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and novelty can impart, and which I have since found often wanting when more nutritious and wholesome aliments were spread before me. Among other rubbish upon which I fastened in my hunger, was the barren study of Heraldry-one which I now view with sovereign contempt, but to which I am perhaps indebted for the literary turn given to my mind, at an age when trifles were influential, and for all the subsequent comforts and advantages derived from that tendency. Detecting some heraldic error in the Gentleman's Magazine, I wrote a letter to correct it: how many times I corrected my own correction I cannot say, but I remember it occupied four sides fairly written, and the reader, if he be not himself an occasional author, can hardly imagine the impatience with which I waited for the end of the month. My hopes of its being inserted were but faint, but they were strong enough to take me to the publisher's early on the first day of the month, where I bought the number, went up a court to look over the table of contents and found that my communication had been inserted. Few moments of my life have afforded me more gratification. My countenance dropped, however, when I got home and turned to the article, for at the first blush it appeared to me, by the space it occupied, (about a column) to have been miserably cut up and curtailed ; but on comparing it with my copy I discovered that not a syllable was suppressed, and that this seeming contraction was but the natural effect of printing. I continued an occasional correspondent of the venerable Mr. Sylvanus Urban till my mind was out of arms, and I became vain enough to imagine that I was fifty years too young to be entitled to the patronage of this Mæcenas of old women.

(To be continued.)

FROM QUEVEDO.

A Roma Sepultuda en sus ruinas.

Search Rome for Rome, O Traveller! thou shalt see
In Rome, Rome is not; but the grass-green mound
And mouldering wreck, her relics, may be found,
'Mid which th' Aventine rises mournfully.

The Palatine has bow'd to destiny,

A shapeless ruin strew'd along the ground,
O'er its long range of walls, once so renown'd,
The foot of Time hath march'd triumphantly.

Yet Tiber flows as he hath ever flown ;

On palaces, and tombs, and temples rent,

He breaks his sorrowing waves with hollow moan.
O Rome! thy grandeur and thy strength are spent-

All of thee that was stable-while alone

That which was fugitive is permanent!

Ω.

TO A LOG OF WOOD UPON THE FIRE.

WHEN Horace, as the snows descended
On Mount Soracte, recommended
That Logs be doubled,

Until a blazing fire arose,

I wonder whether thoughts like those
Which in my noddle interpose,
His fancy troubled.

Poor Log! I cannot hear thee sigh,
And groan, and hiss, and see thee die,
To warm a Poet,
Without evincing thy success,
And as thou wanest less and less,
Inditing a farewell address,

To let thee know it.

Peeping from earth-a bud unveil'd,
Some "bosky bourne" or dingle hail'd
Thy natal hour,

While infant winds around thee blew,
And thou wert fed with silver dew,
And tender sun-beams oozing through
Thy leafy bower.

Earth-water-air-thy growth prepared,
And if perchance some Robin, scared
From neighbouring manor,

Perch'd on thy crest, it rock'd in air,
Making his ruddy feathers flare
In the sun's ray, as if they were
A fairy banner.

Or if some nightingale impress'd
Against thy branching top her breast
Heaving with passion,

And in the leafy nights of June
Outpour'd her sorrows to the moon,
Thy trembling stem thou didst attune
To each vibration.

Thou grew'st a goodly tree, with shoots
Fanning the sky, and earth-bound roots
So grappled under,

That thou whom perching birds could swing,
And zephyrs rock with lightest wing,
From y firm truak unmoved didst fling
Tempest and thunder.

Thine offspring leaves-death's annual prey,
Which Herod Winter tore away

From thy caressing,

In heaps, like graves, around thee blown,
Each morn thy dewy tears have strown,
O'er each thy branching hands been thrown
As if in blessing.

Bursting to life another race,

At touch of Spring, in thy embrace
Sported and fluttered;

Aloft, where wanton breezes play'd,
In thy knit-boughs have ringdoves made
Their nest, and lovers in thy shade
Their vows have utter'd.

