them too, and Gil must come and have a share of the mill; and they must all be together. And so they lived in such harmony and love, that they grew to be a proverb in the country round about; and long after they were all dead and gone, when people wished to describe a united, contented family, they used to say, 'Lord bless you! happy? why, they are as happy as the millers of Hillside !'

Original Poetry.

LINES TO A LADY.

Go, lady, to thy lonely room,

Should moody shadows cross thy brow; And there, in that congenial gloom,

Brood, heart-struck, o'er each broken vow.

Go, gaze upon the golden ring,

If yet the spell retains its force,
Until the snakes of memory sting
Thy spirit into late remorse.
And when from sorrow's sacred fount

The bitter tears at length shall flow,
Let poor profaned her throne remount,
And wing thee into hopeless wo.
And let imagination wing

Her way unto that sultry shore,

Where lone he lies whose name shall fling An arrow through that heart once more.

Aye, rather let it rankle there,

And agonise both heart and brain,
Than in the transports of despair
Thus wed thyself to wo again.
Aye, let the thick mist cloak thy mind,
And champ the bit of bitter thought,
Than break the bonds that ought to bind,
And sell the love the dead hath bought.
Go, pine and ponder o'er the past,

Or laugh in some mad heartless mood,
For thou wilt be from first to last

The sport of passion unsubdued.
And yet I'd rather see thine eyes,
Keen, large, and lustrous though they be,
Dimm'd by the grief that never dies,

Than hear those fits of frantic glee.
But destiny's dark hand hath writ
The records of thy future fate,
And let thy purpose fix or flit,

The warning comes, and comes too late.
Yet, could this weak and workless will

Call phantoms from death's dusty sphere, There one should shake that purpose still, Or bear thee to that far, far bier.

J. P.

MEMORY AND ITS CAPRICES. THERE is no faculty so inexplicable as memory. It is not merely that its powers vary so much in different individuals, but that every one has found their own liable to the most unaccountable changes and chances. Why vivid impressions should appear to become utterly obliterated, and then suddenly spring to light, as if by the wand of a magician, without the slightest effort of our own, is a mystery which no metaphysician has ever been able to explain. We all have experience of this, when we have striven in vain to recollect a name, a quotation, or a tune, and find it present itself unbidden, it may be, at a considerable interval of time, when the thoughts are engaged on another subject. We all know the uneasy feeling with which we search for the missing article, and the relief when it suddenly flashes across the mind, and when, as if traced by invisible ink, it comes out unexpectedly, bright and clear.

It is most happily ordered, that pleasing sensations are recalled with far greater vividness than those of a distress

ing nature. A charming scene which we loved to contemplate, a perfume which we have inhaled, an air to which we have listened, can all be reverted to with a degree of pleasure not far short of that which we experienced in the actual enjoyment; but bodily pain, which, during its continuance, occasions sensations more absorbing than anything else, cannot be recalled with the same vividness. It is remembered in a general way as a great evil, but we do not recall the suffering so as to communicate the sensation of the reality. In fact, we remember the pain, but we recollect the pleasure-for the difference between remembrance and recollection is distinct. We may remember a friend, whose person we have forgotten, but we cannot have forgotten the appearance of one whom we recollect. Surely a benevolent Providence can be traced in the provision which enables us to enjoy the sensations again which gave pleasure, but which does not oblige us to feel those which gave pain. The memory of the aged, which is so impaired by years, is generally clear as to the most pleasurable period of existence, and faint and uncertain as to that which has brought the infirmities and 'ills which flesh is heir to;' and the recollection of schoolboy days, with what keen delight are all their merry pranks and innocent pleasures recalled, while the drudgery of learning and the discipline of rules, once considered so irksome, fill but a faint outline in the retrospective picture; the impressions of joy and gaiety rest on the mind, while those which are felt in the first moments of some great calamity are so blunted by its stunning effect, that they cannot be accurately recalled. Indeed, it frequently happens that the memory loses every trace of a sudden misfortune, while it retains all the events which have preceded it.

