more romantic than the other, many will no doubt yield the preference. It appears, then, that not many ages since, Halifax was called Horton, and that it thus received its change of name : A certain clergyman being passionately in love with a young woman, when he could by no means win her, cut off her head in his mad fit. Her head being set upon a yew tree, was visited by the people as holy, and every one plucked off a bough to keep as a holy relic. By this means the tree grew a mere trunk, yet retaining the reputation of sanctity among the people, they believed that the little veins which were spread between the bark and the tree were the hairs of the Virgin. This caused such resort of pilgrims to it, that of a little village it became a large town, and assumed the name of Halifax, or Haligfax, i.e., holy hair, for fax is used by the English on the other side of Trent to signify hair. Thus the noble family of Fairfax are so called from their fair hair. Halifax bears such a close resemblance in nearly every respect to most of the large manufacturing towns in the West Riding, that we shall spare our readers all description of it. As for the scenery by which it is surrounded, we may simply mention that the whole district consists of a wide valley bounded by high and barren moorland ridges. Scarcely a foot of level ground is to be found anywhere; combes and hollows abound, which are picturesque and pretty enough, while the slopes of the hills are well cultivated and planted with sturdy and branching, but not lofty oaks. So much for the foreground: in the distance are long purple ranges, from whose summits stand clearly out against the sky many an isolated block of freestone, jagged and worn away by wind and rain and storm. One curious matter in connexion with Halifax we place before our readers. The town, it appears, was noted, not more than a century back, for a bye-law against felons, which was executed upon them in this manner : A Felon taken within the liberty with goods stolen out of the liberties or precincts of the Forest of Hardwick, shall, after the market-days or meeting-days within the town of Halifax next after his apprehension, be taken to the gibbet, VOL. LX. NO. CCCLVIII. 465 and then and there have his head cut off from his body by a peculiar engine [closely resembling the guillotine]. The fact, however, must be certain; he must either be taken Handhabend, being in the very act of stealing, or Backberend, having the thing stolen on his back, or somewhere about him, without giving any probable account of how he came by it, or lastly confessioned, owning that he stole the thing for which he is accused. The cause could be only theft, and the manner of it only that which is called Furtum manifestum, or notorious theft, grounded upon some of the foresaid. evidences. The value of the thing stolen must also amount to above Is. 1d.; for if the value were found only so much and no more, by this custom he should not die for it. The criminal was then to be brought before the Bailiff of Halifax, who presently summoned the free burghers within the several towns of the Forest, and being found guilty he was within a week brought to the place of execution. An axe being drawn up by a pulley, was then fastened with a pin to the side of the scaffold. If it were an ox, or a horse, or any other creature, that was stolen, it was brought along with him to the place of execution, and fastened to the cord by a pin that stayed the block, so that when the time of execution came, which was known by one of the jurors holding up one of his fingers, the Bailiff or his servant whipping the beast, the pin was plucked out and execution done. But if it was not done by a beast, the Bailiff or his servant cut the rope. It is supposed that this punishment was the cause of the beggars putting this town into their litany From Hell, Hull, and Halifax deliver us.' Now that we have reached the conclusion, our endeavour to show that even in the country which our readers think they know so well are many sources of interest of which they may have been hitherto ignorant, we have only to express the hope that they may henceforth sometimes employ their holiday in becoming more familiarly acquainted with the scenery of their own land, and the manner of life of their own countrymen. If to know ourselves ought to be our chief aim, then surely our next should be to know our neighbours; for without knowledge there can be no sympathy, and where there is no sympathy there cannot be a united people. DEVONIA. H H THE VOLUNTEER AT SOLFERINO. THE HE fight was fought! the field was won! Close, man to man, we strove : Till o'er the river's swelling flood- A ghastly sight, that mighty plain, The stripling, and the veteran old, The camp was hush'd, nor heard a sound, The sentry's measured tread: And as I strove, but all in vain, I rose, and guided by the sound, A fair-hair'd youth, whose child-like mien— (He scarce had sixteen summers seen)The love of all had won: I rais'd his head, the quick breath came, He gasp'd for air, I tore his vest, The words a mother's love had trac'd I wip'd his brow, and as I knelt, I laid his head upon my breast, We bore him when the morning broke, Unto a grassy mound: Beneath the shade of two tall trees, Whose leafy branches in the breeze Wav'd with a pleasant sound, 1859.] Last Spring in Rome. We laid him in his narrow bed, Then slowly turning from the grave, 467 G. B. LAST SPRING IN ROME. ROME, May, 1859.