And had bid him, without any nonsense or joke,
Wrap himself up snug and warm in his cloak,
And meet him at twelve by the " Abbot's old oak."

Meanwhile the clouds were collecting on high,
Darker and darker grew the sky,

And a rain-drop moistened that lady's eye
As big as a half.crown piece.

The lady she sighed, perchance for a coach,
Threw on her lover one glance of reproach,
And one on her satin pelisse.

At this moment, when what to do neither could tell, a
Page appeared, bearing a brown silk umbrella,
I don't mean a page

Of this civilized age,

In a very tight jacket, with very short tails,
Studded all over with brass-headed nails;
But an orthodox page, who, on bended knee,
Said, "Miss, be so good as to come and make tea."

Ralph instantly rose ;

One kiss ere he goes

The page most discreetly is blowing his nose,-
And, before you can thrice on John Robinson call,
Ralph has cleared with a bound that garden wall.
With no less speed

He has mounted his steed,

A noble beast of bone and breed,
Of sinewy limb,
Compact, yet slim,

"Warranted free from vice and from whim."
Meanwhile the rain was beginning to soak
Through a very bad shift for a MacIntosh cloak,
Which a regular do,-

When only half new,

Ralph had bought sometime back from a parrot-nosed Jew,
Trusting his word, with no further thought or proof,

For its being a patent-wove, London-made waterproof,

A fact, by the way, which most forcibly shows men

How sharp they must look when they deal with old clothesmen.

Little reck'd Ralph of the wind and the rain,

On his inmost heart was preying that pain

Which man may know once, but can ne'er know again;
That bitterest throe

Of deepest woe,

To feel he was loved, and was loved in vain.

Now fiercer grew the tempest's force,

And the whirlwind eddied round rider and horse,
As onward they urged their headlong course.

O'er bank, brook and briar.

O'er streamlet and brake,
By the red lightning's fire
Their wild way they take.

A country so awkward to go such a pace on
Might have posed Captain Beecher, Dan Seffert, or Mason.

At once a flash, livid and clear,

Shows a moss-grown ruin mouldering near;
The horseman stays his steed's career,
And slowly breasts the steep.

As slowly climbs that ancient mound,
His courser spurns the holy ground.
Where the dead of other days around
Lie clasped in stony sleep.

And mark against the lurid sky
An oak uprears its form on high,
And flings its branches free;

A thousand storms have o'er it broke,
But well hath it stood the tempest stroke,―
It is, it is the Abbot's oak,

It is the trysting-tree.

An hour hath passed, an hour hath flown, Ralph stands by the tree, but he stands alone. Till, surmising his dream is a regular hoax,

He "confounds," with much energy" Abbots and oaks, And old gentlemen dying from Highlanders' strokes," Then enters a shed, which, though rather a cool house, Might serve at less need

To hold him and his steed,

As it formerly served the old monks for a tool-house.

Another hour was past and gone,
Another day was stealing on,
When Ralph, who was shaking
With cold, thought of taking

A nap, and was just between sleeping and waking,
Was roused by his horse, who stood trembling and shaking.
He opens his eyes,

To raise himself tries,

But a weight seems to press on his arms, chest, and thighs,
Like a lifeless log he helplessly lies-

Then conceive his amazement, alarm, and surprise,
When, on every side,

In its ancient pride,

He sees an old monastery slowly arise;

Chapel and hall,

Buttress and wall,

Ivied spire, and turret tall,

Grow on his vision one and all.
Airy and thin,

At first they begin

To fall into outline and slowly fill in ;
At length in their proper proportions they fix,
And assume an appearance exactly like "bricks."

From the postern-gate of that Abbey grey
A band of monks pursue their way

Till they come to the Abbot's oak.

Ralph sees an eye he before has known,-
'Tis the eye of their leader,-fixed on his own!
It is, it is,

The identical phiz

Of his friend, or one precisely like his !
These words from his thin lips broke :-
"This the time, and this the hour,
Fails the Saint's protecting power,
Gallant heart and steady hand,
Now may burst the charmed band-
Now" Here the knell

Of an Abbey bell,

On the ear of the wondering listener fell;
As if the sound,

His limbs unbound,

His strength, so strangely lost, is found!

Howling fled the wild Nightmare,
As Ralph leaped forth from his secret lair,
And gained, at a bound, the open air ;-
He gazed around, but nothing was there!
Nothing save the roofless aisle,

Nothing save the mouldering pile,

Which looked, in the deepening shade half hid,
As old and as ugly as ever it did.
The storm had passed by,

And the moon on high

Beamed steadily forth from the deep-blue sky.
One single ray through the branches broke,
It fell at the foot of the "Abbot's old oak."

Still in Ralph's ear the words were ringing
The words he had heard the old gentleman singing,
"This is the time, and this the hour;"
He felt that the tide at last was come, now or
Never to lead him to fortune and power.
Of his trusty blade

He very soon made

An apology-poor one I grant-for a spade,
And proceeded to work, though new at the trade,
With hearty good will, where the roots seemed decayed.
With labour and toil

He turned up the soil,

While he thought

As he ought

On that adage which taught

"Perseverance, and patience, and plenty of oil;" Till, wearied grown,

Muscle and bone,

His sword broke short on a broad flag stone.