Of such paramount importance is a retentive memory considered, that the improvement of the faculty by constant exercise is the first object in education, and artificial aids for its advantage have been invented. So essential did the ancients regard its vigour for any work of imagination, that they described the muses as the daughters of memory.' Though a retentive memory may be found where there is no genius, yet genius, though sometimes, is rarely deficient in this most valuable gift. There are so many examples of its great power in men of transcendent abilities, that every one can name a host. Some of these examples would appear incredible, had they not been given on unquestionable authority. Themistocles, we are told, could call by their names every citizen of Athens, though they amounted to twenty thousand. Cyrus knew the name of every soldier in his army. Hortentius, after attending a public sale for the day, gave an account in the evening of every article which had been sold, the prices, and the names of the purchasers. On comparing it with that taken at the sale by the notary, it was found to agree as exactly with it as if it had been a copy. 'Memory Corner Thompson,' so called from the extraordinary power which he possessed, drew, in the space of twenty-two hours, a correct plan of the parish of St James's, Westminster, with parts of the parishes of St Marylebone, St Ann, and St Martin. In this were included all the squares, streets, courts, lanes, alleys, markets, and all other entries

every church, chapel, and public building-all stables and yards-all the public-houses and corners of streets, with every pump, post, tree, house, bow-window-all the minutiae about St James's Palace-this he did in the presence of two gentlemen, without any plan or notes of reference, but solely from his memory. He afterwards completed the plans of other parishes. A house being named in any public street, he could tell the trade of the shop, either on the right or left hand. He could from memory furnish an inventory of everything contained in any house where he was intimate, from the garret to the cellar.

The extraordinary powers of calculation entirely from memory are very surprising. The mathematician Wallis, in bed, and in the dark, extracted the cube root from a number consisting of thirty figures. George III. had a memory remarkably retentive. He is said never to have forgotten the face he had once seen, or the name once heard. Carolan's memory was remarkably quick and re.

tentive. On one occasion, he met a celebrated musician at the house of an Irish nobleman. He challenged him to a trial of musical skill. The musician played the fifth Concerto of Vivaldi on his violin, to which Carolan, who had never heard it, listened with deep attention. When it was finished, he took his harp, and played the Concerto from beginning to end, without missing a single note. An instance of great memory is related of La Motte, who was invited by Voltaire, then a young man, to hear a tragedy which he had just finished. La Motte listened with great attention, and was delighted with it. However, he said he had one fault to find with it. On being urged by Voltaire to say what that was, he replied, that he regretted that any part of it should have been borrowed. Voltaire, chagrined and incredulous, requested that he would point this out. He named the second scene of the fourth act, saying, that, when he had met with it, it had struck him so much, that he took the trouble of transmitting it to memory. He then recited the scene, just as Voltaire had read it, with the animation which showed how much it pleased him. Voltaire, utterly confounded, remained silent; the friends who were present looked at each other in amazement; a few moments of embarrassment and dismay ensued. La Motte at length broke the silence: Make yourself easy, sir,' said he, the scene belongs to no one but you. I was so charmed by its beauty that I could not resist the temptation of committing it to memory.'

It is not uncommon to find the memory retentive on some subjects, yet extremely defective on others. The remarkable powers of some are limited to dates and names. A lady with whom we were acquainted could tell the number of stairs contained in each flight in the houses of all her acquaintance, but her memory was not particularly retentive in anything else. In the notice of the death of Miss Addison, daughter of the celebrated Addison, which took place in 1797, it is stated, that she inherited her father's memory, but none of the discriminating powers of his understanding; with the retentive faculties of Jedediah Buxton, she was a perfect imbecile. She could go on in any part of her father's works, and repeat the whole, but was incapable of speaking or writing an intelligible sentence.' Cases of occasional forgetfulness on matters of interest to the mind are among the strange caprices of memory. When Dr Priestley was preparing the dissertations prefixed to his 'Harmony of the Gospels,' he had taken great pains to inform himself on a subject which had been under discussion, relative to the Jewish passover. He transcribed the result of his researches, and laid the paper aside. His attention being called to something else, a fortnight elapsed before the subject again occurred to his mind. The same pains were taken which he had bestowed on it before. The fruits of his labour were again written out. So completely had he forgotten that he had before copied out exactly the same paragraphs and reflections, that it was only when he found the papers on which he had transcribed them that it was recalled to his recollecAt times, he has read his own published writings without recognising them.

tion.

