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stone. These are all beautiful, and in a great measure still retain their rural faces, from the reason assigned-that they have not been spoiled by favouritism. Nor, indeed, is it likely that they will be; for the citizen, having a tendency to run upon a flat, prefers the more level side of London; where he can at once make a greater and more visible figure among his neighbours, go backwards and forwards to town with less wear and tear to his equipage, and get an idea or so, when he pleases, from the liveliness' of the dusty roads.

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It is the intention of the Proprietors of this little work to devote a portion of it every year to the description of Beautiful Spots round London, within the reach of those true lovers of the country-the Pedestrians.

"From whatever point then we take our start, we must make the best of our way to Hornsey-wood House; pass the front of it, and skirt the pretty little copse to which it is attached. Before us we shall see a sharp ascent, which, in our quarter of the island, we may dignify with the name of a hill.. This, from my ignorance of its real name, I have hitherto called Belle-vue:' perhaps Fair-look,' or Fair-view' will be better, because it is English. When we have gained the summit, a delightful prospect will be presented to us, well wooded. Green fields intersected with hedges ;-and, wandering through them, the New River, which is ever an interesting object, both from its resemblance to a natural stream, and from the blessings it daily dispenses to thousands of our fellow citizens. Behind us we see the whole extent of London-its solid masses of building-its domes and spires. The full view of a great city from a neighbouring eminence is always impressive.We think of the quantity of mind which is at work immediately under our eye of the immense quantity, which for years and years has been at work, and gone from us-and whither ? All that mighty heart is lying still!' This is to me the most clinging thought in the world. But we are to walk, and admire, and enjoy ourselves.

"We descend the hill into Hornsey-lane; thence pass through the burying-ground of a venerable church, and turn to the left through the town; keep the road, and it will bring us to the top of Muswell-hii. Here we have another noble view of London, with the Kent and Surrey hills in the distance-Shooter's hill, Banstead-downs, and Box-hill. From Muswell-hill there is a foot-path across the fields to Southgate, and this part of the journey is as beautiful, of its kind, as any lover of the country could wish it to be. Sometimes you are in an open pasture field, and every wind that sweeps across it tells you of fresh verdure, and of the kine ruminating. Sometimes you are wading through the yellow rustling corn. Now on the summit of a little hill, overlooking quiet and pleasant farms: now suddenly in

a dell with nothing but grassy mounds on each side-like billows of the sea converted into green fields.

"If I recollect rightly, by turning to the left upon coming to the next road, we shall arrive at that quarter of Southgate which looks towards London. I ought here to remark, for the benefit of our gig and carriage acquaintance, that a delightful road strikes off from Muswell-hill through Colneyhatch to Southgate. Having arrived at the outskirts of the village, we pass Sir William Curtis's farm on the left, and Mr Schneider's handsome mansion on the right. The house belonging to the late Chandos family is at the entrance of the village from the road; and before us is the sign of the Cherry Tree, which, in the articles of inns, I rather think will prove Hobson's choice to us. Let not the worthy landlord harbour for a moment the idea that, from this expression, I mean the least disrespect towards the Cherry Tree-gratitude forbid !-for we are bound to be grateful to accessible landlords and amenable landladies. I have breakfasted more than once at the Cherry Tree, and have a lively recollection of the cream, the rolls, the ham, and the eggs set before me: not to omit the proper Miltonian climax in the shape of a fair damsel, who 'ministered unto me'-I presume the landlord's daughter.-I hope, on my own ac count, that she is not married; unless she should, by singularly good fortune, have left as gentle a successor in the ministry as herself. Southgate is a very pretty village; adorned with the country seats of London gentlemen. This has gained it the title of ⚫ a mercantile aristocracy:' but do not mind the opinions of the inhabitants upon this occasion; they cannot turn the fields into scarlet cloth, nor the trees into gold lace. The walk from Southgate to Enfield is very lovely-the foot-path much more so than the carriage-way: the latter, however, whe ther over the Chase or through Winchmorehill, is quite rural. The former commences immediately from the Cherry Tree-the stile, or gate, is I think contiguous to the house. We pass through a small tract of ground planted with trees, dignified with the title of Southgate Wood. The proprie tor, with an eye to economy of ground, rather than to taste, has run a path through it as straight as a plumb-line. I thought nothing of this when I used to come to collect roots of primroses and honeysuckle for my little garden, and to cut hockey-sticks. I despair of ever being so happy again, notwithstanding the improvement in my

taste.

