could not go out of doors without danger of being murdered. One morning, as I stood in the street, a Greek servant, for declining to buy meat at the stall of a Candiote butcher not far off, was stabbed by him with his long knife, and fell bleeding on the pavement......About fifty Greeks got on board a Ragusan vessel, in order to escape, the captain having been paid a large sum of money by them. Instead of instantly making off, he continued to loiter in the harbour, in spite of the warnings of the consul; when one night he was surrounded by three Turkish vessels, and all on board seized. The captain and crew were hanged, and the Greeks were beheaded in a small square in the city, at sun-rise, during our stay.......The French consul, to his immortal honour, has saved the lives of hundreds of the Greeks, by his active and spirited interference; and rescued them from the hands of the soldiery, about to put them to death. In walking through the city you see these unfortunate people looking over the walls, and half-opening their doors, and listening to every passing sound. At any sudden noise in the streets, the faces of the women—and some of them beautiful-were seen thrust out of the windows of the lofty houses, where they had taken refuge; thereby exposing themselves to fresh danger, yet unable to repress their anxiety and curiosity. The only Greek I ever saw, whose face and form in any way realized the beau idéal of antiquity, was at the entrance of a poor dwelling in the skirts of the city: her fine tall figure, reclined against the wall as she stood, and her head bent towards some unhappy countrywomen, whom she was addressing, gave additional interest to the perfect symmetry of her noble and classic features.

The inextinguishable lightness and versatility of character of the Greeks are real blessings in their present situation; no vicissitudes appear to strike them with surprise or despair: active, enterprising, and indefatigable, they possess the materials for making excellent soldiers: vain to excess, and ever sanguine in all their hopes and undertakings, I heard them exclaim, as they marched out of Tripolitza to attack the Turks, "We have beat them with sticks ere now; and shall we not drive them before us with our swords ?"-Call on a Greek to die, and he will take leave of the world, to appearance, passionless and undismayed: bring the guitar and the wine, and he will dance, talk with infinite gaiety, and sing the Moriote songs all the night long.

A circumstance of a very interesting and affecting kind occurred at this time in one of the Greek isles. A number of the islanders, terrified at the approach of a Turkish force, hurried on board a large boat, and pushed off from the land. The wife of one of them, a young woman of uncommon loveliness, seeing her husband departing, stood on the shore, stretching out her hands towards the boat, and imploring, in the most moving terms, to be taken on board. The Greek saw it without concern or pity, and, without aiding her escape, bade his companions hasten their flight. This unfortunate woman, left unprotected in the midst of her enemies, struggled through scenes of difficulty and danger, of insult and suffering, till her failing health and strength, with a heart broken by sorrow, brought her to her death-bed. She had never heard from her husband; and, when wandering amongst the mountains, or lying hid in some wretched habitation, or compelled to urge her flight amidst cruel fatigues, her affection for him, and the hope of meeting again, bore up her courage through all. He came at

last, when the enemy had retreated, and the Greeks had sought their homes again; and learning her situation, was touched with the deepest remorse. But all hope of life was then extinguished; her spirit had been tried to the utmost; love had changed to aversion, and she refused to see or forgive him. There is at times in the character of the Greek women, as more than one occasion occurred of observing, a strength and sternness that is truly remarkable. Her sister and relations were standing round her bed; and never in the days of her health and love did she look so touchingly beautiful as then: her fine dark eyes were turned on them with a look, as if she mourned not to die, but still felt deeply her wrongs; the natural paleness of her cheek was crimsoned with a hectic hue, and the rich tresses of her black hair fell dishevelled by her side. Her friends, with tears, entreated her to speak to, and forgive her husband; but she turned her face to the wall, and waved her hand for him to be gone. Soon the last pang came over her, and then affection conquered;-she turned suddenly round, raised a look of forgiveness to him, placed her hand in his, and died.

We took passage on board a French ship bound to Alexandria, and for three days had a favourable wind, when we fell in with a division of the Greek fleet: they obliged us to bring to, and sent an armed boat on board to demand our destination and cargo, and whatever intelligence we could give them. These Greeks behaved very civilly: their best ships were merchant-vessels turned into those of war, and carried twenty guns: they were from the isle of Hydra, the natives of which are the best and boldest sailors in their navy. The wind failed us; and we were put to our resources to pass the time agreeably; but in French vessels a passenger is always less at a loss in calms and baffling winds than in any other, as the men seldom lose their gaiety and good spirits. The mate, who seemed to have the chief command, was a fine and animated young Frenchman, who had a small collection of interesting books; the nominal captain, Monsieur Gras by name, was a little fat man, with a serious and melancholy aspect. Every morning and evening, before breakfast and supper, the crew were summoned to the poop, and he recited prayers in a sad and distinct tone, to which they all responded. On board was a most motley assemblage of passengers: a fat young German, who was on his way to Grand Cairo, to set up for a doctor, and cure the Turks and Arabs without knowing a word of their language; and he was accompanied by a sprightly young Italian woman, who had left her dear land to, live with this phlegmatic fellow on the banks of the Nile: his pipe scarcely ever quitted his mouth, and he told marvellous tales, sitting on the deck with a naked neck and bosom à l'oriental. There was also a tailor from Italy, of a pale countenance and spare figure, destined for Alexandria to exercise his calling; and he put one in mind of the buttonmaker from Sheffield, who came on speculation to Constantinople with a cargo of his material, and found the Turks never wore buttons. third was a dog-merchant, also an Italian, with his wife: he had a number of dogs of a very fine breed, to dispose of in Egypt, if he could find purchasers among the Franks or the faithful. These three worthies and their two chère amies (the tailor having no tender companion with him) travelled in great harmony together, and, while the baffling winds lasted, afforded no small amusement. But at last we drew near. the

