night when all her stars come forth. On
bended knees she cries, “let the unhappy ad-
jure the son of a king, pausing on his steel, no
more to waste the fire of his valour upon the
dying power of enchantment. By the holiest,
a name long forbidden to our lips, I adjure
the valiant to pardon, and spare a knight un-
manned, a knight passing over every hill,
valley, and desart wild; and cleaving the
waters of all the seas to find the bravest and
mildest chief. His sword tinged deep with
our mixing blood hath rent the chains of ma-
gic. My knight hears not. Stiff he lies in
his gore. His fixed features have the hue of
death, the demon rage gnaws his big heart.”

Shrieking falls the spouse beside her knight.
She lies as a flower of the early year, nipped
by a frosty gale. Fream Seoid summons a
leech, with balsams and words of healing
power. The strangers are recalled as from
the grave. No uncertain glimmering of fairy
light unhallowed, dazzles the senses of the
knight. He speaks, he smiles, he drains the
cup of joy; and when evening lengthened out
to meet the dawn, he clasps the white hand
of his spouse, inviting her to relate their tale
of grief, to the ear of the mildest chief, and
his men of renown.

*(To be concluded in our next.)*

## TEMPER.
### AN ESSAY.

"It is better to dwell in a wilderness, than
with a contentious and angry woman."

Proverbs c. 21. v. 19.

It may be laid down as a position, that
there is little hazard of seeing controverted,
that Religion is the first grand essential in
life, the ultimatum of human happiness.
"Philosophy readily triumphs over past or
future evil, but present evil triumphs over
philosophy;" not so with religion, it is an im-
pregnable fortress which "present evil" as-
sails in vain, and in which, if some of the ar-
rows of calamity reach us, we readily obtain
a balsam which mitigates the anguish of the
wound. But that fortress is not to be rushed
in upon in the moment of emergency; those
who have neglected the duties and virtues
with which it is garrisoned, cannot expect to
find it a refuge in the hour of distress, when
they contributed nothing to its strength in the
days of their prosperity. The vices and vir-
tues are not indigenous to the human soul,
though there are some who contend for the
natural depravity of man, however this may
be, it appears rather that the mind is a blank,
on which it is unfortunately easier to inscribe
the characters of vice, than of virtue. The
former, like those she inspires, lies lurking in
ambush and in darkness, to seize her prey;
she can simulate and dissimulate, and while
appealing to our senses, is anxious to leave

No. 164.—Vol. XXV.

our reason asleep. Like the midnight ma-
rauder, who avails himself of the treachery
of our servants, but avoids arousing the vigi-
lance of the house dog. Vice then cannot be
too carefully guarded against, as she owes all
her strength to our weakness. Virtue, on the
other hand, would call forth our reason as her
best friend, and place our senses under the
subjection of that reason as her worst enemies ;
to be won she must be wooed, and to be pres-
served she must be attended, but it is an at-
tendance which is richly rewarded, for our
weakness, may always rely with security on
her strength. A good temper may not inaptly
be called the vicegerent of virtue, and a bad
one that of vice, they preside in the interreg-
nums of the passions and the feelings, influence
our happiness and our interest both immedi-
ately and remotely, and preserve or destroy
the tone of the mind.

From the constitution of society, the go-
vernment of temper is more necessary to wo-
man than to man, as her situation continually
exposes her to circumstances in which patience
and gentleness are more immediately requisite.
There are ills in life which force cannot con-
quer, though meekness may subdue, which
violence cannot expel, but gentleness may
avert. A bad temper yields to the petty
grievances of life, while a good one overcomes
them; the former renders us disgusting to

2 Y

society, and unfit for the kind interchanges
of friendship and affection; how much more
unfit then must it not make us to converse with
“ Him in whom we live and move and have
our being?” Temper is the porter of the mind,
and religion is too dignified a visitant to seek
the habitation which is guarded by so surly a
one as bad temper; while, on the contrary,
its opposite invites her approach, and propi-
tiates her stay. “A good mind easily assem-
ilates with religion; but one soured by dis-
content, or agitated by turbulent passions,
will admit nothing exhilarating,” nay, it fos-
ters that which will sting the bosom where it
has been cherished, for there is no recoil so
certain; the sally that was directed at ano-
ther only weakens ourselves, and at once
leaves us open to attack and incapable of de-
fence,

“Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein.”

The woman who possesses sweetness of
temper, is given credit for many virtues which
perhaps she may not possess. Like sunshine,
it beautifies many things which have no in-
trinsic lustre. And I hold it an invariable
rule, that no woman is truly beautiful who is
bad tempered; it matters not if her eyes boast
the cerulean blue of heaven, or the dark lustre
of the Italian beauty; her features that ele-
gance of outline, from which the Grecian
sculptor drew his model; her form that line of
beauty, whose imperceptible gradation of
curve is the perfection of the female form: if
the soul which gives them animation wants
that principle which imparts benignity to the
contenance and softness to the air. And let
no one imagine, that the appearance of good
temper, like other graces, may be affected.
All affection is open to detection, and when
seen through, excites disgust and contempt;
and there are few possess such consummate
skill, and amazing self-command, as to de-
ceive a penetrating observer, especially for
any length of time. Affection usually over-
acts herself, and generally gives “a sign-post
likeness” of the virtue she endeavours it imi-
tate. The qualities that are native to us
breathe from us, and are a part of ourselves;
those which we affect, ever carry the appear-
ance of the constraint under which they really
exist, and an appearance of effort destroys
the harmony and beauty of voice, counte-
nance, and manner, as an appearance of la-

bour affects the charms of painting, poetry,
or music.

In the domestic circle the peculiar province
of woman, Temper is the fruitful source of
happiness or misery, and the following sketch
will, perhaps, serve to illustrate and support
the assertion. Emily was early a wife and
mother: her lively wit and animated beauty
had won a heart formed to love her with that
deep and concentrated affection, which can
centre all its views of happiness in one object.
While the change was yet new, and the diffi-
culties and duties inseparable from her station
were distant, she lost little of her brilliancy,
but like all false ornaments the gilding gra-
dually wore away. She became petulant to her
husband, irritable to her children, and tyran-
nical to her servants. Her partner in vain re-
minded her that all that is done by violence can
be affected as well, nay much better, by gentle-
ness—that the request is often complied with,
when the command is defied—that when the
wind and the sun attacked the traveller, to make
him part with his cloak, all the boisterous vio-
lence of the former, only induced him to wrap it
more closely around him, while he instantly
surrendered it, to the melting influence of the
sun. These arguments availed nothing, the
moment she rose in the morning her voice was
heard in murmurs or upbraidings, and the
simplest things spoken of with the severest
asperity. Her servants revolted at the con-
duct that sunk them into slaves, and that duty
which they had otherwise performed with
cheerfulness, they neglected or only half did.
Her children, whose minds were cultivated
and regulated by their father, who with diffi-
culty counteracted the ill effects of their
mother's example, forbore, it is true, to
oppose her openly. But they internally con-
demned her proceedings, and often reasoned
among themselves on her want of temper and
conduct, reasoning fatal to all governments
whether political or domestic: it weakened
their affection, and lessened their respect for
her. And they would often feel more pleasure
in a refusal from their father, than a com-
pliance from their mother. Thus, though pos-
sessed of some of the sterling virtues which
constitute a wife, a mother, and a mistress of
a family, as chastity, affection, cleanliness,
and integrity, like a diamond that wants the
advantages of cutting and setting, neither her

servants nor children gave her credit for the
good qualities she really possessed.

If we look around creation, we shall find
the lesson inculcated in every object which
meets our view. We should have no flowers
and no fruits, if the genial seasons of spring,
summer, and autumn, did not bring nature
forth in bright luxuriance: were it all winter,
the scene would be alike dark and barren.
Yet we do not here intend to eulogize that
placid insipidity, or rather insensibility, which
some call good temper. To render any thing
valuable, it must be the effect of reason, not
instinct. The best tempered people have their
moments of passion and severity. But their
severity is in the just proportion which the
winter bears to the rest of the year, it is ne-
cessary to destroy the noxious worms and
weeds which had otherwise infected the fruits
and flowers, and having effected that wise
purpose, returns again to sunshine and to
softness.

The aggregate of human life is made up of
trivial events, and more especially the life of
woman, because it is her province to enter
into the minuter details; in these, the grander
and sublime virtues are rarely called upon,
but sweetness of temper, that “balm of being”
perpetually; cheerfulness is co-existent with
it, and happiness diffused by it; if not the
inspirer, it is certainly the preserver of love;
it is the mint of the mind, from which the
pure ore of piety, virtue, and talent, is issued

to the world in the form that best secures
their currency. The coinages that want her
impress, are like medals, they may have some
intrinsic value, more often only a nominal and
local one, but never a universal or general
circulation. Good temper in sickness, half
does the work of the physician, and consti-
tutes one of the grandest essentials in a nurse.

The ill-tempered are often gay, but they are
never cheerful; as the darkest night will emit
momentary flashes of lightning, but it is the
day only that dispenses sunshine; they rattle in
society, but seldom harmonize it; even with
all the aid of wit, they are but the comets of
the company, whose erratic brilliancy catches
by surprise, and dazzles for a moment, but
neither warms the heart, nor exhilarates the
mind, and like that, when its luminous and
uncertain sense is run, returns to darkness
and obscurity, or seeks new scenes; since
those who want permanent lustre, must trust
to their novelty, for attention and admiration.
Time, which takes something from all, makes
them desolate indeed, and in the winter of
life they are left “to devour their own hearts
in solitude and contempt.” The ill-tempered
“rank rather with hornets and wasps, than
with basilisks and lions,” we despise rather
than fear them, and aliens from all the affec-
tions and relations of civilized society, they
“give up the felicity of being loved, without
gaining the honour of being reverenced.”

LITERARY GLEANINGS.

CONJUGAL AFFECTION.

At the time when divorces were the order
of the day in France, the wife of Rovere, the
Marquis de Fontveille, had been, on her
pleadings against him, separated from him;
the Marquis was one of the sixteen deputies
of the Council of Elders, who were transported
to Cayenne after the revolution of September,
1797. No sooner, however, did she hear of
his being sentenced to transportation, than
she forgot every subject of complaint; and
she resolved to follow him in his misfortunes,
to comfort and assist him in supporting them.

Understanding he was sent to Rochefort,
she hastened thither, but only arrived just as
the corvette, which was to carry him and his
fellow-sufferers to Guiana, had sailed. It was
even still in sight, and fain would she have
hired a boat, and endeavoured to overtake it;
but this was peremptorily forbidden. She
then flew to Paris; but no treaties could
prevail on those by whom her husband had
been banished, to tell her the place of his exile.
She learned the by accident; and from that
moment no country, but Guiana had any

THE GIPSEY.

Poor Nerina! I am again in Norwood.
Thirty years have elapsed since last I be-
held thee here. I, then just closing my
twentieth year, and thou entering thy
eighteenth. Art thou still in being, or has
the wasting hand of want, the miseries of
thy wandering mode of life, consigned thee
to the last cold abode of poor humanity?