"The next village we come to is Winchmore-hill, and the foot-path from thence to Enfield, about a mile and half, is not to be excelled, I think, by any portion of the journey. Having arrived at the point proposed, for which, I fear, my readers as well as fellow-walkers will be thankful, allow me to recommend your submitting yourselves

to the care of Mr Markham, of the King's Head, who will set before you provisions and wine worthy of a more important country town: and he will add to your entertainment the pleasant garniture of a civil and respectful demeanour.

"Here, my friends, I take my leave, and recommend you to stay two or three days and achieve the following walks in the neighbourhood.-To Bull's Cross, and onwards through Theobald's Park to Cheshunt. To White-webs Wood and its vicinity: (near this spot, the conspirators in James the First's reign used to meet; possibly to watch the motions of the court whenever it was held at Theobald's). To Clay-hill and its neighbourhood. To Northaw, Hadley, and East Barnet. Over all this ground has my

Careless childhood strayed, a stranger yet to pain.
C. C. C.

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Now have young April and the blue eyed May
Vanished awhile, and lo! the glorious June
(While nature ripens in his burning noon),
Comes like a young inheritor; and gay,
Altho' his parent months have passed away:

But his green crown shall wither, and the tune
That ushered in his birth be silent soon,
And in the strength of youth shall he decay.
What matters this-so long as in the past

And in the days to come we live, and feel
The present nothing worth, until it steal
Away, and, like a disappointment, die?
For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory,

AUTUMN.

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There is a fearful spirit busy now.
Already have the elements unfurled
Their banners: the great sea-wave is upcurled:
The cloud comes: the fierce winds begin to blow

About, and blindly on their errands go;

We must find room for a few speci- Flies ever on before or follows fast. mens of the poetry. The following little composition is precisely fitted for a Pocket-Book, kind, pure, and affectionate, and awakening the best feelings of our nature, all the most pleasant recollections of domestic life. It is by Mr Charles Lloyd, author of Nuga Canoræ, reviewed in our last Number in a manner worthy of their great merit.

TO PRISCILLA L

-D.-Written in May.

My Friend, Priscilla, as in days of old
When Ossian's wild harp rang, the hero's breast
Felt the soft touch of sympathy, and knew
The spiritual accord of absent souls,-
So thou, my Sister, comest to my heart,
Soft as the beam which from the evening sky
Smiles on the face of nature. Oft at night
Do I from melancholy dreams awake

And think on thee. I know the bitter tears
Which thou must often shed, ere Peace enshrine
Her treasure in thy breast. Yet there are gleams
Of comfort here, though many storms of woe:
There are sweet calls of morn's rejoicing voice,
But there are many more departing days
Clothed in grief's interminable cloud.

Now Spring returns again! then come to me
Gay thoughts of joy,-ah, hopes long absent, come!
The air is calm, serene and soft the sky,
Blue lies the water 'mid the swell of meads
That glow with summer hues. The oak assumes
A yellower green: the elm, and sycamore,
And trembling lime, a darker verdure wave;
And many a shrub, in nearer view, delights
With various foliage, underneath whose shade
The tufted daisy and the primrose peep.-
Surely such forms of innocent delight

Should warm my breast, and when to these I bring
The memory of thy form, and mingle still
With nature's every charm thy valued love,
I were ungrateful did my vacant heart
Beat not with renovated thankfulness.
Sweet sounds, sweet shapes, and perfumes mild and
pure,

Solicit every sense, and thou the while
Dwell'st in my bosom.-Now, sweet girl, farewell!

L.

We close our extracts with four sonnets by Mr Cornwall, which are perfect in their beauty and majesty.

SONNETS ON THE SEASONS.
SPRING.

