feet high, with banks running across the top, on which some dozen or fourteen native rowers are perched. The European, together with his luggage, is coolly stowed at the bottom of the vessel, with a strict caution to be very quiet. In this leviathan canoe we seated ourselves, and started for Madras.

When we reached the first line of surf, no words can describe the terror we felt. Thrown in an instant to a dizzy height, then suddenly plunged down with a rapidity which for an instant checked the breath, while we looked up, and saw the towering waves ready to burst over our heads, occasionally dotted with a catamaran; each boat being attended by several of these worthies, who in case of accident instantly pick up the passengers, and for which they always receive a silver medal. The noise of the angry surf, which seemed intent on our destruction, completely paralysed the majority of us. Not so, however, a young and beautiful girl, who was about to join her parents in India. She seemed to exult in the danger which surrounded us. She appeared to court the awe-inspiring scene, and smiled with joy as we shrank appalled at the raging foam. A young officer, to whom she was betrothed, seemed delighted with these fresh proofs of her courage, and assisted her to mount the bench of the rowers, much against the advice of the natives, and was about to spring up after her in order to hold her, when a sudden lurch of the boat threw him to the bottom of the vessel, and the object of his love into the boiling waves. A general scream burst from all. No assistance could be given; no help afforded. We were in the very midst of the most dangerous line. Young Osborne sprang up. He looked around; but no sign of the poor girl could be seen; nothing could be perceived but the hissing, raging sea. A second glance to guide him equally futile,-an appealing look towards Heaven, and Osborne leaped into the waves. The stoical Indians still pulled on they did not waver in their stroke, but continued in their steady exertions; and they were right in so doing; for I afterwards learnt that a single pause, even far an instant, and all would have been lost.

To describe the grief of the poor mother of Louisa Marchmont, would require an abler pen than mine, nor, had I the power, would I wish to harrow up the feelings of my reader by a sketch of her dreadful agony, her torture, as she vainly attempted to clamber up to the fatal bank, from which she was forcibly held down. At length we felt a shock as if of an earthquake; the Indians jumped out, and in two minutes more we stood safely on the strand, enjoying the delight of the mother as she clasped her almost senseless daughter to her breast, crying with agonizing joy. A catamaran, already decorated with six silver medals, had caught her as she fell, and gained a seventh honour by bearing her safely to shore.

As Louisa recovered, and unlocked herself from her mother's embrace, she looked around, fondly expecting the congratulations of another loved being. But, alas! Osborne was not there. Again she gazed; and at length gained strength to ask for him. None answered. Again she repeated the question: the averted looks of all told her a tale of woe.

Another catamaran now landed, and approached the group. Unaware of the situation of the parties, he slowly pronounced in excellent English," The young man has become the prey of sharks." One harrowing screech-a shudder from all-closed this dreadful

scene.

Poor Louisa is now a religious, good, but melancholy woman.

573

SONNET

On presenting a young Lady with a locket of his hair interlaced with her own at a time when fate seemed to make it impossible for him to meet her again.

THE love thou gavest with my own is wreathed;

And as these locks though severed from the head
Live not the less, so live our loves unbreathed,

And still shall live e'en when this heart is dead!
For 'twas not sought, but fix'd in heav'n above
That we should meet for everlasting love.
Thrice happy locks! elect of Fate to wed
The raven tresses of my queen, and sleep
Upon her bosom pillowed; see ye steep
My thoughts in sympathy with hers! 'Tis said
Magnetic influence from your mazes flies;
Be grateful then, and see ye earn your prize,
Whispering this breast whate'er she hopes or sighs
reap who sowed not while this heart has bled.

Ye

J. C. BENTLEY.

SPECIMENS OF MODERN GERMAN POETS.
TRANSLATED BY MARY HOWITT.

HEINRICH HEINE.

WE sate by the fisher's dwelling,
And looked upon the sea;

The evening mists were gathering,
And rising up silently.

Forth from the lofty lighthouse
Streamed softly light by light,

And in the farthest distance
A ship hove into sight.

We spoke of storm and shipwreck ;
Of seamen, and how they lay
Unsafe 'twixt heaven and water,

'Twixt joy and fear each day.
We spoke of lands far distant;

We took a world-wide range,
We spoke of wondrous nations,

And manners new and strange.
Of the fragrant, glittering Ganges,
Where giant trees uptower,
And handsome, quiet people,
Kneel to the lotus flower.

Of Lapland's filthy people,

Flat-headed, wide-mouthed, we spake;
How they squat round their fires and jabber,
And shriek o'er the fish they bake.

The maidens listened so gravely;
At length no more was said;

The ship was in sight no longer,
And night over all was spread.

COUNTY LEGENDS.

No. III.

BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

THE LAY

OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY.

CANTO II.

Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry-so
I must write it, my verse not admitting the O—

But as for the venue, I vow I'm perplext

To say if it's in this world, or if in the next—

Or whether in both-for 'tis very well known

That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own
In a ""
tight little Island" that stands in a Lake
Call'd "Lough-dearg "-that 's "The Red Lake," unless I mis-
take,-

In Fermanagh or Antrim-or Donegal-which
I declare I can't tell,

But I know very well

It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch;

(At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer, But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here). There are some, I'm aware,

Who don't stick to declare

There's "no differ" at all 'twixt "this here" and "that there," That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry For the separate use of the "finest of pisentry,"

And that his is no more

Than a mere private door

From the rez-de-chaussée,—as some call the ground floor,—
To the one which the Pope had found out just before.

But no matter-lay

The locale where you may;

-And where it is no one exactly can say―
There's one thing, at least, which is known very well,
That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel.

"Entertainment "'s there worse

Both for "Man and for Horse;"

For broiling the souls

They use Lord Mayor's coals;

Then the sulphur 's inferior, and boils up much slower
Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower,
It's by no means so strong-

Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong;

The "prokers" are not half so hot, or so long,
By an inch or two, either in handle or prong;

The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth,

And the Nondescript Monsters not near so uncouth ;-
In short, it's a place the good Pope, its creator,

Made for what's call'd by Cockneys a "Minor The-átre.”
Better suited, of course, for a minor performer,"

Than the "House," that 's so much better lighted and warmer,
Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,-
-You understand where

I don't question-down there

Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions,
The Paving Commissioners use "Good Intentions,"
Materials which here would be thought on by few men,
With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen

At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine.

To go on with my story,

This same Purga-tory,

(There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory,) Is close lock'd, and the Pope keeps the keys of it-that I can Boldly affirm-in his desk in the Vatican;

-Not those of St. Peter

These, of which I now treat, are

A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater-
And so cleverly made, Mr. Chubb could not frame a
Key better contrived for its purpose-nor Bramah.

Now it seems that by these
Most miraculous keys

Not only the Pope, but his "clargy," with ease
Can let people in and out just as they please;
And,-provided you "make it all right" about fees,--
There is not a friar, Dr. Wiseman will own, of them,
But can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them;
And Basil, no doubt,

Had brought matters about,

If the little old woman would but have "spoke out,"
So far as to get for her one of those tickets,

Or passes, which clear both the great gates and wickets ;
So that after a grill,

Or short turn on the Mill,

And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity,
Than a Freemason gets in "The Lodge of Antiquity,"
She'd have rubb'd off old scores,

Popped out of doors,

And sheer'd off at once for a happier port,

Like a white-wash'd Insolvent that's "gone through the Court."

But Basil was one

Who was not to be done

By any one, either in earnest or fun ;—

The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun,

In all bargains, unless he'd his quid for his quo,

Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it "No Go."

So, unless you're a dunce,

You ll see clearly, at once,

When you come to consider the facts of the case, he,
Of course, never gave her his Vade in pace;

And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe
Released her pale Ghost from these regions of woe,
The little old Woman had no where to go!

For, what could she do?
She very well knew

If she went to the gates I have mention'd to you,
Without Basil's, or some other passport to shew,
The Cheque-takers never would let her go through;
While, as to the other place, e'en had she tried it,
And really had wished it as much as she shied it,
(For no one who knows what it is can abide it,)
Had she knock'd at the portal with ne'er so much din,
Though she'd died in what folks at Rome call "Mortal sin,"
Yet Old Nick, for the life of him, daren't take her in-
As she'd not been turn'd formally out of " the pale,"
So much the bare name of the Pope made him quail
In the times that I speak of, his courage would fail
Of Rome's vassals the lowest and worst to assail,
Or e'en touch with so much as the end of his tail;
Though, now he's grown older,

They say he's much bolder,

And his Holiness not only gets the "cold shoulder,"
But Nick rumps him completely, and don't seem to care a
Dump-that's the word-for his triple tiara.

Well-what shall she do?

What's the course to pursue?—

"Try St. Peter?—the step is a bold one to take;
For the Saint is, there can't be a doubt,' wide awake;"
But then there's a quaint

Old Proverb says, 'Faint

Heart ne'er won fair Lady,' then how win a Saint?—
I've a great mind to try—

One can but apply;

If things come to the worst why he can but deny

The sky

's rather high

To be sure-but, now I

That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by,

I am just in the "order" which some folks-though why
I am sure I can't tell you-would call " Apple-pie."
Then never say die!'

It won't do to be shy,

So I'll tuck up my shroud, and-here goes for a fly!"-So said and so done-she was off like a shot,

And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot.