The Pherodactylus even The end of the world is coming; So the Ichthyosaur went walking In the roar and the rush of the flood.. The drinking songs are alive with the reckless joviality of the true toper, hilarious, jolly, ringing with the loud laughter of license. A very good specimen is WINE OF SIXTY-FIVE. In a tavern, in cool, pleasant weather,- Philologist, spoke out his mind: Spirit-sparkling, soft-rythmic we mix; Like Ionian drink-songs in minor, When sung by Homerical bricks." The second, a dried-up old fellow, Who the law of the Romans professed, "Proficiat," said he, "it is mellow, What we sip is not far from the best. Who sees not when Bacchus's donum In this glass gleams like gold i' the sun, That the Justum, æquum, et bonum, In this Roman are blended in one." The third one, while trimming the tapers, Said modestly next, "Do ye see I'm no poet, and none of the papers Get writing from fellows like me. But I tell you, my heart rattles quicker When such wine as I've got here I swills; It's an out-and-out beautiful liquor, God bless them Palatinate hills!" Meanwhile, with a spear on his shoulder, By the bridge went a fourth man along ; And waving his weapon, the holder Sang out to the night-wind his song. "Ye gentlemen, hear what I'm singing: The public need sleep-do you mind? Eleven o'clock has done ringing; You must all go to bed, or be fined!" Herr von Rodenstein, who pawned three villages to supply liquor for the orgies of himself and his thirsty boon-companions, and finally bequeathed his drought to the students of Heidelberg, is a Falstaffian prototype of the deep drinker. We have the authority of the Athenæum to pronounce the translations of Mr. Leland clever, and fairly correct ones. Some miscellaneous poems terminate this entertaining and jolly little work, among them is one appropriately entitled THE JOLLY BROTHER. BY COUNT ALBERT VON SCHLIPPENBACH. A farthing and a sixpence, And the sixpence went for wine. My boots are torn, d'ye see; The birds are singing free. In bidding a cheerful farewell to "Gaudeamus," we would especially commend to the reader the poem of "Hesiod," full of music in thought and expression. The translator's vale "To the Reader " is very amusing and witty. Mr. Sawyer, who lately issued a little volume with the somewhat fanciful title of "Ten Miles from Town," now publishes "The Legend of Phyllis." A reviewer in the Morning Post gives an analysis of it, which, with some other remarks, we transcribe : Demaphöon, the son of Theseus, tossed rudely by the wind and wave on board of the Minotaur, finds safety on A long tongue of the barren Thracian coast, Sterile with tamarisk growth and arid grass. Lycurgus's daughter, Phyllis, wel- Wondrous was the place But with the approach of winter the Swift of flight The ship sped, curving to the breeze, which bears Demaphöon and his comrades to Athens. Ere leaving he promises to return. Time passes, and the lover comes not; wearily by the foam-marked margin of the sea Phyllis paces expectant, watching the white sails of all ships, hopeful of Demaphöon. At length he comes, but the Queen is dead and metamorphosed into a tree. Such are the old Grecian myths, and reading them, we breathe an atmosphere purely poetic. Throwing his arms passionately About its girth Demaphoon clasped and kissed the silver rind, And as he knelt thus, lo! a miracle! There is considerable polish' and epigrammatic neatness in some of Mr. Sawyer's poems. One entitled "Angelica" concludes thus : Spare her, Immortals, spare Till all our days are doneYour heaven is full of angel forms, Mine holds but one. The "Rose Song" is graceful and lively, and has an echo of Herrick in it : Roses round me flying, I to snatch them trying,— Of that morbid melancholy which blurs the face of so many a modern Muse with almost purposeless tears, Mr. Sawyer is happily innocent. His song is of summer days, apple blossoms, maidenhood, with its tender fancies and desire for love; of youth Clad in suit of iris hues, Hawk on wrist, with bells and jesses, Eyes of liquid browns or blues. He moves the heart to emotions of the mildest possible form,-he takes no pleasure in harrowing the feelings with tales of dire distress, and ordinary every-day tragedy he would seem to have little sympathy with. There is a certain effeminancy, too, in his thought and feeling, but he has lyrical faculty of a true stamp, graceful expression, and a cultivated sense of musical sound. Mr. Sawyer's little volume will find many warm admirers among readers of poetic lite Collingwood's fame as a naturalist and botanist naturally prepares his readers for descriptive passages of truth and beauty. A sagacious observer of nature, and gifted with an easy, fascinating style, he treats his lofty theme with power, grace, and dignity. The subject of the poem is divided into eight books, and the blank verse is unaffected, fluent, neither deficient in ornament nor strength. An earnest-hearted, sincere man, Dr. Collingwood can now add poetic laurels to the trophies which he has won by scientific travel, and patient, careful study of zoological and botanical facts. APRIL RAIN. THE bright, the beautiful April rain Each drop seems a pearl from the bracelets bright The angel of love, Who dwells above, And breathes on the world the spring-breath of delight. Oh! it comes, it comes, in eloquent showers; Joy-kisses were pressing upon the green leaves! Oh! it comes, it comes, the beautiful rain, To the winds and the flowers who are friends again, Kissing proudly away The last tears that lay, To dim their sweet looks of unspeakable joy! Oh! it comes, and it melts like its sister, the snow, What all happy hearts feel, All that's bright, bless'd, and beautiful, comes from above? ST. JAMES'S. ST. JAMES'S, the metropolis of the English Court, has little of antiquity to recommend it to our respect. The old palace, with its patched-up gatehouse, and a glimpse of Holbein's ceiling through the chapel window on the right, are the principal olden features; au reste, the palace is of all periods; though the ancient hospital, which the edifice replaces, was of the Norman times; remains of stone mullions, labels, and other masonry, found in 1838, on taking down some parts of the Chapel Royal, show the hospital to have been of the Norman period. Little more than a century and a half ago, the parish of St. James's was