As I pause in this old haunt of thee and
thy tribe, remembrance vaults over the long
lapse of time that has intervened, and re-
vivifies the picture that has lain dormant,
but unfaded, in my brain. I behold thy
vaticinating mother—thy urchin-brothers—
thy dark-eyed self. How sylph-like was
thy form, how abundant thy tresses—thy
teeth, thy lips how beautiful, thy brow how
arched, thy cheek how bright—but yet,
Nerina, thou wast a gipsey. Thy beauty
—thy intelligence—wasted 'mid a wander-
ing horde—were like light in a desart—
they shone upon barrenness. Under the
forming hand of cultivation, what an esti-
mable creature thou wouldst have proved !

Thou couldst sing, too—I fancy I still hear
the wild warblings of thy clear and sweet
voice—now plaintive, as if mourning thy
melancholy fate among the daughters of
men—now lively and animated as the
beams of thy soul-lit eyes.

Had I been free, I would have taken
thee to my bosom, and braved the world's
scorn for thy sake. I would have uprooted
ancient prejudices—at least have held forth
one bright exception—but, like thyself, I
was the creature of dependence, though of a
different kind. How many were the strata-
gems and cautions I made use of in my
visits to the gipsey's tent !

How was it, Nerina, I first knew thee?
I remember now. One of thy little brothers
had been running at my side begging a half-
penny: in the pettishness of momentary
irritation I refused him. I heard a voice
ery, "Josel, trouble not the stranger."
I turned, Nerina, and beheld thee. I stood
abashed before the mute reproach that
melted, not lightened, in thine eye. Pride

This was my last contribution to
La Belle. It appeared, I think, in Aug. 1825.

Vos tendres Soins, Médames, Moi, Haffelent de faire
passer, du marbre des jèmnes, qui, offriraie de bien
tout, le que mon coeur s'effouche.

Sant leur deux noms, puisons la vie
Sont plus comme la conté
Sont amés douce et chérie
Savoir à la flotterie
on les tontimes à son âme
Sont de sentier qui conduit au bonheur
et malheur on les retrouvent encore
Sur le chemin de la douleur.

THE GIPSEY.

and humiliation were strangely blended in
thy manner; both contributed to the glow
that burned upon thy cheek; thy glance
condemned my hard-heartedness, but the
consciousness that thy wretched kindred
had no right to exact the stranger's bounty,
softened its light, and as thy lid fell, I
thought I saw a tear drop from it—if it
did, that tear fell upon my heart. I would
have recalled my harsh refusal to the little
beggar with half that I was worth.

Whence hadst thou, Nerina, thy witchery
of manners, thy gentleness, thy sensibility?
All around thee were subtle and cunning—
uncultivated and lawless: yet, hated and
hunted as they were, thy people were not
gross, nor devoid of those affections that
best humanize the heart of man. How
fervent were their attachments! Their
isolation from the rest of the world seem-
ed to concentrate and strengthen their
feelings towards each other. Under a better
state of society, they might have become
beings worthy of esteem and admiration:
how much of wit and of originality was
there often among them! But thou, under
every disadvantage, wast almost all a heart
could wish, an imagination picture. Oh!
that I could roll back the heavy tide of
advancing time, revive every early hope,
and preserving my accumulated experience
and bettered fortune, behold thee what
thou wast, appear to thee what I was, and
exclaim, in the language of a poet, who
would have pleased thy wild and vivid
fancy,

"Fly from the desart, fly with me!

Thy Arab tents are rude for thee;

But oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without!"

Vain wishes—fruitless imaginings. Ne-
rina, it is well I cannot inquire into thy
fate; with the power, I could not with-
hold from myself a knowledge, that might
for ever invade my peace. I should hear
of thy sorrows, thy distress, thy suffer-
ings, and know that fate had consigned
thee to thy undistinguished grave, without
rendering thee the atonement of a happy
hour. I should hear of the decrepitude of
thy agile form, the fading of thy blooming
cheek and sparkling eye, and I should
mourn over the reality of such a change
with a bitterness too intense. As it is, I
remember thee in all thy lustre. I flatter

myself thy wandering fancy sometimes pur-
sued me with kind regret and lively plea-
sure, and I would not relinquish these
dreams of the past for all the present
pleasures the world has the power to afford
me. Nerina, thou wast a gipsey estranged
from all those precepts that guide thy hap-
pier sisters in the creation; but thou wast
not less the creature of an Almighty Creator;
thy untutored mind was animated by the
kindest feelings—all thy errors were those
of education, not of nature, and howso-
ever it might be subsequently alloyed, the
original, the native ore was pure:

"Like sunshine broken in the rill—
Though turned aside, 'twas sunshine still."

Shall I not then cherish a hope, that fu-
turity may re-unite a friendship so ill as-
sorted—so utterly dissevered upon earth?
In that state where no distinctions are re-
cognized but those of intrinsic worth—where
the peasant may find a place while the
prince is rejected—I shall yet behold Ne-
rina. This hope shall bear a consoling
balm in my heart through the remaining
years I have to sojourn here. I shall not,
like a romantic lover, have the consolation
of sleeping in her grave, of even behold-
ing the spot where the relics of what once
was beauty rest, but I shall live and die
with a dearer, holier consolation.

The men of the world—aye and the
women too, for the latter resign their sen-
sibility with their teens—smile with derision
and contempt upon those beings who have
cherished and preserved that vital essence
of genius—imagination; and who can draw
from its warm perennial spring rich draughts
of pleasure even when age is shedding its
snow upon their temples. Let the world-
lings despise that which they can neither
appreciate nor understand; with them life
has passed on in heartless pleasure, and sor-
did thrift; their hearts have kept no regis-
try for memory to revert to—the void re-
cesses of their souls contain no hoard of
precious looks and feelings, and sensations
of by-gone days, to be conjured up in the
hour of meditation and marshalled up in
bright array. To them age must indeed be
a Siberian winter—a moonless—starless
night. To them returns not the young
morning of existence—

"But clouds instead, and ever-during dark."

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

LETTER

TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER FIRST ENTRANCE IN THE WORLD.

WITH a heart animated, by the warmest wishes for your
happiness, my dear Emma, and with the most tender solic-
tude for your future prosperity, I commence our correspond-
ence. I knew not, till the hour of separation, how intimately
you were interwoven with my existence; how much the habit
of seeing you almost daily, had grown into a necessary of
life. When the first gush of emotion had subsided, and I
sank again into the usual common places, I felt as if I had
lost a part of myself; and knew not how to reconcile the
inertia it occasioned, with the performance of those active
duties to which I am perpetually called. Necessity, a sti-
mulant, without which, I believe, life would want many or-
naments and many blessings, compelled the exertion I was
so unwilling to make, and I am now much upon the old
footing; and, having lost the pleasure of talking, I embrace
with the more avidity, that of writing to you.

For the first time in your life you are now one, in the
great and busy world, and I shall be much surprised if
you do not tell me that you have lost, instead of having
added to, your consequence. Dr. Johnson said, no place so
soon cured a man of arrogance and vanity, as London; of
course he alluded to the collision of men of science and ge-
nius; and though but few of these will fall in your way,
I dare say; nevertheless, the remark will hold good as ap-
plied to yourself. You who, while here, could not walk out
without meeting twenty bobbed curteys and as many bows,
and all the marks of deference attached to your name and
family in the country, will be jostled with but little ceremony
by the undiscriminating population of the streets of the
metropolis; and I believe, were you to have a herald to walk
before to proclaim your virtues and distinctions, it would
be the same. In the circles of fashion and amusement, you
will no longer, as in our little country parties, be the chief
object: especially after you have lost the zest for novelty, there
will arise some candidate of fashion more witty, more wealthy,
or more beautiful. Besides, there will always be some, whom

MEMOIRS OF MRS. MARGERUM,

THE
Fat Widow of Worthing.

HAVE you ever been at Worthing, gentle reader? for if you
have, you must have heard of the gentle heroine of my tale;—
if you have not, peruse these simple annals.

Miss Patty Pumpkin came of a goodly, a true aldermanic
race—her parents were portly, and the table is retained among
the family furniture, at which her grandfather sat, and in
which an ample indention exists, cut, in days of yore, to fa-
cilitate the old gentleman's approach to it—indeed his de-
scendants have boasted that Louis 18th took the idea from
Mr. Pumpkin.

Miss Patty was born fat; she grew in strength and size, and
weighed sixteen stone, ere she had counted sixteen years.
She loved every thing except learning;—for at school she was
as dull as a Dutchman.—To hear her read a page, was an
excellent soporific—and her writing was somewhat like the
Chinese character, so that some gave her credit for writing
Arabic; her arithmetie did not reach reduction; and for all
the lighter accomplishments, she evinced an entire inaptitude.

Miss Pumpkin had a round, good-natured face, and at seven-
ten her smiles began to have a meaning, and her parents to have
an anxiety for her advantageous settlement in life—but, alas!
her obesity was an obstacle to her happiness. A Greenland
captain, indeed, seemed to disregard this little blemish; but
then as Miss Crabtree good-naturedly remarked, "He had
been used to whales." Somehow or other, however, the captain
set sail and left our heroine in "plump distress." She now,
like Matthew's Welshman, resolved to set about some plan
for "removing the mountain;" her exertions were vigorous,
but vain; no thinner could she get; and though she might ex-
claim as pathetically as Hamlet—"Oh! that this too, too solid
flesh would melt," she found that, like Richard, she was not
given to the melting mood. Abstinence—ablutions—pedes-
trianism, and posturizing, were successively tried, but were
alike unavailing: she then determined to try the powers of

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

4

it is the fashion to admire, in spite of common sense, who affect eccentricity, and are sought in proportion as their conduct is ridiculous. I cannot but smile as I think of the many things you will meet to shock your preconceived notions of propriety, and to turn topsey-turvey all the plans and rules you may have sketched out for yourself. You have been educated to regard religion, virtue, and knowledge, as of the highest importance; and you will meet few, perhaps none, in society, who will not *profess* to believe the same; but be not deceived by professions. On observing their conduct you will find, these are ideas which merely float upon the surface of the brain, but seldom influence their motives or actuate the economy of their actions. In my own intercourse with the world, I have too frequently had occasion to remark that money is regarded as the criterion of merit. Money gives importance to the insignificant, and gains respect to the undeserving; and while it is estimated as it is, that ruinous system will be persevered in, of keeping up an appearance beyond our means: and thus, as is usually the case with all evil, it ramifies into a thousand branches of petty impropriety, and often into great vices. I am far from being guilty of the folly of despising wealth; as a great auxiliary to human happiness, I value it; but never can I forget that it is only an agent, and that the *manner* in which it is employed can alone render it a blessing or a curse. I am too frequently disgusted to see the world "offer so much homage to an idol who so little deserves it." Horace Walpole says, "Money is freedom;" true; so it is to the possessor; but there has probably never been on earth a more powerful engine of oppression. The age of feudal vassalage is past, but can of oppression. The age of feudal vassalage is past, but can of oppression. The age of feudal vassalage is past, but can of oppression. The age of feudal vassalage is past, but can of

oppression than to swell the importance of bloated pride, and adorn the insolence of ostentation.

