THE CLAYTON COLUMN. THIS patriotic memorial of British valour has lately been erected by General Browne Clayton, on the rock of Carrick-a-Daggon, county of Wexford, Ireland. It is a fac- | simile of Pompey's Pillar, but not monolithic, (i. e. one stone): it is of granite, from the county of Carlow, and has a staircase in the shaft. Its dimensions are-height of base, 10 ft. 4 in.; shaft and base, 73 ft. 6 in.; capital, 10 ft. 4 in.; total height, 94 ft. 4 in.; diameter of shaft at the base, 8 ft. 11 in.; and at the top, 7 ft. 8 in. As it is placed a considerable height above the sea, it forms a conspicuous land-mark for mariners. The architect is

Mr. Cobden.

This column is intended to commemorate the conquest of Egypt, and the events of the campaign under the command of Sir Ralph Abercromby, K.B., in the year 1801, when General Browne Clayton (then Lieutenant Colonel) commanded the 12th Light Dragoons, and afterwards commanded the cavalry in pursuit of the enemy to Grand Cairo; taking, besides other detachments, a convoy in the Lybian desert, composed of 600 French cavalry, infantry, and artillery, commanded by Colonel Cavalier; together with Buonaparte's celebrated Dromedary corps, one fourpounder, and one stand of colours, and capturing 300 horses and dromedaries, and 550 camels.

The events of this campaign are further to be commemorated, by the appointment of trustees under the will of General Browne Clayton, who shall annually at sunrise on the morning of the 21st of March, (when the French, under the command of General Menou, attacked the British encampment before Alexandria,) raise the standard on the column and hoist the tri-colour French flag, which shall remain until the hour of ten o'clock, when the British flag shall be hoisted and kept up till sunset, as a memorial of the defeat of the French; which event formed the prelude of Britannia's triumphs, through a regular and unbroken series of glory and prosperity, down to the battle of Waterloo, in 1815. And on the 28th of March, annually, the British flag shall be hoisted half-standard high, as a memorial of the death of the brave commander-inchief, Sir Ralph Abercromby, who died of the wounds which he received before Alexandria, on March 21, 1801. The first commemoration took place in March last, General Clayton superintending the interesting ceremony.*

COALS IN AFGHANISTAN.

THE lamented Sir Alexander Burnes, during his first visit to this country, discovered coal in the district of Cohat, under Peshawur, and explained its utility, much to the astonishment of the people. It occurs on the surface of one of the hills, and in great abundance. The specimens procured were of a greyish hue, intermixed with much sulphur. It burns well, but leaves much refuse. It has more the appearance of slate than coal; but as the specimens were taken from the surface, they were not to be viewed as a fair criterion of the mine. The coal is bituminous, and ignites at the candle. The villagers now use it as fuel. This discovery of a coalmine at the head of the Indus, may prove of the utmost importance in these times, since the navigation of that river is open to Attok; and the mineral is found about thirty miles distant from that place, with a level road intervening, close to a large city where labour is cheap, It is a singular circumstance, that deposits of coal should have been discovered, both at the mouth and head of the Indus, (in Cutch and Cohat,) within these few years, For the loan of the prefixed engraving, acknowledgment is due to the Proprietor of the Civil Engineer and Architect's

Journal.

THE POETRY OF BIRDS. "Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them."-Matthew vi. 26.