It is not that sweet herbs and flowers alone
Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep
Ja their great mother's iced bosom deep

And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled
Stripped of its pride, be like a desert show.
From their dry boughs, and all the forest world!
I love that moaning music which I hear

In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul
Seems gathering tidings from another sphere,
And, in sublime mysterious sympathy,

Man's bounding spirit ebbs, and swells more high,

Accordant to the billow's loftier roll.

WINTER.

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This is the eldest of the seasons: he
Moves not like spring with gradual step, nor

grows

From bud to beauty, but with all his snows
Comes down at once in hoar antiquity.
No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee
Before him, nor unto his time belong

The suns of Summer, nor the charms of song,
That with May's gentle smiles so well agree.
But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud
Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound,
And with a tender footstep prints the ground,
As tho' to cheat man's ear: yet while he stays
He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest
days,

And bid the dance and joke be long and loud.

β

We now put both the numbers of the Literary Pocket-Book into their place on our shelves-and recommend them to our readers. The idea is good and ingenuous, and the execution is, on the whole, excellent. The price is only five shillings, and to a stranger in London it is worth three times five, if it were for nothing but the lists. But there is also much clever, and some very fine writing in it, and independent of all the lists, and of the diary too, the original matter is worth the price. It may and will be improved upon year after year. To shew our own estimation of it, we have not only made it now furnish an article to us,

but we have purchased six copies for new-year's gifts to six young ladies of our acquaintance, on condition of having them returned to us at the close of 1820, after which we will keep them sacred in our escrutoire among the gathered treasures of twice twenty years.

We cannot conclude without remarking, that many very interesting little works keep issuing from Messrs

Olliers' shop in Vere Street. Our readers will observe a list of some new things in our Literary Intelligence of this month. We look hopefully to them all—and long for an opportunity of saying something kind of "Enesilla." Altham and his Wife," by

the same anonymous, and to us unknown author, shewed both sensibility and genius.

HORAE GERMANICE,
No. II.

The Ancestress; a Tragedy. By Grillparzer

ANOTHER astonishing genius has very lately devoted himself to the dramatic career in Germany; by name Francis Grillparzer.

He is even a younger man than Adolphus Müllner; and on the whole, perhaps, promises to effect still greater wonders in the department which he has chosen. We are yet acquainted with only two of his plays, the Sappho and the Ancestress, and each in its way appears to us to be a master-piece. The former is written on the strict Greek model, nd breathes throughout the truest spirit of antique lyrical inspiration, turned to the delicate display of all the workings of that most beautiful of the passions, on which, in its finest and purest shapes, the dramatic writings of the Greeks themselves can scarcely be said to have touched. The latter, of which we now propose to give a short account, is written entirely on the romantic plan of Calderon, but its interest is chiefly founded on the darkest superstitions of northern imagination. It is composed throughout, as indeed many of the German dramas of the present time are, in the same light and lyrical kind of versification of which the most charming specimens are to be found in the works of the great Spanish master. It must lose, therefore, not a little of its peculiar character and beauty by being rendered in a style so different as that of our English blankverse-but even in spite of this disadvantage, enough will remain to sa

tisfy our readers, that the genius of Grillparzer is one of the most pure, masterly, and majestic order.

We have already hinted, that the German poets of the present day are very fond of the doctrine of fatalism; indeed very few of them seem to think it possible to compose a powerful tragedy without introducing the idea of some dark impending destiny long predetermined-long announced imperfectly-long dreaded obscurely-in the accomplishment of which the chief persons of the drama are to suffer miseries for which their own personal offences have not been sufficient to furnish any due cause. We have no belief that they are wise in entertaining so exclusive a partiality for this species of interest; but there is no question the effect it produces in their hands is such as to account very easily for the partiality with which dramas, composed on this principle, are now regarded by all the audiences and almost all the critics of Germany. Neither is it to be denied, that many of the most perfect creations of preceding dramatists have owed much of their power to the influence of the same idea. It lies at the root of all those Greek tragedies, in which the early history of the heroic houses is embodied; and in later times it has been frequently used both by Calderon and Shakspeare. It is sufficient to mention the Meditation on the Cross of the one, and the Macbeth of the other.

