248 Granville, though not found in every map, may be called the chief port on the coast of Normandy between Cherbourg and St Malo, and is the most suitable for the intercourse kept up with this part of the French coast by the Channel Islands. Parties proceeding from Southampton to Avranches, by way of Jersey, also come this way; and not a few of our fellow-passengers were of this latter class. Granville, which we reached after a pleasant and short voyage of only three hours and a-half, is partly situated on a bold headland, conspicuous with its lofty church-spire at a considerable distance in the bay. Latterly, it has been furnished at a great expense with a capacious harbour, sheltered by a long and substantial pier; but it contained only a few small vessels, not half enough, as we thought, to employ the corps of douaniers who obligingly wait upon travellers as they enter the port. In times past the town made some figure in history; but now it has retired from public life, and chiefly recommends itself by its excellent sea-bathing. The interior of the town, like that of all old walled cities, is gloomy and comfortless; and its hotels are among the worst in France. Were I disposed to make up a case of hardship, I daresay a good deal could be said respecting one with a high-sounding name at which we spent the night; but why speak of such trifles in a world wherein there is so much to please, when viewed as well as used in a right spirit? Our route from Granville conducted us by way of Coutances and St Lo, through one of the prettiest and most interesting parts of France; but almost every portion of Normandy is superior in appearance to the other provinces. In proceeding through it, we are impressed with the resemblance between the cottages and fields and what one sees in the south of England, while the bushy hedgerows and patches of plantation indicate a more than usual attention to rural beauty. This part of France, whence proceeded the host of adventurers who accompanied William of Normandy to England, is likewise remarkable for its number of cathedrals, the very flower of pointed architecture, and the objects of attraction to travellers during the last three centuries. A brief stay at Coutances afforded us an opportunity of gazing with admiration on the cathedral of that town, the most unique and beautiful in Normandy. Standing on an elevated ground, the elegant pointed towers of this superb monument may be seen at Jersey, a distance of thirty miles, and they indeed serve as a conspicuous landmark from Cape la Hogue to nearly St Malo. The edifice is fortunately entire, and, from the central tower and front to the chancel, abounds in the most elaborate and tasteful sculpture. At St Lo and Bayeaux we saw cathedrals of lesser dimensions, but also striking from their finely pointed architecture. Early in the afternoon we arrived at Caen, a town situated in the centre of an extensive plain, inclining to a valley, the whole land, for many miles around, recently shorn of its grain crops. Through the middle of this fertile stretch of country winds the river Orne, on the left bank of which, and at the distance of ten miles from the sea, Caen is agreeably placed. The situation is also in some respects advantageous for commerce; for to this point the Orne is navigable for small vessels, and its quays do not seem destitute of traffic. Caen is, on the whole, a well-built and handsome town. I am told that it is also cheap and agreeable as a place of residence, and on that account it has been selected by many English families, who are willing to forego the comforts of a native for a foreign home. The streets, generally spacious, and tolerably well paved, are lined with tall buildings, many of an ancient fashion; there are also some pleasant open squares, and elegant public buildings, and a fine choice of old and venerable churches. Chancing to spend a Sunday in the town, we had an opportunity of seeing it in its holiday dress; or filled with a concourse of country people in their picturesque costumes, performing the double duty of attending church and market. Spread 1308. The church of St Peter, though the finest in Caen, is less an object of attraction to strangers than that of St Etienne. This edifice, situated in the western part of the town, away from the hum of commerce, was built by William of Normandy in 1077, as a place of rest for his remains, and here his body was finally interred in front of the grand altar, and about the centre of the building. Originally, and for ages attached to a monastic institution, the Abbaye Aux Hommes, which has been transformed into a college for education, the church is now one of the ordinary places of worship in the town; and, on visiting it, we found its ancient aisles attended by a small congregation of persons apparently of a humble The architecture is of the rounded form of order. arch, and is distinguished for its imposing severity and plainness. Some portions are of a date more recent than the era of the Conqueror, and are of the pointed and more elegant form; but the impression generally conveyed is not particularly pleasing. With little to occupy us in the vast and gloomy expanse of the building, we looked with some degree of interest on the spot in the centre of the choir, where William's body was entombed (1087), and over which a monument of gold, silver, and precious stones, had been erected by his son Henry