LINES ON THE DECEASE OF LAMAN BLANCHARD. WORN out by toils that kept his brain at strife, Drove out all thought, and rush'd to what we mourn. Ye friends, who in his social joys had part,- And, whom in life ye cherish'd, love him yet! G. D. THE SONG OF THE WITCHES ROUND THE WALNUT-TREE OF BENEVENTUM. HAIL to thee, Weird walnut-tree! All hail to thee! all hail to thee! We are come, we are come, we are come from afar, By the glancing light of the shooting-star; Some from the south, and some from the north, To hold our sabbath 'neath the weird walnut-tree, Where we dance the roundels we love so well. The gentle witch of Capua, who comes of a gentle kind, Hath floated softly hither on the wings of the western wind; The gentle witch, whose witcheries the Capuan youth beguile, With her arching brows, and her cherry lips, and'her everchanging smile : But, though beauteous, and fair, and gentle she be, She must come and bend to the weird walnut-tree. And Medea is here from her Colchian home, A dragon she rides through the white sea-foam. Look at her eye with its cold blue glare; As lief rouse a lioness from her lair. But, though murd'ress and fratricide she may be, The wrinkled brow, and the eye so bright? * The celebrated and immemorial rendezvous of the witches. The winged serpent attached to it was long worshipped in those parts. His tottering limbs have been hither borne To come and bend to the weird walnut-tree. Beauteous, and blooming, and buoyant, and fair; In a nautilus-shell, so pearly and clear, She has sailed from her isle in the Grecian Sea, To join in our mystic roundels here, And bend to the wondrous walnut-tree. Hecate, hail! Hecate, hail! Far hast thou travell'd o'er hill and dale; And hail to thee, Hecate; hail to thee thrice! The Queen of Hades' realm is here, Bow to her, wizard, and witch, and seer! But, though the Queen of Hades she be, She must come and bend to the weird walnut-tree. She of the ruthless and red right-hand; A kraken has carried her o'er the sea, To come and bend to the weird walnut-tree. To hold our sabbath 'neath the weird walnut-tree. The king and the chief of trees is he ; For, though ragged, and gnarl'd, and wither'd, and bare, We bow the knee, and we offer the prayer To the weird walnut-tree on the mystic night, When we hold our sabbath 'neath the pale moonlight. Hail to Taburnus, that mount of power, And to Sabatus' stream in this witching hour! And hail to the serpent who twines round the tree, Who was brought from the land of ice and snow And who sucks the blood of one of our band, Whene'er 'neath the tree we take our stand. Hail to them each, and hail to them all! Ho! come with a whoop, and a shout, and a call! Let us bound and dance round the walnut-tree. For the witches who leap round the weird walnut-tree. C. H. L. HARROWGATE. BY HENRY CURLING, ESQ. WHAT Scenes of life have we not beheld at Harrowgate! what days of romance, and nights of revelry and excitement, have we not passed at the far-famed Dragon, even a quarter of a century back, when on that bare, Scotchified looking common, were assembled, in the huge stone-built halls, with their terraces and gardens, which constituted the hotels of the place, half the fashion and beauty of the kingdom; where the great sporting men of the day met; where mothers trotted out their daughters in all their charms, and country squires (who had mentally resolved to be unconnubial) learnt the trick of wiving; where fortunes were won by the turn-up of a card by old dowagers, whilst their "radiant and exquisite daughters" lost their hearts to some lord of sash and epaulette in the dance. The Dragon at Harrowgate (in those days) was unlike any other table d'hôte of the time; it was more like some nobleman's seat, where the élite of the world of fashion had been invited to spend the summer months. A constant succession of guests were continually arriving and departing; and there were personages whose names were familiar amongst the aristocracy of the land, and where, consequently, in place of the pinched and crabbed manners of the present day, were to be found hearty old English manners, sociality, good feeling, and jollity. But few perhaps of the present generation can recollect Harrowgate much before the period we are writing of, though, doubtless, there are some old stagers who can remember those choice and master spirits of the place who were wont to keep the table in a roar, when old Goodlad was host of the Green Dragon, during whose administration it was almost as impossible for a parvenu, or a party without four horses and liveried attendants to match, to gain a footing at the hotel, as at that time it would have been for himself to become member for a close borough. At the Dragon in those days there was generally some prima donna who led the ton, some queen-bee of the hive who ruled the roast (if we may so term it), a sort of lady-patroness of high rank; to offend whom would be to subject oneself to be cashiered by the gay assemblage. Her glance of approval or rejection would, indeed, be certain either to sanction the introduction of a new-comer into the crême de la crême of the circle, or keep them at so uncomfortable a distance, that they would be frozen into the necessity of seeking the warmer climates of either of the other houses on the neighbouring common. If we are writing our annals truly, and memory does not fail us, there were, in our time, four hotels at this celebrated watering-place, namely, The Dragon, The Granby, The Queen's Head, and The Crown. These houses bore the several nicknames of The House of Commons, The House of Lords, The Hospital, and the Manchester Warehouse. The Granby (which stood upon the heath towards the pleasant town of Knaresborough), and which, with its fine shrubberies and pleasant gardens, looked like some Yorkshire hall, was called The House of Lords. There the most staid and straight-laced, and the invalided portions of the aristocracy resorted. The Dragon, again, which stands in the Ripon Road, just at one end of the common, pleasantly situated, with its garden and terrace, amongst the verdant fields, was yclept The House of Commons. There the sporting gentry of the day, the great turf men, mixed up with a sprinkling of the aristocracy, and the old country families, together with parties from the north Highland lairds, and rollicking blades from the Emerald Isle, met together year after year, and kept up one continued revel