A

low and sandy shores around Alexandria. How sweet after a voyage the first sight of land is, every traveller has felt; and Pompey's Pillar on the eminence above the town, the canal from the Nile just beyond, and a thousand recollections attached to the residence of Cleopatra, gave an intense interest to that now before us.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.*
АH me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds

My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!
Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row !
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there's the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
And turn'd our table-beer!

There I was birch'd! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed

From Learning's woeful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!—
The hopeless leaves I wept upon !—
Most fruitless leaves to me!-

The summon'd class !-the awful bow !—
I wonder who is master now

And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
And Mrs. S***?-Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlour) yet
Some favour'd two or three,-
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize-bohea?

Ay, there's the play-ground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
So wildly I have read !-

Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread?

Who struts the Randall of the walk?

Who models tiny heads in chalk?

Who scoops the light canoe?

What early genius buds apace

?

Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase?
Hal Baylis blythe Carew?

Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,"

And some have perish'd young!—

Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life;
And blithe Carew-is hung!

No connexion with any other ode.

Grave Bowers teaches ABC

To savages at Owhyee;

Poor Chase is with the worms!-
All, all are gone-the olden breed!-
New crops of mushroom boys succeed,
"And push us from our forms!"

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,
And leap, and skip, and mob about,
At play where we have play'd!

Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,
And some are in the shade!

Lo there what mix'd conditions run!
The orphan lad; the widow's son ;
And Fortune's favour'd care-
The wealthy born, for whom she hath
Mac-Adamized the future path-
The Nabob's pamper'd heir!

Some brightly starr'd-some evil born,—
For honour some, and some for scorn,-
For fair or foul renown!

Good, bad, indiff'rent-none may lack!
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black !
And there's a Creole brown!

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
And wish their frugal sires would keep
Their only sons at home;-
Some tease the future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And pant for years to come!

A foolish wish! There's one at hoop:
And four at fives! and five who stoop
The marble taw to speed!

And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow Cob about,-
Would I were in his steed!

Yet he would gladly halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop

With this world's heavy van-
To toil, to tug. O little fool!
While thou canst be a horse at school
To wish to be a man!

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing
To wear a crown,-to be a king!

And sleep on regal down!

Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares ;
Far happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!

And dost thou think that years acquire

New added joys? Dost think thy sire

More happy than his son?

That manhood's mirth?-Oh, go thy ways

To Drury-lane when

plays,

And see how forced our fun!

Thy taws are brave!-thy tops are rare !—
Our tops are spun with coils of care,

Our dumps are no delight !—
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And 'tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite!

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead

Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
Towards that merry ground!

Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot ;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!

Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast-
Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last
A sorry breaking-up!

T. H.

A RIDE IN A CUCKOO.

"Why, what a rascal art thou, then, to praise him so for running!-
A horseback, ye Cuckoo; but afoot he will not budge a foot !"

SHAKSPEARE.

SIGHT-SEEING in hot weather is rather an awful enterprise: going over palaces is the most objectionable form of this painful pleasure; and the Château of Versailles, from its immense extent and total want of furniture, is perhaps the most wearisome of all these edifices to wade through. Others look like habitations: to a certain extent, they let us into the arcana of royalty's domestic life, and so possess some interest, as well as dignity of association; but here all is bare and empty: however fatigued the visitant may be, there is not a single chair to relieve him; nothing has been renewed, but the ponderous overpowering gilding which glisters to the eye, like all the gilt gingerbread of all the Bartholomew Fairs; and when the servant in his gorgeous livery has shouted-" Salon de Mars!-Salon de Venus!-or Salon d'Apollon!" you have nothing to do but to walk on, until you have completed the round of the palace and the mythology. With the exception of some large pictures in the ante-room, principally of Paul Veronese, you encounter nothing in the way of art worth a moment's attention: there are none, indeed, but some flaring, glaring, theatrical daubs of the modern French school, and the paintings by Le Brun and others, with which the ceilings are every where profusely bedizened. In spite of the "os sublime" given to man, that he might contemplate the heavens, it may be doubted whether he was ever meant to strain his eyes perpendicularly upwards to stare at a coloured ceiling; and such is my antipathy to this exercise of the art, that I seriously doubt whether I should have saved Sir James Thornhill's life while employed upon the dome of St. Paul's, had I seen him upon the extreme edge of the scaffolding, and possessed the presence of mind recorded of his friend, who induced him to run forward by smearing his principal figure with a brush. One knows not which is in the most unnatural posture,-the man below, half dislocating his neck to look up, or the sprawling fore-shortened goddess above, threatening to break hers by tumbling down; the former becoming red in the face,