The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 20, No. 577 | Page 2

garrisoned by the English during her reign, and part of the next, but restored to the States in 1616.
The office of Stadtholder, or Captain-General of the United Provinces, was made hereditary in the Prince of Orange's family, not excepting females, 1747. A revolt was formed, but prevented by the Prussians, 1787. The country was invaded by the French in 1793, who took possession of it January, 1795, and expelled the Stadtholder: it was erected into a kingdom by the commands of Buonaparte, and the title of king given to his brother Louis, June 5, 1806. Its changes since this period are familiar to the reader of contemporary history.
Lord Chesterfield, in his Letters to his Son, says--"Holland, where you are going, is by far the finest and richest of the Seven United Provinces, which, altogether, form the republic. The other provinces are Guelderland, Zealand, Friesland, Utrecht, Groningen, and Overyssel. These seven provinces form what is called the States-General of the United Provinces: this is a very powerful, and a very considerable republic. I must tell you that a republic is a free state, without any king. You will go first to the Hague, which is the most beautiful village in the world, for it is not a town. Amsterdam, reckoned the capital of the United Provinces, is a very fine, rich city. There are besides in Holland several considerable towns--such as Dort, Haerlem, Leyden, Delft, and Rotterdam. You will observe throughout Holland the greatest cleanliness: the very streets are cleaner than our houses are here. Holland carries on a very great trade, particularly to China, Japan, and all over the East Indies."
P.T.W.
* * * * *
THE HAWTHORN WELL.
[The following lines are associated with a singular species of popular superstition which may in some measure, explain the "pale cast of thought" that pervades them. They are written by a native of Northumberland. "The Hawthorn Well," was a Rag Well, and so called from persons formerly leaving rags there for the cure of certain diseases. Bishop Hall, in his Triumphs of Rome, ridicules a superstitious prayer of the Popish Church for the "blessing of clouts in the way of cure of diseases;" and Mr. Brand asks, "Can it have originated thence?" He further observes:--"this absurd custom is not extinct even at this day: I have formerly frequently observed shreds or bits of rag upon the bushes that overhang a well in the road to Benton, a village in the vicinity of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which, from that circumstance, is now or was very lately called The Rag Well. This name is undoubtedly of long standing: probably it has been visited for some disease or other, and these rag-offerings are the relics of the then prevailing popular superstition."--Brand's Popular Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 270.]
"From hill, from dale, each charm is fled; Groves, flocks, and fountains, please no more."
No joy, nor hope, no pleasure, nor its dream, Now cheers my heart. The current of my life Seems settled to a dull, unruffled lake, Deep sunk 'midst gloomy rocks and barren hills; Which tempests only stir and clouds obscure; Unbrightened by the cheerful beam of day, Unbreathed on by the gentle western breeze, Which sweeps o'er pleasant meads and through the woods, Stirring the leaves which seem to dance with joy. No more the beauteous landscape in its pride Of summer loveliness--when every tree Is crowned with foliage, and each blooming flower Speaks by its breath its presence though unseen-- For me has charms; although in early days, Ere care and grief had dulled the sense of joy, No eye more raptured gazed upon the scene Of woody dell, green slope, or heath-clad hill; Nor ear with more delight drank in the strains Warbled by cheerful birds from every grove, Or thrilled by larks up-springing to the sky.
From the hill side--where oft in tender youth I strayed, when hope, the sunshine of the mind, Lent to each lovely scene, a double charm And tinged all objects with its golden hues-- There gushed a spring, whose waters found their way Into a basin of rude stone below. A thorn, the largest of its kind, still green And flourishing, though old, the well o'erhung; Receiving friendly nurture at its roots From what its branches shaded; and around The love-lorn primrose and wild violet grew, With the faint bubbling of that limpid fount.
Here oft the shepherd came at noon-tide heat And sat him down upon the bank of turf Beneath the thorn, to eat his humble meal And drink the crystal from that cooling spring. Here oft at evening, in that placid hour When first the stars appear, would maidens come To fill their pitchers at the Hawthorn Well, Attended by their swains; and often here Were heard the cheerful song and jocund laugh Which told of heart-born gladness, and awoke