Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet Together, curved an arm about his neck, Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, Made with her right a comb of pearl to part The lists of such a beard as youth gone out Had left in ashes." We see the little traitress in a hundred endearing and petulant moods; we see Merlin resisting her charms, and, in answer to that weak threat that she would discover his charm, and use it on him for his hurt, if he would not tell it her of his own free will Smiling as a Master smiles at one That is not of his school, nor any school Save that where blind and naked Ignorance Delivers brawling judgments." And lastly, in the magical picture of the storm, where the harlot, clinging to him in her terror, forgets not her diabolical machinations, and at length prevails the wearied wizard to reveal upon his secret, and thereby declare himself to be after all but mortal man. The last two Idylls may be said (chiefly, if not altogether, from the greater interest attached to the personages in them) to be the general favourites. "Elaine" is the "Lady of Shalott," whose death journey in the dark barge was sketched before; the lines have now been filled in, and the sweet pathetic story of" Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat," dying for love of Lancelot, seems to shine calm and radiant through its cloud of tears. Here Queen Guinevere's disloyalty appears; and alas! poor Queen, she glories in her crimescorning the "white blamelessness" of the "stainless gentleman," and speaking of him to Lancelot as "That passionate perfection, my good lord."· And then, with the true instinct of humanity, she tries to justify her sin by the query "But who can gaze upon the sun in heaven?" Ah! has it not ever been the verdict of erring mankind and womankind— "He is all fault who hath no fault at all: The low sun makes the colour?" We cannot but love Guinevere, then. The great Lancelot, too, notwithstanding the treacherous wrong he has done the King, enlists our admiration and sympathy, on account of the innate greatness that is always flashing out from him. Hear him telling his young squire with noble humility "In me there dwells No greatness, save it be some far off touch Of greatness to know well I am not great." How sad is the fate (that fate which blinded him so as to make him consider himself bound in honour to the Queen !). which will not let him return the love of Elaine ! "The shackles of an old love straiten'd him, "Another sinning on such heights with one, Casting up all his triumphs, the proud warrior, before whose name even knights in tourney used to go down, is driven to that conclusion which Solomon the King failed not to repeat, and which has come home to the heart of every man that is born of a womanVanitas vanitatum ! Are these the words of "Lancelot of the Lake"? "What am I? what profits me my name Of greatest knight? I fought for it, and have it : Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain; It is in the last Idyll that Arthur stands out "best and greatest.' "Nor Lancelot nor another" can compare with the spotless King. If before he may have seemed to be cast into shade by his greatest knight, he rises far above him now in his towering majesty. And it is right that it should be so. Sin triumphant would not have been a fitting close to these noble poems. We have seen it reign, and perchance it may have dazzled us somewhat by its lustre, for it continues to shine ever as it did in the days of that Singer of Israel who testified that he had seen the ungodly "flourish like a bay-tree"; but Mr. Tennyson, ere he closed his strain, has struck off its blossoms with a vigorous hand, though he has laid them in the dust with a tender sympathising heart. The Queen is a brokenhearted nun, and Lancelot a remorseful man: a guilty love is being ploughed out by a sorrowful penance; and Arthur, pure, wronged, and forgiving, is the lesson that the poet, following the teaching of a Greater than himself, has drawn with the hand of a master. We cannot trust ourselves to extract a single passage from this last of the Idylls; but we trust that our readers who have not read the book will do so without delay, and pardoning our perhaps superfluous garrulity, will agree with us that there is such a thing as "Modern Rhyme." ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. III. IN WHICH THERE IS AN ACCOUNT OF Α MASSACRE OF BORERS; AFTER ating from any particular spot, but generally diffused over the whole roof. We have listened to the music of the crackling furze-bushes in England, as their ten thousand ripe seed-vessels burst under the genial warmth of a July sun--but that is not the noise; the ticking of all the tiny watches in Geneva is more the character; or salt softy sprinkled over a fire would render a good imitation. In the morning, we arose covered with a yellowish buff powder--our entire room was besprinkled with it. We looked for the cause, and found a tribe of little borers had attacked each pole, and twig: they had drilled them through and through, whether to feed on the powdered wood, or simply to deposit their ova, we know not; suffice it to say, these little brown beetles sent such a shower of powder down, day and night, that they fairly drove us into our tent again, and only just in time for us to see pole after pole give way, and the whole structure threaten to come down with a crash. Now, thought we to ourself, we will have a jolly massacre ! We do not know whether or not it was cruel of us, being uncertain as to their being capable of acute sensation-it scarcely occurred to us to question the point at the time; but we kindled the building, and myriads perished in the flames. It gave us intense satisfaction to think we had paid them off so perfectly--and we might make a wretched pun, about their being unable to pore us again; but it would be unbecoming here, because we do not know who will read our Miscellany ;-perhaps the Borers NOT a very long time ago, we were stationed in the depths of large tract of Indian jungle, and destined to pass the rainy season amidst trees and tigers. We thought we would build a somewhat more substantial residence than a tent, to withstand the rain, and so set to work and built a large hut, but of green, unseasoned wood. Lots of soft feathery bamboos grew round about. We cut them, constructed our roof, and wattled our walls with the pliant young twigs. For a month or so, all went well, and we surveyed our new abode with conscious pride. We fan-themselves, for there are numbers in cied ourself a Robinson Crusoe, and as the heavy rain beat upon the housetop, we listened to its patter, and felt thankful for such perfect shelter. We little thought that, in a short time, myriads of tiny workmen would be busily plying their calling, and undermining our comfort. We guess system of forced labour must have brought so many workmen together, in so short a space of time; and so insidiously, that until we heard the noise of their working, we did not suspect their approach. As we laid our head on the pillow one night to sleep, we heard a low grating crackling noise, not eman a Bombay, most of them well to do in the trading world, though not overfond of educating their youth, if one may judge from their almost entire absence in the educational institutions. Their chief is a liberal-minded man, but more given to horseflesh than the Muses. What curious, trim, scant little turbans the Bombay Borers wear--they always remind us of Quakeress's bonnets at home. But there is a fashion in turbans, as well as in most other things: look at that of the Bombay Brahmin-what a breadth across; what a number of turns in roller fashion,--how like a shigram-wheel it looks! Would an English school-boy be allowed to escape from the school-house at twelve o'clock with such a head-dress entire? No! a hundred Billy Joneses would assail him. It seems to us that Englishmen display more bad taste in hats than in any other part of their costume; and it is well known Natives ridicule our black hats,--and well they may, for save and except the prevailing costume - among the aristocracy in the Somali country, in which the wig is worn, and with one more exception-the Parsee hat, we think creation may be challenged to produce anything more ugly. The Lydian mitre, worn by the Lydian and Phrygian women, is reported to have been infamous, but must have had a more classical appearance than the present beaver or gossamer hat. Away from the Presidency towns in India, the greatest variety is seen in the hat way; every officer and indigo-planter has his own particular fashion: the queerest, perhaps, of all, are those made of pith, and shaped like toadstools, or mushrooms; the edible part of which botanists call the pileus or cap. It is an uncommonly delicious food; and though mushrooms do not grow in our Meadow, yet they are abundant enough in the Deccan, and highlands of India, and little sought for by either Natives or Europeans-we believe, because we do not place sufficient confidence in our knowledge of the different species, and always eat them in distrust. We recollect being invited to a large dinner-party, given by a brigadier, whose knowledge of the culinary art exceeded that of his profession. Among the delicacies of the table was a large dish of stewed mushrooms. The very odour therefrom made them irresistible; ladies and gentlemen partook, and enjoyed them. A deliciously cool salad followed; this too was equally patronised. Now came music, and the usual festivities of the evening. But the ladies looked pale and uneasy, and one by one left the room. We were not long divining the cause, for each and every one began to feel signs of disturbance in his interior economy, and the word "mushroom!" began to be whispered among the party-at length, we all came to the conclusion that those we VOL. I.