John Hunter's memory once failed him. When he was in the house of a friend, he totally forgot where he was, in whose house, in what room, or in what street, or where he lived himself. He was conscious of this failure, and tried to restore his recollection by looking out of the window to ascertain where he was, but to no purpose. After some time, recollection gradually returned. It is well known that a young man of great ability, and for whom his friends looked for the most brilliant success, totally forgot what he had been about to say, when making his first, and, as it proved, his only, parliamentary speech. He tried to resume the thread of his argument, but all was a cheerless blank-he came to a dead stop; and thus his parliamentary career ended: he never attempted to address the house again. An actor, who was performing in a play which had a great run, all at once forgot a speech which he had to make. How,' said he, when he got behind the scenes, and offered, as he thought, a very sufficient excuse, how could it be expected that I should remember

it for ever? Haven't I repeated it every night for the last thirty nights?'

We are told in the 'Psychological Magazine,' that many cases have occurred in which persons have forgotten their own names. On one occasion, a gentleman had to turn to his companion, when about to leave his name at a door where they called to visit, to ask him what it was, so completely and suddenly had he forgotten it. After severe attacks of illness and great hardship, loss of memory is not infrequent. Some who recovered from the plague at Athens, as Thucydides relates, had lost their memories so entirely that no friend, no relation, nothing connected with their personal identity, was remembered. It is said, that, among those who had escaped with life the disasters of the memorable campaign in Russia, and the disease which was so fatal to the troops at Wilua, there were some who had utterly lost their memory-who preserved not the faintest recollection of country, home, or friends. The fond associations of other days had left nothing but a dreary blank.

As the body has been made the vehicle for the exercise of the faculties of the mind, and as they are united in some mysterious manner, we find injuries to the one often hurtful, and sometimes fatal to the other. Mental shocks frequently impede, or in some cases utterly put an end to, that exercise which the union of body and mind produces. The memory is often disturbed or upset by some injury to the brain. A fall, a sudden blow, or disease, may obliterate all recollection. We have heard of those who have suffered from such who have forgotten every friend and relation, and never knew the face of one belonging to them again. But the effects are sometimes very strange and partial, and totally beyond our comprehension. The functions of the memory, in some cases, are suspended for a time, but, on recovery, take up at the very point where they were deprived of their power. Dr Abercrombie was acquainted with a lady who had an apoplectic seizure while at cards. From Thursday evening till Sunday morning she was quite unconscious. At length she spoke, and the first words she uttered were, 'What is trump? Beattie mentions a gentleman who had a similar attack, in the year 1761, from which he recovered, but all recollection of the four years previous to the attack was gone, while all that had happened in the preceding years was accurately recollected. He had to refer to the public journals of the forgotten years, in which he had taken great interest at the time, for information about the passing events of those years, and read the details with great satisfaction and surprise. By a fall from his horse, a gentleman, who was an admirable scholar, received a severe hurt on the head. He recovered, but his learning was gone, and he had actually to commence his education again by the very first step, the learning of the alphabet. A less unfortunate scholar, meeting with a similar accident, lost none of his acquirements but his Greek; but it was irrevocably lost. A strange caprice of memory is recorded in the case of Dr Broussannet. An accident which befel him brought on an attack of apoplexy. When he recovered, he had utterly lost the power of pronouncing or writing proper names, or any substantive, while his memory supplied adjectives in profusion, by the application of which he distinguished whatever he wished to mention. In speaking of any one, he would designate him by calling him after the shape or colour for which he was remarkable. If his hair was red, he called him 'red;' if above the usual height, he named him 'tall;' if he wanted his hat, he asked for his black ;' if his 'blue' or 'brown' was required, it was a coat of the colour that he called for. The same mode of mentioning plants was that which he made use of. As he was a good botanist, he was well acquainted with a vast number, but he could never call them by their names.

