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remove him-quick! Miserere mei, Domine! Quick, forest twilight, they discern a thousand beauties that I say!"

And thus this scene closes. And now we arrive at the epilogue of the poem, or concluding section. Once more we are in Pippa's chamber, as at the beginning: and she enters it. And then, singing and merrily talking to herself, she prepares to lay herself down for the sleep of innocence. Her childish curiosity respecting this English stranger who admires her, her firm resolution to toil industriously throughout the livelong coming year, her happy and yet half-mournful recollections of the holiday she has passed-all these form a charming whole, which is, for the most part, beautifully expressed. The soliloquy and the poem

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[As she lies down.]

God bless me, though I cannot pray to-night!-
No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right:-
All service is the same with God-
Whose puppets, best and worst,
Are we-

[She sleeps.]" And thus concludes the poem of "Pippa passes." That it will amply repay the most attentive and repeated perusals we can assure the reader; though, after the extracts we have given, we can scarcely imagine such assurance to be needful. Want of space forbids further comments on the spirit of purity which pervades the work, despite the painful nature of some passages; or on its leading moral, that God can work out great ends by small means, and give power to the child's song to change the hearts of the mighty. Some of our readers will remember the poem of "Naaman's servant."

Browning is, undoubtedly, not a perfect artist: far from it. But a certain exquisite and eminently "patrician," let us add Christian, delicacy of sentiment will be found to be the prevailing characteristic of his works, combined with a force and truthfulness which are sometimes surprising. Will he ever be popular, in the widest sense of the term? This is very questionable for, no doubt, this remarkable poet is obscure. When we first perused one of his dramas (we think, "The Last of the Druses "), we were so annoyed by its seeming confusion and mysticism, that we got through the first scene with difficulty; and though recognising great beauties here and there, made our way but slowly to an accurate appreciation of the play. Indeed, while first studying all these works, we feel as though treading the maze of a dark forest in the starlight night. Awhile, all seems obscurity around us; but, by degrees, as our eyes grow accustomed to the

passed at first unnoticed, in every brake and bower. The dark shadows, that stretched across our path in sullen gloom, seem to add a deeper charm to the scene; while the golden star-beams, shining in betwixt green leaves above, fall on lovely flowers beneath our feet, which we trod o'er unheeded, but which prove the more lovely and fragrant the more we examine into their nature and inhale their sweetness. Then, too, there is a sacred melody breathing through the wood: a low continuous warbling, as from a distant chorus of sweet nightingales.

All that seemed confusion is

order. The very gnarled forest-trunks, with their wide-spread and interwoven branches, the very clouds that pass above, and momently dim the pure stars-the very midnight breezes that wail from afar-add to the beauty, to the unity, of the scene. And, finally, where we at first drew back with a feeling of dismay, we weep, perchance, from the overflowing of our hearts in love, and recognise the presence of the Divine.

EDITOR'S POSTSCRIPT.

From our Writing-Desk.

"Eheu fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,
Labuntur anni!"----

wrote Horace (the Tommy Moore of the Augustan Era) to his friend Posthumus, probably under the influence of a splitting head-ache, the effect of an over dose of Falernian, imbibed during one of those "Noctes Ambrosianæ," in which wit flowed from, and wine into, the mouth of the bard in about equal quantities. The same sentiment presents itself to us also: albeit we possess neither the wit nor the wine-bibbing propensities of the Latin poet, we exclaim with him at the flight of time, and note with a sort of dreamy wonder how the "fleeting years glide by," leaving us the same, and yet how changed! For who is there that can look back a year, and, remembering past thoughts and feelings, not perceive that a change has taken place in him,--that he is, so to speak, a new man, for better or for worse?

Twelve months ago, we hailed Christmas in our Postscript; and now the hand of Time has encircled the dial, and points to Christmas once again. Reader, does it seem nothing to you when you reach one of these milestones on the journey of Life ?—do you not stop to read its silent warning? One year farther from the cradle-from the light-hearted innocence of childhood-from the bright hopes of youth! one year nearer to the grave! It is a solemn thought! May we hope that we are one year fitter for it!

Oh the changes and chances of this mortal life!what an ever-varying kaleidoscope is the existence of each one of us! Now some unhoped-for piece of good fortune casts its bright halo around us, and the glass of our minds reflects only brilliant colours; anon some unforeseen evil comes, and veils the fair prospect with the shadow of its own dark outline, and the gay colours vanish, never, as our fears suggest, to re-appear, till, from some quarter whence we least expected it, the sun-light once more streams in

upon us, and the cloud which we rashly thought had hidden it for ever, but serves by contrast to enhance its radiant brightness.