The present tragedy is a terrible ex

We have been permitted to make use of a MS. translation of this play by Mr Gillies. We have also been promised the use of several other versions of fine German tragedies which he has already executed-all of them in a manner quite worthy of his fine talents.

emplification of this terrible idea; and it is the more terrible, because the sins of the Ancestress are represented as being visited, not by sufferings only, but by sins on her descendants. The scene opens in the chief hall of a gothic castle, the family of which has already become nearly extinct under the influence of that ancestral Ate, the final expiation of which now draws near its close. Count Borotin and his daughter Bertha are alone in this hall; and the conversation which they hold will put us in possession of every thing that is requisite for understanding the structure of the piece.

Count. (Sitting at a table, and looking fixedly at a letter, which he holds with both hands.) Well, then, what must be-let it come-I see Branch after branch depart; and scarcely now The wither'd stem can longer be supported. But one blow more is wanting; in the dust Then lies the oak, whose blissful shade so far Extended round. What centuries have beheld Bud, bloom, and wither, shall like them depart. No trace will of our ancestors remain

How they have fought and striven. The fiftieth year Scarce will have passed; no grandchild more will know

That even a Borotin has lived

Bertha. (At the window.) The night,

In truth, is fearful: cold and dark, my father,—
Even as the grave. The let-loose winds are moaning
Like wandering ghosts. Far as our eyes can reach,
Snow covers all the landscape, mountains, fields,
Rivers, and trees. The frozen earth now seems
A lifeless frame, wrapt in the shroud of winter:
Nay, heaven itself, so void and starless, glares,
As from wide hollow eyeballs, blackly down
On the vast grave beneath!

Count. How wearily

The hours are lengthening! Bertha, what's o'clock? ·Bertha. (Coming back from the window, and

seating herself with her work opposite to her father.) My father, seven has just now struck. Count. Indeed!

But seven! Dark night already! Ah! the year
Is old-her days are shortening-her 'numbed pulse
Is fault'ring, and she totters to the grave.

Ber. Nay, but the lovely May will come again; The fields be clad anew; the gales breathe soft; The flowers revive.

Count. Aye-truly will the year
Renew itself; the fields unfold their green;

The rivulets flow; and the sweet flower, that now
Has died away, will from long sleep awake,
And from the white soft pillow gayly lift
Its youthful head, open its glittering eyes,
And smile as kindly as before. The tree,
That now amid the storm imploringly
Stretches its dry and naked arms to heaven,
Will clothe itself with verdure. All that now
Lurks in the mighty house of Nature, far
On woods and plains, then shall rejoice anew
In the fresh vigour of the spring. But never
The oak of Borotin shall know revival.
Ber. Dear father, you are sad.
Count. Him blest I call,

Whom life's last hour surprises in the midst
Of his lov'd children. Give not to such parting
The name of death: for he survives in memory-
Lives in the fruits of his own labour-lives

In the applause and emulating deeds
Of his successors. Oh! it is so noble,
Of his own toil the scattered seeds to leave
To faithful hands, that carefully will rear
Each youngling plant, and the ripe fruits enjoy,
Doubling the enjoyment by their gratitude.
Oh! 'tis so sweet and soothing, that which we
From ancestors received to give again
To children, and, in turn, ourselves survive.

Ber. Out on this wicked letter! Ere it came,
Father, you were so cheerful-seemed yourself
To enjoy. Now, since it is perused, at once
You are untun'd.

Count. Ah, no! 'tis not the letter

Its import I had guess'd. 'Tis the conviction,
That evermore is closely forc'd upon me,
That destiny resistless has determined

To hurl from earth the race of Borotin.