Place, my dear Emma, to the account of your fortune, rather than your merits, much of the attention you will meet in society; such is the infatuation on the subject, that persons who neither wish nor expect to benefit by your

the apothecary.—Dr. C. prescribed a vegetable diet: but she
throve on potatoes. Dr. A. gave his celebrated red pill; but,
like a sturdy freebooter, she “fattened upon pillage.” Had
she existed among the Gordii* she would indubitably have
been chosen for their sovereign, at least if we are to believe
Erasmus. In the utter hopelessness of growing thinner, she
relaxed her exertions, and resolved to trust to the effect of
her full-blown charms. About this period, Mr. Margerum
presented himself to her notice: though not quite so thin as
Philetas, he was a slim suitor—their courtship was short;—
he vowed, flesh and blood could not resist her charms; and
she believed him, though he was only skin and bone. Once,
however, he ran a very near risk of forfeiting her favour, for
on their being requested to sing a duet together, he unwittingly began

“ Fatima, Fatima, Selim’s here.”

especially as, by a slight inaccuracy of pronunciation, into
which he sometimes deviated, he sung it

“ Fatima, Fatima, *Slim* is here.”

The look he caught, as he raised his adoring eyes toward
her face, effectually stopped the flow of melting melody he
had commenced;—but lover's-squarrels are short, and so was
Miss Pumpkin's anger. Some suggestions of prudence might
also have hinted that she could not afford to lose a chance;
and a few days from that period the merry bells of Worthing
announced that they were made one. If in a matrimonial com-
pact, one party is to supply the deficiencies of the other—

"Surely a pair were never seen

So justly formed to meet by nature."

Mr. Margerum was a respectable fishmonger: trade flou-
rished—the fish in his shop seemed to reflect the good looks
of his lady; Mr. M.'s fish sold, and—his wife fattened, and it
might have been aptly said, in reference to her—

"Oh! flesh, how art thou fishified!"

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

wealth, will seek your acquaintance on that account merely;
as if the possessions of their friends could increase their
pleasures or promote their happiness. Life, every day, fur-
nishes instances of those who, in the days of prosperity, were
courted and caressed, being suffered, on a reverse of fortune,
to sink into solitary, unalleviated sorrow and distress. Nothing
is so unmeaning as the general politeness of society. There is a
vocabulary of civil and pretty things which people learn by rote,
to say to each other. Thus it is that in proportion as re-
finement has advanced, sincerity has receded. The wild enor-
mities of uncultivated nature have been corrected; but we
have also banished its magnanimity. Do not think I am an
advocate for ancient manners, that wanted the graces of po-
liteness, or an admirer of that life which knew not the re-
straint of salutary laws: none can more respect the wise ordi-
nances of moral and political government; yet I may be al-
lowed to lament, that the art which was designed to restrain
the exuberance, and soften the asperities, of nature, should
be permitted such an ascendency, as entirely to check the
free current of feeling, and teach it to stagnate, or diverge
wide of its original destination.

I believe you will allow that I am not entirely without
the "milk of human kindness;" you will not, therefore, think
me splenetic, when I acknowledge myself disgusted with the
routine of fashionable life, and happy that circumstances have
removed me far from its atmosphere of folly and futility.
As we advance in life, the vanities, which, like corks in water,
kept our hearts buoyant, one by one, desert us. Faded beauty
and departed youth, have nothing to hope from the scenes
of pleasure or dissipation, but mortification and neglect; yet
those who have made no provision for that "winter of dis-
content," must be satisfied to abide the *buffet*, and steal
through scenes of former triumph, the ghost of what they
were. To you, as yet untainted with the prejudices of cus-
tom, or the vices of fashion, let the warning voice of friend-
ship speak; and oh! let it be regarded. I am no too-rigid
moralist, anxious to interdict the pleasures that afford an
innocent relief to the duties and difficulties of existence. But
I know so well, that a being like yourself, suddenly placed
in the very theatre of temptation, is apt to be hurried away
by the impulse of newly-excited feelings, and surrounding

The happiness of this well-matched pair was crowned by
the birth of a daughter—a fair little flat-fish—inheriting the
joint stock of her parents' qualifications: though boasting the
legitimate proportion of fat (from her mother), she was brisk
as an *eel* (like her father); and though much pains and expence
were bestowed on her education, she was ignorant as a
*gudgeon* (like *both*).

To describe the felicity of this peerless family, would re-
quire no common powers; but I would forbear, even had I
confidence enough in my own for the task, since I am also
destined to rehearse its distress. Mr. Margerum was taken
ill—the doctor shook his head—that did not alarm them, for
they thought there was nothing in it—but

"Too soon, the fatal truth was known,"

Mr. Margerum died, leaving his widow to lament his loss,
and look after the "loaves and fishes." Her grief was great—
all night she bedewed her pillow, and all day she moistened
her handkerchief with her tears, but—she got no thinner.

Mrs. Margerum's ideas had ever been above fish; she panted
to throw aside the "wulgarities of trade" with her weeds,
and mix in gay scenes (anxious to forget her grief); to join
the mazy dance, and trip it on "the light fantastic toe."

The marble shop-board (as Mrs. O'Donnels, of Billingsgate,
calls it) was soon disposed of; the finny tribe were resigned
to other hands; and Mrs. Margerum and her daughter hast-
ened to London, resolving to "see Life."

A new scene now indeed opened upon them, and new
wants and wishes were perpetually arising, till fortune (in
one of those freaks in which she loves to expose the incon-
sistency and frailty of human nature) destined Mrs. Marge-
rum to turn her thoughts to dancing; an accomplishment she
had altogether neglected in her earlier years. Placing her-
self and her plump pet, under the tuition of Mons. D. she
was unremitting in her exertions; she soon got on surpris-
ingly with "Capt. Wyke," "Lord Cathcart," &c. &c. Not but
that it once or twice occurred to Mons. D. that it would
not be amiss if the *surveyors* were to pay a visit to the house
to inspect the state of the foundation—however he felt some
confidence in the consciousness that it was an old house;
built when bricks and timber were thought essentials to the

* The Gordii were said to choose the *fattest* man for their kings,
for this sensible reason, that in any public calamity, he could not run
away.

["THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.", "4 objects—that, instead of making pleasure *the recreation*, you will probably make it the *business* of life, when it necessarily soon becomes a toil, that I address you with some solemnity. Pause, ere you approach too near the vortex to retreat; for once drawn within “the whirling wave,” your fate is inevitable. It has turned stronger heads than your’s. *Propose to yourself then some plan of industry, enjoin yourself the performance of certain duties*; and rather snatch your pleasure from the time *these* allow you, than, by a lavish indulgence, produce satiety. Have the courage to deny yourself to idle visitors, and the fortitude to withstand pressing invitations. The resources of drawing, music, and literature, are open to you, and should now, as they probably will ultimately, form the stable pleasures of your life; for whenever time, health, or other circumstances banish you the ball-room, the assembly, and other public places of amusement, they will form a strong hold to which you may retreat with honour, pleasure, and safety.\nFew have gone through the world without finding that the world deserts them, before they are willing to desert the world; is it not wise, then, to endeavour to form a lesser world, which will not partake of the mutability of the greater, and by founding its capital in our own minds, to secure ourselves in it a powerful influence? Cultivate then your intellectual powers, for remember that shallow streams cannot receive ships of burthen; and if (which I think hardly possible), the rich freightage of love and friendship never anchors with you, you will still have a proud possession, of which neither the vicious nor the weak can deprive you.—This principle will be a shield to ward off the attacks of multitude and discontent, a lamp to dissipate the gloom of solitude, and, by rendering you independent, go a great way towards making you happy and respectable. No beings are more pitiable than those who are incapable of retiring within themselves; their undisciplined, uninformed mind, present either a chaos or vacuum, from which they turn wearied and bewildered. Such must necessarily hang upon society: the wise reject them; they have, therefore, no resource but in herding with others like themselves, and seem to me much like a flock of sheep, with this difference, that they are not so useful, though quite as stupid. It is the wise advice of persons who do not seem so useful.", "", "construction of a dwelling; had it been a new one, he would certainly not have rashly risked his life. This gentleman (who, by the bye, was an Englishman, but to humour an absurd preference called himself a Frenchman,) this gentleman smiled as he beheld the laborious efforts of the mother and daughter, and in a spirit of humour, of which they were 'little conscious, set them dancing to a tune set to the following words—(extract of a song written by Matthew Lewis, esq.)", "Two dozen bears, arranged in pairs,\nGoing as fast as they can go—\nA stately pig performs a jig,\nAnd a graceful goose a fandango.", "Here figured out a tower so stont,\nHere figured in a fountain;\nA sea-port town the dance led down\nAnd went back to back with a mountain.", "A young he lamb introduced by a ram,\nTo brisk young whale advances;\nAnd making a leg, cries, ma'am, may I beg\nYour fin for the next two dances.", "And he mentally exclaimed, as the dance ended, (as much inflated by his own powers as despising theirs)—", "\"How ill the music to the motion suits,\nSo Orpheus fiddled, and so danced the brutes.\"", "Miss Margerum was by no means so successful as her mamma in her endeavours to attain the graces of Terpsichore: she had not the same patient application, nor the same perceiving spirit. She might have said, with poor Humphrey, \"How can I be expected to \"balance\" on one leg, when I can scarcely balance myself on two.\" Time, however, does wonders; and in time, though scarcely so agile as the Hippopotamus, she contrived to acquire enough of the art to return and astonish the natives of Wording.", "Return they did, and the opportunity of display for which they panted at length occurred.—A public ball was announced: Now was the lively wit of Mrs. Margerum and the brilliant fancy of her daughter racked to appear in the most novel", "THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.", "7", "a wise man, not to mingle more with society, than is sufficient to quicken the pleasure of finding ourselves again at our own firesides.", "The first sure symptom of a mind in health,\nIs rest at heart, and pleasure felt at home.", "That happiness which has not our own hearth-stone for its foundation, will be found, like the enchanted egg of Oromanes, to consist of nothing but wind. Each of us in the outset of our career, is anxious to be a general favorite. How little do we imagine, that in that wish is comprised the worst of slavery. Alcibiades was rigid in Sparta, voluptuous in Ionia, slothful and gay in Thrace, andERPuous and prodigal in Persia. Could he have returned to re-tread the path he had past, we need not question but that the wisdom of experience would have taught him to seek happiness and respectability in more consistent conduct.", "Perhaps I may rate the advantages of mental cultivation too highly, because I have found it the only real good I have ever possessed; it has been my guard against temptation, and my stay in destitution; and, like a steady friend, in spite of neglect, has ever been willing to afford me software and support whenever I returned to seek it. It is to the enlightened mind, I chiefly look for virtue: I pay a bad compliment to our pristine nature in so doing; but it is certain, if we have not a natural tendency to evil, the violence of the passions, or the impatience of indolence, soon leads us into it. The pursuit of knowledge is at once an employment and a corrective; by enlarging the views, it shows the expediency as well as the beauty of virtue, and raises the mind above the petty vanities, which, like treacherous citizens, are the first to betray us to the enemy. Let me hope then that, instead of your toilet, your study will be your temple, where judgment will banish pedantry, and teach the graces and the sciences to coalesce: that though wealthy, you will, like the Italian philosopher, regard time as your real estate, and remember \"that it will produce nothing without cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labour of industry.\" You will meet many who will endeavour to allure you to walk in the path of dissipation by flattery, and many who will seek to drive you to it by ridicule;", "and becoming dresses. They mutually agreed, that the colours could not be too gay, nor the petticoats too short; a coincidence of sentiment that equally discovered the delicacy of their tastes, and the strength of their understandings. After a quantum sufficit of palpitations and anticipations, the eventful day at last arrived. Early hours were vulgar; with great difficulty they restrained themselves till the arrival of an hour more suited to their new ideas and fashionable appearance. The room was tolerably full, when Mrs. Margerum entered, waddling! like a walrus, followed by her daughter, like a dutiful young morse. The universal gaze that was immediately fixed on them, they received as an evidence of their powers of attraction, and an earnest of the celebrity they were destined to attain. Quadrilles were just at that period becoming the order of the day, and of course could not conclude without them. Mrs. Margerum unshrinkingly stood forth—but Miss M. who thought not very rich, was very purdy, declined any further exertion that evening. In the course of the dance it became Mrs. Margerum's fate to stand figuring alone before her partners, and when her \"poor little body\" (as she called it) was left to its solitary exertions—when there was no dumpling to keep the puddling in countenance, the effect on the risible muscles of the company was too great—a titter at first arose among the more juvenile—a cough (a laugh-choker) became general, till at length nature was overpowered, and a burst of universal and irrepressible merriement prevailed. This was the coup de grace! The first feelings of the unfortunate quadriller's soul were rage and indignation; but how fruitless is anger when exerted against a multitude! she thought better of it, and, after an hysterical sob or two, sunk on the floor in a fainting fit. Water was procured—Miss Margerum sprinkled her mother as her mother used to sprinkle the fish: but she revived not. It was next proposed to remove her into the open air— a thing more easily talked of than performed, butЛАMS a thing more easily talked of than performed, but combination will effect wonders—six gentlemen with infinite labour finally succeeded in the attempt. At length she slowly recovered, and an awkward attempt was made to account for the sudden and unbecoming birth of the company—but it was the sudden and unbecoming birth of the company—but

