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Grey twilight upon Epiton breaks dimly o'er the leas
The open dawn on Epiton two glorious armies sees:
Rides through the ranks the Norman Chief, and waves the insulting
Stout Harold on the English side defies the hostile horde.
"Ho! gallant men of merry Kent-up to the coming fray!
Ho! yeomen of the Sussex wolds, yours be the joy to-day,
I lead you to the field of fight—I, whom of old ye know."
Hurrah! hurrah for Harold!-down with the Norman foe!

The armies close with many a shout, the hurtling arrows fly,
And Normans and stout Englishmen rush to the conflict by.
See! William with his mighty blade hews down the Saxon host;
See! Harold with his brethren twain makes void the Norman boast.
Hark to the crash of axe and sword-how corse is heaped on corse,
And wildly o'er the trampled field dash scattering troops of horse;
And shouts of madness rend the air, and strong shafts fly like snow.
Hurrah! hurrah for England !-down with the Norman foe!

The blood flows to the saddle girths, and rages still the fight:
The Normans waver-hear ye not King Harold's shout of might?
"Down with the cravens! Englishmen, to glory follow me!
And drive them from our thralless shores into the sounding sea.
Beat back the Bastard and his host, of France the vassal crew-
Let not a single man escape, as ye are brave and true."

On went they in the maddening track of conquest-blenched not one:
Alas! alas for England !-King Harold's death is done.

One flying arrow turned the fate of that unworthy day,
And there was grief in Epiton, and ended was the fray.
They raised an abbey where he fell, they wrote his blazon high,
Where Harold the unconquered lay, his waving standard by :
And William and his Queen Mathilde to royal London came,
And kingly honours did they add to his triumphant name:
Yet chant the monks in Epiton, for aye, from sun to sun,
"Alas! alas for England!-King Harold's death is done."

And the haughty Mathilde,
The stern and self-willed,

Had married for power, and now was a queen :

And queenly indeed was that arrogant eye,
So brilliant, yet cold, did its quick glances fly;

And regal indeed were her voice and her mien.

Emilie Montmorenci and Mary O'Connor,
Her two maids of honor,

Used to wonder what ailed her, and frequently strove
To find out the mystery,

And forestall this history;

Inexperienced creatures! they dreamt not of love:
For though Miss Montmorenci

Had many a fancy—

And she of Hibernia, the beautiful Mary,
As bright as a fairy,

Had long lost her heart, being rather unwary,
Yet their bosoms with passion had never been filled,
As when Brictric of Bristow was loved by Mathilde.

When friends who have loved in the season of youth
Know the chill of estrangement, how darkly apart
Each stands in his solitude, even though ruth
And sorrow are felt in the depths of the heart.
Having read Christabel,

You all know full well

How Roland and Leoline quarrelled of yore:
Each in loneliness stood,

While life's headlong flood

Between them rushed on, to be brothers no more;
And if man thus remain, how more bitter 'twill prove
When woman's warm spirit has quarrelled with Love.

So the love of Mathilde was turned into hate,
And long in her heart was the troubled debate,
How Brictric might make a severe expiation
For his mode of concluding that Flemish flirtation.
She contemplated tortures of every kind—

Racks, thumbscrews, tight boots, and hot irons and pincers— Only fearing her spouse might perchance be behind

To sanction the use of those charming convincers:

Had Mathilde been Queen Regent, poor Bric very soon
Would have wished an exchange with the man in the moon:
For the ladies, when they
Can get their own way,

And obtain a revenge on their ci-devant lovers,
Are barbarous quite,

In the way they requite,

For their ancient attentions those unlucky rovers ;
And if any young gentleman, reading this story,
Has broken off courtship that seemed con amore,
Let him emigrate-anywhere-Berlin-Bencoolen-
Ere he has to pay scot for his amorous fooling.

Who has not passed on with the animate tide

Which chokes up the beautiful vale of Cheapside?

Which from morning till even resounds with the fusses

Of perilous safety-cabs, populous 'busses;

Where cads are all raving the people to flurry

"Bank," "Black wall," "Whitechapel," Charing-cross," "Surrey ;"

Where, except you have marvellous quickness of vision,

You'll be shattered to atoms by constant collision;
Your hat will be jammed into shapeless grotesqueness,
Your coat will be fractured to queer picturesqueness;
You'll arrive at your dwelling with hardly a rag on,
Anatomised perhaps by a wandering wagon.