during the season; the assemblage being, almost without exception, formed of people of condition, and character in the island. The Crown was called The Hospital, and was situated in what constituted the town of Low Harrowgate. In appearance it was not unlike a receptacle for the sick, and was erected close beside a well of the most fœtid and foul-smelling water. This house was usually the resort of the water-drinking portion of the visitors, folks whose Bardolphic visages had caused a trial of this nauseous puddle to be recommended by the faculty. The Queen's Head was a long, irregular built Scotch-looking mansion, standing also upon the edge of the common, almost opposite The Granby; and, sheltered by a few tall trees, looked the diamond of the desert. This again was denominated The Manchester Warehouse, and was mostly tenanted by the trading portion of the company; the great Manchester millocrat, the rich pinmaker from Birmingham, the wealthy cutler from Sheffield, the iron-founder from Black Barnsley, the clothier from Leeds, and the moneyed man from Glasgow, Dundee, and Paisley; folks who dared not, at that period, attempt admission either into the Dragon or Granby, and who were hardly sufficiently assured in their position to venture even amongst the jewels of the Crown. The Dragon was the house for those who came to seek for pleasure and amusement. Amongst the other diversions got up to beguile time, high play was constantly resorted to, and the card-room was usually filled with players at this period, with very little intermis sion during the twenty-four hours. There they sat-that infatuated and devoted clique-hour after hour in a recess to the right of the long room, which was called the "Tea-room.” Some dozen tables were filled with the oddest of all the oddities of the play-men of the turf, the most celebrated sporting characters of that day, and perhaps the most determined amongst the gentlemen gamblers in England. They were also surrounded and attended, during their orgies, by a whole fraternity of betters,-men who, with cat-like watch, hovered over and flitted from table to table computing the chances, and calculating the odds of the different games. So absorbed were some of the sporting part of the company in this vice, that we have known men pass a whole season in the card-room, with slight intermission, seated at those tables, morning, noon, and night. Whist constituted their world; and their utmost idea of happiness on this side the grave, consisted in four by honours and the odd trick. One or two of these devotees we remember, with parchment visage, and "lack-lustre eye," who would scarce give themselves time to eat, allowing but little for repose, and none for exercise. These persons would jump up at the sound of the dressing bell, make a hasty toilet, rush down stairs again, and even win or lose large sums in the short space of time before the bell again sounded for dinner. Whilst at table they would bolt their meals in a state of feverish excitement, consequent upon their gaming propensities, make sundry high bets over their port and claret; and then, again, when the tables were drawn, they would rush to the card-room, and, spending the watches of the night in play, refuse to move till the serving-maids of the establishment, coming down to set the apartments in order, forced them to their pillows. We remember a lady of rank, who, after a life spent at the cardtable, died with the pack in her band. As regularly as the season came round, she drove to the Dragon with her lovely daughters, desired the postilion, after setting down herself and imperials, to take the young ladies into a boarding-school; after which, returning the bow of the obsequious host, and shaking hands with the various parties she was acquainted with, she would walk straight into the card-room, cut in, and commence play. We also knew a devoted son of the clergy, one of the finest preachers of the day, who was wont to treat his congregation with a sermon during morning service, upon the enormity of gaming; after which, he would ascend his curricle, drive to the Dragon, and pass the entire remainder of the sabbath behind the closed blinds of the cardroom, absorbed body and soul in whist, or setting the fee-simple of his living upon a turn of the dice-box. We recollect a rich Indian nabob, who successively lost three fortunes at Harrowgate, Cheltenham, and Buxton. It was, however, highly amusing (at this period) to take an occasional glance at the countenances of these devotees, and watch the ebb and flow of their several fortunes. Lady, who, I have before said, died at the card-table, would at times have her lap filled with banknotes, which she had no leisure to count. This lady was wont to play frequently for a cool hundred a game, and at the same time bet with those near her table. Nay, we have heard, that on one occasion she continued playing two whole nights and days at piquet with a German noble, to whom she lost a large sum, when quitting the tables to join the company assembled at supper, after a ball, she nearly fainted from exhaustion and chagrin. Quietly, and with determined perseverance, would the devoted slaves of this absorbing vice continue their incessant cutting, dealing, shuffling, and playing. Hour after hour through the day were the sun's rays excluded from their pallid features, and hour after hour, during the night, they pursued the same employment. The orchestra brayed out its joyous strains unheard or unmarked-the merry dance was kept up in the Tea-room, beside which they played-the waltz was ended, the supper over-and still, diamonds, hearts, spades, and clubs, seemed to afford renewed interest every moment. Harrowgate, like many other watering places, has fallen away. It was in our nonage that we used to visit it in its palmy state; during the chequered light of maturer years we have lost sight of that and other places of amusement. But once, we returned to this place after a long interval, and it seemed that we met the ghosts of our departed joys. A new race had sprung up,-mirth and jollity seemed banished. The roar of mirth no longer was heard at the tables. The card-room was deserted, the billiard-rooms were empty; and although there seemed a decent sprinkling of guests at the hotels, compared with the choice and master spirits of former times, the assemblage was a quakers' meeting: they appeared" to have lost all mirth, and |