See here they write me, that our only cousin
(Whom scarcely I have seen), of all the last,
Besides myself, that bore our name-(he too
In years, and childless)-suddenly by night
Has died. Thus, of our house, at length, am I
Sole representative. With me it falls.
No son will follow to the tomb my bier:
The hireling herald there will bear my shield,
That oft has shone in battle, and my sword
Well proved, and lay them with me in the grave.
There is an old tradition, that has long

Pass'd round from tongue to tongue, that of our house

The ancestress, for some dire crimes long past,
Must wander without rest, till she behold

The last frail branch (even of the stem that she

Herself had planted) from this earth remov❜d.
Well then she may rejoice, for her design
Is near fulfilment. Almost I believe
The tale, though strange; for sure a powerful hand
For our destruction must have been employed.
In strength I stood, magnificently blooming,
Supported by three brothers. On them all
Death prematurely seized. Then home I brought
A wife, as young, as amiable, and lovely,
As thou art now. Our nuptials were most happy.
From our chaste union sprung a boy and girl:
Soon ye were left my only consolation,

My life's last hope. (Thy mother went to Heaven.)
Carefully as the light of mine own eyes,

These pledges I watched over, but in vain;
Fruitless the strife. What caution or what strength
Could from the powers of darkness save their victim?
Scarcely thy brother had three years attain'd,
When, in the garden for his recreation,

He wander'd from his nurse. The door stood open,
That leads out to the neighbouring pond. Till then
It had been ever closed, but now stood open.
For otherwise the blow had not succeeded.
Ah! now I see thy tears unite with mine-
Thou know'st the rest already!-I, weak man!
Have garrulously told too oft before

The mournful tale-What more?-Why, he was drowned

But many have been drowned. And that he chanc'd
To be my son-my whole, my only hope-
The last support of my declining age-
Who could help this?-So he was drowned, and I
Childless remain.

Ber. Dear father! Count. I can feel

The gentle reprehension of thy love.
Childless, unthinking, do I call myself,
When I have thee? Thou dear and faithful one!
Ah, pray forgive the rich man who had lost
Half his possessions in misfortune's storm,
And, long by superfluity surrounded,
Held himself now a mendicant. Forgive me,
If, in the lightning flash that brought destruction,
The object of affection shone too brightly!
Nay, 'tis most true, I am unjust.-A name!-
Is this of such importance? Did I live

But for the reputation of my house?
Can I the sacrifice with coldness take,

Which thou present'st to me, of youth's enjoyments
And life's prosperity? Of mine existence
Shall the last days be to thy good devoted.
Yes; by a husband's side, who loves thee truly,
And can deserve thy favour, may to you
Another name and other fortune flourish !
Choose freely from our countrymen. Thy worth
To me will guarantee thy choice.-But now
Thou sigh'st!-Hast thou already chosen then?
That young man, Jaromir, methinks, of Esschen-
Is it not so?

Ber. Dare I confess?

Count. Didst thou

Believe, that from a father's eyes could be
Concealed the slightest cloud upon thy heaven?
Yet should I not indulge in some reproof
For this? That I must guess, what long ere now
I should have fully known? Have I in aught
To thee been harsh? And art thou not to me
My dear and only child? Thou call'st him noble,
And noble are his deeds. Bring him to me;
And if he stands the proof, much good may follow:
Though of our house extinct, the spreading lands
Fall to imperial power, yet to support
A moderate lot, enough will still remain.
Ber. Oh how shall I &c.

The deliverance of Bertha, from the hand of robbers, by this bold and beautiful youth, is described at great length -then the beginnings of their loveand last of all, the fears of the youth and the maid that their love might not be approved by the haughty Count Borotin, "Though himself," says she,

Descended from a noble race, he bears
Their pride without their fortune-poor and needy
As he is now, I've heard him say, he fears
That the rich Borotin some other meed
Might for his daughter pay, but not herself.

The Count relieves her fears, and expresses his anxiety to see the youth. Bertha leaves him, and ascends the watch-tower to look out over the forest in case she may see her lover. The old count being left alone, falls into a slumber. The clock strikes eight. At the last stroke the lights are extinguished. A blast of wind rushes into the apartment-the storm is heard roaring without, and, after an extraordinary rustling noise, there appears, close by the chair of the old man, the spirit of his Ancestress. Her features and form closely resemble those of Bertha, but she wears a long white funeral veil, and her eyes have the cold fixed stare of death. She bends over the Count with an expression of inexpressible sorrow and commiseration. The Count, (disturbed in his sleep) exclaims,

Count. Away-away-begone! (He awakes.) Ha! art thou three,

My Bertha-nay, it was a fearful dream, That rous'd mine inward senses. Take again The harp, my daughter!-Music will revive me. (The spectre has raised itself again, and stares at the Count with eyes wide open.)