Of all the lovely and loveable objects wherewith God has seen fit to adorn and beautify creation, there are, perhaps, none, if we except flowers, so eminently calcu lated to fill the mind with pleasing thoughts, and to call up agreeable reflections, as are BIRDS,-those free winged wanderers of upper air; those haunters of the emerald meads in spring; those skimmers of the glassy pool or stream, that ripples in the golden light of summer's fervid beam; those-to use the words of JAMES MONTGOMERY: "Free tenants of land, air, and ocean, Their forms all symmetry, their motions grace; In plumage delicate and beautiful, Thick without burthen, close as fishes' scales, Or loose as full-blown poppies on the gale; With wings that seem as they'd a soul within them,

They bear their owners with such sweet enchantment." From the mighty Eagle, that soars far above the summits of the snow-crowned Andes, and darts on his shrieking prey with a rush like that of an avalanche; to the little Wren that perks hither and thither amid the twisted sprays of the ivy and hawthorn in search of berries; or the still smaller Humming-Bird gleaming like a winged gem in the sunshine, and inserting his forked tongue into the nectaries of the flowers, whose bright hues are outshone by his dazzling plumage;-all are admirably adapted to the situations they are intended to occupy in the scale of creation: all speak of the wisdom and goodness of Him by whom "the very hairs of our head are numbered," and without whose knowledge" not a Sparrow falls to the ground." Our thoughts are involuntarily lifted up 10 Him, while observing the conformation and habits of the feathered tribes; their periodical comings and goings; their nice care in the choice of situation and material for their nests, and the surprising skill evinced in the construction thereof; the tender and unwearying diligence with which they watch over their helpless offspring; the sagacity they manifest in procuring them with food, and in concealing them from the eye of the destroyer. We exclaim with THOMSON :

"What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say,

That in a powerful language, felt, not heard,
Instructs the fowls of heaven, and through their breasts
Those arts of love diffuses? What but God?
Inspiring God, who, boundless Spirit all,
And unremitting energy, pervades,

Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole." The words of the Prophet Jeremiah also recur to memory: "Yea, the Stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed time; and the Turtle and the Crane and the Swallow observe the time of their coming;" and we are constrained to confess the omnipotence and omnipresence of the Great Ruler of the Universe. How delightful is it to go abroad into the fields and the woodlands, and hearken to the feathered choristers, chanting their hymns of praise and thankfulness: the gloomy thoughts and cares which oppress us amid the crowded habitations of men, there vanish, like mists dispersed by the sunbeams; the heart becomes lightened of its heavy load, and we are ready to break forth into songs of gladness, and try if our voices will not harmonise with those of the happy Birds. An old English writer, but little known, has given a very beautiful description of the sweet jargoning-as COLE

RIDGE calls it-with which one's ears are greeted when we wander forth to enjoy the vernal season:"As wooed by May's delights I have borne To take the kind air of a wistful morn, Near Tavy's voiceful stream, (to whom I owe More strains than from my pipe can ever flow,) Here have I heard a sweet bird never lin (cease) To chide the river for his clamorous din ; There seemed another in his song to tell That what the fair stream said he liked well; And going farther heard another, too, All varying still in what the others do; A little thence a fourth, with little pain, Conned all their lessons and then sang again; So numberless the songsters are that sing In the sweet groves of the too careless spring, That I no sooner could the hearing lose Of one of them, but straight another rose, And perching deftly on a quaking spray, Nigh tired himself to make his hearers stay." KIRBY, the Naturalist, observes: "Of all the endowments of Birds, none is more striking, and ministers more to the pleasure and delight of man, than the varied song "When the time of singing birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land,' who can be dead to the goodness which has provided for all such an unbought orchestra, tuning the soul not only to joy but to mutual good-will; reviving all the best and kindliest feelings of our nature, and calming, at least for a time, those that harmonise less with the scene before us." It should have been mentioned that the preceding poetical quotation was from the pen of WILLIAM BROWNE, author of Britannia's Pastorals; the following, which we think still more beautiful, may be found in Thomas à Becket, a Dramatic Chronicle by George Darley :

"O gentle breeze, what lyrist of the air

Tunes her soft chord with visionary hand
To make thy voice so dulcet? O ye boughs
Whispering with numerous lips your kisses close,
How sweet ye mingle secret words and sighs!
Doth not this nook grow warmer with the hum
Of fervent bees, blythe murmurers at their toil,-
Minstrels most bland? Here the calm cushat, perch'd
Within his pendulous arbour, plaintive wooes
With restless love-call his ne'er-distant mate;
While changeful choirs do flit from tree to tree,
All various in their notes, yet chiming all
Involuntary, like the songs of cherubim.
O how by accident, apt as art, drops in
Each tone, to make the whole harmonical,

And when need were, thousands of wandering sounds
Though aimless, would with exquisite error sure
Fill up the diapason!-Pleasant din!