I. Local historians mention a remarkable circumstance connected with the place of interment. When the body was in the course of being lowered into the vault prepared for its reception, the ceremony was suddenly arrested by a person named Ascelin, who claimed the ground as the property of his family, and protested against its present use till paid for by the representatives of the deceased. Whether from the justice of the demand, or a wish to avoid a controversy at such an unpropitious moment, the claimant was pacified by a payment of sixty sous, and the ceremonial was finished in the usual form. This story has been investigated as a matter of antiquarian curiosity, and it appears, from the records of the abbey, that some ground actually was purchased from the Ascelins, though in what manner is not mentioned. William's tomb was opened in 1522 by three Italian prelates desirous of verifying its contents, and the body was found in such excellent preservation, that a portrait of the countenance was taken. Forty years later, in 1562, during the unhappy war of religious sects in France, the church of St Etienne, like most others, was ravaged by the reformers, who utterly destroyed the monument of the Conqueror, tore his remains in pieces, and scattered them about with insulting derision. After this gross outrage, the church remained in a half-demolished state till 1626, when it was restored as a place of worship by prior Jean de Baillehache. Having by his researches recovered a thigh-bone of the Conqueror, this pious ecclesiastic, in the year 1642, replaced it with religious honours in the tomb, over which he put the short inscription it now bears. Yet this last relic of William of Normandy was not doomed to decay in peace. During the revolutionary troubles of 1789-90, a mob again rifled the grave of the Conqueror, and for some years the church was degraded into the condition of a stable for republican cavalry. A period of tranquillity again restored the edifice to its proper character; but Normandy can now show no more than the empty tomb of its greatest hero. vellers from England to Paris, and is now frequented by numerous large steamboats sailing daily in connexion with London and Southampton. In one of the vessels for the latter port we were fortunate in making a tolerably pleasant voyage in about twelve hours, and once more were landed safely on the shores of Old England. We visited some other public structures of lesser interest in Caen, and enjoyed the pleasure of strolling in its beautiful environs, observing here and there groups LIFE IN THE WILDERNESS OF THE WEST. of neatly-dressed women occupied at their doors in EARLY in the spring of 1842, I was descending the making lace, an article which is produced to a consider-Trinity river, Eastern Texas, in company with several able extent in this simple domestic manner throughout brothers in arms, in a large and commodious eightthe greater part of Normandy. oared cutter. The low banks of the stream were clothed in delightful verdure; groves of cedar, sycamore, and other forest trees, lined it in places, while, at the height at which we now were, not a solitary habitation presented itself. We had been hunting beyond the settlements on the eastern bank, within the territories of the Shawnee Indians, then perfectly friendly and welldisposed. It was towards evening, and we were pulling with great energy to reach the hut of Edmund Bent, on the extremity of Mulberry Creek, where it falls into the Trinity, with the intention of taking up our quarters there for the night. We had as yet some distance to go; but eight oars well manned, and a stiff current in our favour, promised the speedy termination of our day's journey. Advancing eastwards from Caen, the country becomes still more varied in outline, and ornamented with woods, while it is apparent that the farming is also on a more than usually large scale. Proceeding leisurely from Caen by Pont L'Evêque, a small town prettily situated in the vale of the Touques, we did not reach Honfleur till the close of day, the sun only affording sufficient light to show that we were descending through a long and stately avenue of trees towards the margin of the Seine. It was too late to cross the estuary of this fine river, which is here about as wide as the Firth of Forth at Edinburgh, and we therefore took up our abode at a small inn in the town. Honfleur occupies a pleasing situation under the shelter of a woody hill, close upon the shore of the Seine, and enjoys a considerable trade, though under the embarrassment of a constant blocking up of mud from the confluent tides. Latterly, it has fallen off as a port, and its commerce has gradually been crossing the water to Havre, which is nearer the open sea, and much more readily entered by vessels. In a clean and handsome steamer we had the pleasure of being carried to Havre in the morning, in the space of little more than an hour. In approaching Havre, it becomes apparent that we are about to reach a scene of life and industry. The face of the hills overlooking the Seine is dotted over with villas and cottages, in the midst of gardens and pleasuregrounds. On the shore beneath, large accumulations of sand and shingle have added to the breadth of available soil, and at the extremity of this low-lying tract of ground is situated Le Havre, as it is now termed by the French, instead of its original name of Havre Le Grace. In spite