How oft thy lofty summits won
Morn's virgin smile, and hail'd the sun
With rustling motion;

How oft in silent depths of night,
When the moon sail'd in cloudless light,
Thou hast stood awestruck at the sight,
In hush'd devotion-

'Twere vain to ask; for doom'd to fall,
The day appointed for us all,
O'er thee impended :

The hatchet, with remorseless blow,
First laid thee in the forest low,
Then cut thee into logs-and so
Thy course was ended-

But not thine use-for moral rules,
Worth all the wisdom of the schools,
Thou may'st bequeath me;
Bidding me cherish those who live
Above me, and the more I thrive,
A wider shade and shelter give
To those beneath me.

So when Death lays his axe to me,
I may resign, as calm as thee,
My hold terrestrial;

Like thine my latter end be found
Diffusing light and warmth around,
And like thy smoke my spirit bound
To realms celestial.

H.

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Of all the fabrics, northward of the Alps, intended for the service of religion, the most worthy of the name of Temple is perhaps the Pantheon of old, and now once more the church of St. Genevieve. Afar off its grey dome is descried by the traveller, as he approaches the capital of France, eminent in height and simple grandeur above all the spires of that ambitious city. After glancing at the gilt cupola of the Invalides, the gloomy mass of Notre Dame, the lofty roofs and chimneys of the Thuilleries, the eye and interest alike repose upon its majestic dome.

It was upon the 3d of January, 1822, that the pilgrim wended his way to this shrine of the Revolution, and the resting-place of Rousseau and Voltaire. An unusual bustle seemed to pervade the town, especially every avenue to the building; it was the day appointed for its reconsecration to the services of religion. Carriages, and priests, and processions, choked up every passage, while the crowd looked on

In the article Modern Pilgrimages, No. II. we were not aware that Mr. Moore had actually alluded to his having been indebted to Shenstone's Elegy in the verses quoted from him. Our idea was, that Mr. Moore had unconsciously hit on the same thought as Shenstone; and it was by no means either expressed or insinuated that he was a plagiarist.-We say this to satisfy our Correspondent H. B.

sullen, incurious, and malign. The morning was wet and gloomy, just such another as that on which the remains of Voltaire were transported to their present abode: and what with the rain, the people, and the carriages, it was an undertaking of no small difficulty to scramble up from the Place St. Michael to the Place of the Pantheon. Thinking less of the grandeur of the building than of the change it was about to undergo, I looked to see what had become of the revolutionary inscription over the portico, legible enough some weeks before-of Aux grands hommes la patrie reconnoissante; and also, though more defaced, that of Unité, Indivisibilité de la République, Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, ou La Mort. A canvass was at present spread over the plinth; behind which, I was informed, workmen were daily employed, substituting for the Republican mottos, the more devout inscription of D. O. M. sub invocatione sanctæ Genovefæ sacrum.

I had visited the interior of the building two or three months previously, when there was no sign of preparation for the intended ceremony; and must confess, that all that was pilgrim in me blushed for the present contrast. There were unpleasant feelings in both contemplations: in the first, the silence of the house of prayer recalled all the indignities and massacres that the church had suffered, the vain attempts of the revolutionists to supply the place of religion by theatric ceremony and fictitious heroism, with the fate of those wretched mortals :

"Who play'd such antic tricks before high Heaven."

:

They had overturned the altars, and chased away the ministers of religion; but its spirit, methought, had not departed. The silent solemnity of the space, so beautifully bounded by pillar, arch, and dome, and unbroken through so many years, seemed the worship that Time paid to the Almighty.