"

So fine, that even the cricket can be heard Soft fluttering through the grass.' The realization of this picture is now before us: we feel ourselves sinking into a dreamy state of half-consciousness; we are floating away upon a sea of melody, with dulcet sounds in our ears, devotional thoughts in our hearts, and on our lips, the words of quaint old IZAAK WALTON:-"Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth!"

LEIGH HUNT, in one of his delightful essays, speaks thus: "If our bed-room is to be perfect, it should face the east, to rouse us pleasantly with the morning sun; and in case we should be tempted, notwithstanding, to lie too long in so sweet a nest, there should be a happy family of birds at the windows to shower the springing heart with songs."

"The man that hath no music in himself,

And is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils :"

says SHAKSPEARE; and such an one must be he who could listen unmoved to the singing of birds; if the better feelings of our nature be not dead within him, and if his heart be not utterly steeled to all gentle influences and impressions, he will feel a gladness-a careless hilarity— come over him, like a sense of renovated youth; or, if his breast be more attuned to sorrow, that sorrow will be softened, its poignancy will be taken away, and a pleasing, though melancholy feeling,-that which Ossian calls "the joy of grief," will be substituted; and, though his eyes be filled with tears, and his bosom heave with sighs, it is but like the subsiding of the ocean-waves after a tempest, into a state of serenity; for the sweet melody will seem like the voices of angels, whispering words of comfort and consolation to his troubled spirit. MILTON, in his description of the Garden of Eden, tells us that there the tuneful "birds their choir apply;" and we find in most pictures drawn of a place of eternal rest,-those glimpses vale of mortality delight to behold, though but in fancy— of a far-off land, that we poor journeyers through this that the feathered warblers are supposed to contribute to the beauty and harmony which reign there for ever, dimmed by no shadow, marred by no discordant note! The COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, lamenting her brother, SIR PHILIP SYDNEY, whom she believes to be in Elysium,

says:

"There thousand birds, all of celestial brood,
To him do sweetly carol day and night;
And with strange notes, of him well understood,
Lull him asleep in angel-like delight."

Nor can there be a stronger proof of the pleasant-nay,
ecstatic and holy-feelings connected with the melody of
birds, than this universal application of it to increase the
joys of the blessed.
(To be continued.)

The Armourer of Paris.

A ROMANCE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.

CHAP. X.-How Isabelle and D'Armagnac met the King at Bourdichon's house during the revolt. UPON recognising the voice of Perinet above the confusion of the revolt, Dame Bourdichon was not slow in opening the door; for the increasing uproar, the clang of arms, the sounds of the alarm-bells, the glare of the conflagrations, and her own unaided situation, had all conspired to paralyse her usual energies. As she drew back the panel, the armourer entered, pale from loss of blood, which was flowing from a cut on the forehead, received by chance as he threaded the streets, staggering beneath the weight of Isabelle, who accompanied him, half carried, half dragged, after him.

"You are safe here, madame, at least," he exclaimed in breathless accents, as they crossed the threshold, to the trembling Queen. "The Hotel St. Paul is crumbling beneath the flames, and, at present, we can find no other refuge."

"But they will return," replied the Queen, looking anxiously round as she parted her long dark tresses from her forehead. "They will find me here, and I shall become their victim."

"Rest assured," continued the armourer," that you are in safety. They are falling by hundreds, or flying before our troops."

"What a fearful night!" exclaimed Isabelle, placing her hand before her eyes, as if to shut out the bright red light that streamed into the room. "Leave me not here alone, Perinet, I implore you."