-At this sea son, we sojourners in sunny Rome are often attracted by the sight of little shapeless, moving clouds or mists, looking like a dim smoke darkening for a moment the burning blue of the sky, rather than anything more material. These are the flocks of migratory birds, collecting together previously to taking their long flight to some place farther from the sun-to England, we at once conclude, and send our blessings with them. I wonder do they ever give a parting glance at the land they leave? Do they take in one last loving view of the familiar places of the Alban Mount, the chain of Sabine hills, and solitary wave-like Soracte-of the Campagna, most beautiful and most eloquent of plains of the world that lies within the city walls, most of all? Does it occur to them that the domes, and towers, and grey roofs look any different from their wont? Do they perceive anything mysterious to a fowl's comprehension in the faint lurid light that girdles the horizon on these still spring evenings, beneath which the city lies patiently; but which throws Michael Angelo's dome out like something strange and portentous floating above the world, and shows the Doria pines, that for ever close in that side of the great prospect, grand, and black, and motionless, as though struck dumb by some awful thought or poignant recollection? Is there no new gold on the surface of the regal Tiber, brought from his newly-stirred heart? No tint of purple more imperial than at any other time in the cloud that overhangs Monte Mario, where the sunset of glory is to come anon? Above all, are there any birds of sufficient obser vation and discrimination to perceive that all is not quite as usual among those large living creatures who walk about, strangely feathered, and without wings-speaking after their manner one to the other, crowding the streets and places of the city, and making the air thick with the murmurous sounds of many voices? As, for example, down the long Corso, its palaces on either hand lifting their wrinkled fronts up to the eternal youthfulness of the sky. Chequered with intensest light and brownest shade, stretches the long and straight line of the street, from the grim square of Venice at the one end, to the bright Piazza del Popolo, where churches, and obelisk, and Michael Angelo's gate, and sculptured terrace, are radiant as in celestial flame, so fervid, yet so spiritual, is the brightness of the spring sunshine. Almost deserted is that piazza, the broad space of white light only dinted here and there by the Papal guard in purple coat and cocked hat, who lounges by the Porta del Popolo,-one or two French soldiers at the door of their barrack hard by, and a sablerobed priest who, sheltered by his hat, and his looks commercing with the earth, wends his way across, like a black ship upon a shining sea. But in the Corso: men are slowly walking down its centre, where at this morning time few carriages interfere with their monopoly of the roadway. Men by twos and threes and fours, talking together with earnest brows, and intent eyes, looking as surely they have never been seen to look since the old were young, and the young were beardless boys, so utterly strange and unaccustomed seems the kindling fire in the dark eyes-the resolved seriousness in the languid Italian faces. Or they are gathered by that shop where outside the door is placed conspicuously a map, labelled in large letters Carta del Teatro della Guerra in Italia. A crowd, quite a large crowd for a Roman street out of Carnival time, is clustered about that significant Carta. There are eager gestures-fingers are pointed here and there-the names of Ticino,''Vercelli,'' Montebello.' make themselves heard. The soft, pulsating Italian syllables can, it seems, breathe forth something beside that sentiment and passion' which are held to be their especial prerogative. And men break from the surrounding crowd, and go their way quietly, silently-but with strange meaning to be read in their quiet faces-strange eloquence to be understood in their silence. In a little street branching from the Corso is a French café much resorted to by the French soldiers, and of late also frequented by the Roman citizens, who know that there is always to be seen the bulletin of the day from the seat of war. To-day, as the crowd gathers about the written copy from the official despatch, it appears to tax too far the patience of the gendarmes, that guard of hybrid race, so-called Swiss, but naturally repudiated by the countrymen of William Tell. These representatives of paternal government interfere not with the two or three French soldiers, be very sure, but with the anxious, eager, though as yet orderly throng of Italians who are pressing round to see the bulletin. The exhibition of that paper is conducive to disturbance, says the officer of Papal troops, and with the point of his sword he tears it down. It is too much. With a great cry, unanimously the little crowd of citizens turn upon the soldiers, and for a few minutes it seems as if the spark had fallen on the great hidden heap of combustion, which in these days is concealed beneath the outside aspect of every southern Italian who is neither slave nor fool. A little delay, and the first outbreak had heralded