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

but whenever you meet a mind that can call forth your powers and estimate them, how amply will you find yourself rewarded! The art of conversation is to me the greatest of all accomplishments, and has this great advantage, that it is certainly the most durable. The most flexible dancer must yield to the rigidity of age; the musician and the singer suffer from the same despotic tyrant: but the refined and culminated intellect has its treasure safe while the region of the brain is left uninjured, and can

Take the prisoned soul,

And lap it in Elysium,

when all the graces of youth and person are flown; for there is a pernity in the graces of the mind, over which the casualties of life have no power.

I trust you feel, that, throughout the whole of this grave lecture, I neither wish to make you a stoic or a recluse; I am only anxious that you should go into society sufficiently guarded to preserve you from being betrayed or corrupted—I am only anxious that you should possess that in yourself, which will, at any time, render you independent of it—that command of mind which will preserve you from supercilious pride in the elevation of rank, and from an unworthy debasement in the event of a reverse. The cultivation of your talent, and the pursuit of knowledge, which I so earnestly recommend to your notice, are not meant to invade the duties of your domestic character, but rather to give you additional grace and ability in the discharge of them. Your good sense will always suggest to you the propriety of adapting your conversation to the varieties you will meet, and thus, though you possessed the wisdom of the seven sages of Greece, you will escape the charge of pedantry.

Let me, from time to time, hear from you; and I trust, and indeed, flatter myself, you will never find cause to regret having adopted the advice I shall in return occasionally continue to offer you. It is rarely,—I blush while I say it, but justice compels the acknowledgment,—that a woman finds in her own sex, a friend. Ill-educated, their views are necessarily confined, and they therefore want the wisdom which would render their friendship useful: left to the frothy vanities of dress and display, reared and encouraged in an insatiable thirst of admiration, they want the stability

and solid worth, which would render it lasting and sincere.—Thank heaven! there are exceptions; but in the aggregate, they are, alas! too few! But if in her own sex, woman rarely finds a friend, how much more rarely in the other.—

All who approach her their own ends pursue;
Lovers, like ministers, are seldom true.

Beware, then, under the specious name of friendship, how you suffer your heart to cherish a passion which will betray you to ruin, or expose you to contempt. Man is a selfish being; he will feel no gratitude for your love, but use it as a ready means to accelerate your destruction; or, if, either from principle or circumstances, he forbears to take all, the advantages he possesses, he largely indemnifies himself for the sacrifice, by looking down upon you with contemptuous pity, perhaps, with derision.

These are "rocks and shoals," which I trust you will avoid, but if ever you are in danger, make a signal of distress, and you have one real friend, at least, who will do all she can to save you.

Your's,

M. L. R.

DELAWARE INDIANS.

In the year 1785, an Indian murdered a Mr. Evans, at Pittsburg. When, after a confinement of several months, his trial was to be brought on, the chiefs of his nation (the Delaware) were invited to be present at the proceedings, and see how the trial would be conducted, as well as to speak in behalf of the accused, if they chose. These chiefs, however, instead of going as wished for, sent to the civil officers of that place the following laconic answer: "Brethren! you inform us, that N. N. who murdered one of your men at Pittsburg, is shortly to be tried by the laws of your country, at which trial you request that some of us may be present. Brethren! knowing N. N. to have been always a very bad man, we do not wish to see him. We therefore advise you to try him by your laws, and to hang him, so that he may never return to us again."

te moment a deep melancholy preying upon her spirits—she re-
tired from an “ungrateful world,” thinking it preferable

"To waste her sweetness on the desert air,"

than to run the chance of having her feelings again wounded
by an indiscriminating multitude. Mortified vanity invaded
her health, though not her fat, and in no very distant period
she died the victim of a redundant corpulency. It is said,
her perturbed spirit still haunts the Assembly-room, stumping
as she was wont to do, but the wiser part of the good people
of Worthing credit not the assertion, because they think, and
think justly with Murphy, “that she was too fat for a ghost.”

The fair inheritor of her mother's honours still lives, recalling to mind the well-fed widow, and preserving in remembrance this useful axiom—Never to be guilty of the folly of attempting those things, for which nature or circumstances have incapacitated us.

A COXCOMB NONSUITED.

A COUNTRYMAN, loaded with faggots, cried loudly, as he irpassed along, "Make way! make way!" that people might beware in time, as is usual. A coxcomb, who thought it beneath him to take the fellow's counsel, pushed by him, and had his coat, which was silk, considerably torn. He flew in a violent passion, and had the man taken before a magistrate, pleading for payment of the damage. The countryman was interrogated, but he merely opened his mouth without speaking. "Are you dumb? my friend," said the magistrate, "No," interrupted the plaintiff, "mere malice, because he cannot defend himself; he appears dumb now, but when we met this morning, he bawled, 'Make way! make way,' like a Stentor; you might have heard him a mile off."—"And why then," said the magistrate, "did you not make way?"

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM,

LETTERS
ON THE

PROGRESS OF LUXURY AMONG THE LADIES OF ANCIENT ROME,
with Descriptions of their Costumes.

LETTER II.

WE cannot ascertain with precision the time in which the
ladies took up the custom of adorning themselves with false
hair. In the earlier ages, a religious feeling induced many a
fair possessor of beautiful tresses to devote them to the gods,
The idols in the temples were sometimes so profusely ornate-
mented with these offerings, that one could hardly see their
faces. The worship of Apollo alone, cost the first Roman
belles innumerable fine heads of hair; but the offerings of
superstition were speedily converted to other purposes; va-
nity and passion rendered those who had fine hair desirous
of retaining it to extend their conquests, while the high
estimation in which it was held offered a lure to the ne-
vocality or the avarice of the poor, who soon finding that
they could obtain a high price for their hair, ceased to give
what they could sell; and thus, by degrees, the use of false
hair was introduced among all those who could afford to
buy it. The idols, however, lost no part of their spoils,
their priests took care that they should still have the same
redundance of tresses, which were also ornamented in the
most tasteful manner. The priests of Cybele, in particular,
were celebrated for the art with which they formed the coiffure
of their goddess; the needle which they made use of for that
purpose was looked upon as a most sacred relic. Servius
s counts it among the things which the Romans regarded as
t pledges of the glory, and the duration of their empire:
what is to say, with the ashes of the Veiens; the sceptre
n of Orestes, that of Priam; the sacred bucklers, &c. Such
t is the effect of superstition! happy would it be for its wretched
votaries, were its delusions always as harmless,

b As the details of the toilette increased, the Roman ladies
were obliged to multiply the number of their attendants;
heach had her particular task; some were charged to comb
the hair and to separate it into tresses, which they afterwards
formed into a regular superstructure of knots and curls, that

e moment a deep melancholy preyed upon her spirits—she re-
tired from an “ ungrateful world,” thinking it preferable

than to run the chance of having her feelings again wounded
by an indiscriminating multitude. Mortified vanity invaded
her health, though not her fat, and in no very distant period
she died the victim of a redundant corpulency. It is said,
her perturbed spirit still haunts the Assembly-room, stumping
as she was wont to do, but the wiser part of the good people
of Worthing credit not the assertion, because they think, and
think justly with Murphy, “ that she was too fat for a ghost.”

The fair inheritor of her mother's honours still lives, recal-
ling to mind the well-fed widow, and preserving in remem-
brance this useful axiom—Never to be guilty of the folly of
attempting those things, for which nature or circumstances
have incapacitated us.

A COXCOMB NONSUITED.

A COUNTRYMAN, loaded with faggots, cried loudly, as he
ispassed along, "Make way! make way!" that people might
beware in time, as is usual. A coxcomb, who thought it
beneath him to take the fellow's counsel, pushed by him,
and had his coat, which was silk, considerably torn. He
flew in a violent passion, and had the man taken before a
magistrate, pleading for payment of the damage. The coun-
tryman was interrogated, but he merely opened his mouth
"without speaking. " Are you dumb? my friend," said the
magistrate, "No," interrupted the plaintiff, "mere malice,
because he cannot defend himself; he appears dumb now,
but when we met this morning, he bawled, ' Make way!
a make way; like a Stentor; you might have heard him a
mile off."—"And why then," said the magistrate, "did you
not make way?"

ORIGINAL COMMUNICATIONS.

STRICTURES ON THE POETS OF THE PRESENT DAY.
No. 11.—ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. Poet Laureat.

Men change with fortune, Manners change with climes,
Tenets with books, and Principles with times.