"You have nought to fear, madame," answered the

armourer. "Your own party know of your retreat, and will come here to join you. But for me-I can stay here no longer; a solemn vow binds me, and I must depart." "And D'Armagnac ?-" cried the Queen.

"It is the Constable, madam, that I am seeking; we have an old account to settle," replied Perinet, with bitterness. Then, passing through the panel, he left the apartment, leaving Isabelle with Dame Bourdichon and the King, who still remained unconscious of the passing events, crouched beneath his mantle, in the corner of the spacious chimney.

As Perinet departed, the fright of the dame returned, and she would have called him back, had not Isabelle requested her to be silent; reminding her, at the same time, that her cries would direct others towards the house, whose presence would not be so desirable. Her caution even extended to putting out the lamp, lest it should be seen from the street, and trusting only to the fitful gleams of the burning Hotel St. Paul for light.

"Is this shop the only apartment in the house that looks into the street?" asked the Queen.

"There is my chamber above it, madame," was the reply of the dame.

"Take your station, then, at the window," said Isabelle; "and if you see any troops pass, crying the pass-word of Burgundy, call them in immediately. We shall then be surrounded by our friends."

The woman left the shop, to ascend to her own apartment, leaving Isabelle in perfect darkness, broken only, as we have observed, by occasional flashes of light from the conflagration. The tumult of the combat had died away; the street no longer resounded with the cries of the soldiery," and the din of weapons; but an impressive and awful stillness supervened, occasionally interrupted by a distant murmur, which, again dying away, served only to render the silence more fearful. Unconscious of her husband's presence, the Queen retired to the embayment of the window, and gathering her rich mantle, now torn and soiled, closely round her, appeared lost in her own reflections. In her present position, the calm that now reigned was more harassing than the excitement of the tumult; and yet, in this quietude, every eye in the large city was awake, and every ear was vigilant for catching the least sound.

She had been plunged in this reverie for about a quarter of an hour, when an approaching confusion once more recalled her to a sense of her dangerous position. Shouts and cries of alarm, with the clamour as of an irritated multitude, rose from the street. Now the riot approachedit was immediately under the window; and the torches borne by the crowd lighted up the shop as they passed. They pressed on, and the light became less vivid, and the noise more distant; it was evident from their speed that they were pursuing some object of importance.

Suddenly, the Queen heard footsteps in the passage. It was evident they arose from a single individual, who moved with difficulty. Then the panel was opened, and some one entered the apartment, breathing hard and audibly, as if with pain. The stranger approached the spot where the Queen rested, and feeling about in the obscurity, placed his hand upon her very chair, when Isabelle rose hurriedly.

"There is some one here," cried the intruder, as the Queen started up. "Who art thou? Answer."

But Isabelle spoke not. She recognised the voice of the Constable, and fear had deprived her of utterance." "Answer me," continued D'Armagnac, for it was he, seizing her arm. "You shall not leave until you have replied. You are not the woman I left here, for she was old and wrinkled; but you are young; your flesh is soft,

D'Armagnac," faltered the Queen, now that she saw all concealment was useless, you have discovered my retreat, but I am not yet your prisoner."

"Neither am I in your power," returned the Constable. We are alone-we are each expecting aid and succour. To whomsoever it arrives first will be the victory." "L'Isle Adam! Graville!" cried the queen, anxiously. "Where are ye ?"

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They forget you, Isabelle," returned D'Armagnac, with bitterness. They have but their own safety to care for, and you are but a cipher in their stratagems." They are coming!" exclaimed Isabelle, joyously, as a noise was heard in the street, amidst which the war-cry of Burgundy was plainly to be distinguished. "Let them hasten, then," replied the Constable, as another cry of D'Armagnac sounded from the outside of the building. They must be speedy, or they will not be here first. Listen, Isabelle! do you not hear my name pronounced ?"

