THE VILLAGE BELLS.-A SKETCH.

Those evening bells-those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells

Of love and hope, and that sweet time
When last I heard their tuneful chime.
Those happy hours have past away,
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards will walk those dells,

And hymn your praise, sweet evening bells.-Moore.

FROM the parlour of the cottage where I am now seated, in the full luxury of lazy contemplation, I can just contrive to hear the distant sound of the village bells ringing a merry peal in honour of a newly married couple. The sound, like the nightingale of Milton, is "most musical, most melancholy." It comes wafted with a softened swell across the water, and in the silence of the summer evening, when the mind is attuned to reflection, "breathes the language of days that are past, pleasant, yet mournful to the soul." The villagers, elevated to something like enthusiasm by its peals, and by the apparent felicity of the bridal party, are all gone to dance away their cares upon the green. Each for the time will be the friend of each, and over a tankard in the little village house, they will proffer mutual affection unchanging-'till to-morrow. But, see! the shadows of the sun are already lengthening along the green, the shouts of the dancers sink fainter and fainter on the gale, and twilight threatens interruption to the bridal sports. The bells have at last ceased their congratulations, and, while the silence of the evening prompts, I will resign myself to meditation, and "fondly dream an idle hour away."

A thousand scenes, before but dimly beheld in the shadowy twilight of memory, now rush upon my soul clear as at the actual moment of their occurrence. The bells, that have just ceased, recall the most painful associations. When last I listened to their music, I was a school-boy at Reading. Then, as at present, they were celebrating a marriage the marriage of my earliest friend. In the first flush of youth he had allied himself to a beautiful girl, and settled in the village of Three-mile-cross. I was with him at the ceremony, and on its com pletion we were complimented as usual by the ringers. The whole scene now flashes across my mind, as if it shone in the splendor of yesterday's remembrance. It was a calm evening in July. The village rang out their merriest peal, and groups of the hamlet peasantry were assembled to welcome my friend's election. His young bride hung fondly on his arm, blushing at the kind-hearted looks that were directed towards her countenance. There was nothing at that time but jovial faces and merry whispers, expressions of congratulation, and sentiments 33.-Fourth Edit.

bells

PART IX.

F

VOL. II.

of attachment. But it is idle to recall the past. The happiness of two at least of the merry group is clouded, and after the lapse of a few brief years, my friend had been left a wanderer upon the face of the earth. His young wife, the pride, the ornament of the village, in a moment of the deepest insanity, put an end to her existence by poison; and the same bells that chimed a cheering peal at her marriage, now tolled a requiem to her departed spirit. The widower quitted the spot, and I have never since heard of him. He may perhaps be dwelling alone in the silence of years, or reposing beneath the sod in some obscure corner of the earth. The circumstances of his painful story, though still unforgotten, were gradually fading from my remembrance, when the sound of these village bells, by some mysterious association, engraved them anew on my mind. I can now recall every connecting incident, and transport myself once again into the flowery paths of youth. I can image my friend gay, generous, as I first knew him, and, unmindful of gone-by ages, feel that he is still a husband. The past, in this sense, has to me more reality than the present; it is tangible. I can feel it, as it were, with my mind, and, like Procrustes with his victims, distort it till it suits the immediate impulses of my imagination. I can recall, for instance, just as much of it as I please; and if the remembrance of the whole is of an unpleasing cast, I can strain it through the sieve of ages, till its roughness is softened down into something like refinement. Over the present I have no such control. It glides quietly by, uninterrupted by complaint or praise, and is neglected, from its utter destitution of romance or interest. It wants the zest, the gusto of other times, and, like the literati of all ages, is despised until no longer in existence.

I am naturally of a contemplative disposition, and consider every occurrence of the present, as at best, but an index to the past. The village bells, for instance, have pointed out that particular page where the history of my friend is recorded. I turn to it in remembranee, and find the delineation faithful. The dust of ages that obscured its surface is removed, and, like a fashionable octavo of the present day, it is deposited in the most conspicuous corner of my mind. So true an index is the present to the past, that every hour attests its value. The most trivial incident will recall the most eventful remembrances. The fields, through which I have this day rambled, remind me of the walks I have taken with friends who are now cold in the tomb: and the heath-flower that I pluck in the listlessness of melancholy-the toad that I wake from his slumber-the cuckoo that I scare from his hedge,-renew thoughts and feelings long ingulphed in the abyss of time.