ASSURED as Mr. Southey is of his im-
portance in the Literary History of his
country, none of his writings, numerous
and voluminous as they are, brought him
so conspicuously before the public as the
agitation of the question respecting his
former and his present political opinions.
The letter which he addressed to Mr.
Smith, in their vindication, is a curious
specimen of the triumph of vanity over
common-sense. " The unprovoked in-
sults," says Mr. Southey, " that have been
levelled at me both in prose and rhyme,
never induced me to retaliate: it will not
be supposed that the ability for satire was
wanting, but happily I had long since sub-
dued the inclination." And this epistle
winds" with large anticipations of his des-
tined estimation in the eyes of posterity.
Alas! how frail a thing is man, when the
toil of years in the pursuit of knowledge,
which must, while it stores the mind, give
it also a more distinct and comprehensive
view of human transienity and insignifi-
cancy—when a strict adherence to the doc-
trine and belief in the divine truths of reli-
gion cannot prevent the froth of vanity
from rising, and rendering talent contemp-
tible and morality ridiculous. In the com-
mon mass of society, it were folly to be
amazed, and fruitless to be offended at
conceit; it is one of those active agents,
those stimulating ingredients, which fate has
thrown in to neutralize the insidipity of
common life; that life, in which mind is
little more than instinct, whether in the
crowded scenes of pleasure, of petty traffic,
or mean labours. But in a mind like Mr.
Southey's, rich in the accumulated lore of

ages, with perceptions quickened, and an
intellectual eye that can look from one
world to another, and balance the infinitude
of that against the evanescence of this;
whose power of comparison is so extensive,
and of estimation so correct; that he
should cherish those feelings of happy im-
portance, we may indeed be allowed to
wonder. He also seems to presume a little
too much on his religion and morality, of
which he evidently imagines he has made a
grand monopoly; instead of enjoying it in
grateful consciousness, he is too apt to
vaunt its possession,; but

" Appear not unto men to fast; and

" When thou prayest, enter into thy chamber."

A little more charity also to his backsliding
brethren would not hurt him; for, allowing
him to be as free as any man to " cast the
first stone," it were certainly more becom-
ing to endeavour to lead the erring ones
into the right path, than barely to content
himself with pelting them for being in the
wrong.

In politics, Mr. Southey would have us
believe his motto to be " Nec rege, nec
populo, sed utroque ;" but that the king and
people do really weigh so equally with him,
we may be inclined to doubt; since even
the republican enthusiasm of Wat Tyler is
but a poor counterpoise to the quantum of
courtly adulation he has reverently laid at
the footstool of royalty.

We by no means intend a review of Mr.
Southey's works: it is a task too terrific
and uninteresting to be lightly undertaken.
On looking over Joan of Arc, Thalaba,
Madoc, Roderick, &c., we exclaim with

Lord Byron, “God help thee, Southey, and thy readers too!” These poems contain here and there scattered passages of great merit; but, taken altogether, they are heavy, dull productions; in the perusal of which, the fatigue is far greater than the pleasure.

"The Vision of Judgment," with its obsolete hexameter verse, is a tissue of absurdity; if there is a redeeming passage, it is, perhaps, the following, from the last division of that poem called "The Meeting."

The gentle Amelia
Stretched her arms to her father; there, in tenderness shedding

Tears, such as angels weep. That hand was
toward him extended

Whose last pressure he could not bear, when
merciful nature

As o'er her dying bed he bent in severest anguish,

Laid on his senses a weight, and suspended the
sorrow for ever.

He hath recovered her now: all, all that was
lost is restored him;

Hour of perfect bliss that overpalls all earthly
affliction!

They are met where change is not known, nor
sorrow, nor parting.

Death is subdued; and the grave, which con-
quers all, is conquered.

"The Poet's Pilgrimage to Waterloo" does not, in point of composition, offend the judgment; but it neither delights the fancy nor touches the heart, and might just as well have been written in prose as in rhyme. It is disgraced by virulent abuse of Napoleon, which betokens more of a party than a Christian spirit. Speaking of that ambitious man, he says—

Fear in his heart, and in his soul that hell
Whose due reward he merited so well.

Foremost again, as he was wont to be

In flight, tho' not the foremost in the strife,
The tyrant hurried on; of infamy

Regardless, nor regarding ought but life,
Oh! wretch without the courage or the faith
To die with those whom he had led to death.

This is no place to enter into the merits
or demerits of Napoleon; yet, impartiality
must award him, in common with other con-
querors of nations and destroyers of man-
kind, the praise of being a great man.

“Of Southey’s larger poems, “The Curse of Kehama” unquestionably discovers most spirit and fancy; and, excepting his minor pieces, some of which are beautiful, is the most poetical piece he has produced. The description of the wings of the “celestial spirit,” as he went

Disporting thro' his native element,

might have been very profitably studied by
Moore, when he was contemplating that
late abortion of his muse, "The Loves of
the Angels."

Angelic power and dignity and grace
Were in his glorious pennons; from the neck
Down to the angle reach'd their swelling web,
Richer than robes of Tyrian dye, that deck

Imperial majesty:

Their colour, like the winter's moonless sky
When all the stars of midnight's canopy
Shine forth; or like the azure deep at noon,
Reflecting back to heaven a brighter blue.

Such was their tint, when closed, but when out-
spread

The permeating light
Shed thro' their substance thin a varying hue;
Now bright as when the rose

Beauteous as fragrant gives to scent and sight
Alike delight; now like the juice that flows

From Duoro's generous vine,
Or ruby, when with deepest red it glows;
Or as the morning clouds refulgent shine
When at forth coming of the Lord of Day

The Orient like a shrine,
Kindles as it receives the rising ray,
And heralding his way,
Claims the presence of the Power Divine.

Thro' the broad membrane branch'd a pliant
bone,

Spreading like fibres from their parent stem;
Its vein like interwoven silver, shone,

Or as the chaster hue
Of pearls that grac'd some sultan's diadem.
Now with slow stroke and strong, behold him
smite

The buoyant air, and now in gentler flight,
On motionless wing expanded, shoot along.

The curse which Kehama denounces on
the devoted Ladurlad, is another instance
of original and energetic poetry.

I charm thy life
From the weapons of strife,
From stone and from wood,
From fire and from flood,

From the serpent's tooth,
And the beasts of blood:

From sickness I charm thee,
And time shall not harm thee,

But earth, which is mine,
Its fruit shall deny thee;
And water shall hear me,

And know thee and fly thee,
And the winds shall not touch thee

When they pass by thee,

And the dews shall not wet thee,
When they fall nigh thee;

And thou shall seek death
To release me in vain;

Thou shall live in thy pain,
While Kehama shall reign,

With a fire in thy heart
And a fire in thy brain;

And sleep shall obey me,
And visit thee never,

And the curse shall be on thee
For ever and ever.

The beautiful Kailyal may vie with
Moore's heroines, as she

— with an angel's voice of song,
Pour'd her melodious lays

Upon the gales of even;

And gliding, in religious dance, along,
Mov'd graceful as the dark-ey'd nymphs of

Heaven,

Such harmony to all her steps was given.

But she is endued with a magic beyond
that of a Zelica, or a Hinda, for

A charm was on the leopard when he came
Within the circle of that mystic glade;

Submiss he crouch'd before the heavenly maid,
And offered to her touch his speckled side;

Or with arch'd back erect, and bending head,
And eyes half closed for pleasure, wou'd he
stand,

Courting the pressure of her gentle hand.

The elephant and the antelope, tigers and
snakes, all acknowledge the powerful fasci-
nation of her song; the very monkeys forget
to gambol or to chatter; and the nightingale
joins her in sympathy, not in rivalry; it
seems,

When she stood
Beside the glassy pool, the fish, that flies
Quick as an arrow from all other eyes,
Hover'd to gaze on her.

She was in truth a miracle of a woman,

A thing

Of Heaven's prime uncorrupted work, a child
Of early nature, undefil'd;

A daughter of the years of innocence.

This peerless damsel is at length carried off as a bride to the seven-headed idol, Jagernat. In the description of the pageant that conducts her to the temple, the desire of forcible expression has led the poet into some vulgarity: for we are told more than once that the "trumpets blare," and the torches "flame and flare." The dancing girls remind us again of the author of Lalla Rookh, to whom this poem may have afforded some hints.

And sweet it was to hear the voice of song,

And the sweet music of their girdle bells;

Armlet and anklets, that, with cheerful sound,
Symphonious tinkled as they wheel'd around.

We do not pursue the story of a poem
so long and well known. The curse under
which Ladurlad suffers, is skilfully turned
to advantage. The idea,

Thou hast been called, O sleep! the friend of
woe,

But 'tis the happy who have call'd thee so,

is excellent. And Kailyal watching the
 ascent of Ereenia, beautiful.

Her eye the while was on the farthest sky,
Where, up the ethereal height,
Ereenia rose and past away from sight;

Never had she so joyfully
Beheld the coming of the Glendover,

Dear as he was, and he deserv'd to be,
As now she saw him rise and disappear.

"Come now what will!" within her heart
said she,

"For thou art safe, and what have I to fear?"

But proceeding a few pages, we are of-
fended with such doggrel as this:

They went their way along the road
That lead to Zamen's dread abode.

The following comparison of the spirits
of infants is a happy one, though not well
expressed:

Less pure than these, is that strange Indian bird,
Who never dips in earthly stream her bill,

But when the sound of coming shower is heard,
Looks up, and from the clouds receives her fill.

born

AVC—

ell,

Less pure the footless fowl of heaven, that never
Rest upon earth, but on the wing for ever
Hovering o'er flowers their favourite food inhale,
Drink the descending dew upon its way,
And sleep aloft while floating on the gale.

The concluding verse of this singular
poem is beautiful.

the Lord of Death,
With love benignant, on Ladurlad smil'd,
And gently on his head his blessing laid.

As sweetly as a child,

Whom neither thought disturbs, nor care en-
cumbers,

Tired with long play, at close of summer day,
Lies down and slumbers.

Even thus as sweet a boon of sleep partaking,
By Yamen blest, Ladurlad sunk to rest.

The Indian Mythology is skilfully adopt-
ed; many of the descriptions are grand,
and the whole poem inculcates principles
and feelings highly laudatory. The notes
are interesting and entertaining.

If the praise of great genius cannot be
awarded Mr. Southey, at least he may lay

Ho claim to those much more useful, though
less flattering qualities, industry and eru-
dition. Few of the present day can cope

The


De

RECOLLECTIONS OF ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH.

By VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND, lately Ambassador from the Court of France to Great Britain, and now Minister of Foreign Affairs.

WERE it not that a sublime instinct
just attaches man to his native country, the
in most natural state of existence would be
that of a traveller. A certain restlessness
incessantly urges us to wander from home;
that we wish to see all, and yet we are dissatis-
fied, even after having seen all we can. I

I have travelled through several regions of the
globe; but I confess I have observed the de-
sart better than I have observed men, among
whom, after all, solitude is often found.

I made but short visits to the Germans,
the Portuguese, and the Spaniards; but I
lived for a considerable time among the

English. As the latter are now the only
to people who dispute the dominion of Eu-
orropo with the French,* the smallest de-
mus

quer * These Observations on England were writ-
kindlen at the time when all the Powers of the Con-

with him in these particulars. The Life of
Wesley, of Nelson, the History of Brazil,
&c. &c. all stand forth as instances of
either one or the other. But he might long
since have been reminded that

A hard may chaunt too often and too long.