of that pest of the French coast, drifting gravel and sand, which seems almost to have a malignant intention of blocking up every port from Brest to Dunkirk, Havre has increased from small beginnings in the sixteenth century, to be one of the principal sea-ports in France. At present, it possesses about 30,000 inhabitants; but many thousands live beyond the walls, in the town of Ingouville, a kind of suburb spreading up the hill behind. Havre owes no little of its importance to its being the port for Rouen, Paris, and other towns in this direction. Napoleon used to observe that Paris, Rouen, and Havre, formed only one town, of which the Seine was the street; and besides the river communication, the intercourse between these cities will be soon greatly augmented by a railway, which has already connected Paris with Rouen. Havre, by its various extensions, now possesses nine or ten basins of considerable extent, occupied with shipping of various kinds, and surrounded by well-built quays, the scene of mercantile bustle. Several streets are spacious, and possess shops of the best kind, showing a large array of fancy articles. In the street facing the outer quay or harbour, one is amused with the vast display of foreign birds of gay plumage, monkeys, marmosets, and other animals, exposed for sale in cages. One shop we noticed was filled entirely with parrots, macaws, and cockatoos, of I daresay every imaginable variety and power of speech, ready for the patronage of any fond fancier of the species. Equally large stores of brilliant coloured shells, and other articles, the produce of tropical countries, were laid out in a way quite dangerous for ladies smitten with the rage for chimney-piece and drawing-room ornaments. Havre has latterly become the principal port for tra Edmund Bent, the owner of the rude cottage in question, was a very favourable specimen of a Yankee settler in Texas. A little more than four years previous to the time of which I speak, he had landed at Galveston with a rifle, an axe, a few tools, and three hundred dollars in cash. In addition to these materials of success, he brought with him a brother, who, though younger than himself, was infinitely more valuable than all else besides. In a new country, physical force is almost everything. The old Kentuckian who crossed the Red River with seven sons, all grown men, was far richer than those who came to the young republic with their thousands of dollars. Edmund Bent's first act was to procure a boat. This he easily found in the shape of an old flat, in which were placed all his worldly treasures above-mentioned, and a small supply of flour, tobacco, seeds, and sweet potatoes, and an ample provision of powder and lead. This done, the brothers entered their craft, pushed off from Galveston Island, gained the mouth of the Trinity river, and commenced ascending it in search of a 'location.' The first hundred miles they journeyed on without other stoppage than was required to circumvent a proper amount of game, cook their meals, and pass the night. The hundred miles, however, passed, they began to look about them, entering every tributary, examining each likely location; for a long time, however, in vain. At length, after a weary month, they reached Mulberry Creek, falling into the Trinity from the west, and on the upper bank pitched their tent. To men inured from childhood to the duties of a border life, the erection of a log hut, the planting and sowing of an acre of prairie land, were matters of no great difficulty. Still, time is required to bring the simplest human devices to perfection, and six months elapsed ere the farm wore anything like a homely and comfortable appearance. At the end, however, of that time, a rude log hut, rather larger and more roomy than ordinary, a second crop of sweet potatoes, a field of maize, a number of swine, and a couple of cows bought and driven up by the younger brother, occupied the place so recently desolate and abandoned. Edmund Bent gazed upon all this with pride and satisfaction, examined every corner to seek for deficiencies, and finding none, shook his brother by the hand, shouldered his rifle, entered the old flat with all their available cash, and returned to Galveston. Here the settler wrote a letter, which he directed to Mr William Bent, Lexington, Kentucky, and having duly delivered it to the clerk of the steamboat plying between the United States and Texas, turned round and commenced laying out his dollars. 'The Indians!' cried Walcot, as with one accord the party ceased rowing. A brief council was held. We were three miles from Bentville, which it was manifest was on fire. The distant report of rifles proved the contest was not over. In another instant our arms were ready, the oars in use, and the boat gliding swiftly along the water. As the current took us three pulling six miles an hour, twenty minutes would bring us to the scene of action. Unfortunately, darkness was rapidly coming on; and Walcot stood up in the bows to give me directions how to steer, the river being filled with snags and sawyers. The scene was eminently, nay, fearfully picturesque. The now blazing house in the distance, the dull gray light, the boat gliding swiftly past under the friendly shade of the west bank, Walcot in the bow, I at the helm, and seven eager and manly oarsmen bending in unison with the strokesman, the whispered starboard a little-port-steady so-now