The ceremony of the consecration, for all its imposing appearance, did not excite in me any such elevated ideas. The rich altar and its gigantic tapers, its gew-gaw ornaments and flimsy canopy, did not strike the eye of a protestant, and perhaps a somewhat bigoted pilgrim, with much veneration. The beautiful tapestry of the Gobelins seemed as much misplaced; and on the Mosaic circle, in the midst of the building, was a table covered with artificial flowers and relics in glass cases, not at all calculated to please either my taste or my devotion. The King of France was not present, and I was sorry for it.-I love the man and the monarch, who is so ill appreciated by the idle gossips of my own country. The Duchesse d'Angoulême, who seemed to enjoy the scene, looked too proud to inspire interest, and is withal not handsome enough that she should dispense with gentleness. Her voice too, which is absolutely wolfish, together with her haughty carriage, leads every one to ask-"Can this be the daughter of the gentle Louis Seize?"

In the midst of the solemnity I could not help indulging in the comical and obvious thought of the philosophers who lay in the vaults, awaking, each like another Epimenides, from his forty years sleepeach deeming it impossible that he could have enjoyed the privilege of Christian burial, and unable to account for the chant of innumerable

voices over their graves. Their next astonishment would naturally be to see themselves side by side, who were such sworn enemies in life; the mutual recognition in such a case recalls the idea in Byron's "Darkness," where, after the calcination of the globe, the two only survivors approach an ember from opposite sides, and both setting themselves to blow it into a flame, discover, each the other, to be the very object of his deadliest hatred. But death, thought I, must be a great allayer of feuds, so I continued my fancies, supposing Voltaire and Jean-Jaques to shake hands, and set out in quest of the light, and of the strange turmoil above them. Their sarcophagi seemed previously to excite their attention as soon as Voltaire perceived they were of wood, he exclaimed, "Brother, this cannot be France, the land of liberality and magnificence!—and see, what a heap of illegible inscriptions have been placed round about me, almost as interminable as my own scribbling. You," continued he to Rousseau, and viewing his tomb, "have been more lucky, Here rests the man of nature and of truth; though late, I still rejoice in assenting to your praise. But come, bone or spirit, whichever we be, and yet I know not," said the philosopher, with a sneer, "these vaults are cold, let us seek our way to the assembly of noisy mortals above." They seemed to grope along the passages, Voltaire going first, and peeping into every cranny as he proceeded. The inscriptions on the tombs perplexed him; wherever he pried, his eye met no inscription familiar to his old habits. Sénateur Impérial – Membre de la Légion d'Honneur, were enigmas to them, who, unlike Epimenides, were aware that they had been in their graves full forty years, but were uninformed of the great mass of public events, which had "curdled" a long age of changes into so short a space. A superb mausoleum for a moment attracted their attention-it bore Lannes, Duc de Montebello, mort au champ d'honneur à Essling. "They have been fighting, and creating Dukes, that's for certain," said Voltaire. Methought I perceived him at this moment to mount the steps ascending from the vault into the church, which steps the bones of a being very different from either of them had ascended a little time beforeof no less a person than St. Genevieve herself. The philosophers, however, entered the church, and commenced interrogating and conversing with some of the congregation. Whether the people around took them for madmen, or liberals, I cannot say; but in a little time, one of the gens d'armes led them both out. "Dynasties and religions change," exclaimed Rousseau, "but the Bastille and its agents ever remain the same."

All this is not very decorous, my readers will say, in a pilgrim, and at the consecration of a church. True, my worthy friends, and selfreproach at the time uttered the same words. But psalms are soporific, especially in the dead languages, and though not altogether a profane,

* Voltaire was disinterred at Selliers, Rousseau from the Isle of Poplars at Ermenonville. There were several reports circulated at the time of the consecration of St. Genevieve, that the remains of the philosophers had been transported secretly to Père La Chaise. It appears that they were only removed from their conspicuous stations in the vault to one of its darkest corners, and the statue of Voltaire, that stood near his sarcophagus, is said also to have been displaced. M. de Girardin has claimed from the King the body of Rousseau, that he may re-inter it in his Poplar Isle. The unfortunate philosopher seems doomed to be as restless, and as much fretted in death, as during life.

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