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"Tis a vain hope," returned the queen, after an instant of attention. "Your partisans are already silent. AgainVive Bourgogne! 'tis the only name they will cry tonight."

"The King, who had to this moment remained in the same fixed attitude at the hearth, lifted up his head at the Queen's mention of the name of Burgundy, and assumed an attitude of attention.

"To-morrow," cried the Constable," there will be but one cry in the city-it will be 'Vive D'Armagnac!'" He had scarcely spoken when the King sprung from his seat, and rushed towards them, exclaiming

"And who will cry, 'Vive la France ?" The Queen and the Constable started with surprise and terror at the unexpected apparition of the unfortunate monarch, for they immediately recognised him.

"Ay, France" continued Charles, speaking with an emphasis which he had long since lost. "Is there not, in this unhappy kingdom, but one old man, helpless and insane, who thinks of her? Always 'Armagnac' or 'Burgundy,' and nothing for our fair France, although her best blood is flowing like water to feed their enmity." "Merciful powers!" cried the Queen, half bewildered, "how came he here ?"

"They have spilt this blood in their quarrels," continued the King, wildly, "whilst I alone must render an account to God for it,-1, who carry neither the white nor red cross upon my shoulders. Armagnac! I demanded aid and protection for my people-I placed my kingdom in your hands to do this: how have you accomplished it?" Let her reply, sire," answered the Constable with emphasis; let her reply who gave up your kingdom to a stranger.

"And yet she swore to defend it!" exclaimed the King. There was something in the manner of the unhappy Charles, that awed both parties. It was long since he had spoken with the force and semblance of reason, and the Queen shrank before his reproaches.

"I could not defend it, sire," she replied. "Was I not driven from France by the Constable's order?" "It is true-too true," returned the King; "I have

known nothing but hatred and treachery from all quarters. Upon whom shall I cast my malediction ?"

"Ask him who drove me from you," cried the Queen. "Ask the mistress of the Chevalier Bourdon," added the Constable.

"He wished to crush me for a crime he could not prove," continued Isabelle.

"And you sought to justify yourself by fire and sword," retorted the King. "Isabelle! did you think that I should be always mad? Did you never tremble at the idea that a ray of sense might one day break in upon me?" "You reply not, madame," said the Constable; "the King waits for your answer."

"Isabelle!" continued Charles, vehemently, "you have dishonoured my old age-shame and disgrace be yours for so doing. You have betrayed the kingdom-you have delivered up my crown into the hands of a traitor-eternal torments be your reward. I curse you, I spurn you from my presence as I would a serpent."

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My lord!" cried the agonised woman, "you know not what you say. I am innocent."

"You are guilty," replied the King sternly, "and the punishment of your crimes awaits you. I have pronounced your doom."

"And who will dare to execute your orders, whatever they may be?" demanded the Queen, recalling her fortitude by a violent effort.

"One who has never betrayed his master, and who will be still faithful to him," interposed the Constable. "You would not assassinate me?" exclaimed the Queen. "I would obey my master," coldly returned D'Armagnac. "No!" cried Isabelle, falling on her knees, and clinging to the King's robe; "this must not be, my lord, you will retract these fearful words; you will not thus condemn a woman who sues for pardon; for I am alone and defenceless. If I am guilty, my lord, deliver me over to the peers of my kingdom; but kill me not without a trial -it would be murder."

"At my feet, Isabelle!" observed the King, apparently heedless of her appeal; "it is long since you have thus

acted."

"My liege!" continued the Queen, in hurried accents, "whatever you may deem me now, you once loved me. You cannot spurn me from you when I thus supplicate for

mercy."

"Sire!" exclaimed D'Armagnac, "she used these begging accents, when she asked the guardianship of Vincennes for the Chevalier Bourdon."