you clear it-keep away' of the look-out, the rifles and musket reports each moment more distinct, the doubt, the uncertainty, the terrible nature of the enemy we had to deal with, all united to make that evening the most wildly-exciting of all my adventurous hours in the faroff west. Presently we slackened our efforts, shipped our oars, and prepared for action. At the distance of some five hundred yards lay the blazing house; in its rear, close to the river, intrenched behind a huge pile of fire-wood, were the emigrants, discovered only by the crack and flash of their rifles, as they poured volley after volley upon their invaders. The enemy-Indians of course-were posted behind an out-house, replying with guns and arrows to the quick discharges of the western rifle. They were, it appeared from the light cast by the blazing house, in considerable force. We hesitated not a moment; but, as soon as we were near enough, taking advantage of a moment when a general volley from those behind the wood-pile had rendered the Indians for a moment incautious, gave them the benefit of our nine rifles, adding, gratis, a sort of imitation warwhoop, got up extempore for the occasion. In two minutes more we were behind the wood-pile. To the very great satisfaction of the whole party, the emigrants, who welcomed us as criminals do a reprieve, were found whole in numbers, though all the men, and Mrs Bent, were wounded. We found, upon inquiry, that early that morning the attack had commenced, the enemy being Caddoes, Tawackanies, and other Indians; the same gang of outcasts from every tribe which had already caused such serious detriment to life and property amid the out-lying parts of the young republic. They had been discovered, stealthily approaching the house, by Mrs Bent, who had risen before dawn to seek milk for one of her children who was ailing, and, being fired upon, had retreated. A successful defence had, from that time, been made from the house, until by arrows, to which were attached blazing cotton, the house had been set on fire. A vain attempt at extinguishing the flames had been succeeded by a retreat to the wood-pile. They have burnt my all,' said Edmund Bent with a grim smile; but I care not. God has spared our lives. It is but to begin again.' His first act was to buy the land which he had already | ling, rose, where first a thin smoke had alone appeared. located; his next to sell his boat and purchase one larger and more commodious, which he loaded with every necessary required by a retired settlement. Edmund had brought down a small cargo of deer-hams and sweet potatoes, with which he bartered to great advantage at the sea-port of Galveston, where provisions are always dearer than elsewhere in Texas. This done, Edmund Bent, feeling that idleness was the parent of more vices than halfpence, borrowed a canoe, and each day of his residence at the new settlement roamed in and about the bay, now fishing, now fowling, and once upon a time or so taking to the land in search of deer, which were in those days far more plenty than at present. The time thus passed rapidly, and on the fiftyseventh day after the departure of Bent's letter to Kentucky, there arrived in Galveston harbour the United States schooner, Star of the Republic, with several parties of emigrants on board. Young Bent was on the schooner's deck ere another boat had left the shore, to welcome his father, mother, sister, and bride, who had come thus far to seek their fortunes in the wilderness of Texas, then the El Dorado for all the restless spirits which swarm in the great republic of the north. The very next day Edmund Bent and Mary Bryan were married, and on that following the whole party entered the boat, which contained their all, sailed merrily over the bay, and up to Liberty on the Trinity, where the trees having deadened the wind, the old and young Kentuckians took to their oars. The stream being strong against them, much time was consumed in reaching their destination. At length, however, Bentville, as in true American fashion the emigrants had designated their location, hove in sight; the solitary young guardian came forward to greet his relatives, and the whole family were once more gathered together in one spot, henceforth to be their home. From this day prosperity threw its mantle over the Bents; the men laboured hard, cut wood, fenced fields, drove home such cattle as were required, scoured the timber for game, went down to Galveston with hams, pork, eggs, poultry, Indian corn, and potatoes; and, in short, did all that was considered necessary for the insurance of future stability and independence. The women meantime made the family clothes, tended the poultry, and kept the house neat and clean. In a word, both males and females were models of backwood perseverance and propriety. When we passed on our way up, the log hut had given way to a neat frame house, out-offices had been erected, thirty head of cattle, and twice as many swine, owned their sway; while a couple of horses and a plough gave sign of a very flourishing state of things. Three children, one an infant, were by no means the least pleasing part of the picture. Our anxiety to reach the hut on Mulberry Creek has now, I hope, been satisfactorily explained. There was not a man of us but was eager to taste a specimen of Mrs Bent's cookery for supper; though, sooth to say, the company of the ladies-female society being a rare