seizing the waiter by the throat, he swore with a horrible oath that he would that instant annihilate him if he did not discover the rascal who had instigated him to offer so gross an insult to an Englishman.

The trembling and terror-struck garçon was spared the trouble of answering by the two officers of the Garde Royale, who approaching the scene of action, declared that it was by their directions the waiter had acted. This, they said, was intended as a retort on the Messieurs Anglais, for the insolent and ill-mannered conduct of which they had been guilty.

"Nay, more," said Monsieur de St. Germain, one of the officers, who spoke very good English, "the waiter has not only provided you with drinking cups which never touch the lips of Frenchmen, but I swear by the majesty of Heaven you shall drink out of them also."

This decision was highly applauded by the rest of the company, and the officers drew their swords to enforce its execution. Poor Beau Tibbins became absolutely cadaverous, and stammered out something between threat and apology; but Muggins stamped and raved, and swore he would die a thousand deaths rather than submit to such a degradation.

"You cowardly poltroons," he exclaimed, in a fury, "put by your swords, and meet me on equal terms with pistols; curse me if I don't fight you both, one down another come on."

"Sir," replied one of the officers, with great sang-froid, "when we have first chastised the insolent insulters of our country, in the manner best suited to their gross conduct, we shall then be ready to meet you au champ clas."

"Provided they can prove themselves entitled as gentlemen to that honour," added St. Germain; "but in the meantime they must either drink or die."

"Then I'll die, by St. George !" exclaimed Muggins, folding his arms and doggedly awaiting the fatal thrust, which St. Germain seemed determined to give him; for he also was blinded by passion, and urged on by the encouraging cries of the company.

"Pink the sacre Jean Foutre !" exclaimed several voices; "let us see the colour of his ugly English blood." |

Blake had so far witnessed unmoved the whole of this singular proceeding, for he was disgusted with the unprovoked insolence of his countrymen, and had heartily joined in the laugh against them on the introduction of the new-fashioned drinking-cups. So far he thought the joke was a good one; but his native spirit and his national feeling revolted against the unreasonable cruelty of carrying it any farther; particularly against two unarmed men, one of whom had evinced a degree of bravery worthy of a better cause. He resolved, therefore, not to sit by tamely to witness the catastrophe that was evidently impending; and just as the Frenchmen

were proceeding to extremities, he sprang forward towards St. Germain, who was evidently bent on drawing blood, wrenched the sword out of his hand, and called aloud in French for honourable conduct and fair play.

This unexpected diversion, which was interposed with the rapidity of lightning, caused a great and general sensation. Muggins uttered a shout of joy which made the mirrored walls ring again, and swore a tremendous oath that Blake was the finest fellow in the world, and he would gladly die by his side; while Captain Tibbins, happily relieved from a dreadful state of tribulation, shook our hero by the hand and expressed his delight at seeing his old friend at such a critical moment.

"My dear fellow," cried the beau, who was almost shedding tears of joy at his unlooked-for delivery, "the nefarious, he-hulking coal-heavers were on the point of spitting us with their peculating small-swords. Muggins, this is my dear friend Captain Blake, of the Connaught Rangers."

"There is my hand, sir," said Muggins, "and my heart in it. John Bull and Paddy Bull against all the world in arms.'

Unfavourable symptoms now, however, began to manifest themselves amongst the French gentlemen present, and looks, of mischievous import were interchanged, amidst cries of "A bas les Anglais! A bas les foutres Anglais !"

"Gentlemen," said Blake," hear me for a moment. We are all three officers in the British service, and can never submit to the proposed indignity. But as this gentleman has insulted your country, I feel assured he is ready to give all proper satisfaction." "I'll fight them both, by the Lord Harry!" said Muggins, when the matter was explained to him by his interpreter.

This proposition seemed to cause a diversity of opinion amongst the company; some cried out, " Il a raison, laissez le faire;' but others, and by far the majority, continued to shout, "A bas les Anglais; A bas les foutres Anglais, sans phrase!"

"Gentlemen," said Bake, "I recommend you all to keep your seats; whoever presumes to interfere between these officers and us will do it at the hazard of his life."

This threat, however, did not produce the desired effect; for a general and hostile movement was about to take place, when St. Germain very properly requested that the arrangement of the business should be left to him alone; then borrowing his companion's sword he haughtily exclaimed,

"The first affair is national, if you will, but this is my quarrel; and I call upon the gentleman to defend himself who has so unwarrantably taken possession of my sword. I must acknowledge," he added with a sneer, "that he seems to hold it as if he really

knew what he had in his hand.”

"By the courtesy of nations," responded Blake, "as I am the July, 1846.-VOL. XLVI.—NO. CLXXXIII.

2 A

person challenged, I have a right to choose the weapon of my country; but as time presses, and the police may be upon us, I waive that right, and will meet you on your own terms.

"Bravo! Bravo!" cried several voices. "Il est bon enfant, ce garçon la!" St. Germain said nothing, but a smile of undoubting confidence mingled with a grim smile on his handsome features; while his brother officer, turning towards a group of the spectators, significantly shrugged his shoulders as he exclaimed, sotto voce, Pauvre Anglais! c'en est fait de lui!"

66

"I now beg to know," resumed our hero, "the conditions of the combat, whether au premier sang or à la mort."

"A la mort! foutre! à la mort!" cried St. Germain, with a grin truly sardonic.

"A la bonne heure!" exclaimed Blake, with the most perfect good humour; "St. George for merrie England ?" "St. Denis et la France!" shouted the opposite party.

(To be concluded in our next.)

CLASSIC HAUNTS AND RUINS.

66

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL, AUTHOR OF THE TRADUCED."

No. IX.