'Twas there one day

In a cabriolet

Young Bric was driving a lady gay

(Who it was I would willingly tell you, but cant-
Perhaps 'twas his cousin, or sister, or aunt),

And the Queen, driving that way to purchase some pearls,
Was caught by his curls

(Much admired by the girls),

And a glance of revenge at the flatterers hurls;
Forgetting her errand, and homeward returning,
Her wild heart for vengeance unceasingly yearning,
Without let or stay,

She soon made her way

To where strode the Conqueror, taking a walk on
The banks of the river, with greyhound and falcon.

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Half told him the tale of her little flirtation:
"Humph!" said Will, with a puff,
"There's reason enough,

Though it's little I care for your amorous stuff;

But you know, dear, I've dealt such a number of whacks on
The unlucky back of the innocent Saxon,

That really

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My dear William, if you

Have any regard for your darling Mathilde."

"But would not," he said, "your desire be fulfilled,
If I just lock him up-take away all his lands,
And leave the estates and the key in your hands?
I think the idea's exceedingly good:

Will that please you?"

The bright-eyed Mathilde thought it would.

And now, shall I tell how the unlucky Bric

In the midst of his love-making, wine-drinking prime, Was thrown into Winchester Castle, to pick

Oakum for ever-a match against time?

How, while he in the dungeon grew pallid and lean,
The rents of his lands were received by the Queen?
How his misery was heightened by many a vision
Of the charmers he knew in those days most elysian,
When the surface of gay life he cut such a dash on,
And was hailed, like Count D'Orsay, the leader of fashion?
How he oft execrated

The levity fated,

Which inducing flirtation, had utterly chilled his
Prospects of fun, by that breach with Mathildis ?
How he intimate got with some sociable spiders,
Who, save himself, were the only insiders,

And told them his griefs o'er and o'er confidentially,
Although they could scarcely console him essentially?
How he raved at each blackguard

Who, while he grew haggard,

Was beating his copses and fishing his rivers-
The rascally sinners

Who, giving good dinners,

Gathered together all their friends and his too
At his castles of Gloucester, and Sarum, and Bristow,
Who, ignoring poor Bric, toasted only the givers ?-
No: it passes description-we'll pass it all by-
As did Mathildis-and left him to die.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

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CURRAN'S SKETCHES OF THE IRISH BAR.

WHEN the late Mr. Campbell undertook the editorship of "Colburn's New Monthly Magazine," he succeeded in persuading Mr. Curran, who had been lately called to the Irish bar, and whose life of his father had given him high literary distinction, to contribute to the Magazine occasional papers on subjects connected with Ireland.

In a wish to comply with Mr. Campbell's request originated a series of papers, entitled "Sketches of the Irish Bar," which acquired immediate popularity, and gave a very high character to the publication in which they appeared. Professional occupation soon interfered with Mr. Curran's power of regularly continuing the series, and his friend Mr. Sheil wrote and published in the same magazine several sketches drawn up on pretty much the same plan with those written by Curran. It was natural that readers should suppose all to have been by the same writer;-the same tone of politics prevailed throughout;-a slender thread of fiction, often forgotten or disregarded by the writers, connected the several papers into what would seem to be a series. An Englishman visiting Ireland, is supposed to attend every now and then the law courts in Dublin or in the provinces, and to record the impressions made on him by the leading counsel in the cases he listens to. We believe that both writers occasionally make use of this convenient mask. Such peculiarities of character as distinguish the various classes of society in Ireland are intro. duced with great skill. The crowds that throng the courts in Dublin form a part of the picture, without which all the rest would be imperfect. Perhaps Dublin presents more of this class of excitable idlers than any other city in the world. A clever volume of essays, originally published in the "Examiner," in the year 1818,* describes the barristers at that time engaged in successful practice in the courts of Westminster, and gives an account in many respects calculated to