Among the great variety of cases cited by Mr Millingen, M.D., in his most entertaining work on The Curiosities of Medicine,' to which we are indebted for several of the cases to which we have alluded, he quotes from Salmuth an account of a man who could pronounce words, though he had forgotten how to write them; and of

another, who could only recollect the first syllable of the words he used. Some have confused substantives altogether, calling their watch a hat, and ordering up paper when they wanted coals; others have transposed the letters of the words which they intended to use. A musician, labouring under this partial loss of memory, was known to call his flute a tufle, thus employing every letter in the right word. Curious anagrams, it is stated, have been made in this way, and innumerable names for persons and things invented. An extraordinary case of periodic recollection had occurred in an old man, who had forgotten all the events of his former life, unless they were recalled to his memory by some occurrence; yet every night he regularly recollected some one particular circumstance of his early days. There are, indeed, very extraordinary cases of a sudden rush of recollections. A gentleman with whom we are acquainted, mentioned that at one time he was in imminent danger of being drowned, and that in the brief space of some moments all the events of his life were vividly recalled. There have been similar instances; indeed, were we to transcribe one-third of the remarkable cases of the caprice of memory, we should far exceed our limits. Some very wonderful details are given of those which have been known to occur in the somnambulist state. Dr Dyce of Aberdeen describes the case of a girl who was subject to such attacks. During these, she would converse with the bystanders, answering their questions. Once she went through the whole of the baptismal service of the Church of England. On awakening, she had no recollection of what had occurred in her state of somnambulism, but, on falling into it again, she would talk over all that had passed and been said while it continued. During one of these paroxysms, she was taken to church, where she appeared to attend to the service with great devotion. She was much affected by the sermon, and shed tears at one passage. When restored to the waking state, she had not the faintest recollection whatever of the circumstance; but, in the following paroxysm, her recollection of the whole matter was most accurate; her account of it was as vivid as possible. Not only did she describe everything, but she gave the subject of the sermon, repeating verbatim the passage at which she had wept. Thus she appeared endowed with two memories- one for the walking state, and the other for that mysterious sleep.

There are some very affecting cases of the partial loss of memory, from sudden misfortune and from untoward accidents. The day was fixed for the marriage of a young clergyman and one to whom he was most tenderly attached. Two days before the appointed time, he went out with a young friend, who was going to shoot. The gun went off accidentally. He instantly fell, and it was found that part of the charge had lodged in his forehead. For some days his life was despaired of; but at the end of that time he was pronounced out of danger. The happiness, however, which had hung on his existence was for ever gone. She who had watched by him night and day had a trial more bitter than his death: he was deranged; his memory retained nothing but the idea of his approaching marriage. Every recollection, every thought was absorbed in that one idea. His whole conversation related to the preparations. He never would speak on any other subject. It was always within two days of the happy time. Thus years and years went over. Youth passed, and still two days more would wed him to her who was fondly loved as ever. And thus he reached his eightieth year, and sunk into the grave.

It has sometimes happened that the recollection of a sudden calamity has been lost in the very shock which it has produced. A curate of St Sulpice, never weary of doing good, practised the most rigid self-denial, that he might have the means of serving others. He adopted an English orphan boy, who repaid his kindness with a fond affection, which increased every year-in short, they loved like a father and a son. The poor boy was an apt scholar, and his protector took special delight in teaching him. But his predominant taste was for music, for which he

