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enactments so inaccurately laid down, and their language so contradictory and unintelligible, that it was found necessary to add statute after statute to explain, amend, enlarge, or confirm, as the case might be, those which had preceded them! Thus we went on blundering and wallowing in the mire we had created for ourselves, ad infinitum, which was long ago most properly defined as the peculiar number of fools. But the legislators of that long and grievous period have not only to be charged with all this folly, but with the heinous offence of having based their laws upon the principle of the bloody code of Draco. It was found necessary, (so said these lawmakers in many of their preambles,) as commerce increased, to visit the frequent offences of stealing in dwelling houses, and shops, and from the person, with DEATH! This barbarous law was acted upon for many years, with how much efficacy the Newgate Calendar, as well as those of other prisons in populous neighbourhoods, will shew. In fact it was proved at every Old Bailey sessions, and country assizes, that the severity of the punishment did not by any means diminish the number of cases.

During a part of this period, it happened that one Mary Jones, (a name certainly not unmusical to Cambrian ears,) was indicted under the Shoplifting act, for stealing, mark the words of the indictment, from a tradesman's counter, a piece of coarse linen, of very trifling value. She was found guilty, and executed; and the circumstances of her case present an appalling picture of cruelty, not to be exceeded in the annals of human tyranny. prosecution of this unfortunate woman took place at the time when press warrants were issued on account of the alarms then entertained about the Falkland Islands. The husband of Mary Jones was pressed, and one of his creditors immediately seized her slender stock of goods and chattels, selling her bed from under her, while she was turned into the street, with two infants, a forlorn widowed wife, and an outcast beggar. Her age was barely nineteen, and she was remarkably handsome. Notwithstanding that she was indicted for an actual theft, the evidence did not go further than to prove that she went into a linen-draper's shop, took some coarse linen off the counter, and endeavoured to slip it under her cloak; that the shopman saw her, when she replaced it on the counter; and for this she was hanged! gracious God! and dared her prosecutors to look for mercy at the hands of their Creator, having denied it to this poor Welsh girl ? In her defence she told the court—" I lived in comfort, and wanted for nothing, till a pressgang came and stole my husband from me; but since then I have had no bed to lie on, and nothing to give my children to eat, though they be starving, and almost naked. I know I have done wrong, but I did not know what I did at the time ; grief had crazed me." The parish-officers testified the truth of her story; but it was urged against her, that, as there had been a good deal of shop-lifting about Ludgate, another example of death was necessary, and the wretched Mary Jones was told she must be hanged for the satisfaction of a few tradesmen on Ludgate hill. But come we to the accursed conclusion. When brought up to receive the sentence of the court, she was in such a frantic state as proved her reason had vanished ; yet was she taken to Tyburn, and executed, or rather murdered, in a state of unconscious delirium, whilst her youngest infant was sucking at her breast, until rudely torn from that fountain which alone should have supplied nourishment for its helpless existence!

It was truly said afterwards by Sir William Meredith, in the House of Commons, that “take all the circumstances together, I do not believe a fouler murder was ever committed against law, than the murder of this

woman by law." However we thank God that we live in times, when an execution for such a crime would not be sanctioned by the authorities, or permitted by the people.

We had intended to have said a word or two upon the subject of the law in operation against forgery; but our space will not permit of our doing more, at present, than to promise to give our readers, in due time, a series of articles on the state of our civil and criminal code, which we intend to consider separately; and we hope we may be enabled to point out certain defects, and also to suggest such measures of amendment as may not prove unworthy the consideration of the legislature, or unacceptable to our friends. ]

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Three things there are, not known, they say,
With ease-a man, an oak, a day.



By a Hermit Poet.

Wales, though abandoned to the tourist by the modern poet, forms an attractive subject for a contemplative poem.

The contemplatist, in the following poem, is supposed to be an ambitious student, who has retired in disappointment from the race of literary emulation,-not from having been outstripped, he having never run, but in indignant disgust at the venality and sycophancy of both umpires and competitors; in plain terms, at the shameless conspiracy between critics and writers, between the book-seller liege lord, and his feudal vassal, the bookmaker, sworn-pen, hand, and soul, to the service of his master, in the cause of Mammon instead of fame!

Our wanderer of Wales having devoted his soul to literature, (not the bibliopolist,) having endured that sort of death to the world which perhaps is requisite to the zealot, or rather bigot, in that species of derotion, to prepare him by martyrdom for his crown, is represented as waking, too late, to the discovery that he has so died in vain! that renouncement of its aims,that estrangement from its ties, that unsocial solitude, that loneliness of long mental preparation, the sadness and the sickness of “hope deferred," all-all have been endured in vain — that for him there is no crown-or rather that it is become no longer a distinctive mark of the mind-royal, (even if one legitimate heir of fame survive) that its gold is tarnished, its gems stolen, mock ones substituted ; that it is ready for every head, and any head whose emptiness, a mock wreath of paper laurel, (fac-simile of the true evergreen of Apollo,) may encircle, and lastly that it is conferred by the idol, fashion, set up on the deserted pedestal of honorable fame.