that of which who could foretell the end? But some wise looker-on runs for the French sol diers those well-organized police of the Eternal City-and one voice calls out Every Roman whose life is his own to give, let him give it for Italy, and not spend it in a street broil like this. Andiamo, amici—andiamo!' Some hearts there, perhaps, respond to that brief argument; and, besides, up come French soldiers, and the émeute is at an end. Meanwhile, at the same hour and moment, and not a stone's throw from the place, vastly different groups are gathered in the Piazza di Spagna, stronghold of English visitors, with its green-shuttered white lodging-houses on three sides, broken by the majestic flight of steps which lead to the Pincian hill, and are crowned by the twin towers of the church of the Trinita di Monte. But here also are clouded brows, disturbed gestures, and busy voices. Here, too, where you would least expect it, among women, young and fair, their Saxon tresses daintily framed in Paris bonnets. See-their innocent eyes are troubled, their sweet regards are strangely overshadowed. Here is a cluster of them close by the queer fountain shaped like a boat, round which the picturesque models' love to lean and lounge while waiting for employment. Listen, little birds— How are you going, then? Have you succeeded in getting berths None to be had till the 31st, I am assured. Poor Mrs. Courtnaye offered any money for one yesterday, and was refused.' Isn't it dreadful not to be able to go to Venice? I don't know what we shall do, I'm sure. This horrid war puts all our plans out.' 'Isn't it aggravating? We were to have joined the Standingfords at the Italian lakes next week.' 1859.] Feelings of Travellers and Artists. gine! So I really don't know what to wish.' I only wish there was no such thing as War in the world!' With which little speech-sounding womanly enough, you think-pretty Miss Sophia, or Frances, or Cecilia, as the case may be, flutters off to condole with herself somewhere else. They are young and thoughtless; their woman's feelings have not yet flowed up to full tide. Surely, even in the 'Stranger's quarter' of Rome there are women who see more than a personal grievance in this solemn war, whose thoughts are busy with more than the question of roads blocked up, and projected journeys rendered impossible? But here is a knot of men, with records of thought and hard work written in their faces. By their careless dress, their varieties of beard and moustache, and that indescribable conjunction of lounging laziness of bearing, and all-observing alertness of aspect, you may recognise them as artists, -pilgrims to this, the Mecca of their art. 'A confounded business, isn't it? Brown writes from Bologna, that he's obliged to leave in the midst of his work. It's absolute ruination. A hundred and twenty guineas lost. It was a commission, you know.' If It might be my own case. I'm shut out from Venice this summer, it will lose me hundreds.' 'My great fear is about Rome itself. If strangers are frightened from coming next season Oh, hang it! they won't be frightened. But think of the precious fix that fellow Cesari has left me in. Only painted in his face, and he's rushed off to Piedmont, confound him!-and not even left his costume behind, which might have helped me to finish the figure somehow.' 469 'When it's over? But in the meanwhile ?' Meanwhile my great picture is standing still until I can find a substitute for that rascal. And it's no easy matter. Splendid head he has -and the whole figure and the action of the arms so fine.' Smith is just as badly served. His Formatore has also volunteered for Piedmont, and actually walked off, leaving his statue of Justice' only half cast. The first coating of plaster was scarcely thrown on the clay. The work really might have been injured, you know; and Smith's Justice' is a fine thing.' ‘Very fine. These fellows are all mad alike, it seems to me. How hot it is! I ought to be in Switzerland at this minute. What a deuced plague this war is!' Chorus of indignation and impatience generally, amid which artists disperse. And in this case again, let us hope and believe that these are not representative types of all the professional pilgrims to this land of art. Common gratitude surely must dictate some little anxiety, some little tenderness for this Queen country, now fallen so low, which in old days of Northern barbarism saw the new birth of art, -nourished, cherished it; watched and encouraged its growth. Is it for the students and professors of sculpture and painting, in Rome of all places in the world, this spring of all times, to wound our struggling Italy with their taunts, or sting her by their indifference? But the little birds' can tell us of another scene which is going on at the station of the newly-opened railway to Civita Vecchia. Two or three hundred of the decried Volunteers are about to leave, under sullen sufferance of the Government, and with a small troop of the ubiquitous French soldiery in discreet attendance. As the amateur soldiers pass in from the dusty road, some of them grasp the hands of these practised brothers in arms, in enthusiasm of friendly feeling. Others are too much engrossed by the relations or friends who are with them, standing very close, clinging to them to the last. Yes, you may see some suggestive groups here |