Had he written less, he would have written
better, and laid a surer foundation for the
future fame, of which he is so desirous and
so certain. The Bucolics of Virgil employ-
ed that great bard of antiquity seven years;
and after eleven, during which his Eneid
was under his hands, he regarded it as im-
perfect. Diodorus Siculus was thirty years
engaged on his history. These, however,
are extreme cases, mentioned rather as
instances than examples; since this slow
procedure of labour is better suited to the
patriarch, than the being whose ephemeral
existence counts, perhaps, at the utmost,
but three score years and ten. Yet writers
should beware of " a fatal facility," and of
an unintermitted draught upon the springs
of thought, for they hazard injuring the
sources, or inducing only shallow streams.
Zeuxis, the painter, replied to one who
boasted of his fluency, " I paint but a
line a day, but I paint for posterity."

tails respecting them cannot fail to be in-
teresting.

Erasmus is the oldest traveller I know
of, who has furnished us with any ac-
counts of the English. When he visited
London, in the reign of Henry VIII., he
saw nothing but savages and smoky huts.
At a later period, Voltaire, in picturing a
perfect philosopher, places him among the
Quakers on the banks of the Thames. The
taverns of Great Britain became the haunts
of powerful genius, the abodes of true liberty,
tinent had been subdued by the arms of Napo-
leon, and had acknowledged him as Emperor.
They have been considered of so much importance
as to have been very recently sarcastically ani-
madverted on in our SENATE. We have, there-
fore, thought them, as objects of curiosity, well
worthy our readers' attention.—(Note of the
Editor.)

THE

BEAUTY OF THE BRITISH ALPS;

OR,

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

BY

M. L. GRIMSTONE.

THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY.

iv

thus being enabled to make some corrections. But this unfortunate performance was pre-destined to go forth with all its faults upon its head, my going abroad precluding any possibility of my devoting any further attention to its pages.

Under these circumstances, as well as its being a first essay, I hope to win some indulgence from my readers, and trust that they will not suffer the errors of the present, to prejudice the future efforts of the same pen.

My first novel which I began without any faith in my powers for such a work, and finished without any feeling of satisfaction. It was a very humored production, and bears all the marks of it. I always had a hearty contempt for it. The pride of seeing myself in print soon went off, and then I use often to feel humiliation when I recurred to what I had written. This I think arose from my having an ideal standard of excellence below which I could not be pleased with myself.

It was on the high seas when this novel was published. My apology is strictly true. I had made no outline of my story, working it entirely in my head; and I had sent my first draught to the premiums. All the copy, unknown to me, was sent, as I parted with it, to Baford. So when after the bustle of my early marriage, and just before I set off for the Isle of Wight, I was compelled to trust to my memory, - it did not fail me.

Home

Anniversary for the Poor.

30

The circle of a virtuous home, cemented
by the affinity of blood, and the force of habit, pre-
sents a bond of unity the most permanent and com-
plete, every member of which from the cradle to the
grave can never under any circumstances be as
strangers to each other. When this seat of the most
endearing virtues and kindliest emotions is desolated
by neglect, or embroiled by discord; how heavy is
the penalty attached to the perpetration of a crime so
flagrant. When we contemplate the goodness of our
Creator in giving us hearts of susceptibility, and ob-
jects to awaken them, and reason to judge between
the good and the evil, how opposite to every precept
of gratitude and common sense, appears the wayward
choice mankind too often make. Placed like our
first parents in a home of abundant sources of happi-
ness, the arch fiend, not as of old in the form of a
serpent, but in that of pleasure, beckons the young
wife from her fire-side; intercepts the husband in his
way home; tempts the disobedient daughter and the
erring son: and while every one of these start for
fleeting enjoyment down a different path, they all ulti-
mately meet again in shame, in sorrow, and in repent-
ance in the last gloomy stage of the Road to Ruin.
But I believe I am fancying myself in the pulpit, and
am literally preaching, rather than conversing."

Sing

Beauty of the B. Alms.

"I may not tell the thoughts that steal
Too often o'er my pillow'd rest;

I may not breathe the hope I feel,
When Fancy tells me to be blest.

I may not tell the form she shows,
The smiles with which she fills my train;

And least of all I dare disclose
The fears that chase those dreams again."

"But I may tell of wishes pure
As e'er to holiest hopes were given;

And I may tell of prayers I'm sure
That have their registry in Heaven;

For they were warmly breathed for one
From every taint of folly free.

O! be his fate one line of sun;
Leave all its sombre shades to me."

Thid

"I beg your pardon, my dear Emilia, it is the result of a wrong system. Treat a man as a brute, and he becomes such. The distance between the high and low in England, is greater than in any other country I have visited. While the great are perhaps the most refined, enlightened and luxurious in the world; the low, I mean the most subordinate ranks, are the very reverse. Penal laws are enacted to correct their aberrations, but any effort to afford them innocent amusement is never thought of. The people left to themselves choose those which are most easily attained, or which their own debased imaginations suggest. The bow cannot be always bent. The sinews of toil must sometimes relax; they cease from labour, only to indulge in excess. While the poor of France and Switzerland are dancing, singing, and conversing, the poor of England are stupifying themselves in alehouses."

"I must confess," said Lady Milsom, "I sometimes blush for my country, and never more so than when I am in Paris. There all the exhibitions, so rich in the works of art, and the productions of nature, are open to the public. The poor and rich, the humble and the elevated, are equally at liberty to study and admire them, and never do you hear of a vulgar hand profaning or dispoiling one specimen of the wonders of the world, however much it may be above his power to estimate or comprehend it. No, the French appear to me to have an intuitive admiration of genius. To pay it deference, and attention, wherever and however they meet it."

"And how different is the picture of London!" cried Lord Elmer. One place, and one only is open gratuitously to the public, the British Museum. Where are our public gardens? Why even that paltry place the Temple, is guarded with an iris cratic suspicion, that excludes even those whose bearing bespeaks them of a better order."

Sing

Thid

"Twas sad to leave thy shore
Sweet island of my birth,
For thou to me art more
Than any spot on earth.

And shall I ever tread again
Thy green and flow'ry vales,
And seek, and ah! not seek in vain,
Sweet health from thy free gales?

Come balmy breath of Britain,
And fan my fainting brow,
Come balmy breath of Britain,
And call me homeward now.

How light along thy meads
My childish footsteps strayed!
Though ebbing time recedes,
Thy image shall not fade:

Still green in memory borne,
Though far away I rove,

To thee, to thee I turn
My home of early love.

Come balmy breath of Britain,
And fan my fainting brow,
Come balmy breath of Britain,
And call me homeward now."

Thid

"Diane," she said as she held Adela's hand, and gazed with maternal delight on her intelligent countenance, "was my cousin, and though many years older than me, we were much together. Her lively wit and animated beauty, won a heart formed to love with the deepest, truest tenderness; and in early life she became a wife and mother, and might have been a happy one. She had rank and beauty, wealth and love, many virtues and much intellect; you will ask then what made her otherwise?—the want of temper. Believe me if it is not the inspirer, it is certainly the preserver of love. She was often gay, but she was not habitually cheerful; as the darkest nights will emit momentary flashes of brilliancy, but it is the day that dispenses sunshine. She rattled in society, but never harmonized with it; even with all the aid of wit, she was but the comet of the company, whose erratic lustre caught by surprize and dazzled for a moment; but neither warmed the heart, nor exhilarated the mind. Captivated by her brilliancy Monsieur Lorraine made her an offer of his hand, which she accepted. While the change was yet new, and the little difficulties and duties inseparable from her station were yet distant, she lost little of her *ecat*; but, like all false ornament, the gilding gradually wore away. She became petulant to her husband, tyrannical to her servants, irritable with her children. In vain Lorraine reminded her, that all that is done by violence, can be effected as well, nay much better, by gentleness: that the *request* is often complied with, when the *command* is defied: that when the sun and the wind attacked the traveller with the view of inducing him to part with his cloak, all the boisterous force of the latter, only induced him to wrap it more closely around him, while he instantly surrendered it to the melting influence of the sun. These and similar arguments I have frequently heard him use, but they availed nothing. The moment she rose her voice was heard in murmurings or upbraidings. She spoke of the most simple, most trifling things with asperity. Her servants revolted from her authority; the duties which under proper management, they would have performed with cheerfulness, they neglected or only half did. Her children, whose minds were cultivated and regulated by their father, who had much difficulty in counteracting the ill effects of their mother's example, forbore it is true to oppose her openly; but they internally condemned her proceedings, and often reasoned among themselves on her want of temper and conduct. Reasoning is fatal to all government, whether domestic or political, where the ruler is faulty. As might be supposed, it weakened their affection and lessened their respect for her. Frequently have I known them experience more pleasure in a refusal from their father, than in a compliance from their mother. Thus, though possessed of some of the sterling virtues which constitute a wife, a mother, and the mistress of a family; like a diamond that wants the advantages of cutting and setting, neither her friends, her children, nor her servants, gave her credit for the good qualities she really possessed.

"It is very certain," cried Clarence, "that the ranks of genius owe infinitely less to the elevated than to the humble classes of mankind. The man of genius is ennobled by the gifts of God: the man of rank by those of kings. Which is the higher source? Which are the proudest distinctions? Demosthenes was the son of a smith. Virgil's father was a potter. Cicero's an obscure Roman; though some maintain his lineal descent from the Sabine kings: but were it so, had all the blood of all the Sabine monarchs conferred distinction upon him beyond the period in which he lived, would it have transmitted him to posterity as his genius has done?"

The court party, not inclined for controversy, pretended to be occupied by their own topics of debate, and the opposing party lost some of the piquancy they would have sported, from meeting no opposition. The contested ball is the only one that is pursued with spirit.

"How much genius can fling its golden light on origins the most obscure and degrading," observed Seeton, "the literary history of every country attests. What was *Franklin*? What was *Rousseau*? did his father's being a cobler deteriorate from the magic of his style, the delicacy of his sensibility, the elegance of his ideas? *Diderot* was the child of a watchmaker; *Fiecaier* of a tallow-chandler; *Massillon* of a tanner. The literary phalaux of England is perhaps still more solid—Johnson—Akenside—might head a list too tedious to enumerate."

The sense of suffering loses half its poignancy when we feel it to be undeserved: hence the heroism of martyrs. The martyr has that glowing at his heart, which acts as an antidote to the torture he is doomed to suffer: buoyed up with enthusiasm and self-applause, his sufferings are mitigated more than would readily be imagined. This turn of thought and sentiment has borne me, insensible to mental and physical anguish, through many a rough path. Perhaps the vast space that I have traversed, the various scenes in which I have mixed, the very altitude of the mountains on which I have often paused to meditate, have contributed to foster, and strengthen these ideas, since the mind is greatly affected by external objects. Perhaps tied down to some soul-subduing pursuit, deprived of the power of locomotion, and fresh air, I might have sunk, like many an unpitied wretch, withered and debased, helpless and repining. The misfortune which drives a man to active and laborious exertion, even at the most inadequate recompense, makes him far less an object of pity, than that severer fate which leaves him in lone obscurity, saps his spirits, and invades his energies."