Convinced that there no longer exists any arena in England for fair literary ambition, he is drawn as forswearing his life-long pursuit, and even all mental exercise, with a sort of horror. Fuit fama!

“sad historian” for the “pensive plain," has been drawn (from life or fancy matters not) to excuse some out-pourings that might seem too intense for the inspiration of mere scenery, but not for its effects on a mind, as it were, amalgamating itself with nature and solitude.

Such a



« Woe to the fame-smit mind Fame leaves afar,

Curs'd with “immortal longings,' heaves to die,
Astounding woe! as if a new-found star,
The midnight prize of Galileo's eye,
Should shoot down heaven, and vanish utterly.

Some of the following stanzas form a poetical preface to the Welsh Decameron, now in course of publication.

Woe, woe to him, his golden world to find
The mere mock-star of Autumn's vapoury sky;
Death, death to me, to see my world, this mind,
For ever die-die all—nor leave a wreck behind !'"


Thus spoke ambition blighted, in a form
That blight's long pain had withered more than years;
Like some lone sea-side tree which brine and storm
Bows like old age, and like an Autumn sears.
The speaker stood—and as the sea-wrath's tears
Before, behind, dead sands cut off that tree,
So did his fate, his mind, from its compeers,
Lonely remote 'mid boors and mountains he,
Behind life's utter waste,-before oblivion's sea.


Fame's martyr! yet for fame had never striven;
He loathed mock-triumph, he disdained a strife,
Where not to swift or strong the prize is given,
Where bays are bought, eternities so rife,
That those fierce yearnings for immortal life,
Which made a Milton mark a madman now;
Such fashion's fiat, with her feeble fife,
Mocking fame's clarion ; so he bound his brow
With night-shade, far preferred to her vile varnished bough.

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Back to his boyhood's dream, “heaven-kissing "* Wales,
He came—but burning with fame's baffled lust,
As hell's pale truantt Eden, walked its vales,-
So to some blue lake which he left when first
The sun above the misty mountains burst,
Fainting at noon, comes back a wounded deer;
But as he stoops to quench his dying thirst,
It grows all troubled with his blood and tear,
No more green pictured banks, no more blue depths appear.


But souls that rage “in populous city pent,'
Green quietness restores to sad serene,
So there he lingered, drearily content,
Shortly to be as if he ne'er had been
One added atom to the subterrene
Dust of the mortal desert-mental dust;
Yea, pleased into a soil so grand, so green,
Which charmed his best of life, and soothed its worst,
To melt,—and be a spring-bank for the first
Lamb there to sun its snow,

kneel softlier to be nurst.

• “Now lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.”—SHAKSPEARE. + “Thrice changed with pale ire, envy, and despair.”-Milton.


Thus early anchored, life's short voyage lost,
And mind dismantled, ev'n despair grew mild ;
And, as a far-bound ship by tempest's crost,
Drops its vast wings, and to some rock-cove wild
A little boat tows stilly—so beguiled,
A child's meek mind to peace, that tossing mind;
( Thy tongue-thy prattling innocence, my child !)
So found he peace, who port must never find,
And for that sweet “small voice" fame's trumpet-tongre resigned.


Yet as the clouds of broken thunder-storms
Come flying o'er the sun which broke them, still
A mighty shade moves as they move-deforms
The landscape-blots the blue-where flashed the rill,
Black forests seem to hang the distant hill;
So when his mind despair's old shadows swept,
Heaven shared the darkness, and all earth its chill!
By ruins, rocks, and cairns, he vigils kept,
There met the long-lost muse whose curse be wept,
In whose deep dream he youth's life's whole bright day o'erslept.


“ Behold your work,” he cried, “this mourning mind

You led to moonlit, left to moonless, wood;
Betrayed to pity-left to loathe mankind-
Betrothed to fame, and left with solitude;
Left o'er its living burial here to brood;
Oh, go-go, now; sick, savage, sad, life weary,
I need no flowers to strew this Lethe's sand,
You've turned my day to moonlight-made a fairy
Vision of all my world, dim, solitary-
Ah! where is thine? where fame's bright resurrectionary ?


The poet's mind “his kingdom” poets call;
Sad king, black kingdom, when fame leaves it lone,
Dumb as the death whose shadows stretch o'er all-
A spell-bound king on a benighted throne It
Ev'n she who bound the Muse-his dear soul's own;
No more to sweet sleep sings him like a bride,
But comes, as to th' enchanted prince, half stone,
With his black pedestal, the hag that tied,
With thoughts keen as her whips,-how he to life has died !

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“My mind to me a kingdom is.”Old Song. + Alluding to the tale of the Prince of the Black Isles, in the Arabian Nights, petrified to his throne of black marble by enchantment, and scourged by his queen, the sorceress who enchanted him.

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