Thus shall I ever continue the child, the vision of the past. Dwelling only on days long vanished, I shall have little in common with mankind, but misfortune, which makes brothers of us all. The only friends I shall know will be the tombs of those who are at rest; and from the living, sad memory shall extract matter for reflection, and food for future affections. Had I experienced less adversity, I should have been more sanguine, but the spirit that has been crushed by early trouble, loses its original temperament, and feels, as it ripens by experience, an increasing indifference to life, and all "the thousand ills that flesh is heir to."

P. C.

MORNINGS AT BOW STREET. By M. Wight. London. Baldwyn. Small 8vo. 1824.

THIS Volume consists of reports of cases occurring at Bow-street. Of course they generally regard low life. Not only, however, do they delineate it accurately, but the characters, groups, descriptions, and dialogues, evince great ability on the part of the reporter. Of this, the two following cases give ample proof:

FLORENCE O'SHAUGHNESSY.

"This was a proceeding wherein Mrs. Florence O'Shaughnessy sought 'purtection behint the law agen the thumpings of her oun lawful husband,' Mr. Phelim O'Shaughnessy of the parish of St. Giles, labourer, "Phelim O'Shaughnessy was a clean made, curl-pated, good-tempered little fellow, in a new flannel jacket, white apron, and duck trousers. His wife, Florence, was about his own size, no whit behind him in cleanliness, very pretty, and a voice-plaintive as a turtle dove's.

"An' plase your honour,' said she, this is Phelim O'Shaughnessy, the husband to myself that was when he married me; and is-barring the bating he gave me yesterday just for nothing at all, your honour, that Iknows of ounly that he listens to bad foulks the neighbours of us; and bad foulks they are sure enough, your honour, for that same; and your honour'll be plased just to do me the kindness to make them hould their pace, and not be after taking away the senses of my oun husband from me, to make him look upon me like a stranger, your honour-for what would I be then?"

"Poor Florence would have gone on murmuring forth her little griefs in this manner by the hour together, if his worship would have listened to her. But the office was crowded with business, and he reminded her that the warrant she had sued for, charged her husband with having beat her: and she must confine herself to making good that charge, if she wished to have him punished for so doing.

1

"Your honour," said Florence, with a low courtesy, it isn't myself that would hurt a hair of the head of him; ounly that your honour would hear the rights of it, and tell Phelim he shouldn't be after bating me for the likes of them. And here he is to the fore, your honour, for that

same. "

"The magistrate found it would be vain to think of hearing the rights of it' from Florence; and therefore he asked Phelim what he had to say to it.

"Now Phelim was a man of few words. He had listened calmly to all Florence had been saying, and it was not till the magistrate had twice put the question to him that he left off smoothing his dusty hat, and then, looking stedfastly in his worship's face, he replied― Och! it's all about the threepence ha'penny, your honour. It was Saturday night when I gave her every farthing of the wages I earned that week-and so I does every Saturday night, come when it may, your honour—and when I ax'd her on Monday morning to give me threepence ha'penny to get

me a pint of beer and the little loaf, bekase I was going to a long job in the city, and didn't know what time I'd be back to my oun place, she wouldn't give it me any how, your honour; and sure I did give her a clout or two.'

"But you would not do it again, I am sure, Phelim,' observed his worship. You should remember that she is your wife, whom you have vowed to protect and cherish; and besides you know it is disgraceful in any man to strike a woman-especially in an Irishman. You must give me your solemn promise, Phelim, that you will not strike her again.'

"Sure I'd be a baste if I whopp'd her again, your honour,' replied Phelim, when I just thought of a skame to do without it. It's only keeping the threepence ha'penny in my oun pocket, your honour, and I'll have no occasion to bate it out of her at all.'

"The bye-standers laughed at this skame of Phelim's, and even the magistrate smiled, as he good-humouredly told Florence, that though he believed her to be an excellent wife, he thought she was a little too hard in refusing her husband such a trifle as threepence half-penny, when he was going to work so far from home.

