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church, who taught him to read better and to write, and spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver could never try enough to please him. Then he would walk with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and hear them talk of books, or perhaps sit near them in some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read, which he could have done till it grew too dark to see the letters. Then he had his own lesson for the next day to prepare, and at this he would work hard in a little room which looked into the den, till evening came slowly on, when the ladies would walk out again, and he with them: listening with such pleasure to all they said, and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb to reach, or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch, that he could never be quick enough about it. When it became quite dark, and they returned home, the young lady would sit down to the piano, and play some melancholy air, or sing in a low and gentle voice some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. There would be no candles at such times as these, and Oliver would sit by one of the windows, listening to the sweet music, while tears of tranquil joy stole down his face.

And, when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent from any manner in which he had ever spent it yet! and how happily, too, like all the other days in that most happy time! There was the little church in the morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows, the birds singing without, and the sweet-smelling air stealing in at the low porch, and filling the homely building with its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their assembling there together; and, though the singing might be rude, it was real, and sounded more musical (to Oliver's ears at least) than any he had ever heard in church before. Then there were the walks as usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at night Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud and pleased than if he had been the clergyman himself.

In the morning Oliver would be a-foot by six o'clock, roaming the fields and surveying the hedges far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with which he would return laden home, and which it took great care and consideration to arrange to the best advantage for the embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie's birds, with which Oliver, who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk,-would decorate the cages in the most approved taste. When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the village, or failing that, there was always something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver-who had studied this science also under the same

master, who was a gardener by trade,-applied himself with hearty good-will till Miss Rose made her appearance, when there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed upon all he had done, for which one of those light-hearted beautiful smiles was an ample recompense.

So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most blessed and favoured of mortals, would have been unmixed happiness; but which, in Oliver's troubled and clouded dawn, were felicity indeed. With the purest and most amiable generosity on one side, and the truest, and warmest, and most soul-felt gratitude on the other, it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart was repaid by their pride in, and attachment to, himself.

THE WREATH.

FROM UHLAND.

THERE went a maid, and plucked the flowers,
That grew upon a sunny lea;

A ladye from the greenwood came,
Most beautiful to see.

She met the maiden with a smile,
She twined a wreath into her hair,

"It blooms not yet, but it will bloom,
Oh! wear it ever there!"

And as the maiden grew, and roamed

Beneath the moon so pale and wan,
And tears fell from her, sad and sweet,
The wreath to bud began.

And when a joyous bride she lay
Upon her faithful leman's breast,

Then smiling blossoms burst the folds
Of their encircling vest.

Soon, cradled gently in her lap,

The mother held a blooming child;
Then many a golden fruit from out
The leafy chaplet smiled.

And when, alack! her love had sunk
Into the dark and dusky grave,

In her dishevelled hair a sere
Dry leaf was seen to wave.

Soon she too there beside him lay,

But still her dear-loved wreath she wore;

And it-oh! wondrous sight to see,—

Both fruit and blossom bore.

E. N.

WALTER CHILDE.

A

"My master's mention of small beer, in vulgar parlance swipes, reminds me of Old Tom of Oxford's 'Affectionate condolence with the ultras' some years ago. I request the Oxford Satirist to accept the assurance of my high consideration and good-will; I shake hands with him mentally and cordially, and entreat him to write more songs, such as gladden the hearts of true Englishmen." The Doctor, vol. iv. p. 383.

VOL. III.

DOCTOR,-or am I privileged to use

A greater, and a more familiar name?

I have no trusted secret to abuse;

And as for my surmises, they're the same
As the whole world's :-but I've no time to lose
In vain conjectures, and my present aim
Is to give proof that I esteem aright
The flattering honour of your kind invite.
"Laudari a laudatis,"-well you know
The proverb-has impell'd me to a tale;
And, if the reader finds it but so-so,

I can but shrug, and point to you as bail.
I gave my first to Blackwood years ago,-

A sort of thing to chaunt o'er home-brew'd ale;
"The One Horse Chay,"-'twas father'd, I believe,
On him who chose to sing it, poor John Reeve.

A friend, too, (to digress, and boast, and cackle, are
The rights of Whistlecraft's irregular school,)
Told me (of course, I deem'd the fact oracular,)
He found his German courier on a stool,
Singing that song, to teach our tongue vernacular
To the French maid; but, though I claim a rule
To egotize a bit, I must not prose.

Doctor, you 've said the word, and so here goes.

THE LEGEND OF WALTER CHILDE.

I LOVE old County stories,-of the which
Our fair West Country hath a decent share,—
Some touching love and leaguer, ghost and witch,
Attested well enough to make you stare;
Some in broad Doric brogue, and humour rich;

But all dead letter, till some wizard rare
Shall a stray shred of Scott's broad mantle claim,
And give our Cuddies body, shape, and fame.
But, good materials in themselves are nought.
Love's labour, forming pleasure out of toil,
Familiar interest, from youth's earliest thought
Identifying heart with native soil:

The pride, by old ancestral deeds well-bought,

Of his own scutcheon, scath'd in Border broil;
All these combin'd in Scott, the man inimitable,
With master-tact, and powers well-nigh illimitable.

