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BRITISH and American writers owe a large debt of gratitude to BARON TAUCHNITZ, who came forward at a time when the rights of English Authors were wholly unprotected, and constantly invaded, and without any possible claim on their part, offered them most liberal terms for the Continental Copyright of their productions.

Conduct so honourable, and liberality so remarkable, could not fail of reward. The Tauchnitz Collection speedily superseded all others, and is now unrivalled and unapproachable. No English or American traveller on the Continent fails to provide himself with a supply of those handy and well-printed volumes, which prove such pleasant companions on railway and steam-boat, and serve to beguile the tedium of a long evening at an hotel.

The Collection, which comprises the best works of all the most eminent writers of the present day, now numbers One Thousand Volumes. BARON TAUCHNITZ has worthily marked this point in his great undertaking, by an exceedingly beautiful reprint of the New Testament;* and has confided the supervision of the volume to the learned PROFESSOR TISCHENDORF, of Leipsic, than whom no one better qualified for the task could be found.

Well is it observed by PROFESSOR TISCHENDORF, in his Introduction to this beautiful reprint: "A magnificent display of human intellect in the Literature of England and America was that which the noble originator of this Collection aspired to accomplish for the benefit of the educated world beyond the native countries of the authors represented. As the Thousandth Volume he introduces the Word of God which we have received at the hands of the Apostles of the Lord; and it is without a doubt the most worthy crown of this edifice erected by human genius."

Vast as it is, the edifice is not more than half completed; and we hope to record the publication of the Two Thousandth Volume of the Collection.

*The New Testament. The Authorised English Version, with Introduction and Various Readings from the three most celebrated manuscripts of the original Greek Text. By Constantine Tischendorf. Tauchnitz Edition; vol. 1000. Leipzic, 1869.





SIR COURCY DE VERE was a mettlesome knight,
A crusader famed in the Holy Land;

The Soldan oft cursed him in words unpolite,

For he poach'd on his Moors with a pitiless hand. In the field, in the breach, in the press of the battle, His blows on the Moslemites' thick skulls would rattle; He made them "eat dirt” in a manner most striking, And gave them much more than they had to their liking. On his steed, white as snow,

Through their ranks he would go,

At a speed that exceeded the flight of a crow,
Slashing high, cutting low,
Now a head, now a toe,

Of each heathenish foe,

As reckless and bold as a Visgoth or Viking!

But the crusades were over, De Vere was a lover,
He had satisfied conscience and duty,

So home he return'd, with his trophies well earn'd,
To share them with love and with beauty.
He travell❜d by night,

He travell'd by day,

His spirits were light as a roundelay,
Yet, old chroniclers say,

At that time 'twas a perilous journey to take,
And such as would make us now nervous and quake,
To cross the wild sea in a vessel so small,

That chances were few it would weather a squall;
And quarters so cramp'd, that a man who was tall
Had to bend himself double to find room at all;
Pigs, horses, and passengers huddled together,
Exposed to rough usage and still rougher weather,
While the craft, unless bless'd by a fortunate wind,
Would take its own time and be some months behind.

By land it was worse,
For Mercury's curse-

How Sir Courcy de Vere was Water-bewitched. 301

The celestial in charge of the highways—
Seem'd to linger for ages-

I quote ancient sages,

Who tell us how scant were the by-ways.
Through swamps and morass it was no joke to pass,
By woods dense and shrouded, by freebooters crowded,
Who made little pother their victims to smother,
Or hack, hew, and slay

All who came in their way

As legitimate prey;

And besides all these chances, or rather mis-chances,
A man had to travel much more than one fancies
To find out a hostel, or place of repose,

For the monks would not often their larders disclose.
No "Patterson," "Mogg," "Indicator," or "Guide"
Were then to be had, nor a " Murray" beside,
So the voyageur, what with his fears and his hunger,
When safely "at home," felt by no means the younger.


Sir Courcy de Vere had of course a small share
Of the troubles I mention, but paid no attention
To hedges and ditches, or other like "hitches,"
To torrents or rills, or to valleys and hills,
And as for the brigands, whenever they met,
He read them a lesson they did not forget.
For rations he levied "black-mail" as he went,
So he saved all his coin, not a groat of it spent.
A knight of his quality, prowess, and fame,
Made the abbey gates open full wide at his name;
And he feasted right royally oft in this way,

And with news from the wars would the fathers repay.
Thus favour'd, he got over part of his work,
And arriv'd at the close of one evening at York.
The full moon shone out,

And he rambled about,
Intending to start in the morning.

