offence; at last the. husband breaks up the family connection, and breaks it up with circumstances sufficiently expressive of disgust: treaties are attempted, and they miscarry, as they might be expected to do, in the hands of persons strongly disaffected towards each other; and then, for the very first time, as Dr. Arnold has observed, a suit of cruelty is thought of; a libel is given in, black with criminating matter; recrimination comes from the other side; accusations rain heavy and thick on all sides, till all is involved in gloom, and the parties lose total sight of each other's real character, and of the truth of every one fact which is involved in the cause.

Out of this state of darkness and error it will not be easy for them to find their way. It were much to be wished that they could find it back again to domestic peace and happiness. Mr. Evans has received a complete vindication of his character. Standing upon that ground, I trust he will act prudently and generously; for generosity is prudence in such circumstances. He will do well, to remember, that the person he contends with is one over whom victory is painful; that she is one to whom he is bound by every tie that can fasten the heart of one human being to another; she is the partner of his bed!—the mother of his offspring! And, if mistakes have been committed, and grievous mistakes have been committed, most certainly, in this suit she is still that person whose mistakes he is bound to cover, not only from his own notice, but, as far as he can, from that of every other person in the world.

Mrs. Evans has likewise something to forget; mistakes have been made to her disadvantage too in this business: she, I say, has something to forget. And I hope she has not to learn that the dignity of a wife cannot be violated by submission to a husband.

It would be happy, indeed, if, by a mutual sacrifice of resentments, peace could possibly be reestablished. It requires, indeed, great efforts of generosity, great exertions of prudence, on their own part, and on the part of those who are connected with them. If this cannot be done, if the breach is too far widened ever to be closed, Mrs. Evans must find her way to relief; for, she must not continue upon her present footing, no, not for a moment: she must call in the intervention of prudent and respectable friends; and, if that is ineffectual, she must apply to the court, under the guidance of her counsel, or

other persons by whom the matrimonial law of this kingdom is understood.

But, in taking this review, I rather digress from my province in giving advice: my province is merely to give judgment; to pronounce upon what I take to be the result of the facts laid before me. Considering, then, all those facts, with the most conscientious care, and with the most conscientious application of my understanding to their result, I am of opinion that Mr. Evans is exculpated from the charge of unmanly and unlawful cruelty.

305.-BALLADS.

GENTLE HERDSMAN.

[THIS beautiful old ballad, being "A Dialogue between a Pilgrim and a Herdsman," is printed in Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry.' It has evidently suggested Goldsmith's ballad of Edwin and Angelina,' and three of the stanzas of the modern poem are paraphrased from the Gentle Herdsman.]

Gentle herdsman, tell to me,

Of courtesy I thee pray,

Unto the town of Walsingham

Which is the right and ready way?

"Unto the town of Walsingham
The way is hard for to be gone;

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And

very crooked are those paths
For you to find out all alone."

Were the miles doubled thrice,
And the way never so ill,

It were not enough for mine offence;
It is so grievous and so ill.

Thy years are young, thy face is fair,

Thy wits are weak, thy thoughts are green;

Time hath not given thee leave, as yet,

For to commit so great a sin."

Yes, herdsman, yes, so wouldst thou say, If thou knewest so much as I ;

My wits, and thoughts, and all the rest, Have well deserved for to die.

I am not what I seem to be,

My clothes and sex do differ far— I am a woman, woe is me!

Born to grief and irksome care.

For my beloved, and well beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill:
And though my tears will not avail,
Most dearly I bewail him still.

He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more sincere could be;
Of comely mien and shape he was,
And tenderly he loved me.

When thus I saw he loved me well,
I grew so proud his pain to see,
That I, who did not know myself,
Thought scorn of such a youth as he.
And grew so coy and nice to please,
As woman's looks are often so,
He might not kiss nor hand forsooth,
Unless I willed him so to do.

Thus being wearied with delays

To see I pitied not his grief,

He got him to a secret place,

And there he died without relief.

And for his sake these weeds I wear,
And sacrifice my tender age;
And every day I'll beg my bread,
To undergo this pilgrimage.

Thus every day I fast and pray,
And ever will do till I die;
And get me to some secret place,
For so did he, and so will I.

Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more,
But keep my secrets I thee pray;
Unto the town of Walsingham

Show me the right and ready way.

Now go thy ways, and God before!
For he must ever guide thee still :
Turn down that dale, the right hand path,
And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well!”

SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

THIS is the Scotch ballad which Coleridge, in his Dejection,' calls "The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence." This is also printed in Percy's Reliques."

The king sits in Dumferling toune,

Drinking the blude-reid wine:

O quhar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?

Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the king's richt kne :
Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor,
That sails upon the se.

The king has written a braid letter,
And sign'd it wi' his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he:
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.

O quha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me;

To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se?

Mak hast, mak hast, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne.
O say na sae, my master deir,

For I feir a deadlie storme,

Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moone
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
And I feir, I feir, my deir mastir,
That we will com to harme.

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heil'd schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer play'd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit
Wi' thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they see Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang, may the ladies stand,

Wi' thair gold kems in thair hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.

Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,
It 's fiftie fadom deep :

And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

[THIS ballad, which Leigh Hunt has truly said " must have suffused more eyes with tears of the first water than any other ballad that ever was written," is the production of Lady Anne Barnard, who died in 1825. In a letter to Sir Walter Scott this lady gives the following interesting and curious account of the circumstances under which she composed this most charming poem:

66 6

Robin Gray,' so called from its being the name of the old herd at Balcarras, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My