We have left ourselves but space to mention in the vicinity of the Wells, Buckhurst and Knole, magnificent seats of the Sackvilles, Earls of Dorset, whose splendid details have already filled volumes. Lastly, we promise the Wells visiter some gratification, by extending his tour to Brambletye House, memorialized in Horace Smith's entertaining novel. These few traits may serve to show the picturesqueness of the environs of the Wells, and consequently of Mr. Britton's volume; and we leave the reader with their grateful impression on his memory. * * * * * SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. * * * * * TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT. WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832. _By Thomas Moore, Esq._ When I would sing thy beauty's light, Such various forms, and all so bright, I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear, I know not which to call most fair, Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring For ever round thee, _which_ to sing. When I would paint thee, as thou _art_, Then all thou _wert_ comes o'er my heart,-- The graceful child, in beauty's dawn, Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, Or peeping out,--like a young moon Upon a world 'twill brighten soon. Then next, in girlhood's blushing hour, As from thy own loved Abbey-tower I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, With smiles that to the hoary frown Of centuries round thee lent a ray, Chacing ev'n Age's gloom away;-- Or, in the world's resplendent throng, As I have mark'd thee glide along, Among the crowds of fair and great A spirit, pure and separate, To which even Admiration's eye Was fearful to approach too nigh;-- A creature, circled by a spell Within which nothing wrong could dwell, And fresh and clear as from the source, Holding through life her limpid course, Like Arethusa through the sea, Stealing in fountain purity. Now, too, another change of light! As noble bride, still meekly bright, Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above All earthly price, pure woman's love; And show'st what lustre Rank receives, When with his proud Corinthian leaves Her rose, too, high-bred Beauty weaves. Wonder not if, where all's so fair, To choose were more than bard can dare; Wonder not if, while every scene I've watch'd thee through so bright hath been, Th' enamour'd Muse should, in her quest Of beauty, know not where to rest, But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, Hailing thee beautiful in all! _Metropolitan._ * * * * * PROGRESS OF CRIME. (From a paper in _Fraser's Magazine_, entitled the _Schoolmaster in Newgate_--evidently from the hand of a shrewd observer, and the result of considerable experience and laborious investigation.)