-11 had eaten were of the poisonous variety! Every one became alarmed, and sought his home, suffering in mind and body, inwardly vowing vengeance against dinner-parties, and stewed mushrooms. Fortunately, the host and hostess had not escaped the malady; and they set an inquiry on foot, so as to discover the poisonous ingredient of the feast: which was at length found to be the oil with which the salad was compounded: it was not Olive, but Castor; and the reputation of the Fungi was saved! IV. ABOUT THE VICTORIA MUSEUM AND GARDENS. Here, WE were seriously thinking that the good things of our fast-growing city had so clogged the portal circulation of our liver, that a change to some cooler spot was absolutely necessary; but we found beside our coffee cup, which awaited our awaking, and resort to a verandah covered with that lovely flowering creeper, the Gloriosa Pentwezletonia-what did we find? Why, nothing more wonderful than a copy of the Bombay Times and Standard! Don't put your lance in rest, O gallant Knight !-for we are not about to criticise it, but simply to read. Silence ! Confound that jabbering crow. butler, another cup of coffee! What's this? "Editors' Room": "Annual Report"- "Central Museum". "Raw Materials"-very! not much in line either-" Division E"-" Miscellaneous"-ah ! that's more in the Miscel lany's line of country. "The realised subscriptions towards this useful and loyal undertaking have reached the sum of eighty-three thousand rupees; the good outstanding the good outstanding subscriptions. amount to three thousand more; and no reasonable doubt can be entertained, that finally the fund at the disposal of the Victoria Museum and Gardens Committee will exceed one lakh."Bravo-bravissimo!! our 1 Just as we had delivered ourselves of this modicum of praise to the people of Bombay, a kite came swooping down on an egg-shell we had emptied, and the intelligent bird uttered a scream of delight also! But this was not wonderful, when we consider that the class Aves dwelling-places, and where the pleasureseekers of the Bombay army erected their canvas abodes in the cold season, and where we have had many a pleasant shall see the order of Pines flourishing; the cedar of Lebanon; the cypress, the Beeroth of the Bible, a native of the Holy Land, the indestructible wood of which the gates of Constantinople were built, and lasted a thousand years, will be growing there; and then, the "new jungle flowers, as they are discovered," will be supplied with a selected spot on the sea-shore, where the tide ebbs and flows once in twenty-four hours; and Gray, if living, could no longer write"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air." If such a strange variety of vegetables as the programme includes all flourish in the Victoria Gardens, too much praise cannot be given the imaginative projectors, who can so compose the geognostic state of soil, that all may live and grow. We hope the common heroic line possess instinct and intelligence of a high order, and surpass all other oviparous vertebrata. This particular kite had heard our musing, and doubtless was thinking how well he should ap-meeting-there, on that very spot, we pear when seated on the plain Doric pile, watching the interesting solemnities in his right rear. But to proceed with our newspaper : "East of this tropical avenue, from north to south, lines in succession, a pond for aquatic plants, a meadow for lilies"-Ah, yes! we remember to have promised to supply these from our Meadow-"bounded by palms, a space set with huge trap boulders, and decayed trunks, for arumes, euphorbias, caduses, mosses, and all manner of unusual vegetable forms then an economic garden, then a grove of cypress forms, and lastly, a few beds for new jungle flowers, as they are dis`covered." Oh Villikins! What is left for the most fertile imagination ;-what can the most inveterate ogre for this life's luxuries require more? How cool our liver feels-how the portals of its circulation gape open to the now freeflowing modena-coloured current! We need no cooler air than that in which moss and lichen flourish ;-and what will be more pleasing than telling our tales of love in the moonlit groves of palms and cypress! And one great object we have in writing this paper is, to warn lovers against the unusual vegetable forms”. -as all may not be aware of the vigils of flowers, and it is well to know those which watch at night. From 8 to 9 p. m., beware of Nolana prostrata; if you whisper tales of love at a later hour, you will find Arenaria rubra, Lady-Eleven-o'clock, and nearly all the Mesembryace watching you; for though most flowers close their petals in sleep at 6 p. m., and refuse to be disturbed for twelve hours, yet there is a large number always watching through the hours of darkness, and are called by botanists night-bloomers. They