described as "all the houses and grounds comprehended in a place heretofore called St. James's Fields, and the confines thereof," and it was not until the reign of Queen Anne that it acquired the distinction of the Court quarter. St. James's may, indeed, be said to bear about the same relation to the other portion of the West End as the City does to the metropolis. The best view of western London is that to be obtained from the gallery of the summit of the York Column, from which, it will be remembered, was sketched the large engraving published with the Illustrated London News in 1842; from this point may be seen to advantage the magnificence of Regent Street, and the skill of the architect, Nash, in the junction of the lines by the Quadrant; though, before the removal of the colonnade the effect was much finer than at present. The Park and the Palace appear to be of contemporaneous date. Henry VIII. gave Chattisham, and other estates in the county of Suffolk, in exchange for the site of the hospital and grounds; and he pro ceeded to demolish the greater part of the old fabric and construct the present palace, which Stow calls 66 a goodly manor," it having formed part of the manor of Hyde, the property of the abbot and monastery of St. Peter at Westminster. At the same time Henry enclosed the fields in the immediate neighbourhood, which now form St. James's Park, with the apparent intention of converting it into a royal chase; within which the parks were to be appropriated as nurseries for the deer. In a proclamation, dated July, 1546, he declares, " Forasmuch as the King's Most Royal Majesty is much desirous to have the game of hare, partridge, pheasant, and heron, preserved in and about his manor of his Palace of Westminster, for his own disport and pleasure;" and with a conveniently large latitude of definition as to what he considered the neighbourhood of his palace, he proceeds to mark out the boundaries of his royal preserve, as being "from his Palace of Westminster to St. Giles in the Fields, and from thence to Islington, to Our Lady of the Oak, to Highgate, to Hornsey Park, to Hampstead Heath, and from thence to his said Palace of Westminster, to be preserved and kept for his own disport and pleasure and recreation; his Highness therefore straitly chargeth and commandeth all and singular his subjects, of what estate, degree, or condition soever they may be, that they nor any of them do presume or attempt to hunt or hawk, or in any means to take or kill any of the said game within the precincts aforesaid, as they tender his favour, and will eschew the imprisonment of their bodies, and further punishment at his Majesty's will and pleasure." Thus would have been formed a belt of royal hunting-ground. But Henry did not long survive: the plan broke down, and the City corporation continued to hunt the hare at the head of the Conduit, where Conduit Street now stands, and kill the fox at the end of St. Giles's. A century later we have record of this rural and sporting character. Mr. Fox told Mr. Rodgers that Dr. Sydenham, the celebrated physician, was sitting at his window, looking on Pall Mall, with his pipe in his mouth, and a silver tankard before him, when a fellow made a snatch at the tankard, and made off with it. Nor was he overtaken, said Fox, before he got among the bushes in Bond Street, where they lost him. Then Pennant tells us that the late Carew Mildmay, Esq., used to say that he remembered killing a woodcock on the site of Conduit Street, at that time an open country. Mr. Coke, in 1833, told Haydon, the painter, that he remembered a fox being killed in Cavendish Square; and that where Berkeley Square now stands was an excellent place for snipes. Of Henry's palace but little remains, except the entrance gateway; the ornamental carving over the small external door in the right tower contains the initials "H. R.," still visible. But the whole of the gateway has undergone change, and so also has the entire front of the palace towards Marlborough House, by the introduction of ranges of windows, instead of some half-dozen pigeon-holes, from which the fair ladies of the Court were permitted to peep forth at the fields and pastures with which the palace was originally surrounded. Hollar's view of the palace, in 1650, shows the gateway and portion eastward; the latter was destroyed by fire on January 20th, 1809, and has not been entirely rebuilt. Holbein is said to have furnished the original plan of the palace; but this is doubtful. "Only a part," says Brayley, in 1829, "of Henry's building now remains, and that in a purer style of architecture than any of the other designs of Holbein. In the filling in of the spandrels of some of the arches the Florentine (or rather, Flemish) manner is conspicuous, particularly in the chimney-piece of the presence-chamber, the ornamental compartments of which contain Tudor badges, and the initials 'H. A.' united by a knot, and surrounded by a crown: from this latter circumstance we may infer that the palace was originally built for the reception of the unfortunate Anne Boleyn." Here also are sculptured the lily of France, the portcullis of Westminster, and the rose of Lancaster. The lofty brick gate-house in Hollar's view has not a clock; but the front of the courtyard, with the meeting of Mary de Medecis and her daughter Henrietta Maria, in 1638, shows a dial, which must have belonged to a previous clock. The gate-house bears upon its roof the bell of the great clock dated A.D. 1731, and inscribed with the name of Clay, the clockmaker to George II. It strikes the hours and quarters upon three bells, requires to be wound every day, and originally had only one hand. This clock was under the care of the Vulliamys, the royal clockmakers, from 1743. An amusing anecdote is related of this clock, in "Curiosities of London," p. 571, by the author, who received it orally from the late Mr. Vulliamy, of Pall Mall:-" When the gate-house was repaired in 1831, the clock was removed, and not put up again, on account of the roof being reported by the surveyor as unsafe to carry the weight. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood then memorialised King William IV. for the replacement of the timekeeper: the King having ascertained its weight, shrewdly inquired how, if the palace-roof was not strong enough to carry the clock, it was |