As the Constable pronounced the name, Isabelle rose from her kneeling posture, and fixing her gaze stedfastly on him, continued, "It was an act of honour and trust well kept, to murder that young man at the Châtelet." Then turning to the King she added: "Enough blood has been already spilt -must mine still be added to the stream? But, if it is your will-I submit: you, alone, will answer to Heaven for the shedding of it; and another phantom, in place of the one you dread, will be always at your side." The Queen had well chosen her words. At the bare mention of the phantom, which had first caused the madness of the king, and which haunted him ever afterwards, he uttered a wild cry and clung to D'Armagnac for safety, ejaculating, as he pointed at some imaginary object: "See, he is there! he comes towards me. I can feel his cold breath upon my face, and I have not the power to thrust him from me pi

Monsieur," exclaimed D'Armagnac, "there is no spectre here. Recall your reason, I beseech you-collect yourself, or all will yet be lost."

But the Queen saw the advantageous position her allusion to the phantom had gained for her, and she continued,

"Now tell the Constable to kill me, sire. I am prepared to die, but to-morrow I shall again be with you,―at your council-in your court: at your festive banquet, or lonely midnight watching, I shall be ever at your side."

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No, no," returned the King, "it must not be." "You would not retract your sentence, sire?" said the Constable. "Is she not guilty? and have you not pronounced her condemnation ?"

Before the King could reply, a wild uproar broke the silence, which came nearer and nearer, until the streets re-echoed with its tumult. Rushing to the window, the Constable tore down the shutters and looked into the street. A thousand men-at-arms were hurrying along its narrow thoroughfare, and the cries of "Vive la Reine," raised by innumerable voices, were the only ones heard amidst the confusion. The Queen caught the sounds, and seizing the Constable by the arm, as she drew him from the window, exclaimed: "At length they have arrived. Now, D'Armagnac, our long struggle shall be speedily settled. Even now, you would have murdered me. Blood shall still flow to end the strife, but it will be your own."

ALBERT.

A CIRCASSIAN LOVELACE. TCHOROOK Oglu Tougouse, or "the Wolf," was a good model of the Circassian preux chevalier, altogether sans peur, if not sans reproche. Whatever enterprise was in hand, were it foray, onslaught, or ambuscade, he, for one, might be depended upon; if wrongs were to be redressed, individual, provincial, or natural, Tougouse was invariably the champion. When certain of the Caucasian provinces had separate terms with Russia, he was the first, by his successful inroads, to make them repent of their apostasy. His name had spread even as far as the Ingouches, whose children "the Wolf" had more than once carried off from them. Such celebrity in a man, yet scarcely in his prime, had produced its natural effects on the ladies of the Caucasus; and he had more claims on his heart than even the Mohammedan dispensation, indulgent as it is, could allow him to do justice to. The consequence was, that his decided disposition to please led him into many scrapes; and the fines he had drawn on himself and his tribe would, if they had all been duly paid, have stocked half the estates in Natukvitch with horned cattle.

The only remedy for these disorders was that he should take to himself a wife or two; and as the ample patrimony he inherited no longer sufficed for it, the purchase-money was cheerfully, from motives of economy, contributed by his tribe. He accordingly married two wives: the first the most beautiful, and the second the most accomplished woman in Circassia. His success in the courtship of the former created no surprise: beauty and bravery have mutual attractions all over the world, the one being held to be the legitimate meed of the other. But that Guavcha, the discreet and stately daughter of Indar Oglu, should throw herself away on such a scapegrace as Tougouse, did excite the special wonder, and the no small indignation of her tribe and family. The hand of a princess possessing the manual dexterity of Guavchaunrivalled in the works of the loom and needle-had been eagerly sought by the wisest and wealthiest nobles of the land. But wealth and wisdom seemed to make but little impression on her; and the fastidious princess, conscious, perhaps, that her charms were of a durable nature, was in no haste to make a selection. But her mind was at length made up, and that somewhat suddenly; being one morning nowhere to be found in the paternal dominions of Pehat, having been transferred by moonlight on the