The Sun.
London, England, 1853-02-02 00:00:00

VIII.

" In peasant guise my love I won,
Nor knew she whom she wedded ;
In peasant cot our truth we tried,
And no disunion dreaded.
Twelve months' assurance proves our faith
On firmest base is steadied."

Joy reigned within those Convent walls
When the glad news was known ;
Joy reigned within Fitzwalter's halls
When there his bride was shown.
No lady in the land such sweet
Simplicity could own ;
A natural grace had she, that all
Art's graces far outshone :
Beauty and worth for want of birth
Abundantly atone.

L'ENVOY.
• Hence the Custom.
What need of more ? That Loving Pair
Lived long and truly so ;
Nor ever disunited were ;
For one death laid them low !
And hence arose that Custom old—
The Custom of Dunmow.

Assuredly never before did the dear old legend of
the Dunmow Flitch receive so likely or so charming
an elucidation. Another song is sung in the course
of the story—this time by one of the new characters,
Jack Juddock. It is a song about "My Old Com-
plaint "—sung by a right good wine-bibber—giving
a history of the cause and the cure of this " Old
Complaint "—the cause being thirst, and the cure,
we fear, intoxication ! It is a capital bacchanalian.
We have reason now to congratulate the readers of
the New Monthly, not only upon the return to
them of Mr. Ainsworth in his capacity as a " Story-
Teller," but also upon his beginning once more for
their pleasure, to interlard his romance with ballads
like those which some time back imparted so much
zest to " Crichton." and to " Rookwood." Nume-
rous articles of a very diversified character, impart
the charm of variety to the number of the magazine
for February. By-the-bye, there is among them
one most surprising, and astounding, and porten-
tous, and preternatural, quite as surprising, as-
tounding, portentous, and preternatural as even
Madame de Sevigne's grand news about the mar-
riage of the Great Mademoiselle ! The contribution
is entitled " A Word to England !" A word-
-what about ? Can the French be coming ? Is
the Emperor Napoleon 111. about to descend upon
our shores ? Are we all going to be swallowed up by
an earthquake ? No ; it is only another rattle of the
bones by some •dear old Pell of Exeter-hall. Eng-
land is doomed, or rather, no, the writer says
England is threatened, with a very different kind
of conquest and subjugation. It is a lifting
up again of the " raw head and bloody bones '
hobgoblin of—Popery. They were trying to
frighten us the other day about Boney. The trick
howbeit failed. Even in the night of our ignor-
ance we saw shining through the ghost—moon-
shine. Now the country is about, it would seem,
to be horrified into convulsions by a new set of
alarmists. Well—in truth—if all that is said by
the writer of this article in the New Monthly be
accurate, Father Ignatius may rub his hands with
self-confident satisfaction—there can be no escape
from a religious conspiracy so gigantic and in-
domitable.

Ainsworth.—Several familiar names are Fel
in the list of the contributors to Ainsworth's
Magazine—for among them we find Mis. Edward
Thomas, writing in poetry about the " Ship-
wrecked," and in prose about the " Two Christ-
mas Eves ;" we find Margaret Casson giving us,
in the shape of a story, some more small, decidely
small " Change ;" we find. Julia Addison continu-
ing her tale about " Florence Hamilton;" and
Nicholas Michell describing the " Public Amuse-
ments of the Greeks and Romans." This month,
between them, the writers in Ainsworth give us
altogether thirteen contributions. From a charm-
ing poetic meditation by E. E. M. K., entitled
"An Autumn Reverie," we must extract its elo-
quent and pensive conclusion :
" Oh ! wondrous issue of so weird a way !
Sad was my soul when first this rugged song
Born of thy gloom, oh sad—sad Autumn day !
Rose in rude chaunt from my untutored tongue. -
Sad was my soul—though with such softened woe
As tells of sympathy, grief's lealest friend-.
Such as affliction's weary children know,
Whom kindred spirits in sweet pity tend.
Sad was my soul—for gazing on the earth,
Strewn with the plumage of Time's hastening wings.
The sleeping echoes of regret took birth
Afresh—and murmured of departed things.
The red-bright leaves that drifted at my feet,
So ripe with news of Nature's green decay,
Stirred the still ghosts in memory's hushed retreat, .
And set me weeping with the Autumn day.
The stricken flowers, too, smiling 'mid the strife,
(As holy thoughts oft wrestle with despair),
Looked like those Angels who in early life
Trod this cold world with me, and made it fair.
The change—the chill—the breathless awe around ;
The spectral woodfi—the earth so wan and dumb
In her groat fear—the glades without a sound
Of life, save from the sobbing lips of some
Poor stream whose banks the blue-bells once had nestled
round ;
These with their mute, mysterious language,
spoke
Of sympathy to my o'erswelling heart.
I was alone no mere ! My voice then awoke
To bless thee, Autumn, joyless as thou art !
Then ope'd the storm like some most precious book,
With wond'rous words to soothe my spirit's woe;
In every phase I solemn comfort took,
And paused to hear th' orchestral anthem flow.
Grand were those dirges round the dead earth's bier,
O'er which the ashen clouds so pall-like hung,
Sweeter methought that death-hymn of the year,
Than songs of jubilee in spring-time sung.
For, ah ! when leaves put on their green array,
Where are our sympathies?—heart—answers, Where 2
Since life is ever like an Autumn day,