THE AMPHITHEATRES AT POLA AND VERONA.

GIANT! that didst bestride the ancient world!
Whose finger lifted, thrones to dust were hurled;
Whose proud majestic eye, o'er land and main,
Where'er it gazed, beheld thine iron reign;
From Alpine peaks to Libya's burning sand,
Trom Tiber's banks to Jordan's hallowed strand;
From Egypt's pyramids and mouldering tombs,
To where, 'mid Grecia's fanes, the olive blooms;
E'en to barbarian Briton's distant isle,
Where art and science had not shed their smile;
Still gleamed that eye, so fixed and fiercely bright,
While trembling nations cower'd beneath its light.
Yes, Rome! thou wert, in truth, of Titan birth,
Thy arms enclosed, thy footsteps shook the earth;
But where are now the proud colossal frame,
The glance of lightning, and the sword of flame?
Prostrate is laid the mighty; Time more strong
Than war, storm, earthquake, sparing nothing long;

The eye in death's dull socket burns no more,
Shivered the steel that awed the world of yore.
A mighty skeleton thou liest entombed,

All but thy dry and crumbling bones consumed.
Fame by thy grave her pompous watch may keep,
And cypress-shadowed Glory sit and weep;
But save those bones, we never more shall see
Aught that reminds us of thy power and thee.
What are they? Ruins, scattered far and wide,
Bones that the earth of ages fails to hide.
Each land thou didst subdue in other days,
Those dark mementos of thy strength displays;
Towers on the hill, and columns on the plain,
That storms assault, and lightnings strike in vain ;
Old theatres, gray aqueducts, and shrines,
Where builds the owl, and creeping ivy twines---
These are the bones thine ancient life that tell,
On which the gaze of centuries yet shall dwell;
These northern snows and southern suns survey,
These charm the pensive pilgrim on his way,
Wake in his breast a thrill half awe, half fear,
And for thy doom of darkness prompt a tear.

Where, like wild steeds that never knew the rein,
Sweeping with flying manes the desert plain,
Hadria's blue bounding waves, with sullen roar,
Race with the winds, and break on Istria's shore,
A relic of the Giant meets me now,

Crowning the rocky steep's unshelter'd brow.
Yes, Pola there her far-famed ruin rears,

Half veiled in mist, and gray with circling years,
Towering o'er Cæsar's temple, Sergius' tomb,
Proud in decay, magnificent in gloom.*
Deserted monument! when storms are high,
And o'er thy dark walls sounds the sea-bird's cry;
When lashed to foam the midnight billows rave,
And the pale moon just gleams along the wave,
Now turns the pilot tow'rds the rugged steep,
Where frowns thy form, the beacon of the deep!
And as the lightning's forky lines of blue,

High arch and mouldering wall reveal to view;

The great external cincture of the amphitheatre at Pola remains almost entire. Inferior in size to the coliseum, and the edifice at Verona, it scarcely yields to either in architectural magnificence. The building, which is of Istrian stone, consists of three stories; each story is pierced by seventy-two arches, rusticated, the pilasters being of the Tuscan order. Situated on a rocky declivity, and the western front reaching to an elevation of no less than 101 feet, it affords a grand and imposing spectacle from the sea. In addition to the amphitheatre, the ancient town of Pola boasts the remains of two temples originally dedicated to Augustus Cæsar and Diana, with the triumphal arch, or sepulchral monument of Sergius.

And thunders, pealing from the hovering cloud,
Echo through thy dim area long and loud;
Haply he deems, in superstition nursed,

The souls of ancients from their graves have burst,
Haunting those walls, or demons of the air,
On lightnings borne, have come to revel there.

Cross Hadria's gulf, sweet Venice on thy right,
Before thee Adigé soon rolls in light;
Still westward hold thy way, till Alps look down
On old Verona's walled and classic town.

Fair is the prospect-palace, tower and spire,
And blossom'd grove, the eye might well admire.
Heaven-piercing mountains, capped with endless snow,
Where winter reigns, and frowns on earth below;
Old castles crowning many a craggy steep,
From which in silver sounding torrents leap;
Southward the plain where summer builds her bowers,
And floats on downy gales the soul of flowers;
Where orange blossoms woo the honied bee,
And vines in festoons wave from tree to tree;
While like a streak of sky from Heaven let fall,
The deep blue river glittering winds through all;
The woods that whisper to the zephyr's kiss,
Where nymphs might taste again Arcadian bliss;
The sun-bright hills that bound the distant view,
And melt like dreams in skies of tenderest blue;
All charm the ravished sense, and dull is he
Whose heart bounds not to nature's witchery.
Here did the famed Catullus rove and dream,
And god-like Pliny drink of wisdom's stream ;*
Wronged by his friends, and exiled by his foes,
Amid these scenes did Dante breathe his woes,†
Raise demons up, call seraphs from the sky,
And frame the dazzling verse that ne'er shall die.
Here, too, hath fiction breathed her loveliest spell;
Visions of beauty float o'er crag and dell;
But chief we seem to hear, at evening hour,
The sigh of Juliet in her star-lit bower,

Follow her white form, gliding through the gloom,
And drop a tear above her mouldering tomb.‡

The Roman poet, Catullus, and Pliny the elder, were natives of Verona. +In 1302, Dante, proscribed by his enemies at Florence, and under sentence of banishment, commenced his wanderings. He repaired first to Verona, then under the rule of the La Scala family, and is said to have composed there a portion of his Purgatorio.

The tomb of Juliet is still shown at Verona to the credulous traveller; and though, perhaps, the small sepulchre never contained the dust either of a Montaigne or a Capulet, the admirer of Shakspere will half forgive the modern cicerone his harmless invention.