He thought of the beautiful maiden he lov'd,
"And," said he, "I have never her constancy prov'd,
To test it, in jest, I am now strangely mov'd,
All doubt of her faith, of course, scorning:
The river is clear,

The minster stands near,

Its broad shadows on the still waters appear:
Propitious as well

Is the hour for the spell,

That will cheer me with hope and my destiny tell.'

Five white pebbles he cast in the river,

Five magic words on his nervous lips quiver, But what makes Sir Courcy turn pallid, and shiver? He sees the house of his lady love,

He marks a light in her chamber move;
The casement is open'd, a ladder let down,
With a terrible oath, and a fierce dark frown,
The lover beholds a page descend; ⚫

There was not a doubt of that figure and face
Surpassing the Graces themselves in grace,
Such as the knight had lov'd to trace,
And with it his thoughts of home to blend
Hopes now crush'd, and brought to an end!
One moment-the vision has pass'd away,
The moonbeams alone on the still waves play.
He bit his nails till they could not be shorter,
He curs'd the white pebbles, the landscape "in water;'
He wished (most unknightly) that woman and beauty
Were consign'd to a region both torrid and sooty.
He stamp'd with such fury his feet were quite sore,
The pain seem'd to soothe, so he stamp'd away more,
Till at length starting wildly, he mounted his steed,
And swept o'er the ground at a desperate speed.


"Over the hills, and far away,"

He is spurring before the break of day.
Those whom he met must have thought him insane,
Or the Wandering Jew in a cavalier vein,

Or one doing penance for naughty deed,
Or trying to break in a sorcerer's steed;

The sight was so fearful, men shook their heads,
And mutter'd a pray'r and told their beads.
De Vere had a constitution strong,
Such as to judges and popes belong,

Or he could not have stood such a shaking of bones,
Such gallopping fierce over boulders of stones,
Such jerky and uneasy motion,

Such leaping of trenches and fences and wall,
Without breaking his neck by a stumble or fall;
But of all this he had not a notion.

The feat of Dick Turpin was nothing to this
(If it ever took place, which is dubious, I wis),
If it did, he had roads that he could not well miss,
But De Vere had no milestone to point out the way,
And "finger-posts" date from a much later day;

How Sir Courcy de Vere was Water-bewitched.

In fact, if there had been inscriptions thus telling,
They were useless to him-he was backward in spelling.
It was quite unbecoming in one of his station

To read and to write-'twas a monk's occupation.
A knight was effeminate, low, mean, and muddy,
Who made use of brains for such purpose as study;
His steed was the Pegasus most to his mind,
And a + was sufficient to show he had sign'd
Any document, testament, deed, or a letter;
With a stout sword to back it, no pen-craft was better,
For more litigation and cost comes from writing
Than heads knock'd together disputing or fighting.
But thoughts such as these did not worry De Vere,
His mind and his heart were duetting elsewhere;

He muttered "revenge!" with clench'd teeth, while on

To such rude exertions his steed not demurring;
For it seem'd to surmise great events were at stake,
And fleet as an arrow sped on for his sake,
Until they were stopp'd in their flying career,
The gates of the castle long sought for appear.
De Courcy dismounted, and as he drew near,
A burst of wild merriment grates on his ear;
And flambeaux were flashing,
Gay music was crashing;

That "high junks" were rife, it was perfectly clear.
"Shout on!" yell'd De Vere,

"Rude guest I should be, what with rent clothes and

But I long to give all a confounded good thrashing,
Though soon they shall have a strong taste of my mind.
No doubt all this row is but simply a blind

To cover the mischief now lurking behind,
And open the false-hearted maiden's retreat;
But" he added some oaths that I will not repeat.
With intentions thus foul,

And a horrible scowl,

Sir Courcy he vow'd, from the depth of his soul,
That his sword should be wetted in gore that night;
And mounting the staircase-he well knew the way—
He went to the chamber the lady to slay,

And saw, plain enough, by the moon's feeble light,
Descend from the casement a form svelte and slight.
No mistaking that figure, though dress'd à la rigueur,
As a page of some showy pretension,
"Twas the true beau-ideal, or something more real,
Of the lady of whom I made mention.




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