bellement) which will so amuse and absorb
the woodcock that its pursuer may take from
his girdle a rod, to which a horsehair noose is
attached, aud throw the latter round its neck,
for it is one of the stupidest aud most foolish
birds that are known." I should think so, if
it allowed itself to be caught by this
tomfoolery.

Of birds which are not stupid, but knavish
rather, even to much theft, Belou relates that
the magpie is called Margot (the diminutive
of Margaret, as Charles the First called his
beautiful sister, the wife of Henry of
Navarre); and the jay (Richard), each on
account of their cry. Being somewhat skinny,
the jay is thought rather a tough morsel by
those who desire to dine upon him; but he
himself eats everything that comes in his way,
and is particularly fond of peas— green peas
perhaps— at a guinea a pound. The common
people think that the jay is subject to the
falling sickness, nevertheless they eat him
when they find him on the ground. It is,
perhaps, a weakness in human nature which
cannot be remedied, the tendency to make a
meal of everything that has animal life. But
for this, how severely might we not animadvert
on the gluttony of those who, not remembering
their song in spring, devour thrushes
in the autumn: yet, that is the best time to
eat them, for they are then perfectly delicious
as you would say, with me, if you had made
a diligence-supper on thrushes travelling
through the Ardennes.

But, I fear, if I read any more of Peter
Belon's volume, I shall write an article on
Gastronomy, a thing I had no notion of when I
began. Let me conclude with something more
serious than eating— if anything be more
serious: let me lament, with all the world, that
so useful a man as Peter Belon should have
been cut off sadly in the prime of his life and
full vigour of his intellect. He was only
forty-five years of age when he was murdered
one night as he traversed the Bois de
Boulogne on his way to Paris; whether for the
sake of plunder or revenge is not known.

RHINE-LAND.

WE Iean'd beneath the purple vine,
In Andernach, the hoary;
And at our elbows ran the Rhine
In rosy twilight glory.

Athwart the Seven-hills far seen
The sun had fail'd to broaden;
Above us stream'd in fading sheen
The highway he had trodden.

His farewell crimson kiss he left
On clouds suffused with blushes:
One star beam'd down the dewberry-cleft
Across the mirror'd flashes.

From cliffs of slate the vintage call'd
In muffled leafage dusky:
And down the river grandly wall'd,
The grape reel'd ripe and husky.

We reach'd entwining hands to seize
The clusters round us glowing:
Our locks were fondled by the breeze
From southern sandhills blowing.

The long-neck'd flask was not unbent,
The globed green glass unemptied;
The god of honest pleasure lent
Young Love his powers, untempted.

Home-friends we pledged; our bridal-maids;
Sweet wishes gaily squander'd:
We wander'd far in faëry glades,
Up golden heights we wander'd.

Like King and Queen in royal bliss,
We paced a realm enchanted,
A realm rose-vista'd, rich from this,
Tho' not from this transplanted.

For this Rome's frontier foot endear'd,
Her armèd heel made holy;
And Ages grey as Time's own beard,
Wreathed it with melancholy.

Old days it has that live in gleams
Of suns for ever setting:
A moth-wing'd splendour, faint as dreams,
That keeps the fancy fretting.

A gorgeous tracing dash'd with gloom,
And delicately dusted:
To grasp it is to spoil its bloom;
'Twas ours because we trusted.

No longer severing our embrace
Was Night a sword between us;
But richest mystery robed in grace
To lock us close, and screen us.

She droopt in stars; she whisper'd fair ;
The wooded crags grew dimmer;
The arrow in the lassie's hair
Glanced by a silver glimmer.

The ruin-rock renew'd its frown,
With terror less transparent,
Tho' all its ghosts are hunted down,
And all its knights are errant.

The island in the gray expanse,
We watch 'd with colour'd longing:
The mighty river's old romance
Thro' many channels thronging.

Ah, then, what voice was that which shed
A breathless scene before us:
We heard it, knowing not we heard;
It rose around and o'er us.

It rose around, it thrill'd with life,
And did infuse a spirit
To misty shapes of ancient strife:
Again I seem to hear it!

The voice is clear, the song is wild,
And has a quaint transition;
Tho voice is of a careless child
Who sings an old tradition.

He sings it witless of his power;
Beside the rushing eddies,
His singing plants the tall white tower
Mid shades of knights and ladies.