acquisition in Texas-had as much to do with our anxiety as anything else. Walcot, a young hunter, who had left Bentville to conduct us up the country, and who owned to a liking for the sister of Edmund Bent, was not the least eager at the oar. I have said our progress was rapid. Eight oars and a favourable current work wonders. I was at the helm, and consequently was the only person whose face was turned towards the desired spot. The rest, too much engaged at their somewhat fatiguing work, took no note of passing events. For some minutes after turning a bend in the river, and entering upon a long open reach-my eye had been engaged in scanning the appearance of the sky above the trees-I thought, though at first I felt doubtful as to the fact, that I caught sight of a column of smoke rising in the direction of Bentville. I imparted the cheer-made desolate. Other feelings, however, besides reing news to my friends, who were about to answer by a shout, when the distant crack of a rifle came upon our ears, and a column of vapour, black, dense, and appal The women and children were transferred to the boat, while all the males of the party prepared to renew the contest. The Indians, however, had retreated, and were heard of no more that night, which we all passed under the lee of the wood-pile, a guard being mounted, who kept strict watch. Before dawn, we were reinforced by eleven men from Doun river, whom the blaze from the house had attracted; and, after a hasty breakfast, Edmund Bent taking the command, we hurried in pursuit of Blackbird and his party, for such the intruders were. The trail of the Indians was plain and broad, as if they feared not the vengeance of those whose home they had venge, actuated the party. Blackbird, a half-breed, was a notorious robber, who, having been compelled to fly on account of some villany or other from Canada, had assembled in Texas a band of desperadoes from every Indian tribe, and for some time had rendered the frontier a scene of terror and alarm. The opportunity was favourable for crushing his power and depriving him of the means to do harm. About two hours before sunset, our scouts intimated that we were close upon the Indians, who, fortified in an island of timber, awaited our approach. In the attack which instantly followed, Blackbird defended his post with courage and skill. His force, larger than ours, was well posted; but the dogged valour of the backwoodsman, the superiority of the western rifle, and ample ammunition, were odds far greater than numbers, and a rude mound of earth is all that now chronicles the fate of the prairie roamer. Thrilling and exciting though the subject be, it was a scene of blood, over which a veil is best thrown. Edmund Bent and his enterprising family, nothing daunted by the disasters which had befallen them, were not to be driven from the home they had selected. Though their house had been burnt about their ears, logs were easily got, planks were cheap, labour abundant; and, when we left, the whole family remained behind, busily engaged in rearing over their heads another residence, determined that Bentville should not be erased from the map of Texas. I could not but admire their constancy and courage, and so much was I interested in them, that, a short time previous to my leaving the country, I took the steamer, and was, in a brief space, again amid the old familiar scenes. I obtained a hearty welcome-my opportune arrival some twelve months before being not forgotten-and remained two days with my friends. The house was rebuilt, the offices neat and clean, the fields in prime order; in fact, not a trace remained of the visit of Blackbird and his gang. The only changes my careful eyes could note were two new faces, another little Bent and a little Walcot. Such is life in the wilderness, with its many serious drawbacks: perseverance, however, finally overcomes everything. LIFE AND POETRY OF MR HAYNES BAYLY. THE songs of Mr Haynes Bayly have been the most popular of our times next to those of Moore. They are things generally slight in substance, yet invariably elegant and pleasing. Some are airy and cheerful beyond even Mr Moore's best ditties of the same kind; others express, in a manner which the public felt to be original, the pathos arising from some of the less happy relations which rest beneath the smiling exterior of refined society. From a memoir prefixed to an edition of Mr Haynes Bayly's lyrical works, published by his widow,* we learn that he was connected by birth with the aristocracy of England, and the sole heir of a gentleman of property near Bath, who had pursued the business of a solicitor in that city. By a fate rare with poets, he was nurtured in the lap of luxury; but it will be found that misfortune claimed her own at last, and that his latter years were spent under the pressure of difficulties which seem next to inseparable from literary avocations. He was an inattentive school-boy, preferring, even at seven years of age, the business of dramatising stories from his picture-books to that of mastering his tasks. He composed verses under the age at which Pope and Spenser attempted them. Educated at Winchester school, he was devoted by his father to the legal profession; but it was found impossible to confine him to such duties, and after a severe struggle with the paternal wishes, he was allowed to study for the church. This was a voluntarily-assumed pursuit, but it did not prove the less uncongenial when tried; and, finally, it seems to have been found by all parties that it was vain to prevent the subject of our memoir from giving himself entirely to that for which his faculties seemed primarily fitted elegant literature. *Songs, Ballads, and other Poems. By the late Thomas Haynes Bayly. Edited by his Widow. 