ted to suffer punishment for a fa ther, who has infringed the laws of his country; and should the officers of justice be unable to find a son who has been guilty of any offence or crime, they deliberately put the father into prison, knowing full well that the delinquent will soon appear to liberate his parent. Nothing is so abhorrent to all, both high and low, as filial disobedience, which is severely punished by law, from policy. The emperor calls himself, what he ought to be, the father of his people, and wisely considers he will not be regarded in that light, or treated with becoming respect, should his subjects be deficient in filial obedience to their natural pa rents. The following are some of the moral maxims amongst the Chinese upon the subject, extracted from their ancient sages, and hung about their dwellings, which are worthy of the most refined and enlightened nation : "Let a son honour his parents, not observing their faults, which he should carefully conceal; he may, however, remonstrate three times with them relative to their faults; should they disregard him, he must observe towards them the same undiminished piety." "A son should never refer to old age or infirmities before his parents." "Let every other occupation be promptly laid aside to answer a parent's call." "Should his parents be in trouble, a son must not visit nor receive his friends. Should they be ill, his dress and countenance should express his sorrow; he should refrain from music, and he must particularly resist getting into a passion." "To have a proper estimation of filial duty, a son should attend to his parents when they speak; he should see them, though not in their presence." "A son should be careful that his father and mother are warm in winter and cool in summer. He should visit their chamber, night and morning, to enquire after them, and see they require nothing." "It is not proper that a son should sit on the same mat as his father." Would that all the other moral lessons inculcated by their ancient sages were equally observed with the preceding! Were such the case, China would be one of the most moral nations in the world, instead of the most depraved. I must not omit to mention, that the Turks are not greater fatalists than the Chinese. I have heard of a Chinese merchant at Canton, who was smoking his pipe at the time the intelligence was brought to him, that his warehouse, which was filled with the most valuable merchandize, was on fire, who coolly replied, "Mas-kie," (which is the Anglo Chinese for "Never mind") and added, "If it's to burn, it will burn; if not, it will not!" he then very quietly continued to smoke his pipe. The Chinese are all great stoics in their way, and have been known to endure the greatest bodily suffering and torture, rather than surrender their wealth, which they have borne without flinching. Still, during the late war, there were many instances where terror so far prevailed, that they seem to have been actuated to adopt very dissimilar courses; for instance, upon entering a town, our troops have found written, in large characters, in the Chinese language, over the doors of many houses, "Take all we have, but spare our lives." In other towns, which they found completely deserted, horrible spectacles awaited them: in every house they entered, the wretched women were found with their throats cut, some cold, and others dying: in other places, the wells have been found filled with females, and the women have been seen in the act of drowning themselves and their offspring. Again, on entering the residence of a very wealthy man, the house was found deserted by all but the proprietor, who was discovered, partially consumed, seated in his richest robes, and bound to his chair, in the midst of his books, furniture, and valuables, which were piled in heaps around him, and set on fire. This again seems to be contrary to the character or profession of the individual, who proved to be one of their greatest philosophers. There are three prevailing desires implanted in the breast of every Chinaman. First-he anxiously looks for male offspring, to perpetuate his name and sacrifice to his manes; secondlyhe labours indefatigably to acquire landed property, to enrich his offspring; and, thirdly, he desires longevity, in order that he may live to see his children's children in the enjoyment of the wealth he has accumulated. THE KNIGHTLYE TALE OF SIR GUY OF NORMANDYE. BY THE LATE WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. TO THE EDITOR OF THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE. MY DEAR POPLAR,-Among what an alliterative friend styles "my manifold manuscripts most marvellously multiplied," I have happened on the accompanying poem of MOTHERWELL'S, which is not included in either the late or the former edition of his works. His editor appears ignorant of its existence; and I send it you that you may print it, if you think fit. For its authenticity I shall vouch. I am not equally positive that it has never yet seen the lightmy impression being that it was once given in the columns of a newspaper, or in an extinct Paisley magazine. However, I cannot speak confidently. The ballad itself is worthy of a better fate than it has met with, and is of the true ghostly and ghastly character of the school of MONK LEWIS, blended with a chivalresque handling quite characteristic of poor MOTHERWELL. Yours, dear Poplar, very truly, A DREAMER. North Esk, 21st July, 1848. FYTTE THE FIRST. Oh, proudly upcurls the wan, wan wave, And the storm comes on, with night anon, But bend to the oar, brave Roland Bois, Steer aright, fair brother mine; As we trim the sail to meet the gale, And battle with the brine. Oh, breast the proud billows, gallant