2 H

Then, too, th' enlarg'd, the candid, manly spirit!
The upright, downright, heart-of-oak acumen,
So truly British, which he did inherit

As a born-gentleman,—which made him view men
As their God form'd them, and embody merit

Even in the plainest humblest grade of true men.
He lov'd his kind; felt what he nobly taught;
"None weareth his great Maker's stamp for nought."

Thus the bright Sun, that true cosmopolite,
Which warms and lights up all things in his ken,
Smiling, as 't were from his superior height,

On the small feuds and freaks of fretful men,
Attracts and glorifies with rainbow light

Drops from each village brook, or lowly fen, As from the lordly lake; and colouring gives Unto the meanest thing that breathes and lives.

Speak ye, who knew how his frank nature car'd

For all he met with, "body, beast, and bairn;" Ye who his leisure walks, like me, have shar'd From Melrose tower up to the wild swan's tarn. If I presume, a nameless bonnet-laird,

To cast one pebble on your chieftain's cairn,
'Tis but to say, "This tribute, mighty Scott,
From one who knew thee, and forgets thee not!"

But to the purpose. When I speak of Wessex,
Honour'd of yore by Alfred's birth and sway,
I don't depreciate Yorkshire, Kent, and Essex,
Which have their charms in much the self-same way
As regards merit in the great or less sex,

Society, parks, turnpikes, corn, and hay;
But, somehow, at the present time and tide,
I'm for that stale old thing, provincial pride.
Our Wykehamists feel this, West country folk

In general, and men of worth and knowledge,-
Though, as old fashions now are turn'd to joke,
Town-coterie-wit, with its teazing small edge,
May cut them up for 't;-haply, were truth spoke,
We had some spice of it at Oriel College,
In Oriel's palmy days; and none could show it
More than our guide and friend, our sage and poet,

He of the well-known stock of gentle blood,

As old as Devon's hills, which th' adage quaint
Blends with the soil, and speaks their lineage good,
Long ere the days of Norman king and saint.
If by "out-college men not understood,

I shall not more particularly paint
Him I was proud to call my friend and Mentor:
So those who choose may guess him at a venture.

This same provincial pride the French well knew,
Foster'd esprit de corps, when cloth'd in words,
And (though they laugh'd at its excess, 'tis true,
In Monsieur Pourceaugnac on the stage boards,)
Would animate with extra fighting goût

Their old crack regiments, brave as their own swords.

* See the Devonshire proverb of the three families whom "When the Conqueror came he found at home."

"En avant, Dauphiné!-Bourgogne, a moi!
En avant a la mitrialle !-Vive le Roi !"

They now, I'm told, have set St. Alibaud

In good St Denis' place; do nought for nought,
And now and then assassinate, to show

How well the subject's privilege is taught.
But, whether Louis Quinze, or Mirabeau,
(Rascals alike) this noble nation brought
To such a piteous pass, is yet a mystery
Which they must fight out at the bar of history.

Our Utilists, who labour to extend

The empire of their mouse-hole, the old† Mountain,
Cry, "Ye provincials, hear us, and amend ;

Centralization is Improvement's fountain."

True; but they just commence at the wrong end,
(Such slight mistakes not entering their account in,)
And, as those used to them expect of course,
Exactly put the cart before the horse.

Man's sympathies first radiate from his Lares
To old familiar faces early known,
Thence to his townsmen; (" congregantur pares
Cum paribus," as Cicero well hath shown;)
Each brother-band thus link'd, their mutual care is
Their common Father-land, and in the throne
Centering at last, these local rays of loyalty
Blend, rainbow-like, in th' Oriflamme of royalty.

The Welsh are proud, but then their self-respect
Is bas'd on "Live and let live," "give and take,"
Bonds for the peace, which one might half expect
That Utilists would prize for cheapness' sake.
They of the Marches, high and low, affect

This wholesome practice,-nay, a business make,-
To spell, without one letter's wrong admixture,

Such names as they esteem a county-fixture.

Give Dod of Edge's surname a third D,

Half Cheshire would be put in an alarum:

Legh sinks the I, and Williams Wynn the E,

From motives which their friends respect, and share 'em.

Pryse of Gogerddan shuns both I and C;

And should you dare spell Salusbury like New Sarum,

Sir John the Strong and the old Cavaliers

Would rise up from their graves to cuff your ears.

"Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus."

+ "La Montagne."

See Pennant's Wales, vol. ii. The representative, by maternal blood, of the elder branch of this family, (by whom the priory of Carmelites was founded at Denbigh in the reign of Henry III.) is the present Lord Combermere. The second baronet, Sir Thomas, of Lleweni Hall, grandson of Sir John the Strong, was a distinguished cavalier in the civil wars, and a man of literary talent. In 1646, Denbigh Castle was gallantly defended for four months against General Mytton's parliamentary army, by Colonel Salusbury of Bachymbyd, commonly called Hosanau Gleision, or Blue Stockings, and surrendered on honourable conditions. The present baronet, Sir Charles Salusbury of Llanwern, Monmouthshire, is of a younger branch, formerly settled at Bachygraig House, near Denbigh, about the time of the Reformation; of which was Mrs. Piozzi, the friend of Dr. Johnson,