(Count terrified.) Why dost thou stare so horribly upon me

So that my heart within me thence revolts With horror,-in my bones the marrow freezes? Away with such a look! avert thine eyes!. So did I see thee in my dream; and yet, My brain is burning. Wilt thou kill thy father? (The spectre turns away, and goes a few steps towards the door.) So-now I know myself again, but whither,

Child, art thou going!

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Count. (Falls back on his seat, as if thunderstruck, and, after a pause, says,) Ha! what is that!

Have I been dreaming? Did I not behold
My daughter stand before me--hear the words
That were like death, and feel my blood run cold
At the dread ghostly look? And yet, my daughter,
My gentle Bertha ! Where art thou? Ho! Bertha?
(Enter Bertha and Gunther, the chamberlain.)
Ber. (Rushing forward.) Dear father, what's

the matter?

Count. Art thou there?

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Ber. My looks?

Count. Aye, thine!

Lift not thine eye-lids up so fearfully,
There! so it was!-Yet no-more fix'd and stern!—
Stern-language has no word for such an aspect.
Look'st thou upon me now so soothingly,
"Tis all in vain. Long as I live, to me
To efface th' impression of that painful moment?

That frightful image will before me stand-
Even on my death-bed it will haunt me still.
Look'st thou as mild as moonlight on a soft

And lovely evening landscape, yet I know,

At pleasure thou can'st kill.

Ber. Alas! my father,

What have I done to move thee thus? why scold
My guiltless eyes that anxiously in search
Of thine, with tears of sorrow now are filled,
That I left thee asleep, and thoughtlessly

Went forth awhile.

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Count. Nay, did'st thou not

Stand in that place, shooting thy dead cold arrows Through my defenceless bosom?

Ber. While you slept?

Count. Just now; 'tis but a moment since.
Ber. In truth,

I came now from the balcony. When sleep
Had seized you, I went longing out to try,
If I could meet with Jaromir.

Count. For shame!
Girl! dost thou mock me?
Ber. Mock thee? I, my father?

The old Steward of the family, who has entered the apartment, confirms the statement of Bertha-and after a pause he ventures to say, that the superstition of the neighbourhood represents the shade of the Ancestress, as loving to appear in the very form described by the Count-adding, that whoever looks on her picture, which is preserved in this very hall, must be convinced the Ancestress resembled Bertha in feature no less than in name. Bertha before this has laboured to believe her father had only seen a dreambut adds she

And yet 'twas only yesterday, my father,
I went by twilight thro' the ancestral hall.
Midway, there hangs a mirror, half obscur'd,
And full of stains. Yet there I stood a-while,
At the dim glass to arrange my dress. Just then,
When I had put both hands down to my sash,
(There, father, you will laugh at me, and I
Myself must laugh at mine own childish fear;
Though at the moment only with chill horror,
Could I behold that image so distorted)
When, as I said, both hands I had applied
To tie my sash, then in the glass my shadow
Most unaccountably appeared with arins
Raised to its head; and, with a chilling horror,
In the dark mirror I beheld my features
Frightfully chang'd; the same, and yet how differ

ent,

Holding even such resemblance to myself
As one in health to her own lifeless corse.
Wide staring were its eyes, at me directed;
And its gaunt bony fingers seem'd to point
Some fearful warning!

Gun. Wo! the Ancestress!

Count. (As if struck by some terrible and sudden idea, and springing up.) The Ancestress. Ber. (Surprised.) What said'st thou?

Gun. Have you not,

My noble lady, in that hall beheld

Her portrait, which to see, bears that resemblance
It seems as if yourself, in life and health,
Had to the painter sat?

Ber. Oft times I've seen it,

Not without wonder; and to me it was
The dearer for that likeness.

Gun. Then you know not

The legend that has gone from tongue to tongue?

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