gratify and amuse, if not to instruct, its readers by its exhibitions. But in no respect whatever is it to be compared with the "Sketches of the Irish Bar." We have the men. the prac tising barristers not inaccurately nor injudiciously portrayed; but there is a total absence of the interest which in the volumes before us is never absent, and which arises from the perfect picturing of every surrounding circumstance you always have scenic, often even stage effect. Lockhart's descriptions of Scottish advocates in his "Peter's Letters," and Lord Cockburn's, in his "Life of Jeffrey," make some approach to this power, which both the Irish writers possess in nearly equal degree. It is probable that the contrasts between barbarism and civilisation which Ireland still presents and presented yet more obtrusively at the time these sketches were written, now more than thirty years ago—have created this distinction between the volumes before us and those to which we have referred. In England the barrister is, or seeks to be, the mere logician. He is in a land where, if his audience are swayed by prejudices — and in no country are there prejudices more unreasonable and more ineradicable-he must assume their existence as a thing equally indisputable with the fact, that the grass is green, and that the rose is red. The movements of his argument are within a limited circle - his eloquence is necessarily confined within a meagre and wretched dialect, where any effort to disturb habitual associations would be resented in the same spirit in which those who forgot everything else in Burke used to remember a false quantity in his pronunciation of a Latin sentence. We believe that then and now in Ireland legal principles were as perfectly known, and that adjudications were as just in Ireland as in England; while in Ireland one great advantage existed the Irish barrister avoided, as far as he at all could, what Bushe calls, "the absurd mystery of the style."

* "Criticisms upon the Bar," &c. By "Amicus Curiæ." London: 1819.

In the "Sketches of the Irish Bar ". we now speak of Mr. Sheil's as well as Mr. Curran's sketches - the characters of some eighteen or twenty practising barristers are given. Of these there is no one of whom there do not remain recorded law arguments; and what is remarkable in all and each is, that the style is always so perfectly lucid and intelligible, so little veiled in the language of technicalities, that a judgment of Plunket's, for instance, or a law-argument of Saurin's, is as perfectly intelligible to any educated man, who reads it with fair application of his mind, as if it were a speech in parliament, or a leader in the Times. In actual reasoning, we should not think of making a higher claim for the Irish barrister than for his Scottish or English brother; but we think it undeniable, that in the power of exposition he is greatly superior. He does not disdain to render himself intelligible to those who have not been educated in technical language; and he seems, at least, to refer to higher principles of general truth than the English expositor of the laws; while, in common with the Englishman, he has a language which is much more manageable than the dialect consecrated to Scottish law. But the discussion is one which we will not now pursue. This book is more interesting than either the Scottish or English books, with which it is most naturally to be compared. And it is, after all, little matter whether this arises from the author of the book being a cleverer fellow than the authors of the books we have mentioned, or from his having the good fortune of having a better subject. Both causes have, we think, contributed to the effect.

An American publisher has reprinted "The Sketches of the Irish Bar" so carelessly, as even to preserve the most obvious misprints of the original publication so ignorantly as to ascribe the papers all to the same person. This mistake might have been pardoned, but not so as to the next, for there was such an absence of good faith in the transaction that, as we learn from the editor of Sheil's "Sketches Legal and Political," he has had the assurance to pretend, in his preface, that "his compilation was undertaken with the approbation and authority of Mr. Sheil himself."

This circumstance rendered it desirable to have the papers reprinted, and made it necessary that in every reprint their several papers should be assigned to the respective authors, as the partnership of Mr. Curran and Mr. Sheil, in what was in no true sense a connected work, was but an apparent one. It is probable that neither author saw the productions of the other till their appearance in the Magazine. In a former number of this journal some account has been given of "Sheil's Sketches," by a fellow-labourer of ours. In this we shall confine our observations to Mr. Curran's, referring to Mr. Sheil's only when they are, in some way, illustrative of matters brought before us in the book which is the proper subject of our notice.

The general interests of truth would alone render it fitting that the kind of mystery connected with any publication in which an author's name is concealed, should, when the motives for such concealment have passed away, be perfectly removed, so as to leave no doubt whatever on the subject. In the case of joint authorship, there may occasionally be a difficulty arising from the authors themselves being unable to distinguish their respective parts. Here no such difficulty exists, and here there is a peculiar necessity almost for the separation of the writings of Mr. Curran and Mr. Sheil. In the original conformation of Mr. Sheil's mind, and that of his friend, are very strong points of difference. With a mind exceedingly fertile in every description of illustration; with a quickness of wit which often, very often, reminds us of what is recorded of his father; with imagery rapidly presenting itself and finding instant expression in words of singular felicity, there is throughout Curran's writings great sobriety of thought, continual reference to elementary principles of government and of society, as though it had been the subject with him of habitual thought and study, and not, as it too often appears in the works of his coadjutor, as if a proposition of Montesquieu or Locke was snatched up at the moment for some mere party purpose. Actual distrust, indeed, is often created, of what the essayist most wishes to press upon his readers, by his representing some poor sophism as if it were not alone his own inference, in which he might be, without offence to any one, either wrong or

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