me for forcing my way through the thickly interwoven branches of the hazel and the thorn, when I was fortunate enough to descry among their luxuriant foliage the promise of an augmentation to my string of eggs, but which when reached has proved to be the pillaged fragment of a former year. But wherefore linger round these childish scenes? Yonder shy urchin quitting the beaten path to let me pass, tells me that I am a stranger here, and have no fellowship in any of his sports. Farewell then, happy scenes of youth! I owe you much-there-take the tribute of my gratitude-a tear!

"The sea! the sea!" exclaimed the wearied but invincible ten thousand when they beheld the broad waters of the Euxine burst upon their ravished sight-such too was my exclamation, on turning an abrupt angle in my road, and seeing before me the bright surface of the Bristol Channel, and feeling once again my feet sinking in the soft sand of the shore. He that can gaze upon the ocean unmoved, cannot conceive my feelings, as I strolled along, repeating "for ever and anon," the couplet of a late noble bard

There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep sea; and silence in the roar.

No one save a poet could have felt such a sentiment- -no one save a poet could have so forcibly expressed it.

A short distance from me some peasants were engaged in gathering a large black weed, out of which the poor of this part of the coast make an article of food, called Laver Bread. They were too busy to notice me; and continuing my walk I soon lost sight of them. The sun had

already disappeared when I came in sight of the ruins of Ogmore Castle, in days of old, the princely residence of the brave De Londres. A broken arch, a mouldering wall, and "ivy mantled tower," are at present all that remain of one of the strongest fortresses ever erected to curb a restless people. The revenue officers have turned the only apartment at all tenantable into the most anti-chivalrous of purposes; and heedless of the Norman's fame, and the antiquarian's maledictions, have miserably mutilated a choice specimen of Saxon architecture.

The darkening shades of twilight prevented my surveying very minutely this relic of former times, and I continued my walk homeward. The tide being out, I crossed the Ewenny without any difficulty, with the exception of getting a wet foot by the turning of one of the stepping stones. A few minutes more brought me to the "Smuggler's Causeway.' A huge unhewn stone, overgrown with long coarse grass, dockleaves and nettles, pointed out the spot where one of those lawless roamers of the salt sea had found a grave unhonoured. No one ever passed, at least in former days, his rude unchiselled tombstone without dropping thereon a pin!-a custom, the origin of which I leave to the discovery of Messrs. Urban and Fosbroke. For myself, having been unable for the first time in my life, to pay the tribute, demanded by the strongest of all laws-superstition, I will endeavour to make some amends by relating, as well as my memory will serve, what I have often listened to with mingled feelings of delight and terror, the story of

THE SMUGGLER.

About half a mile from the ruins above alluded to, a small cottage, completely concealed by the surrounding barren hills from the observation of the passing traveller, was some years ago the dwelling of one of those adventurous beings, who in defiance of guard-ships and revenue officers, contrive to gain a livelihood by the importation of contraband commodities, principally brandy and hollands, for which articles they are never at a loss in any part of the country to find ready purchasers. Will Morgan was, however, in one of his nocturnal expeditions taken prisoner, and fell a victim to one of the most arbitrary, not to say cruel, laws which disgrace the Statute Book of Old England.— He left behind him a wife and daughter. The latter was by no means formed for the sentimental heroine of a romance:―rude and uncultivated as the scene around her, yet possessed of a greater degree of physical courage than generally goes to the formation of the female character, Janet Morgan was such as we might expect a smuggler's daughter to be, and fitted only for a smuggler's wife.

The execution of old Morgan did not deter his companions from continuing their illicit calling, and they were still permitted to make use of his cottage as a depôt for their forbidden cargo. This privilege was obtained mainly through the influence which one of them possessed over Janet-it was that of a lover. Dick Jones, the person in question, was a bold, reckless being, and had from the time he had been able to handle an oar, followed the dangerous life of a smuggler, concealed however, "beneath the honest disguise of a fisherman. There was not a creek or turning along this rocky and indented coast that he was not acquainted with, and he could have threaded blindfold the intricate and hazardous pathway which led from the beach to the cottage of his late companion, under whom he had been principally brought up, and instructed in all that was most essential for a smuggler to know; and hence, though the youngest among his associates, he was looked upon as a sort of leader, whose opinion and advice was to be adopted in preference to any others.

One dark October night, Jones and his companions, landing with a rich cargo of brandy, proceeded to stow it away in the cottage, in order to facilitate its removal at a more convenient season. The widow Morgan had retired to rest, though her daughter stayed to assist the smugglers in the work of concealment. This was not entirely accomplished until the night was on the wane, and Dick began to fear the dawn, as also the presence of more unwelcome visitors, and not indeed, as it appeared, without reason. "Come my lads," cried the young smuggler, "bear a hand, bear a hand; we must be off before day, or else the King's hawks may pounce upon us, and make us swing to the Starlingdown yard-arm.' "Curse the King's hawks, let them come!" was the reply, " and we'll clip their gallant wings for them-it's hard if we go before we have another cup and a song.' "Soho my boys, here goes then," cried a linsey-woolsey shirted veteran, and he immediately began the following

-

SONG.

Here's to the lads that plough the deep,
Where winds and waters roar,

Who spread the sail when others sleep,
And ply the midnight oar:

Brave souls that fear nor rock nor shoal,
And wind and tide despise,

Who drain the flask, and quaff the bowl,
Despite the King's Excise!

In vain they prowl from cliff to cliff,
And watch for evermore,

The gallant smuggler's bonny skiff
Comes safe and sound to shore.

For never did the broadest keel
That drew a watʼry line,

His dark and secret path reveal,

Across old Ocean's brine.

At the close of the second verse, a shrill whistle was heard without; the noisy vocalist broke off his song, and all was silent instantly; the cottage was deserted by its lawless tenants, who knowing the danger which threatened them, made a rapid retreat towards the beach. Notwithstanding the darkness of the night, or rather morning, they were discovered by the officers, who followed close upon their heels. Finding they were rapidly gaining upon him, young Jones turned round upon the foremost of his pursuers, and drawing a pistol from his belt, fired it with such fatal precision, that its victim fell.

The pause this movement necessarily occasioned on the part of the smuggler, though scarcely occupying a moment, was, however, sufficient to enable the other officers to gain a sensible advantage over him, and unluckily stumbling as he turned to continue his retreat, he was instantly captured. Resistance, he was well aware, would have served no purpose, and he therefore suffered himself to be pinioned without making the least opposition, congratulating himself upon the escape of his companions, and his having been before-hand in taking a full revenge for the doom which he knew awaited him.

In less than half an hour, the officers had lodged their prisoner in the guard room, already alluded to, in the ruins of Ogmore Castle; and, when day dawned, the bold smuggler found himself, instead of roaming in freedom over the salt seas, the sole inhabitant of a strongly barricaded apartment, with a pair of clumsy manacles upon his hands, and a still clumsier pair upon his feet.

In the meantime, the officers were occupied in the removal of their lifeless companion, and in securing the lately disembarked cargo, which had been securely lodged in the cottage. Janet was soon made ac

quainted with the situation of her unfortunate lover, and contrived to escape, despite the vigilance of her uninvited guests. In a few minutes, she was at the grated window of the smuggler's prison, where her lamentations bespoke the woman. "Jenny-Jenny," said the imprisoned Jones, "it's no use making a noise about the thing.-Curse the King's hawks! I must go, girl, and swing to a gibbet on Starlingdown, to keep thy old father company, unless thou help me to cut my cable, and cheat these cursed knaves." Janet expressed her willing

ness to do any thing for him within her power. "Go, then,” continued he, "get me a pistol, and if thou art quick about it, thou mayest save me from the gallows yet, girl: go, quick!-quick!"

Janet returned to the cottage, and soon possessed herself of what she wanted; but on leaving it the second time, she was observed by one of the officers, who followed her towards the old castle, near which, as they approached, he perceived her intention, and called aloud upon her to stop, which, as might be expected, produced a contrary effect. Janet quickened her pace, and called, in her turn, to her lover, who, perceiving the officer, put his hands to the bars of the window, to receive the pistol which was held up to his view, and exclaimed "Quick, Jenny-quick! and curse the King's hawks, but they shall lose the best half of their prize." He seized the weapon of destruction as well as his fetters would let him, while the bearer of it turned towards her fast-advancing pursuer, expecting at every step to see him fall. The loud report which instantly followed, without any such effect being produced, caused her to alter her opinion, for she had heard much of the sure aim of the smuggler Jones. The thought of self-murder now rushed across her mind; she sprung to the grating, and beheld the bleeding corse of her lover stretched at full length upon his prison floor.

What became of Janet Morgan I have now forgotten, if, indeed, I ever knew. As for Jones, my reader is already aware that he was buried on the cross-way. A huge shapeless stone now marks the spot, and claims from the passenger the tribute of a pin; or in default of payment, he may expect a visit from the smuggler's ghost, if there is any faith to be placed in the solemn assertions of the venerable matrons of the surrounding neighbourhood.

THE SWEETS OF SOLITUDE.

THERE is a grace in the fall of a willow,
In the rise of a lily's green stem;
There are charms on the breast of a billow;
There's a spell in the eye of a gem.

There are winds, making music in Heaven,
And woods that sing to them on earth;

There is love in the sighings of Even,
And gladness at Morn's golden birth.

And whate'er, whether beauty or bliss,
Of the world to come after, is known,
May be seen and partaken in this,

If a man will but seek it alone.

But Pleasure, though liberal she be

In enriching the lonely one's heart,
Grows chary when crowds all can see
The delight she to each may impart.

Who knows not how narrow the joys

Are, of sense, and how boundless, of soul?

Step aside from the world's jarring noise,

And you've Heav'n and its harps at controul.

HAL.

SHELLEY'S EPIPSYCHIDION.

GOOD poetry is a plant not of every day's growth-it is a blossom more rare than the aloe-flower. So great and manifold are the advantages of soil and culture which are required for bringing it to perfection, and so much more numerous still are the untoward circumstances which tend to keep it in obscurity, that to discover and exhibit any specimen of such a rarity, is to advance a more than ordinary claim to the admiration of the world.

It is reported that the "Posthumous Poems" of Shelley have been assiduously bought up by his father, Sir John. Some say, the object of this proceeding was to escape the painful thoughts that would be awakened by any severity of criticism towards a departed son; others, that it was to stifle all remembrance of one whom there was more wish to forget than to forgive; while others, who view the measure less favourably, seem inclined to think it dictated by the same implacable resentment that drove the unhappy poet, in his lifetime, out of the hallowing circle of family affection-out of the protecting arms of a father. Whatever may be the fact, it appears far from improbable, that not only with respect to the Posthumous volume, but in regard to every other production of the same pen, every effort will be made to keep the name of Shelley for ever buried under the odium which the prejudiced and the bigoted have thrown upon it. No doubt there must be men, and of the soundest principles, both political and religious, who, notwithstanding their own dissent from this wonderful author's more wondrous theories, do still indignantly reprobate the spirit with which those theories have been assailed, and their projector or supporter condemned as a wilful sinner, when the utmost that can justly be charged against him, is the perseverance with which he followed an ignis fatuus as the true light, and endeavoured to engage others in the pursuit of a phantom by which he himself was to the last misled. But, unhappily, it is also beyond doubt, that there are persons who are possessed by no such charitable sentiment; and since it appears from the report above cited, that the purpose of these hyperorthodox politicians and theologists, is to destroy, with all possible expedition, whatever good opinion Shelley's writings have raised for him in the minds of his countrymen, to whom, surely, as a poet, at least, he ought ever to be dear, we-who aim at preserving ourselves unshackled by any intolerant prejudices, and who, whatever we think of a poet's Utopian hallucinations, can freely give ourselves up to the guidance of his fine fancy, and even of his feelings, when under the restraint of virtue-have great anxiety to preserve from the devastations of our modern Goths, as much of this exquisite writer's poetry as we can meet with, and to let the readers of THE LITERARY MAGNET judge for themselves how truly ought England to be proud of him.

"The Epipsychidion,"* the poem, which more immediately claims our attention, whose learned name the ladies will please to pronounce as

*

Epipsychidion: : verses addressed to the noble and unfortunate Lady Emelia V-, now imprisoned in the Convent of