At

evinced the enthusiasm that ever marks genius. His taste was cultivated, for many of those whom the curate instructed were the sons of artists, and were themselves well skilled in the delightful art, and he got them to give lessons to his protegé. He soon excelled upon the harp, and his voice, though not powerful, was capable of all those touching modulations which find their way to the heart. Accompanied by the chords, which he so well knew how to waken, more enchanting melody could scarcely be heard; and the poor curate found no more delightful relaxation than listening to his music; and the kind old man felt pride as well as delight in the progress of his son, as he always called the young musician. But peace and harmony were sadly interrupted. The attachment of the curate to the Archbishop of Arles was the cause of his being thrown into confinement with him in the convent of the Carmelites. His poor son pined to share the prison of one so much beloved-the one in whom all his feelings of affection and gratitude centred. length his entreaties succeeded, and the pupil and his preceptor were together again. But even this melancholy companionship was to be rent asunder. The convent was attacked. The particulars of the massacre of the 2d of September, 1792, are too well known to need repetition. Some sought concealment among the branches of the trees into which they had climbed; but pikes and bullets soon reached them. The archbishop, attended by thirty of the clergy, went with steady steps up to the altar in the chapel at the end of the garden. It was there that these martyrs were sacrificed, as it has been beautifully told by Mr Alison, with eyes raised to the image of their crucified Redeemer, and offering a prayer for their cruel assassins. Poor Capdeville, the good curate, it is said, recited at this awful moment the prayers of persons in the last agonies. The youth flew about the house in a state of bewildered distraction, seeking for his benefactor; at one moment bursting into an agony of tears, and then uttering the wildest lamentations; then, brushing away his tears, he would listen for some sound which might direct him to the spot where he might find his father. Some of the neighbours, who had been led by compassion to the melancholy scene, tried to induce the boy to escape, but he pursued his way wildly, till he found his benefactor. Nothing could persuade him to leave him. He appeared rivetted to the spot, and refused to quit his side. But soon after the murder of the archbishop, the death-blow was aimed at Capdeville. He cast a last look, full of compassion and tenderness, on the beloved boy, and expired. Even as he lay, with his head resting on the step of the altar, it seemed as if he still observed his favourite with looks of kindness. The poor child's mind was quite upset. He would not believe him dead. He insisted that he slept. He forgot the scene of carnage by which he was surrounded. He sat by the bleeding corpse for three hours, expecting every moment that he would awaken. He rushed for his harp, and, returning to his patron's side, he played those plaintive airs in which he had taken especial delight. At length, worn out by watching for the moment of his awaking, he fell into a profound sleep, and the compassionate people about him bore him away and laid him on a bed. The sleep, or, more properly speaking, the stupor, continued for forty-eight hours. It was thought that when consciousness returned he might be somewhat composed; but his senses were never restored. As his affliction met with great commiseration, and as he was perfectly harmless, he was allowed the free range of the house. He would remain, as it were, in abstracted thought, pacing silently along the apartments, till the clock struck three; then lie would bound away and fetch his harp, and, leaning against the fragments of the altar, he would play the tunes his preceptor had loved to hear. There was a touching expression of anxious hope in his countenance, but, when hours passed on, it was gradually succeeded by utter sadness. It was observed that at the hour of six he ceased to play, and slowly moving, he would say, 'Not yet, not yet; but he will soon speak to his child;' and then he would throw himself on his knees, and appear for a while

rapt in devotion, and, heaving a sigh as he rose, he would glide softly about, as if fearing to disturb his friend, whom he thought was sleeping; and then he would again fall into a state of abstraction till the next day. How it happened that there was such regularity in the time of his commencing and ceasing to play, has not been suggested. It may have been that the exact time of his last interview with his friend was impressed upon his mind, or it may have been, which seems to us most likely, that these were the hours in which the poor curate was in the habit of seeking the relaxation of music to soothe and elevate his spirit after the labours of the day. Every one pitied the poor demented boy, and could not see unmoved how he clung to affection and to hope, though bereft of reason and of recollection.

EARLY HISTORY OF THE JEWS IN ENGLAND. THE earliest authentic history and positive evidence of the settlement of any considerable number of Jews in England, is in the reign of William the Conqueror. This prince, we are told, ob numeratum precium, brought over a number of Jews from Rouen to London--a proceeding which has been recorded by an historian of these times as one of the grievances which the English sustained by the hard deal ings of the Conqueror-a somewhat unjust complaint, for it was not upon the old native inhabitants, but upon William's own followers, that the practices of the Jewish usurers were brought to bear; and, indeed, it was with this view that they obtained the protection of William. This prince seems to have observed that, through their assistance, he could bring much of the newly-acquired wealth of his followers into his own treasury. The Jews being permitted, by the practice of usury, to plunder the king's subjects, he, without incurring the same odium that would have resulted from the application of a more direct taxation, was able to recruit his treasury by simply relieving the Jews. In order, however, fully to understand this policy, we must also remember that the relations which had bound William to his followers in Normandy, had comparatively little strength in reference to the same parties when settled in Great Britain, and that the encouragement given by William to the settlement of the Jews formed part of the plan by which he intended that the feebleness of his authority should be met. Such is the history of the earliest establishment of the Jews in England. The character in which they are here represented is that of mere instruments of the Conqueror; and the field of our inquiry is too limited for the clothing of its scenes with any interest of national extent. The solemn interest which belongs to even the minor events in the early national history of the Jews, has not affected, with any distinctive influence, the history of the different settlements which they have, at different times, established throughout Europe. The very strength of that attachment to country, that amor patriæ which so distinguishes the Jews in reference to the scenes of their early national glory, deprives us of a most important source of interest, when we come to consider their history with distinct reference to any country of which they have made a mere temporary adoption.

