Notes On Literature, Science And Art.

ledge of the chronology and traditions of the district , he might make his poem the best , because the pleasantest , teacher of the history of Richmond and its picturesque and historical environs . Upwards of two thousand lines of verse , reminding one of

the longest poems of "The Great Magicieu of the North , " and some of the couplets not unworthy of him , might just as well teach correct history , especially as regards the founders of monasteries , as have to render notes necessary from the author ,

here and there , to say who were the real founders . I sincerely hope that Mr . Wade will remove this blemish from his otherwise valuable local poem , and then at once open a subscription list for its publication in a neatbut not too expensiveform . I take

, , the liberty of publishing an extract from the poem , not chosen as the best , but taken almost at random , that my readers may have , what Hamlet would call , a taste of the poet ' s quality . It is a digression on night , forming the nineteenth cantoof

, which there are fifty-five in all ; with many valuable prose notes , ivhich will keep a stranger well posted up in the history of Richmond and Swaledale , a district well worthy of a visit .

" Like rippling waves the Summer past , And Autumn golden waned at last . The gloom of dusky night spread o ' er The woodlands wide and purpling moor , And wrapt her sable mantle round . Slow are her dark hours ever found .

From guilt is shut the li ght it dreads ; Fierce anguish thro' the soul far spreads ; Misery deep draws her aching sigh , And oft she leaves no tearless eye ; But this the hour , peace rests her head , In dreams her pleasing fancy ' s lead . 'Tis night , when felons darkly prowl , And fiercer now the wild winds bowl :

Tempests sough more hoarse at night , And winds a drearier conflict fight ; The wild storm seems more cold and chill , AVhen driving sightless o ' er the hill ; The shepherd lone longs for the light , Strains through the storm his aching

sight , TVT Nor hopes his flock has wander'd far , But sought the shelter of some scar . At ni ght , a sharper pang is given , To souls who dread nor hell nor heaven : Such dread to think—by which they prove , That men are ruled by powers above .

Sure conscience goads the inner man , And lures him , rack'd , his deeds to scan ; Conscience , of justice the stronghold , That maketh cowards of the bold , How often unreclaim'd men go , From deeper to still deeper woe ,

Until at last , when past return , They cease to grieve , or fret or mourn . If hap repentance conies , they turn , And all their evil clays then spurn , So love return'd with fiercer fire will burn . The virtuous fearsbut deems not he

, Long here below can happy be ; Brig ht hope his fainting soul inspires , Aud heavenly zeal his courage fires . The storm-king , Conscience , bursts his chain , Rejoiced his liberty to gain ;

His onward path no pains annoy , Eternal rest his certain joy . Brig hter at night the lightning ' s flash , And mountain torrents wilder clash , Sweeping along their madden'd course , And louder Boreas bellows hoarse ;

At night , rain-storms impel the rill , Whose waterfalls white mists distil ; While wailing moans re-echo far , O ' er woody dell and rocky scar , Like death-cries from the distant war . The drifting snow , far o ' er the plain , Nig ht revels in his white domain ; The wanderer seeks for shelter warm ,

To hide him from the sweeping storm , And shivering looks into the sky , While tear-drops freeze upon his eye : Athirst and hungry sinks him down , Soft slumber conies his woes to drown ; But when the snow from earth is fled , They find him stark , and stiff , and dead . "

I have purposely avoided saying anything of the story , which binds together in one harmonious whole , what would otherwise be disjointed fragments . To me , however , the great charm of the poem is its truthful descriptions of nature , in ivhich Air . Wade is thoroughly at home , even to the barking of the fox in hunting its

prey- , . Those short-sighted persons who imagine that England will always be the workshop of the world , and that foreigners will always send their raw materials across the ocean to be manufactured here , and then taken back again , and sold cheaper than the natives could do the work for themselves , may some day be waking up to find that they have been in a dream . Perhaps they