"A blending of all beauties, streams and dells,
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine,
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells,
From gray but leafy walls where ruin greenly dwells."
The oppositions of light and shade; the rich culture of the hills contrasted with the rugged rocks that often rise from out of the midst of fertility; the bright verdure of the islands which the Rhine is continually forming; the purple hues and misty azure of the distant mountains—these and a thousand other indescribable charms constitute sources of visual delight which can be imparted only by a view of the objects themselves. And is excitement awakened in contemplating the borders of this graceful and magnificent river? Yes. When we revert to the awful convulsions of the physical world, and the important revolutions of human society, of which the regions it flows through have been successively the theatre—when we meditate on the vast changes, the fearful struggles, the tragic incidents and mournful catastrophes, which they have witnessed from the earliest ages to the very times in which we have ourselves lived and marked the issue of events—"the battles, sieges, fortunes" that have passed before its green tumultuous current, or within ken of its mountain watch-towers—the shouts of nations that have resounded, and the fates of empires that have been decided, on its shores—when we think of the slaughtered myriads whose bones have bleached on the neighbouring plains, filled up the trenches of its rock-built strong-holds, or found their place of sepulture beneath its wave—when, at each survey we take of the wide and diversified scene, the forms of centuries seem to be embodied with the objects around us, and the record of the past becomes vividly associated with the impression of present realities—it is then that we are irresistibly led to compare the greatness of nature with the littleness of man; it is then that we are forcibly struck with the power and goodness of the Author of both; and that the deepest humility unites itself in a grateful mind, with the highest admiration, at the sight of "these His lowest works."
But do you pretend, it may be asked, in the course of a three days' journey, however lengthened by celerity of conveyance, or favoured by advantages of season or weather—do you pretend to have experienced that very eminent degree of gratification which the country is capable of communicating? Certainly not. I speak of these scenes but as of things, which before my own hasty and unsatisfied glances came like shadows—so departed. Instead of two or three days, a whole month should be spent between Mentz, Coblentz, and Bonn, in order fully to know and thoroughly to enjoy the beauties and grandeurs with which that space abounds.—Stevenson's Tour in France, &c.
THE BARBER.
Nick Razorblade a barber was,
A strapping lad was he;
And he could shave with such a grace,
It was a joy to see!
And tho' employ'd within his house,
He kept like rat in hole;
All those that pass'd the barber's door,
Could always see his pole!
His dress was rather plain than rich,
Nor fitted over well;
Yet, tho' no macaroni, Nick,
He often cut a swell!
And Nick was brave, and he could fight,
As many times he proved;
A lamb became a lion fierce,
Whenever he was moved!
Like many of his betters, who
To field with pistols rush,
When Nicky lather'd any one,
He was obliged to brush!
Some say Nick was a brainless block,
While those who've seen him waving
His bright sharp razor, o'er scap'd chins,
Declare he was a shaving!
His next door neighbour, Nelly Jones,
A maid of thirty-eight,
'Twas said regarded Nick with smiles,
But folks will always prate.
'Tis known in summer time that she,
(A maid and only daughter)
To show her love for Razorblade,
Kept Nicky in hot water!
For politics Nick always said,
He never cared a fig;
Quoth he:—"If I a Tory were,
I likewise wear a wig!"
No poacher he, yet hairs he wired,
With skill that made maids prouder;
And though he never used a gun,
He knew the use of powder!
He never took offence at words,
However broad or blunt;
But when maids brought a front to dress,
Of course he took a front!
Beneath his razor folks have slept,
So easy were they mown;
Yet (oh! most passing strange it was!)
His razor was his own!
Nick doubtless had a tender heart,
But not for Nelly Jones;
He made Miss Popps "bone of his bone,"
But never made old bones!
He died and left an only son,
A barber too by trade;
But when they ope'd his will, they found
A cruel will he'd made.
And doubtless he was raving mad,
(To slander I'm unwilling)
For tho' a barber, Nicky cut
His heir off with a shilling!
Absurdities: in Prose and Verse.
BONAPARTE ATTEMPTS SUICIDE.
While we endeavour to sum up the mass of misfortunes with which Bonaparte was overwhelmed at this crisis, it seems as if Fortune had been determined to show that she did not intend to reverse the lot of humanity, even in the case of one who had been so long her favourite, but that she retained the power of depressing the obscure soldier, whom she had raised to be almost king of Europe, in a degree as humiliating as his exaltation had been splendid. All that three years before seemed inalienable from his person, was now reversed. The victor was defeated, the monarch was dethroned, the ransomer of prisoners was in captivity, the general was deserted by his soldiers, the master abandoned by his domestics, the brother parted from his brethren, the husband severed from the wife, and the father torn from his only child. To console him for the fairest and largest empire that ambition ever lorded it over, he had, with the mock name of emperor, a petty isle, to which he was to retire, accompanied by the pity of such friends as dared express their feelings, the unrepressed execrations of many of his former subjects, who refused to regard his present humiliation as an amends for what he had made them suffer during his power, and the ill-concealed triumph of the enemies into whose hands he had been delivered.