The motive which led to the settlement of the Jews in England, explains the circumstance of their having, for some time after their settlement, not only enjoyed considerable liberty, but even obtained considerable encouragement, from the crown in their trading and lending transactions. In addition, however, to this, it is to be observed that, from the position of the conquered inhabitants, and from the character of the conquerors, all trading transactions were then necessarily carried on by foreign adventurers; and the position of the Jews, so completely expressed in the maxim of these times, 'Judæi et omnia sua sunt regis,' made them the fittest parties for the enjoyment of this privilege. During the reigns both of William and his successor Rufus, this encouragement was continued to the Jewish adventurers. There were then no wars or schemes of enterprise, demanding on the part of government the exercise of any of its extraordinary resources; and government

had no interest in discouraging transactions upon the profits of which the amount of its own revenue in a great measure depended. During the reign of Rufus, they seem even to have occupied the dangerous and influential posi tion of the king's favourites. This monarch, we are told, not contented with giving, as William had done, private encouragement to the Jews, did, upon many public occasions, particularly at the disputes which he encouraged between the dignitaries of the English church and the Jewish rabbis, bestow upon them marks of especial favour; and, as if he purposed not to be wicked by halves, the persons he pitched upon to farm the vacant bishoprics were for the most part Jews.'

The natural result of the position thus occupied by the Jews, was the excitement against them of a strong popular feeling. This feeling their own presumptuous conduct still further increased. So strong had it become in the reign of Henry I., that even the authority of that prince, so firmly held and wisely exercised, was scarcely able to restrain it from breaking out into open violence.

The following turbulent reign of Stephen begins the era of Jewish sufferings in England. The necessities of this king obliged him to have frequent recourse to the wealth of his Jewish subjects; and, so far from being in a position to defend them from the influence of the popular prejudice, the only method which lay open to him of gaining his own ends, was by falling in with the prejudices of the populace. In this we have one origin of many of those horrid charges of crucifying children, and similar crimes, which were then so frequently brought against the Jews. The author of the Anglia Judaica' well observes, in reference to such accusations brought against the Jews during this reign, that the reader of such charges will do well to suspend his judgment, until he comes hereafter to read how often the same crime is objected, and observes that the Jews are never said to have practised it, but at such time as the king was manifestly in great want of money.'

Undoubtedly, however, as already observed, the first cause of these dreadful charges was the popular feeling; and, viewing them as primarily proceeding from this source, we refer them either to the influence of religious prejudice, or to the influence of that irritation which the exactions of usury necessarily excite. Looking to the religious prejudice to which we have referred, we remark that it must be described as something more, in this instance, than the peculiar superstitious detestation with which nominal Christianity always regards those not of its own profession. Not only was the Christianity of these times, as exhibited in England, merely nominal, but its profession was accompanied, and not unfrequently directed, by the influence of a remarkable ignorance of the practice and ceremonies of the Jewish worship, and of the relation in which these stood to the spirit and form of the Christian faith. In most of the outbreaks of popular fury against the Jews, the clergy took a leading part. In the York massacre, to which we shall immediately refer, we read of a certain canon, who, thinking it not enough merely to give the encouragement of inactive acquiescence, or even of priestly benediction, to the destroyers of the Jews, personally accompanied them to the scene of the massacre, and, while they were in the heat of their butchery, stood by in his surplice, proclaiming in a loud voice, Destroy the enemies of Christ, destroy the enemies of Christ.' Looking now, on the other hand, to the prejudice against the Jews as resulting from the feelings caused by the exorbitant exactions of their usurious dealings, we notice that such feelings were to a certain extent encouraged by the sanction of the doctrines of the church. The canonical prohibitions against the taking of usury had, in these days of ecclesiastical authority, invested all who practised it with the utmost odium. Thus that very influence, which now placed, and so long kept, the commerce of money in the hands of the Jews, brought along with it many of their worst sufferings.

As another circumstance which exercised a most unhappy influence upon the condition of the Jews, we next notice the spirit of crusading enterprise which at this period gave to the persecuting exercise of the feeling of bigotry a new