by, that night of sorrow and dismay rushes on the imagination, when the Redeemer was betrayed, and forsaken by all, even by the loved disciple.-Hence the path winds up the Mount of Olives: it is a beautiful hill; the words of the Psalmist," the mountains around Jerusalem," must not be literally applied, as none are within view, save those of Arabia. It is verdant, and covered in some parts with olivetrees. From the summit you enjoy an admirable view of the city: it is beneath, and very near; and looks, with its valleys around it, exactly like a panorama. Its noble temple of Omar, and large area planted with palms; its narrow streets, ruinous places, and towers, are all laid out before you, as you have seen Naples and Corfu in Leices ter-square. On the summit are the remains of a church, built by the Empress Helena; and in a small edifice, containing one large and lofty apartment, is shewn the print of the last footstep of Christ, when he took his leave of earth. The Fathers should have placed it nearer to Bethany, in order to accord with the account given us in Scripture; but it answers the purpose of drawing crowds of pilgrims to the spot. Descending Olivet to the narrow valley of Jehoshaphat, you soon come to the pillar of Absalom: it has a very antique appearance, and is a pleasing object in the valley: it is of a yellow stone, adorned with half columns, formed into three stages, and terminates in a cupola.

The tomb of Zacharias, adjoining, is square, with four or five pillars,