2 vols. London; Bentley. 1844. While he was studying at Oxford, he formed a fond attachment to a fellow-student who fell into consumption and died. At an early stage of the youth's illness, his sister, who resided at Bath, ventured on the somewhat extraordinary step of corresponding with Mr Bayly, to ascertain her brother's real state; for the accounts which had hitherto reached the family were only calculated to excite alarm without giving satisfactory information. This increased the interest which our poet felt in his friend's condition, and he soon gave himself entirely up to the duty of watching beside his sickbed. He used to read to him for hours during the intervals of the slow fever which was consuming his life. He soothed him in the hour of pain and suffering, and at the last closed his eyes in peace. His whole conduct, and a monody in which he expressed his feelings on this occasion, make manifest the extreme kindness of nature which distinguished Mr Bayly. Afterwards, his acquaintance with the young lady was renewed at Bath, whither he returned immediately after the decease of her brother. He was overwhelmed with thanks for his attentions to the lost one by the bereft family, and invited constantly by the afflicted parents to fill the vacant seat at their table; in short, he soon became as one of themselves. The sorrowing sister poured forth her grief: the poet sympathised, and "pity is akin to love." It was certainly not surprising that an attachment begun under such circumstances should have strengthened daily; and when the lover declared his sentiments, it of course became necessary to inquire into the probability of his being able to raise a sufficient income to allow of their marrying with prudence. Mr Haynes Bayly was entirely dependent on his father, who was not then disposed to come forward for such a purpose. The young lady had nothing of her own, and her father, Colonel would not make any settlement on her. How were matters to be arranged? They were both too wise to think of living upon love, and, after mutual tears and sighs, they parted-never to meet again. The lady, though grieved, was not brokenhearted, and soon became the wife of another.' Mr Bayly fell into deep melancholy, to alleviate which he was induced to make a journey to Scotland. It was at this time, and with reference to his own feelings, that he wrote his well-known song, 'Oh, no! we never mention her;' also one less known, but perhaps more remarkable for the generosity of its sentiments :I never wish to meet thee more, though I am still thy friend ; I never wish to meet thee more, since dearer ties must end; With worldly smiles and worldly words, I could not pass thee by, Nor turn from thee unfeelingly with cold averted eye. I I could not bear to see thee 'midst the thoughtless and the gay; could not bear to view thee decked in fashion's bright array; And less could I endure to meet thee pensive and alone, When through the trees the evening breeze breathes forth its cheerless moan. For I have met thee 'midst the gay, and thought of none but thee; And I have seen the bright array, when it was worn for me; And it hath lost the soothing sound with which it used to flow. I never wish to meet thee more, yet think not I've been taught, No-blest with some beloved one, from care and sorrow free, A year spent in Scotland, and a subsequent gayer residence in Dublin, re-established the poet's spirits, and he now began to publish his songs. Returning in 1824 to his father's house of Mount Beacon, near Bathbeing now twenty-seven years of age-he formed a new attachment, equally peculiar in its circumstances, but more fortunate in the event. He was introduced by a friend at an evening party given by Mrs Hayes, whose soirées at Bath were frequented by the talented, the young, and the gay. Mrs Hayes had an only daughter, who, having heard with delight the ballad of "Isabel," expressed the greatest anxiety to see its author; the friend just alluded to being one of Miss Hayes's suitors, was requested by her mother to convey an invitation for her next party to the beau ideal of her daughter's fancy. The appointed evening arrived-the poet saw, and was fascinated with Miss Hayes-and, on conversing with Mrs Hayes, discovered that she and his own mother had been friends and school-fellows in their young days. This circumstance laid the foundation of an intimacy which ceased only with his life. His friend was then little aware that he was introducing to her, whose hand he himself was seeking, her future husband; for so it proved. 