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308 of Brohl. At the edges of the road are observed several little pitfalls of the ant-lion, an ugly-looking little insect, who makes a funnel of sand, lies perdu at the bottom of it, and devours any unfortunate ant who has the ill-luck to miss his footing on the overhanging sward. This region appears to be rich in entomology. Among other beetles, one is very common, with red legs and green and gold body, who seems, from the frequency with which he shows himself, to be almost conscious of his beauty. The valley of Brohl appears to be a rift on a large scale, traversing consolidated volcanic débris and mud, of much the same nature as that out of which Pompeii has to be dug. This rift, down which winds a stream, is made irregular by being blocked at intervals by more solid rocks, and in general the forms of its cliffs and vine-bearing terraces are fantastic and theatrical, rather than positively beautiful. A rising watering-place, called Tönnistein, where a very palatable mineral water is to be drunk on the premises, is making this curious gorge one of the smaller resorts of fashion. It debouches on the Rhine at the village of Brohl, whence Andernach is soon reached by railway or by steam. 2em

, being engaged in Argyle’s rebellion against James II., was taken prisoner after a desperate resistance, and sentenced to be hanged. His daughter Grizzle having obtained information that the death-warrant was expected from London by the coach, dressed herself up in man’s clothes, and twice attacked and robbed between Belford and Berwick, the mails which conveyed the death-warrants. This gave time to Sir John Cochrane’s father, the Earl of Dundonald, to make interest with Father Peter, a Jesuit priest, and the King’s confessor, who, for the sum of five thousand pounds, agreed to intercede with his royal master in favour of Sir John Cochrane, and to obtain his pardon, which was granted. The great-granddaughter of this lady, Miss Stuart of Allan Bank, was the grandmother of the late eminent banker, Mr. Thomas Coutts, whose grandchild is the present Miss Burdett Coutts.

—It may not be generally known that Charlborough Park, near Wareham, Dorsetshire, the seat of Mr. J. S. W. Erle-Drax, is intimately associated with one of the most important events in the history of our country. In the grounds adjoining it is a small building, something above the dignity of a summer-house, with the following inscription: “Under this roof, in the year 1686, a set of patriotic gentlemen of this place concocted the plan of the Glorious Revolution with the immortal King William, to whom we owe our delivery from the tyrant race of the Stuarts, the restoration of our liberties, security of our property, establishment of our national prosperity, honour, and wealth. Englishmen! remember this era, and consider that your liberty, obtained by the virtues of your ancestors, must be maintained by yourselves.”

Moscow the baffled eagle came, And his eye was glazed with a film of shame; His wing was rigid with Arctic rime, And his plumes were strown ere the moulting-time; Yet loftily bears he his battered head, And even Victory shrinks with dread.

So there is muster in Breslau town To strike that Gallic eagle down; And the tocsin sounds, to arms! to arms! Oh, the rapture of such alarms! And Breslau’s youth are up to a man, Eager to stand in the battle’s van; And Breslau’s maids feed their emprize With smiles, and blushes, and tears, and sighs, And each from jewelled store supply The sinews of glorious mutiny.

One brings silver, another gold; Another an heir-loom of trinkets old; But amongst the maiden throng is one Who jewels of gold and silver has none; Dowerless maiden! so poor and fair! Richest of all in the golden hair!

Dowerless maiden! so poor and fair! She drooped with grief in her golden hair, As worthy never more to show A wealth that availed not against the foe; And then with the guilt of her poverty bold, She shore off her tresses of waving gold, That a gift she might give, if they were sold.

Her gift was the greatest, for never, I ween, At auction or mart was such bidding seen; For every youth in the town would wear Some slightest pittance of golden hair.

Of each the portion was costly and small, Nor were there ringlets enough for all; And one who was late was first to advance And open his breast to a Polish lance.

Valour abounded in that stern strife, But the last in battle to think of life, The first to charge, the last to fly, The foremost ever to do or die, The firmest to stand when full in view The shot tore horse and rider through, Were the men whose bosom or head did bear That cognisance of the golden hair.

They the men who cleanly smote To the saddle from the throat; They whose sabre-point did pass Through the trooper’s heart in his cuirass; Who gun from carriage to earth did fling Mid the battery’s thunderous bellowing; Always doing, and everywhere, All that heroes can do or dare.

Fraülein von Scheliha! Fraülein, Queen of the Free! ’Twas a matchless deed as ever we read, Or ever shall live to see.