require the sun's influence to rouse them, though an artificial light will sometimes disturb their slumbers. With what conscious pride shall we point to the meadow of lilies,-onion and squill, aloe and leek, hyacinth and asparagus what queer companions, but lilies nevertheless. Where in days yore the garrison staff found pleasant of 66 "As sickly plants betray a niggard earth" will not be more applicable to the denizens of our new gardens than the two lines above quoted. V. ON SOME DEAD AUTHORS. As we sit at our small table (it was once a board-a-ship washing-stand: the drawer that formed the basin-holder is the repository of our stationery, the` jug department forms a novel set of pigeon-holes), and think of some of those great minds that are now lost to us for ever, "Shades of departed joys around us rise, And faces that will smile on us no more.' We have but lately read the tribute of George Augustus Sala to the memory of his friend Robert Brough,-and we have passed in review a few names of favourite authors who preceded him to that last bourne to which we are all fast hurrying, never to return. Truly may we say with Mr. Sala-" Who is the survivor that can tell when his turn may come, and when may come, and when a friendly hand may be required to close his eyes, and turn his picture to the wall ?" Who indeed can say! It We arrived in England after eight years of wanderings in this land of heat and exile, to attend the theatrical representation in behalf of the family of Douglas Jerrold, that tender-hearted, and but too often misjudged man. was a night not to be missed. We paid our fourteen shillings (for two), and received only standing-room behind the boxes for this. We confess we were tired out long before it ended. Two of his own plays were performed, -the " Rent-Day," and "Black-eyed Susan," the impassioned acting of which kept our heart in our throat the whole night long. The beautiful Miss Oliver, as "Black-eyed Susan," acted to perfection, and T. P. Cooke, though now more than seventy, came back to the stage for the occasion, and did as well as ever, and danced his sailor's hornpipe with as much grace and agility as he did when he first gained a reputation as "William," and made "Black-eyed Susan" a decided success. Mr. Webster acted in the "Rent-Day," and so did other celebrated characters, who lent their talents in so good a cause. But we have lost our programme, and one memory is not enough in this active world to recollect all we want. The pit was entirely occupied by friends of the deceased, and literary and artistic gentlemen. Thackeray, Dickens, and Albert Smith were there; and the latter spoke an epilogue, written, either by himself or Tom Taylor, for this occasion-eloquent in tribute to that noble grey-headed old man who had so recently laid down his pen and his life together. The more immediate cause of his death was what is called "painters' fever," brought on from the smell of new paint. No reader of Douglas Jerrold's works will have failed to notice the noble philanthropy that shines through them; the utter abhorrence of cant and humbug; his keen satire; his exquisite wit and repartee; his sense of the ridiculous; and his manly pathos. The "Story of a Feather" will never be forgotten; "Caudle's Lectures" have been in every library, and in every household. Two performances in honour of his memory took place in London, and were at the time thus described : : "The performances in honour of Mr. Douglas Jerrold's memory took place at the Gallery of Illustration, and at the Haymarket. The former was, in ordinary parlance, an amateur performance; but they who know the extraordinary merits of Mr. Charles Dickens in the part of Richard Wardour, the hero of Mr. Collins' play of 'The Frozen Deep,' will reluctantly accept the epithet. It was followed by Mr. Buckstone's farce of Uncle John.' The performance was received with enthusiasın.-The Haymarket revivals were exceedingly successful. Mr. Webster's re-appearance as Father Oliver in The Housekeeper,' and Mr. Phelps as Captain Channel in The Prisoner of War,' recalled old associations which could not but be regarded with peculiar interest by those who had reason to regard them as the germs of subsequent developments. The Keeleys in Peter and Polly Pallmall were also especially welcome. Between the pieces, the following address, written by Mr. Samuel Lucas, was delivered by Mr. Phelps. A reverential feeling reigned in the house, and the demonstration afforded was highly gratifying to the admirers of the departed dramatist and wit:-Welcome in Jerrold's name !--From Jerrold's tomb This greeting chases half the gathering gloom, There the light offspring, of his fancy sprung, Surging and sparkling like a Channel wave, Less for his fortunes than the common need- Having but for a minute raised the curtain that enshrines the dead, we must close it over him, and turn to others. |