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Dr. Peel. Their treatment, my Lord, was very simple—an imitation of Morison and Co., who cure all diseases, fevers and consumptions, coughs and diarrhoea, atrophy and apoplexy, thinness and thickness of blood, gout and attenuation, by a composition of gum, gamboge, and aloes; so these gentlemen had a universal medicine of their own—a pet, a favorite, evidently the pride of the firm. They administered it on the same learned practitioner's grand and noble principle that we can never have too much of a good thing; and so, if one dose would'nt do, two must be tried, and if two failed, then try three, and so on with equal liberality, and a beautiful confidence in their own panacea.

Com. Lyndhurst.—Did you analyse this medicine ?

Dr. Peel. I did; and found it to consist principally of a drug most fatally dangerous in such complaints as Mr. Bull's. In fact, I apprehend these wiseacres had studied under some Omæopathist; for the drug they gave was one exactly calculated to feed instead of allaying the raging fury of the fever. This drug was termed "concession," and was given in the shape of pills, of which the more the patient swallowed the more he needed; so that if in any case they have been found to fail of success, it of course has always been because the patient (patient he may well be called to endure them) has not bolted a sufficient number.

Com. Lyndhurst. Then you consider that Mr. Bull's complaint was aggravated by this treatment?

Dr. Peel. Decidedly I do. Concession is not a drug to be trusted in the hands of any but regular practitioners; it needs the very greatest care, and the most experienced skill, to tell exactly the time at which, and the quantity in which, it may be safely and even beneficially administered. But these persons know neither the one nor the other. They are very well aware that it gives immediate relief; and so they do not scruple to purchase the reputation of wonderful cures at the expense, in most cases, of the patient's entire constitution. I was myself present on one occasion, during a very violent paroxysm of Mr. Bull's fever, when these persons stood round his bedside, mixing up, in a pestle and mortar, an enormous bolus, composed almost wholly of this powerful drug. I remonstrated, but in vain; little Dr. Russell was in an ecstasy of rapture at his wonderful mixture, and skipped about the room shouting "the pill, the whole pill, and nothing but the pill." So I contented myself with throwing in, by stealth, a strong antidote, which somewhat counteracted the pernicious influence of the other components. However, for a time the tremendous dose he had taken seemed to put new life into him, to those who did not know the nature of the medicine. But, like opium, the effect passed away, and left him in a more helpless state of craving than ever; which these unprincipled rascals, who care nothing for their patient's health so long as their quarterly bills are paid, still continued to gratify with dose after dose of this baleful medicine, and still to this present hour are doing so, while the patient, who has been completely childish for many years, does nothing but cry out for more; and so, I suppose, they will go on till they have killed their victim, or have no more of their drug left, for the quantity


grown is of necessity limited; and in this case I have no doubt the poor gentleman will kill himself the usual fate of those whose constitutions have been utterly shattered by stimulants. I am afraid nothing can now save him; his mind and body are both in the dreadful state of the city of old, of which it was said, nec vitia nec remedia pati possumus,' '-we can neither stand the disease nor the physic. My only hope would be to remove him entirely from business, and mingle with his drug (for he could not live a day without it) as much wholesome medicine as possible. If that fail, I have not other plan to offer.

Com. Lyndhurst.-Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the statements of the witnesses, which it is unnecessary for me to recapitulate. You now have to come to some final decision upon the question at issue, which, you must allow me to say, I think you will no be long in doing.

The learned Commissioner having thus briefly charged the jury, they consulted together for about five minutes, when the foreman addressed the Bench, and said, "They were unanimously of opinion that John Bull was of unsound mind, and had been so since the year 1828; and that he was incapable of managing his own affairs with discretion." A.



THEY wrong thee, stormy harbinger of spring,
Who call thee comfortless.-All seasons bear
Peculiar virtues-'tis not thine to wear
May's flower-enwoven garland; nor to fling
Over Earth's breast the gorgeous covering
Of Summer's mantle; neither dost thou care
With Autumn's fruits t' enrich the od'rous air;
But like the trumpets of victorious king,
Who proudly doth triumphant entry make,
Thy loud blasts herald summer; at their voice
His path is strewed with flowers-musical break
The groves and hills from silence, and rejoice
To greet their monarch-man's attentive ear
Hails the prophetic sounds that tell of Summer near.


WE view thy brightness, solitary Star,
Beaming upon the brow of infant Night;
As the sun's farewell gleam of latest light
Looks on old Ocean, and its waves from far,
With trembling swell, return the parting glance
Of the fond monarch; as a timid maid
Parts with her lordly lover, half afraid,
Yet proud of his regard. Glorious advance
The beautiful spirits of heaven, but thou alone
Canst claim our love; for grief is dedicate
To thee, and the first pang the heart has known,
Offered as incense to thy queenly state-
And what it breathes on, sorrow sanctifies,
Investing with a claim to human sympathies.



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SWEET birth-place of the deep and passionate,
Corinth! we weep thy vanish'd loveliness;
Thy pride has yielded to a sterner fate

Since beauty breath'd upon its sunniness;

Thy fanes are fallen,-thy shrines desolate,

Thou hast no eye to weep, no tongue to bless;

Long years have pass'd since Freedom dwelt with thee, And Greece o'er slumb'ring worlds cast lightnings of the free.