"The boy was a perfect Bacchus, his almost ruddy limbs were full and beautifully rounded, his little hand fat and dimpled, his black, laughing eyes, sparkling with the very glee of life, and his bright brown hair curled in short crisp curls all over his head, and round a face, brown indeed, but enlivened with the rosiest hue of life and beauty. His little joyous laugh made the field ring again, and showed his white teeth (a somewhat new acquisition,) through lips that rivalled the ' red, red rose.'

"His sweet sister gazed on him as though her heart was in her eyes, in fact it had hardly been possible for one with a hundredth part of her susceptibility and affection, to have seen him kicking, crowing, and laughing, as if he was only made to be merry, without intuitively imbibing the spirit that animated him. The smile that played about her beautiful mouth, the light that streamed from her delighted eyes, are those recollections, which we can never know the luxury of imparting, since, though impossible to forget, it is equally impossible to describe them.

"A wreath of blue bells and lilies, neither so pure as the brow and bosom on which they lay, with which she had in playfulness encircled her head, the young rioter had half torn off; and with it brought down her luxuriant hair from the comb which had confined it, and sent it in sweet confusion floating on her shoulders; this feat, to judge by his most obstreperous mirth and antics, gave him no common degree of satisfaction.

I have always beenclimbed
happily in my desertion of
isolations. Got help at so much I
bore them so - have such
a moral sense of their
beauty.

Whatever faults and vices may be found conco-
mitant with a cultivated imagination, cold unsympa-
thizing inhumanity is rarely one of them; an appeal
to the feelings of such is always acknowledged, although
claims on their justice may often remain unanswered.

MP T.P. COOKE as LONG TOM COFFIN

Adversity has been called the school of virtue: it is that comparative adversity then, that quickens industry and prompts exertion; which, though wanting comforts, is not destitute of necessaries, and which can look forward to the future with some confidence. Extreme poverty, as subjecting man to great temptations or enfeebling his energies, is as inimical to

virtue as to exertion. The first is the bracing air of a
cold morning, which animates the pedestrian to a
quicker pace: the last is the intense inclemency of a
winter's night, which benumbs the limbs and stag-
nates the blood, which produces torpor and insensi-
bility. Independence is the best groundwork of vir-
tue, the healthy soil in which the salutary seed, sown
by the hand of industry, yields a productive harvest.
He who earns a sufficiency to meet the common calls
of nature, though unable to vie in appearance or share
in the pleasures of thousands that surround him, has
still that which will preserve his integrity from taint,
and his feelings from insult. But the precarious state
of that being who to-day has, and to-morrow has not,
who feels the cravings of nature without the means

"The boy was full ofna
limbs were full of vir-
hand fat and din of t
ling with the ve of
hair curled in sl of
round a face, but in
rosiest hue of lif still
made the field of
teeth (a somewhat of
rivalled the ' rec who
who feels the
to satisfy them, is one in which honour must yield to
necessity, and the delicacy of feeling be disregarded.
When want, misfortune, and we will say misconduct,
first send forth their victim, the remains of his better
nature recoils from that which every where presents
itself; he returns into himself to shudder over degra-
dation tamely submitted to, to recollect rudeness and
churlishness calmly acquiesced in; but the nerve that
has been long exposed will grow callous; his feelings
will gradually lose their poignancy, till at last he will
court debasement if it brings a recompense. Tempt-
ation to crime assails him. The alternative of punish-
ment is little dreaded by one who can scarcely be
made more wretched, and there is a chance that his
delinquency may escape detection. It is thus, one by
one, poverty throws down the barriers of integrity,
sent it in sweet confusion floating
on
her shoulders; this feat, to judge by his most obstre-
perous mirth and antics, gave him no common degree
of satisfaction.

"His sweet si
was in her eye
for one with a
and affection, to
jaughing, as if h
intuitively imbi
The smile that I\light that stream
recollections, w
imparting, since
equally impossible

"A wreath of
as the brow and
she had in pla
rioter had half
her luxuriant
fined it, and sent
her shoulders; this
on her shouldering
perous mirth and antics, gave him no common degree
of satisfaction.

I have always beenclimbed
happy in my description of
humans. Got help it is not I
take them so - have such
a kind sense of their
beauty.

and the mind resigns every principle of honour—
every precept of virtue: that it should be so the phi-
anthropist will mourn, but must forbear to censure.

Prudence

32

DEAN Swift very foolishly calls prudence an aldermanic virtue, he should rather have termed it a cardinal one. It is the want of that grand supervisor, that has so often rendered the possession of all the other virtues valueless and unavailing, since it is seldom the world gives a man credit for much worth who has fallen into much error. And when have the imprudent done otherwise? Their faults are almost involuntary: acting from impulse, they never pause to reflect till it is too late, and then conscious, whatever may be the consequences of their conduct, that it originated in no deliberate baseness, they find little difficulty in forgiving and palliating their errors to themselves. Having thus made their self-confessions, like a newly shriven sinner they throw off the remembrance of their misconduct, and the sage counsels of experience together, and sin against prudence and common sense with as much facility as ever. No such lenity actuates those who sit in judgment over them—society at large, looks only to results and consequences; the various circumstances of fortune and feeling, of temptation and temperament, that give a peculiar bearing to every case, is never taken into consideration. We might as well expect the wholesale dealer to weigh his bales and hogsheads with the apothecary's weights, and adjust his balance to a grain. Those that expect such a nicity of justice are mistaken; the world, as the dealers in it, of what class and denomination soever, have very little to do with scruples.

It matters not whether the insolvent has become so by the treachery of false friends, or the trickeries of false dice; it is enough that he has made a sudden acquaintance with the sheriff's officer; and a bailiff will keep friends at bay more successfully, than the baying of the watchdog does thieves. His name in the gazette is the only part of him they desire to gaze at. His entrée and his exit are contrasted, and a very unceremonious vito. is recorded against him.

The imprudence of the other sex is visited with even still greater severity; and when once she steps

It has been remarked of my father and myself that we were always preaching prudence but never proving it. This is very true, and very natural.

Pendent people do not tell others to the prudent because they do not feel the necessity of so doing. They would do so soon, think of telling them to breathe. They have never smarted from the want of it, — it is the poor man that knows the enjoyment at-

tendant on having money.

Prudence

32

DEAN Swift very foolishly calls prudence an aldermanic virtue, he should rather have termed it a cardinal one. It is the want of that grand supervisor, that has so often rendered the possession of all the other virtues valueless and unavailing, since it is seldom the world gives a man credit for much worth who has fallen into much error. And when have the imprudent done otherwise? Their faults are almost involuntary: acting from impulse, they never pause to reflect till it is too late, and then conscious, what-

than the latter post. Prudence has been so constantly known to flourish where no other flower took root—to spring in rank luxuriance, and afford the shelter of its shade to parsimony, cowardice, selfishness, and all uncharitableness, that an indirect slur has been thrown on a quality known to be indigenous to the miser, and the mercenary, the crafty, and the cowardly. Imbecility always crouches for protection behind the shield of prudence; the weak and timid do not advance a step, without first putting forth their feelers, as the snail does its antennas, to ascertain that there is no danger. The sordid and avaricious amass their money, and dispense their stinted boons, under this mask.

But prudence, rightly understood, is one of the most desirable and essential qualities of mind. It is the rudder of conduct, and wit sits vainly at the stern when that is wanting. To this deficiency might Clancee trace the series of misfortune that had marked his brief career. Headlong impatience, and unconstrained passion were his Scylla and Charybdis: and he had that singular peculiarity, which belongs to the professedly imprudent, of being insensible to the warnings of experience. He seemed to get out of one dilemma only to be in readiness to fall into ano-

tricity, in the hope of gaining credit for the possession her.

of their occasional concomitants—wit and talent. It
may also arise from a consciousness, that as prudence
is a negative rather than a positive virtue, it is as often
the defence of the wicked as the guard of the worthy.
and is perhaps more frequently found at the former

from the pedestal of reputation, she is lost irrevo-
cably.

"The traveller, if he chance to stray,
May turn uncensured to his way :
Polluted streams again are pure,
And deepest wounds admit a cure !
But woman no redemption knows,
The wounds of honour never close."

Vainly she pleads the blandishments of her seducer;
the proneness of her own heart to love and tender-
ness; the circumstances that threw her into his dan-
gerous power, and that left her wholly at his mercy.
Her imbecility and his baseness are items with which
the world have nothing to do, and the broad brand of
infamy stigmatizes alike the victim of one repented
error, and the reckless perpetratress of a hundred.

Since then the want of prudence is often equiva-
lent to the want of virtue, and visited as severely; it
is somewhat surprising that it is so universally under-
rated: and while every other virtue is by turns affected,
we so seldom find people pretending to this. Perhaps
this inconsistency may be accounted for, from the
circumstance, that this mild preservative of the eco-
nomy of life is seldom found co-existent with genius.

People will therefore affect improvidence and eccen-
tricity, in the hope of gaining credit for the possession her.

It

It has been remarked of my
father and myself that
we were always preaching
prudence but never prac-
ticing it. This is very
true, and very natural.

Prudent people do not
tell others to be prudent
because they do not feel
the necessity of so doing.
They would do so soon think
of telling them to treat
them as children.

They have never smarred
from the want of it, —
it is the poor man that
knows the enjoyment at-
tendant on having money.

Beauty of the B. C. Plutus.

And what is she, whose liquid strain
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane?
I know that soul-entrancing swell!
It is—it must be—Philomel!
'Enough, enough! the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,—
The flashes of the summer sky

Assume a deeper, ruddier dye;
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep, to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.

But oh! with thankful hearts, confess
Even here there may be happiness;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given

His peace on earth—His hope of heaven.

TO MY SISTERS, IN VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.

OCEANS divide us,—billows roar,
My Mary dear, 'twixt you and me;

And many a day must pass before,
Dear Lucy, I shall gaze on thee:

But trust me, in a brother's heart,
Through every change of good or ill;

Both of you have reserved a part,
Sacred to you, my sisters, still.

Oft as the sunbeams fade at eve,
With joy I bid the light adieu;

That seems to tell me at its leave,
It only flies to shine on you;*

And when at blushing morn it comes,
Bright seems its glowing light to me;

For oh! upon each beam here blooms,
A welcoming, dear girls, from thee.

The reader need scarcely be reminded that when it is eight o'clock
is six in the morning, in Van Dieman's Land.

A LOUISA

Aug. 10, 1925

I got tired of one already
Aede; however, takes a
improver hawthorn in my
the good on improving in
a ratio, when she
seems by now her again.
I danger this sunny
a mask from having
but that omission can
not. I trust you are
in your fatigue, when
as as now at home,
to writing to morrow.

If fun, if not munday after post time.

Try, given my love to Mammis, if you
remember to our brothers & believe
me my dear sister very affectionately,
Arthur Adley

34

When lingering in the silent night,
And gazing upon Heaven's brow;

I pause to ask, beneath its light,
"Where is my Mary roaming now?"

