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or sent by my lord's order the rotest it is quite shameful in the eople of her time abuse Beckey, gone-tenth of the stories against hed from society who runs into peering into everybody's private and cutting them if we don't what a howling wilderness and ld be. Every man's hand would my dear sir, and the benefits of We should be quarrelling, r houses would become caverns: cared for nobody. Rents would any more. All the tradesmen of e, wax-lights, comestibles, rouge, 3, Louis-quatorze gimcracks and high-stepping carriage horses—all

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to the deuce, if people did but void those whom they dislike and ty and mutual forbearance, things gh: we may abuse a man as much est rascal unhung-but do we wish hake hands when we meet. If his and dine with him; and we expect trade flourishes-civilization ads are wanted for new assemblies tage of Lafitte will remunerate the

"EAD ABBEY.

BYRON.

Byron's rapid and vigorous prose; we now extract a description from rest of being a picture of his own lucky destiny banished him, to live

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cook presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's order the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it is quite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature, as people of her time abuse Beckey, and I warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her. If every person is to be banished from society who runs into debt and cannot pay-if we are to be peering into everybody's private life, speculating upon their income, and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure-why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling Vanity Fair would be. Every man's hand would be against his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of civilization would be done away with. We should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding one another. Our houses would become caverns: and we should go in rags because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't be given any more. All the tradesmen of the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights, comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs, Louis-quatorze gimcracks and old china, park hacks and splendid high-stepping carriage horses-all the delights of life, I say, would go to the deuce, if people did but act upon their silly principles, and avoid those whom they dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough: we may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the greatest rascal unhung-but do we wish to hang him therefore? No; we shake hands when we meet. If his cook is good, we forgive him, and go and dine with him; and we expect he will do the same by us. Thus trade flourishes-civilization advances peace is kept; new dresses are wanted for new assemblies every week; and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the honest proprietor who reared it.

347.-NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

BYRON.

[WE have given a specimen of Byron's rapid and vigorous prose; another from his Dramas; and we now extract a description from 'Don Juan,' which has the interest of being a picture of his own patrician seat-from which an unlucky destiny banished him, to live and die amongst strangers.]

To Norman Abbey whirled the noble pair,—
An old, old monastery once, and now
Still older mansion,-of a rich and rare

Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow
Few specimens yet left us can compare
Withal it lies perhaps a little low,
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind,
To shelter their devotion from the wind.

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood, like Caractacus, in act to rally

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder stroke, And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally

The dappled foresters-as day awoke,

The branching stag swept down with all his herd,
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed By a river, which its soften'd way did take

In currents through the calmer water spread
Around the wild fowl nestled in the brake

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed :
The woods sloped downward to its brink, and stood
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,

Sparkling with foam, until, again subsiding,
Its shriller echoes-like an infant made
Quiet-sank into softer ripples, gliding

Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd,

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. These last had disappear'd-a loss to art:

The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch.

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell,

But in the war which struck Charles from his throne,

When each house was a fortalice-as tell

The annals of full many a line undone,The gallant Cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd,

The Virgin-Mother of the God-born child,
With her son in her blessed arms, look'd round,
Spared by some chance, when all beside was spoil'd;
She made the earth below seem holy ground.
This may be superstition, weak or wild,
But even the faintest relics of a shrine
Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre,
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,
Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter,
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings,
Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings
The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire
Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.

But in the noontide of the morn, and when
The wind is winged from one point of heaven,
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then
Is musical-a dying accent driven

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
Some deem it but the distant echo given
Back to the night wind by the waterfall,
And harmonized by the old choral wall:

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