Sweet Greece! Sweet Corinth! birth-place of the soul,
And the soul's poetry-rich hues of thought-

Tempests have roll'd above thee, and still roll

Here, where young Love his phantom image caught,

Since thou wast in thy majesty !—the knoll

Of years has sounded, and the change has brought Gigantic empires to strange destiny,

Has wrestled with thy land, and desolated thee.


'Twas sunset, and the soft breeze faintly play'd O'er the light ripple of the fairy stream,

Kissing the tresses of a Grecian maid

That blushed beside the fount in summer beam :

'Twas sunset, and undying music stray'd,

Soft as the thrilling songs of passion's dream, Through the lit air; the red Sun, glad and bright, Sank to his solitude in roseate light.


Sweet is the sunset of bright Italy,

Sweet is the nectar of the balmy south,

Sweet the rich orange hues, which far outvie
Heaven's own resplendent loveliness;-but truth
Has fled the altars, and gives sanctity

The bold unblushing lie with open mouth ;-
Sweet is Italia's morn, and sweet the breath

Of her ambrosial flow'rs, twined in one odorous wreath.


But sweeter far-oh! sweeter far than all,
Sunset of Corinth's gorgeous land, art thou!
Down-down, red, fierce, from his own radiant hall,
The full round Sun departs with fiery glow;
And now, sweet twilight! thy bewitching pall

Clothes with deep phantasy the earth;-and now
The sister-queen of Heaven brings forth the night,
Flinging o'er tower and tree her spirit-speaking light.


There stood the maiden by the stream, and there
The bright moon sent unravish'd beauty down,
And the sweet fragrance trembled with the air
Of night-flow'rs by the precipices sown,

Of steep, o'erhanging mountains. Worshipper
Of solitary vigils, are they flown-

Thy dreams in full-robed beauty? Have they brought
Unto thy musing soul the summer-tide of thought?


The poet does not die; he to all time
Waves his triumphant coronal of song,
And Nature seeks the majesty of rhyme,

To lead his dewy thoughts with her's along :
But thou, fall'n Corinth! in thy golden clime,
The vengeance-thrilling aspect of thy wrong
Demands, yet daunts, the thunder-tuned verse,
To hand thy shame down to a future Universe.


Deep utterance, with which the soul endued,
Is Poesy. But I, sweet Land! must leave
These phantoms of my spirit's solitude,

These longings for the past that bid me grieve,
For that which was when thy proud temples stood:
From thy luxuriant footsteps, I must weave

Songs of bright memory, unlike to these

Which chance conception flings from Time's wrought images.


My dreams are in the grave of silent years;
My hopes are in the future, and I trust
To be some shadow more than man appears,
When this frail form is shatter'd in the dust.
Thoughts idle all,-the ideal aspect wears
Sad prospect of reality: the rust,

The burning plague-spot, and eternal gloom

-Of stagnant life, will prey o'er my untimely tomb.


But what are these to Corinth ?-Let me lie,
All, all alone, by thy entranced stream,
And drink thy fountain's bubbling melody,
And poesy with love as with a dream;

Oh let me soothe my soul with phantasy,

And shed sweet star-light o'er it, as may seemSeem the reflected image of my thought,

And teach me that deep strain which Heaven-kiss'd Fancy taught.


The Grecian maiden linger'd by the stream,
Her soft breath mingled with the dewy air,
She gazed upon the moon's transparent beam,
And fed upon the love that kindled there :-
Oh! could we ever love as in the dream

Of youth's first passion, and for ever share
The earliest sighs breath'd out from beauty's breast,-
Of heaven, or sunny earth, which were the happiest ?


She was not all alone; there was the moon,

And there the stars, and there the blue, blue sky,
And there the waters, with their murmuring tune
Lulling the soul to dreams of infancy.

Oh, Love! young Love! 'tis thy delicious boon
That clothes all things with beauty!-let me lie
In thy beatitude!—beside the stream

Stood one to muse of love, and one reposed to dream.


She looks upon him;-Is he her's or Love's?
She looks upon him ;-he is beautiful :
Gently she kneels beside him, and removes

His curling hair from his fair forehead ;-full
The moonbeam melts upon his cheek ;-he moves,
Oh! not to waking!—the soft zephyrs lull,
Lull him to dreaminess :-in manhood's pride
He sleeps-oh! let him sleep-that sleep is deified.


"Twas thence Canova sprung. Oh, ecstasy!
And Guido, Spagnoletto, Raphael;
'Twas thence, fair Florence, the sweet mastery
Of thy immortal Venus lent a spell,
To wrap around devotion; as an eye

Piercing the soul of thought; Ineffable;
Creation of young Love, chaste, glad and bright,
Waking from passion's womb, as from the Infinite.


She stoops to kiss him-he is fast asleep;

She stoops to kiss him-let him not awake!

She gazes on him—that repose is deep,

And undisturb'd as the midsummer lake

That ripples not, save when the soft winds sweep

Along its bosom, and its surface break:

She gazes on him-they must part to-morrow,

And Love for her be ill, and thought wake thought to sorrow.


Farewell, farewell-for ever fare thee well!

Oh! Love, sweet Love, sweet ecstasy of bliss! Time tries all friendships-the unchangeable Dwells in the depth of woman's tenderness; Thou wert not cloth'd with beauty, as a spell

For earth; and life has not thy dreaminess: Thou art a portion of Eternity,

Sent to the world that we may worship thee.

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