Towards the close of the last century the whole estate was purchased of the Earl of Pembroke, by four brothers of the name of Adam, who erected the present buildings, named by them the Adelphi, from the Greek word [Greek:  adelphoi], brothers.

S.I.B.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF MURAT.

(For the Mirror.)

  “Where the broken line enlarging
    Fell or fled along the plain,
  There be sure was Murat charging: 
    There he ne’er shall charge again.”

BYRON.

Perhaps the features of romance were never more fully developed than in the last days and death of Murat, King of Naples.  To speak panegyrically of his prowess, is supererogatory; as his bravery has been the theme of history and of song.  But a pathetic paper in Blackwood’s Magazine, affectingly describes his fall from splendour and popularity to servile degradation and unmerited military death.  He has many claims on our interest and pity; whether we view him as the enthusiastic leader of Napoleon’s chosen, against the wily Russians, in the romantic array of “a theatrical king,” bearing down all impediment; or the plumeless and proscribed monarch of “shreds and patches,” hiding from his enemies amidst the withered spoils of the forest.  The writer of the paper referred to, in describing his arrival at Ajaccio, says, “I was sitting at my door, when I beheld a man approach me, with the gaiters and shoes of a common soldier.  Looking up, I beheld before me Joachim II. the splendid King of Naples!  I uttered a cry, and fell upon my knees!”

  Escap’d from wreck and storm of fickle seas,
  Degraded, plunder’d, sought for by his foes,
  Brave Murat went, a weary, exil’d king,
  Unto the land that gave Napoleon life;
  And he who was the head of armies, when
  His sabre slew opposing multitudes;
  Whose dauntless spirit knew no other words
  In fiercest strife, but “Soldiers, follow me!”
  Came a poor, drooping, broken, lonely man,
  To meet reproach, and harsh vicissitude,
  Base persecution, and destroying hope;
  To drain the cup of human suffering dry,
  From which his fever’d lips had scarce refrain’d;
  When in the tangled wood he trembling lay,
  Weary and worn, expos’d to sun and storm,
  Hunger and cold, and nature’s helplessness. 
  And when Ajaccio’s walls rung with the shouts
  For Naples’ ruler, he of warlike fame,
  It wrung his spirit to remember when
  That city hail’d him as her only star,
  Worthy to reign where Masaniello rul’d. 
  Dejected chief! the tears forsook his eyes,
  When on his vision rush’d the bygone love
  Applauding thousands bore him, as he rode
  In pride imperial ’midst the bending throng.

    The gathering crowds along Ajaccio’s streets
  Felt Freedom’s fervor kindle in their souls;
  And Murat’s banner fann’d the glorious flame. 
  “’Tis past,” he cried, “and now I proudly come,
  O, shameless Naples! in thy arms to die,
  Or nobly live.”