knights, Now breast them in merry mood, But a little while, and eftsoon shall smile, The paly moon o'er the flood: And by to-morrow's bright dawn, I guess, Our galley shall anchored be On that Pagan strand, where we must land, The Soldan shall quail when he sees our bark Burst through, like a bird of the air, The foamy shroud of the tempest cloud, And furl its broad pinions there — From steeple and tower, from hall and bower, When afar they descry, 'twixt earth and sky, Oh, blithely, I weet, shall our long swords greet The Paynim's fierce chivalry! But why droop thy head now, Roland Bois, And why gaze thus sadly on me? "Oh, Jesu sweet!" sighed then Roland Bois, "I have dreamed a dreary dream; I swevened, last night, that our bark shone bright, I swevened that we were far, far at sea, And the wind and the wave were hushed as the grave, 'Twas so calm and bright, that each wearied wight, At his oar fell fast asleep; While the midnight watch, on the high poop set, Thy brother, Sir Guy, did keep. At the galley's prow with a feverish brow, And under the fear of danger near, The cold sweat o'er me broke; 'Twas fearfully still, but soon, loud and shrill, The slumbering gale did blow; Like a damned spright in troubled flight Each sail was spread, and black overhead Now frowned the chequer'd sky; And like monsters vast, the billows past, Methought, as I gazed on the tumbling waves, There flitted by, to my waking eye, A shroud and a scutcheoned bier. They passed-and then I heard a loud plunge- Like the sound of one who had sunk therein In war's heavy panoply. And then the wave came slow-boiling up, With a load upon its breast, And, brave Sir Fulco, it was topped With thine own eagle crest. The white wave bore up thy dripping plumes, And they were bloody red; Then it bore aloft thy pale, sad brow But thine eyes were fixed and dead. I swevened still, and more the wave Did chafe and rudely swell, Till, midst its throes, thy broad breast rose, And there a wound did well. And fast and fast thy heart's blood streamed, Till the billows were ruddy grown; And fiercely clenched were thy death-set teeth, But thy lips seemed cut in stone. The waves went round and round our good bark, They were flowing to the brim ; And thou wast floating round it, too, Upon their bosom dim. Jesu! thy mailed right hand arose It flittered in the moon And then distraught, thy brother, methought, Fell down in a death-like swoon : For it pointed to him from the waters dim, As it danced to and fro; And then to the wound, and in that stound The blood afresh 'gan flow. I dreamed that I leaped in the ruddy-edged wave, Sir Fulco, for love of thee, When a bolt pierced me through, and together we sank The waves grappled with us, and pressed us down, But there came on the wind a laugh, which I know, I shall hear in my dying day." "Now peace be with thee, brave Roland Bois, But thy dreamings be strange and sad, For in sooth thou hast swevened the very same dream, Which in yesternight's slumbers I had." FYTTE THE SECOND. High feast is held in bower and hall, With gay revel and rout, and cheer and shout, For the cross-bearing knight, the bold Sir Guy, From storm and strife he alone in life Remains of Sir Fulco's band. His fame flies before him to sound his deeds— For a braver knight never buckled on brand, Oh! now he hath come to his Norman plains, For he heirs as his own Sir Fulco's domains, To the bravest lordships in broad Normandye, Now he sits in his hall with his vassals all, And he pledges his bride, who blooms by his side The fairest of dames of Norman blood Then pledges the courtly Guy; "Now arede me right," quoth that ladye bright, In flood or on field, by strength or by guile, Since a bolder band from Christian land That baron upsterte, and he spilled the wine With a cold thick sweat his dark brow is wet, But he smoothed his brow, and bit his lip "Now peace to the Dead," that baron said, "Oh, many a mile of land we had sailed, And many a league of sea, And the wind blew fair, and our galley yare The shores of Crete were left far behind, When a calm did creep, like a deathful sleep, The calm did creep, like a deathful sleep, And our galley lay quite motionless, It pitched none-oh! it trembled none But its masts stood up, strange fixed things, While thus we lay for a long bright day, Nor any wind would start, 'Twas then fierce and bitter thoughts grew up Like scorpions in our heart; And many a reckless knight did look In the mirrored sea below, And cursed the slumbering deep, and cursed The red sun rushed down, and then a sound It was the moan of the heavy storm, Ere it broke the ocean's rest. Loud shouted then some wild, fearless men- And, fast and fell, came on the big swell, Each sail was set, and each cord was strained, And fast through the darkness, like fiend unblessed, Ha, ha!' yelled they, as the maddening spray "We have won us a gale of noblest avail !'- It was fearful to me, as I knelt on my knee, Shout louder and louder their fierce war-songs, With penitent face I prayed long for grace And, 'mid lightning and rain, on that storm-vexed main, On, on our ship recled, and harsher pealed Each bulwark groaned, each timber creaked, The planks start out, now about and about Through darkness and foam, and thunder and storm, It dashed with desperate glee; And faster and faster on lashed in its might The wrath of the howling sea. Yes-ever and aye, like some fell beast of prey, O'er our deck the huge wave burst, Till it bore far away in its savage swoop Each knight that had idly cursed. They were swept away, I was left to pray— While, 'mid raging waves and thundering winds, Their wild, dying accents rung. Oh! 'twas fearful to hear on the ocean drear The shout and the curse of the brave, |