"Florence smiled also; but there was a thoughtful sadness in her smile; and when the laughter had subsided, she told his worship, that it was not the coppers,' nor the bit of bating' Phelim had given her, that she cared about. He had harkened to bad tales about her, she said, and had sworn never to be good to her till she said 'two words' to him. "His worship asked her if her husband supposed she was untrue to him?

"She replied that he did, and implored the magistrate to let her swear to her fidelity.

"His worship told her he was sure there was no need of any such ceremony-- Phelim,' said he, ' has too much good sense to listen to any idle stories about you.'

"Still, however, poor Florence would not be pacified; and snatching the Gospels from the table, she pressed the sacred volume fervidly to her lips, and then raising her eyes, she exclaimed-So help me, God! that, barring Phelim and myself, I don't know man from woman!"

"All this while, Phelim stood hanging down his head, and fumbling at the buckle of his hat in the simplest manner imaginable. For shame, Phelim,' said the magistrate, as Florence made an end of her oathFor shame, Phelim !-How can you stand there and see the distress of such a wife, without coming forward and assuring her of your confidence?-Give her your hand, man, and comfort her as she deserves.'

"Phelim stretched forth his hand-Florence grasped it almost convulsively, and raising it to her lips, all chapped and sunburnt as it was, she kissed it-they looked each other in the face for a moment—burst into tears, and hastily left the office arm in arm.

SOLOMON AND DESDEMONA.

"An elderly man, brown as a fresh-roasted coffee-berry, a poll that bespoke him of the race of wandering gipseys, and the darkness of

whose Oriental eye accorded with his gipsey origin,' advanced towards the table, bowing at every step, and said, May it please your vorship's honour, I am Mister Lovell, your vorship, (another bow) knife-grinder and chair-bottomer, your vorship.' Having so said, he smiled and bowed again; and then, shading the lower part of his brown shining visage with his rusty hat, he stood smiling and bowing, and bowing and smiling; but whatever else he had to say, stuck in his throat.

"At length, seemingly to his great relief, the magistrate asked him what he wanted.

"Your vorship, I am Mister Lovell, the knife-grinder, your vorship, and I vantz you to give me a little bit of assistance to get me back my vife, vot vere lawfully married to me last Monday vere a veek, at Soreditch Church, That's vot I vantz, your vorship.

"Magistrate Your's is a very unusual application, indeed, friend. I am frequently requested to part man and wife, but I do not recollect that I was ever once asked to bring them together.'

"Mr. Lovell-Vell, your vorship, but mine's a werry hard case—a werry hard case, indeed. Here's the certyfykit, your vorship.'

"His vorship told Mr. Lovell he wanted no voucher in proof of what he said. He opened the certificate, however, and found it fairly set forth therein, that on a certain day specified, 'Solomon Lovell, batchelor, and Desdemona Cocks, spinster,' were duly married by banns in Shoreditch Church.

“‹ And pray, what is become of the gentle Desdemona?' asked his worship, as he returned the certificate to Mr. Lovell, who instantly crammed it back again into the sow-skin purse from which he had taken it; and then having deposited it safely in the very bottom of his left-hand breast-pocket, he proceeded to lay open his entire grievance. It was a lengthy, and rather unconnected narrative, but we gathered from it that Mr. Solomon Lovell absolutely loved the gentle Desdemona; and but for that, he would not his unhoused free condition have put into circumscription and confine,'-' not on no account whatever.' But the friends of Desdemona, who were in the costermongering line, thought the match too low for her; and they had not been united more than three happy days, when they cruelly contrived to inwiggle her avay from his arms, and shut her up in a garret in Charles-street, Drury-lane, where they still continued to detain her, in spite of her unceasing tears, and his

most earnest remonstrances.

"What age is the lady?' asked the magistrate.

"Your vorship, she'll be forty-three come a fortnight a'ter next Bart'lemy fair.'

"Then she is no chicken! and she could come to you, if she was inclined to do so.'

"No, your vorship, she's no chicken, but she's desperate tender, though; and they'd kill and murder her, if she vasn't to keep herself quiet.'

"Is she very disconsolate under her bereavement?' "Anan, your vorship,' said Solomon.

"Does she grieve much?'