III. IMMATERIALITIES; OR, CAN SUCH THINGS BE? IV. LIFE AND WRITINGS OF NIMROD. "HANDLEY CROSS." V. THE NEW TIMON. BY THE AUTHOR OF VI. SOME PASSAGES IN THE PRIVATE HISTORY OF MY POODLE. BY DUDLEY COSTELLO. VII. HOW A CHARADE WAS SOLVED BY A CODICIL. BY SHIRLEY BROOKS. VIII. THE LADY ALICE KYTELER, BEING A SECOND CHAPTER FROM THE HISTORY OF SORCERY AND MAGIC. THOMAS WRIGHT, M.A. IX. THE COBOURG PENINSULA AND PORT ESSINGTON. OLD SAINT PAUL'S. BY W. HARRISON AINSWORTH, ESQ. WITH AN ILLUSTRATION ON STEEL BY JOHN FRANKLIN. BY CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND. THE NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. THREE POEMS. BY FRANCES ANNE BUTLER. I. MARGARET'S PRAYER. ALONE-but not companionless.- "Why should'st thou weep ? Is there not Death? Bidding thee leap Into his sheltering arms and sleep, And no more weep. Why should'st thou live A shameful cast-away? To bear the burthen of thy years, S Who spurns thee back with sated lust, The bud thy trembling fingers hold Is sweet-but far more sweet would Hark, the deep waters flow, Of their sweet sap Turn thee to sleep, From misery, From infamy, drink thou! Sleep-and be free!" Mother of God! be near me ! Mother of God! be near me ! From the dark pit of death, prove Turn thou my feet.-Oh, hear me ! II. A VOICE FROM THE DEAD. Written upon a beautiful young woman, who, after a miserable marriage of short duration, passed through a brief period of insanity to her death at two-and-twenty, WEEP not, ye dear ones, I am now at rest; 'Tis past, and I am now among the blest, Remember how my happy childhood fled, ! Made bright by your fond love and tender care; Think not of the brief torture that is past, Still I lay safe within my father's arms; Such, as I stood within my earthly home, So think of me as by His throne I stand, And weep not! Weep not! Thither shall III. ON READING WITH DIFFICULTY SOME OF SCHILLER'S EARLY LOVE POEMS. WHEN of thy loves, and happy heavenly dreams Of early life, O Bard! I strive to read, Thy foreign utterance a riddle seems, And hardly can I hold thy thoughts' bright thread. A GALLOP TO GRETNA. WHO has not heard of this obscure, unsightly village, where stands, or stood, the anvil on which Hymen forged his chains? Its glory is now gone; its privileges are passed away; its smithy has ceased to be a temple; its Vulcan is no more a god! The scenery consists of a bleak common and a pool of water, presenting little interest except to geese and lovers: full in front stands the desolate-looking hotel, and a little further on are a few cottages, among which the smithy does, and the blacksmith did, exist. The proprietor of the inn has latterly discharged the matrimonial offices. In that lonely Inn how many a passionate prayer has been breathed— how many a wild heart found its freedom- how many a maiden trembled between Hope fulfilled and Fear to come! Beneath that humble roof, lofty birth has laid aside precedence, wealth abandoned its influence, and spirits, once pure and proud, sought an ambiguous sanction for their lawlessness. It would be sad to reckon over the small number among these who have found peace or blessing in their union-that object for which their home has been deserted, fond hearts broken, trusting hearts deceived, and gray hairs numberless brought in sorrow to the grave. The following story is one of a thousand that has been acted, not written: stories that lie ambushed in those commonplace announcements of "elopements in high life" that sound as usual as railway accidents, or Tipperary murders. In the month of March last, two young men were dining together at the Imperial Hotel at Leamington; the waiters had departed with all the pomp and circumstance of important dinner; wine was sparkling on the damask cloth, and the fire-blaze leaped and roared as if it were some demon that could not altogether escape from its prison-bars. It was a beneficent demon, however, for it made the whole room look cheerful with its play, and lent something of its own brightness to the faces of our dramatis persona. Of these the younger wore an anxious and excited look, like one who has something wrong to do, and much to his say; scarlet coat and spattered boots suited well with his hurried accents, and eager eyes were bent upon his companion. The latter looked like one who had done his part, whatever it was, and with the composure of a Turkish prophet he was gazing gravely on his chesnuts. As the fire-light played upon his lofty forehead, a thoughtful eye might read that he Had felt, inflicted, past, and proved, more than his years would promise. His features wore at the same time the character of repose and energy, and a flash of humour gleamed at times over the somewhat saddened expression of his countenance. "So you are determined to run away with her, and have made up your mind to all the consequences," he observed, after a pause. "Well, they used to say that a field of battle was the only spot where an Irishman could die in peace; and as the bloody sod is your natural death-bed, so I suppose Gretna Green is your national parish-church." "Ah! now my dear fellow, don't be joking with me. It's the jackass |