'He came, he saw, but did not conquer at once; for the young lady, though she could not but acknowledge that Mr Haynes Bayly was very charming and agree able, was nevertheless disappointed at not finding him exactly what her youthful imagination had portrayed. Seeing, therefore, that he was "épris" without her having any intention of captivating him, she persuaded her mother to shorten their stay at Bath, and take her to Paris. Mrs Hayes reluctantly complied, as she much wished her daughter to encourage Mr Haynes Bayly's suit; but when she found her daughter's mind was set on going abroad, she wisely allowed her to do so; for Miss Hayes, when absent from the poet, missed his witty and delightful conversation and his attentions, which were entirely devoted to her, so much, that her mother's wish was more forwarded by absence than it would have been had she remained in Bath. Mr Haynes Bayly was, however, not discouraged by her intended departure-as appears from the poem addressed to her, of which the following is a specimen :— Oh! think not, Helena, of leaving us yet; The grace of thy form, and the charm of thy smile. The toys of the French, if they hither are sent, Are endeared by the payment of custom-house duties. The rash exportation of pure British beauties? Say, is there not one (midst the many who sighed Your mansion with exquisite swains has been thronged, To the Tenth, sighed in vain for a tithe of your heart. And are you still happy? Could no one be found Whose vows full of feeling could teach you to feel? Should surely be now and then willing to heal. Then leave us not; shall a foreigner own The form we have worshipped as if 'twere divine? No, no, thou art worthy a Briton alone, And where is the Briton who would not be thine? The pair were made happy by wedlock at Cheltenham in 1826. The heir of a wealthy gentleman, and united to an elegant woman who had also considerable expectations, there seemed every reason to augur for Haynes Bayly a long course of happiness. They spent part of the honeymoon at Lord Ashtown's villa at Chessel, on the Southampton river; and here occurred a little incident which gave rise to the most popular of all the poet's songs. A large party was staying at Lord Ashtown's, and the day before it broke up, the ladies, on leaving the dining-table, mentioned their intention of taking a stroll through his beautiful grounds, and the gentlemen promised to follow them in ten minutes. Lured by Bacchus, they forgot their promise to the Graces, and Mr Haynes Bayly was the only one who thought fit to move; and he in about half an hour wandered forth in search of the ladies. They beheld him at a distance, but pretending annoyance at his not joining them sooner, they fled away in an opposite direction. The poet, wishing to carry on the joke, did not seek to overtake them; they observed this, and lingered, hoping to attract his attention. He saw this manœuvre, and determined to turn the tables upon them. He waved his hand carelessly, and pursued his ramble alone; then falling into a reverie, he entered a beautiful summer-house, known now by the name of Butterfly Bower, overlooking the water, and there seated himself. Here, inspired by a butterfly which had just flitted before him, he wrote the ballad, "I'd be a butterfly." He then returned to the house, and found the ladies assembled round the tea-table, when they smilingly told him they had enjoyed their walk in the shrubberies excessively, and that they needed no escort. He was now determined to go beyond them in praise of his solitary evening walk, and said that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life; that he had met a butterfly, with whom he had wandered in the regions of fancy, which had afforded him much more pleasure than he would have found in chasing them; and that he had put his thoughts in verse. The ladies immediately gave up all further contention with the wit, upon his promising to show them the lines he had just written. He then produced his tablets, and read the well-known ballad, I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, to the great delight of his fair auditors. 'It should perhaps be here remarked, that the poet foretold his own doom in this ballad; for it will be seen, by his early death, that his nerves were too finely strung to bear the unforeseen storms of severe disappointment which gathered round him in after-years. On the same evening he composed the air, to which Mrs Haynes Bayly put the accompaniments and symphonies, and it was sung the following evening to a very large party assembled at Lord Ashtown's, who encored it again and again.' For several years Mr Bayly lived in the enjoyment of the utmost domestic happiness. Possessed of fortune, brilliant talents, and manners universally pleasing, no lot could apparently have been better cast. Although not called to literary exertion by necessity, he wrote and published many beautiful lyrics, which generally attained great popularity: he composed a novel, The Aylmers, which met with success-and began to write for the stage. At length, in 1831, came the blight of misfortune. A bad speculation of his father's and his own in coal-mines, and the faithlessness of the agent upon his wife's property in Ireland, reduced him to comparative poverty. The fine nervous system of the amiable poet was ill calculated to bear up against such calamities: for a time, his spirits were so sunk, that he was totally unable to command his mind to literary composition. A short residence abroad served to restore him in some degree, and he resumed the pen with feelings which he has embodied in an Address to the Spirit of Song: I welcome thee back as the dove to the Ark: But I know that the worst of the storm must be past, I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song! I welcome thee back, and again I look forth Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate, But thou hast suffered for my sake, |