516

In Redgrave church the bells are ringing;
To Redgrave church a youth is bringing
His bride, preceded by little boys singing,-
A custom considered the regular thing in
Times past, but gone out in these latter days,
When a pair may get married in fifty queer ways.

In Redgrave church blush bridesmaids seven,

One had turned faint, or they would have blushed even ;
In Redgrave church a bride is given

In face of man, in face of Heaven.

In her sunshine of youth, in her beauty's pride,
The lady of Bottesdale stands that bride;
And Ralph of Redgrave stands by her side;
But no longer drest

In homely vest,

Coat, waistcoat, and breeches, are all of the best ;
His look so noble, his air so free,
Proclaim a squire of high degree;
The lace on his garment is richly gilt,
His elegant sword has a golden hilt,
His "tile" in the very last fashion is built,
His Ramillie wig

Is burly and big,

And a ring with a sparkling diamond his hand is on,
Exactly as Richardson paints Sir Charles Grandison.
Nobody knows

Or can even suppose,

How Ralph of Redgrave got such fine clothes;
For little Ned Snip, the tailor's boy said,-
And a 'cuter blade was not in the trade,—
That his master's bill had been long ago paid.
Ah! little, I ween, deem these simple folks,

Who on Ralph's appearance are cracking their jokes,
How much may be gained by a person who pokes,
At the right hour, under the right sort of oaks.

REMARKABLE SUICIDES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

DALTON.

(C CURIOSITIES OF MEDICAL EXPERIENCE." "CHARITY COvereth a multitude of sins," and generally casts a mantle of insanity on the corpse of the self-murderer; but it is not altogether fair to cast a stigma on the living to exonerate the dead. If the commission of suicide be an act of lunacy, the surviving family of the defunct must be considered as predisposed to insanity; to secure to an inanimate body the rites of a Christian sepulture, and to shield its memory from the charge of cowardice, and a defiance of Divine and human laws, its innocent and already injured offspring and relations are to be exposed to the sad report of being members of a family subject to mental hallucinations!

That suicide is the deed of a lunatic, is true in many cases; but this rash act is more frequently committed under the influence of the passions, or by men who have not sufficient moral courage to live and breast the adverse tide of fortune. If such a degraded condition constitutes insanity, the coward who flies from the field of battle is a madman, and therefore should not be exposed to public obloquy. Sui. cide is generally resorted to after mature deliberation, and long consideration of the advantages and miseries of life. We find that through all ages, in the regions of the East, suicide was considered to be a religious and meritorious act; and the Indian gymnosophist thought it beneath the dignity of man calmly to wait the approach of death, and allow old age to corrupt the body, until it was unfit to become a sacrifice to the Deity.

Although many of the ancient philosophers advocated self-destruction, others, amongst whom we find Pythagoras and Socrates, objected to the practice. Pythagoras, who had studied in the Eastern schools, whence he derived his doctrine of metempsychosis, condemned suicide, believing that the soul was bound to the body as a punishment; and Socrates only excused it on the plea that he was already condemned to die. Both these illustrious sages deemed it an offence against the authority, the providence, and the moral government of the gods. Plato also condemns the act, when it is not committed under the visitation of great sorrow, inevitable misfortune, shame, and extreme poverty.

The ancient philosophers, so far from looking upon suicide as an evidence of insanity, considered it a manifestation of the strength of the intellectual faculties; and Seneca, on this subject observes, that "since neither infants, nor boys, nor lunatics fear death, it is shameful if reason will not inspire that indifference which folly commands."

Pliny the elder was an advocate of suicide, and blesses the benevolence of Mother Earth, who, in compassion to human miseries, has placed in the hands of man so many poisons, which would deprive him of life without pain.

It is therefore clear from these various doctrines, held forth at vari. ous periods, that suicide was considered to be permitted by the Deity under peculiar circumstances; and we have reason to believe, from the records of ancient history, that it was seldom resorted to, except under the influence of misery or superstition; but it was never maintained for one moment that self-destruction was an act of insanity.

*

Such were the opinions of pagan philosophers; and among the Christians, St. Augustin states that the Donatists killed themselves out of respect for martyrdom as their daily sport. When they could not find any one to kill them, they waylaid and attacked travellers, threatening to murder them if they would not put an end to their life ;† and not unfrequently in their love-feasts they would cast themselves from precipices, to this day sanctified by their self-inflicted martyrdom.

Although, under certain circumstances of enthusiastic self-sacrifice, suicide was tolerated, if not approved of, by the church, yet various ecclesiastic censures were passed upon this offence in several councils; not only were the bodies of suicides to be refused Christian burial, but their goods and chattels were confiscated for the profit of the State,

*Lucius Quotidianus.

We have many cases of insanity recorded, in which a man has killed another to be sent to execution in expiation of the crime.