"The Parsonage." By Rodolph Töffer. 2 vols. of the Parlour Library. All those who know anything of this beautiful writer will be glad to see his Tales placed within reach of all classes in this country. Those who know nothing of Töffer, and have hearts to love and reverence simple earnest piety, genuine humour and pathos, and vigorous, yet delicate painting of external nature, and patriarchal simplicity of manners, such as may be met with in the Swiss Cantons, even at the present time, should make them

Christmas is again approaching-the season of roaring fires and hearty welcomes-when the household sympathies glow most strongly within us, and the love of our hearths is no longer a poetic ideal, but a real boná fide influence, an active and actuating principle. Nor is it strange that it should be so. "Where our treasure is, there will our hearts be also;" and what man is there so utterly destitute as to possess no home-selves acquainted with Rodolph Töffer. "The Partreasure, no smiling face that grows brighter at his approach, no loving heart that beats more joyfully at the sound of his returning footstep? And for those to whom many of these blessings are denied the poor, whose hearths are cheerless, to whom cold and hunger are sad and ever-present realities-we can only pray God to comfort them, and endeavour, each to the best of our ability, to lessen those miseries, the full bitterness of which can be known only to those who are called upon to endure them. Thus shall we best

secure for ourselves a merry Christmas.
Our Postscripts have of late contrived to run to
a greater length than we projected, and encroached
somewhat upon the space allotted to our notices of
new books: to prevent the possibility of committing the
same error now, we will proceed at once to mention-
"The Two Baronesses." 2 vols. 8vo. A very pretty
novel, written in English by Hans Christian Andersen,
the Dane, who has contrived to win the hearts of all
little children by his exquisite stories, and the hearts
of a great many grown-up persons also, by those same
childish tales, and his former novel, the "Improvisa-
tore." Andersen's own English we prefer to that of
any translator he could have selected; it is wonder-
fully good-for a foreigner—because it is always per-
fectly intelligible, and often faultless; which is more
than can be said for a host of natural British literary
produce. The heroines are two charming ladies, the
one seventy, and the other seventeen; and, to speak
as a man and a critic, we really know not which to
like the best. It is true, that the fair and youthful
Elizabeth is all that heart can desire, or fancy paint;
-"not very dashing, but extremely winning;"-but
then, that dear, lively old lady, with her perpetual
head-dress à la Cenci, (she was no bad judge of a
becoming coiffure, by the way,) and her strong loves
and hates, is not only very "winning," but very
"dashing" too, and quite as likely to be fallen in love
with at seventy years of age as Ninon de l'Enclos; at
least, in a book, and by a lazy reader, loving the
piquant. It must not, from these words, be supposed
that Andersen has done anything so preposterous as
to make the old lady the object of anybody's love, in
that sense; he "had no such stuff in his thoughts."
No, we have merely confided to the reader the state
of our own heart towards this fiery old baroness;-it
is a clear case of "inadwertent captiwation;" and we
wish our reader no more serious mischief than a
speedy participation in our present love for the "Two
Baronesses."

sonage," though full of primitive beauty of thought and feeling, is too long; and does not contain any marks of the fantastic, erratic, and delicate humour, to be found in "My Uncle's Library." Töffer resembles several noted humourists. He is very much like Sterne and De Maistre; i. e., he is like Sterne through De Maistre, who first brought him into notice; he also reminds us of Richter, and is sometimes a little like Charles Lamb.

'Lady Granard's Nieces." 3 vols. 8vo. A book made up of a little cleverness, and a great deal of folly and bad taste.

"Charms and Counter-Charms." A novel by an American lady, who is deservedly popular in the States. It is an interesting tale, gracefully written, and animated throughout by noble sentiments and true piety. It is sold here by John Chapman, Strand, for an incredibly minute sum.

"Mary Barton." A rare book; containing a full recognition of the frightful miseries of the poor in our manufacturing towns, and the deepest sympathy with the sufferers; and at the same time showing clearly that the masters are the friends, and not the enemies, of the operatives; and that the higher classes do not cause the poverty of the lower classes, and cannot cure it.

"Helen Charteris." A book that promises more than it performs, and ought to be better than it is, │ being dedicated by permission to Miss Edgeworth.

Madeleine; a Tale of Auvergne." By Julia Kavanagh. Colburn. A story founded on fact,Heaven be thanked therefor! It is encouraging to human nature to read such tales of unostentatious, unconscious heroism.

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The Bee Hunter; or, the Oak Openings." An- || other of our old friend Cooper's novels, à la "Last of the Mohicans;" full of vivid descriptions of the primitive loveliness of the oak openings in the prairies | to the south of Lake Michigan. Here the Bee Hunter lives in solitude, and plies his trade. Then we have some more Yankies, and then parties of Red Indians-enemics and friends. There is a little scalping, which is just enough to make the reader put his hand to his own head to feel that his scalp is all right; there is a taking of prisoners-an escape-a hot pursuit; and all those hair-breadth perils and adventures, on river and lake, in forest and prairie, that Cooper knows how to describe so well, and which we know so well, by experience, to have the power of fascinating all boys and girls, and not a few men and

Women.

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BAMBOROUGH CASTLE,

FROM THE NORTH-WEST.

that the castle was given up by his lieutenant, who, for his devotion and fidelity, was taken into favour by the monarch.

When the earldom of Northumberland was given up to Prince Henry, son of the Scotch king, this fortress and Newcastle-on-Tyne were expressly reserved to the crown of England. It was to Bamborough that Edward I., in 1296, summoned Baliol to come and renew his homage for the crown of Scotland, whose refusal led to the invasion of that country. It was whilst Isabel de Beaumont, related to the beautiful Eleanor, queen of Edward I., had a life grant of the castle, that she sheltered Piers Gaveston from the vengeance of the enraged nobility. The place was afterwards conferred upon the Percy family, on account of their bravery in the border struggles, and in their hands it continued for several ages.

The next stirring scenes in its eventful history were in the bloody Wars of the Roses. Ten thousand men invested it for Edward IV. under the earl of Wor

WALTER SCOTT tells us that there is not a situation in all Northumberland equal to Bamborough, or one so admirably adapted to the ancient rules of defence; and it has, accordingly, figured conspicuously in our annals of intestine convulsion. Its hoary remains crown the summit of a lofty rock, weather-stained, and richly tinted with a variety of brown and yellow lichens, towering some hundred and fifty feet above the unquiet sea which washes its rugged base. Its origin is confessedly very ancient-some attributing it even to the Romans, and regarding it as one of the castella built by Agricola in his third campaign. The first known founder was a Saxon, and it was not unusual with that people to avail themselves of the well-chosen sites of a Roman encampment, and to give to the structure raised upon them the name of burgh and brough. Ida, the first Saxon king of Northumbria, is said to have fortified the rock, A.D. 548, and the name of the place was Bebban-burgh, in honour of his queen.cester and other noblemen. It was defended till The first rude defences were of wood, but were afterwards exchanged for stone. On the conversion of the Saxons, King Oswald built a chapel within its walls, and dedicated it to St. Aidan. The fortress was besieged by Penda, king of Mercia, as early as 642; he had raised piles of wood to burn the walls, when the wind suddenly changed, and blew the burning faggots into his own camp-a deliverance so signal as, in the spirit of that age, to have been ascribed to the prayers of Aidan, bishop of Lindisfarn, then on the Fern Islands. King Oswald's zeal for the conversion of his subjects, his donations to the Church, and his death at the hands of a Pagan conqueror, procured him the honours of a saint and martyr; his arms were preserved as relics in the church, and his shrine wrought many a wonderful cure. A chronicler who wrote about 1192 describes it as a very strong city, though of small extent; with but one hollow entrance, admirably raised by steps. He also mentions the chapel, and "a well curiously adorned, and of sweet clear water."

We cannot pursue in detail all the vicissitudes of the fortunes of Bamborough through this earliest period of its annals. Pass we to the time of the descent of the Danes; when, about 933, the fortress fell into their hands, with a considerable booty. It was afterwards restored to the Saxons, who strengthened it, but taken and pillaged a second time by their terrible piratical invaders.

Christmas by the duke of Somerset and Sir Ralph Percy, who, on their surrender, received the royal pardon. Sir Ralph Grey next surprised it for Queen Margaret. After the battle of Hexham, which was so fatal to her fortunes, Sir Ralph desperately defended Bamborough, besieged anew by Warwick and Montacute for Edward IV. By the fall of a tower he was so severely injured, that the garrison, supposing he was dead, surrendered. Sir Ralph, however, survived, and was afterwards executed as a traitor at York. Such is a brief outline of the history of this ancient fortress; which, in all its details, might make matter for a most interesting volume.

The injury that Bamborough had sustained during these stormy vicissitudes was not repaired till long afterwards. In the time of Elizabeth, Sir John Foster, of Bamborough Abbey, was governor for the crown. The manor having been forfeited by one of his descendants, was purchased by his brother-in-law, Lord Crewe, who settled by will the whole of the revenues on charitable uses.

The purpose to which it has at length been devoted, after surviving long ages of convulsions which have left so many similar fabrics but heaps of mouldering ruins, confers a peculiar and honourable interest upon this venerable pile. The first direction of the funds, by the Rev. John Sharp, one of the trustees to whose philanthropic zeal and activity the wise arrangements of the charity are chiefly due, was to put the structure in repair. One large room, in the keep, is used as a court-room for the manor. There is a small armoury, a library, open to every respectable housekeeper within twenty miles, and to the clergy of all denominations.

It next figures in the border troubles. In the reign of William II., A.D. 1095, whilst Malcolm king of Scotland was ravaging the border, Mowbray earl of Northumberland, having fallen from his allegiance, took refuge at Bamborough, with his wife and a lieu-The schools are open to an unlimited number of tenant. He had left it in the hope of making himself master of Newcastle; but found its gates shut, and took sanctuary at Tynemouth, whence, however, he was dragged by the king. Meanwhile, his wife maintained the castle against every assault, and it was not till the king threatened to torture the captive carl

VOL. VIII.

children, averaging about seventy. Thirty poor girls are provided for until they are about sixteen, and fitted for useful service. The great tower contains an ample granary, opened in times of scarcity to the poor on low terms. There is also a meal market and grocery at reduced prices. In the infirmary, multitudes have

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