As round the blazing hearth we're met,
There seems a place reserved,—and there,

Some fond voice says with vain regret,
*That* was our darling Lucy's chair?

Our ev'ning rambles, and our schemes
For future bliss, when life was new;

Alas! they were but idle dreams,
Too bright, too lovely, to be true;

Like stars that fall in summer's night,
Are the day-dreams we cannot banish,

As bright, as brief, we hail their sight,
And love them, though we know they'll vanish.

My childhood's follies,—boyhood's faults,
Are anguish to me;—time and truth

Hold up their glass;—my mind revolts
At view of my untoward youth.

And oh! by many a memory stung,
I weep warm tears of madd'ning pain;

That e'er by act or word I wrung
The breasts I may not press again.

For vanished hours and scenes arise,
Like echoes on the mind and heart,

That tell us we too lightly prize
Our dearest joys, 'till they depart;

And then—oh! then, afar, alone,
What would we barter to regain,

The look, the smile, the voice, the tone,
We look for, listen for in vain.

When shall we meet again? Alas!
Full many an hour I ask me this,

As former days in memory pass,
Pale spectres of departed bliss:

"When shall we meet," 'tis vain to ask;
But we *shall* meet, mid smile and tears,
To tell of many a weary task,
The toils, the griefs of parted years—

Shall meet as we were wont to meet
And mingle round our mother's hearth,
And hours as bright, and words as sweet,

Are yet to bloom for as on earth,
Enmingled all that's near and dear,
To every mind and every heart;

Free too from every care and fear,
No more to sigh—no more to part.

WILLIAM LEMAN REDE.

THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.
BY MRS. HEMANS.

'TWAS a lovely thought to mark the hours
As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers,
That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup or bell,
In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed
In a golden current on,
Ere from the garden, man's first abode,
The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told—
Those days of song and dreams—

When shepherds gathered their flocks of old,
By the blue Arcadian streams.

This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnaeus, and marked the hours
at opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged

Aug. 10, 1825

34

No. 14.—MR. BERNARD BARTON.

'Tis not enough that poems barely please
The judgment—they the soul should seize.

THE brief celebrity of this gentleman is a
proof how much public attention is caught
by extrinsic circumstances. A quaker poet
was something new, and novelty is the
most delightful of all things. Curiosity
was immediately awakened to see how a
member of that passionless sect, that grave
and reserved people, could touch the many
chorded lyre of the muses. This avidity
was allayed as soon as it was raised: every
body has read, and praised, and laid aside
his poems; and, whatever may be the am-
bition of Mr. Barton's breast—and though a
quaker we have reason to believe it not in-
considerable—he must be content to fall into
the ranks with many pleasing versifiers of
the period, since, unless his genius catches a
higher tone, he will never occupy a leading
or commanding post.

When we first heard of him as a poet,
we were afraid of next hearing he had been
read out of the meeting; but this idea was
immediately dissipated by the vein of sweet
and unaffected morality that runs through
his poetry; and at a time when the highest
orders of genius are degraded and profaned
by a gross vein of libertinism and impiety,
we were not a little pleased at meeting
with a volume of poetry that we might fear-
lessly leave on the sofa in the drawing room,

or request a fair friend to read a few pages
of for our amusement. Poetry is never
heard to greater advantage than under the
circumstance we have last mentioned; and
it was to that cause probably, as much as to
the merit of the verses, that we were par-
ticularly pleased with the following lines.

TO THE SUN.

Then, then how beautiful across the deep,
The lustre of thy orient light!
Onward, still onward, o'er the waves that leap
So lovelily, and shew their crests of white;
The eye, unsated, in its own despite,
Still up that vista gazes; till thy way
Over the waters seems a pathway bright
For holiest thoughts to travel, there to pay
Man's homage unto him who bade thee " RULE
THE DAY. "

O! then it is delightful to behold
Thy calm departure; soothing to survey
Through opening clouds, by thee all edged with
gold,

The milder pomp of thy declining sway :
How beautiful, on church-tower old and grey,
Is shed thy parting smile ! how brightly glow
Thy last beams on some tall trees' loftiest
spray,

While silvery mists half veil the trunk below,
And hide the rippling stream that scarce is
heard to flow !

THE gifts of nature, unlike the gifts of
fortune, are distributed with impartiality;
the fortuitous circumstances of birth, con-
nexion, or country, have neither weight
nor influence: the "inspiring mantle" fell
on Burns at the plough, and on Bloomfield
at an occupation yet more uncongenial to
the muses, and proves how independent of
local circumstances are the operations of
the mind. Immured in the chamber of
squalid and meagre poverty; chained down
to a sordid trade by the strong hand of
necessity; wanting every incentive to
quicken his fancy or stimulate his feelings;
with a heart oppressed and a mind humi-
liated by a thousand painful privations,
the excursive imagination of Bloomfield
wandered away upon the wing of memory,
to scenes of vernal nature, rustic inno-
cence, and rural simplicity. Burns was in
the presence of objects calculated to in-
spire poetical ideas; healthy exercise and
fresh air acted benignly on his organization:
he had also the advantage of society, at
first neither so select nor distinguished as
he had afterwards the good fortune to
meet; but yet it enabled him to give
free vent to his ideas, and was therefore
certainly favorable to the circulation of
thought. Poor Bloomfield had none of
these advantages; it is not meant to bring
him into comparison with Burns, any fur-
ther than as the mere circumstances of
their humble fortunes and limited edu-
cation create a parallel: for the latter had
a vigour and fire of soul, which the happiest
lot had not elicited from the former. In
estimating Bloomfield's poems, we must re-
vert to the circumstances under which they
were produced, or our estimation of them
would fall far short of the public voice
when they first appeared. Their chief
beauties are nature and simplicity; and
their great merits the absence of all affec-
tation, plagiarism, or syophancy; charges
to which too many writers lie open.
The last is particularly rare, for poverty
"slopes the way" to the baseness of ser-
vile adulation. How often has genius fallen
prostrate, and meanly grovelled in the dust
to pompous patronage, or desubstantive re-
volting to our nature; for we feel with
Pierre, "Better to die like men, than to
be sold as slaves." As to the charge of
plagiarism, it is one of the few advantages
of an uneducated author, that, being left
solely to his own resources, memory does
not play the cheat upon him, and present
"faded recollections" as the offsprings of
his own imagination. Thompson's Seasons
Bloomfield is described as particularly de-
voted to, and it probably suggested "The
Farmer's Boy," or at least its arrange-
ment; yet we are no where offended by
appropriation or imitation. This, though
his first, may be looked upon as his best
production, and we shall turn to it for an
extract or two, none happier than his de-
scription of Harvest Home.

Now, ere sweet Summer bids its long adieu,
And winds blow keen where late the blossom
grew;

No. 10.—ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

"The fields his study, nature was his book."

The bustling day and jovial night must come,
The long accustomed feast of HARVEST HOME;
No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright,
Can give the philosophic mind delight;
No triumph please, whileroge and death destroy;
Reflection sickens at the monstrous jug.

And where the joy, if rightly understood,
Like cheering praise for universal good?

Behold the sound oak table's massy frame
Bestrides the kitchen floor! The careful dame
And generous host invite their friends around,
For all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground;
Are friends by right of custom :

Here once a year distinction lowrs its crest,
The master, servant, and the merry guest
Are equal all; and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
And warmed with gratitude he quits his place,
With sun-burnt hands, and ale-enlivened face,
Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend,
To serve at once the master and the friend;
Proud then to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.

The description of the lunatic girl is
good.

Her matted locks unornamented flow :

Clasping her knees and waving to and fro;

Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide
A piteous mourner by the pathway's side.

Some tufted mole-hill through the livelong day
She calls her throne—there weeps her life away.

And oft the gaiety-passing stranger stays

His well tim'd step, and takes a silent gaze;
Till sympathetic drops unbroken start,

And pangs quick springing moustern round his
heart;

And soft he trends with other gazers round,

And fain would catch her sorrow's plaintive
sound;

One word alone is all that strikes the ear,

One short, pettish, simple word,—Oh dear!

A thousand times repeated to the wind,

That wafts the sigh, but leaves the pang behind.

The Miseries of the Post-Horse are for-
cibly pictured.

Hir'd at each call of business, lust, or rage,

That prompts the traveller on from stage to stage;

Still on his strength depends their boasted speed;

For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs
bleed;

And though he groaning quickens at command,
Their extra shilling in the rider's hand

Becomes his bitter scourge,—"is he must feel

The double efforts of the lash and steel ;

Till when, up hill, the destin'd hill he gains,

And trembling under complicated pains,

Drops chase each other down his chest and sides,

And spattered mud his native colour hides ;

Through his swoll'n veins the boiling torrent
flows,

And every nerve a sey'rate torture knows.

In a highly favorable review of "The
Farmer's Boy," Dr. Drake concludes with
these words. "It is a work which proves
how inexhaustible the features of the world
we inhabit: how from objects which the
mass of mankind is daily accustomed to
pass with indifference and neglect, genius
can still produce pictures the most fasci-
nating, and of the most interesting ten-
dency. For it is not to imagery alone,
though such as here depicted might ensure
the meed of fame, that "The Farmer's
Boy" will owe its value with us and with
postersity: a morality the most pathetic
and pure, the feelings of a heart alive to
all the tenderest duties of humanity and
religion, consecrate its glowing landscapes,
and shed an interest over them; a spirit of
devotion, that calm rational delight, which
the goodness and greatness of the Creator
ought ever to inspire."

Of his rural tales it is difficult to say which
deserves the preference. "The Miller's

Maid" is a simple pettish story; "Ri-
chard and Kate," admirably true to nature;
"Walter and Jane," &c. &c. all written
in a manner calculated to inspire that pure
and cheerful pleasure which the contem-
plation of innocence and virtue excites.
None of the tales in "May Day with the
Muses" will bear comparison with them.
The circumstance of this last production
being written "in anxiety and a wretched
state of health" disarms criticism, or
otherwise it is highly amenable to censure
for negligence and peurility. "The Drun-
ken Father" is perhaps the best tale in the
book. Yet "May Day" has still traces of
Bloomfield's happiest efforts; the crowning
of good Sir Ambrose presents a lively pic-
ture to the eye.

Nine ruddy lasses follow'd where she slept;

White were their virgin robes, that lightly swept

The downy grass; in every laughing eye

Cupid had sculched, and written "victory."

A slender chaplet of fresh blossoms bound

Their clustering ringlets in a magic round;

And as they slowly moved across the green,

Each in her beauty seemed a May Day Queen.

The first a wreath bore in her outstretched hand,

The rest a single rose upon a wand :

Their steps were measured to that grassy throne,

Where, watching them, Sir Ambrose sat alone.

They stopp'd,—when she, the foremost of the row,

Curtsied, and placed the wreath upon his brow :

The rest, in order pacing by his bower,

In the loop'd wreath each left her single flower.

"The Banks of the Wye" is an unhappy
poem, of which, when we have read, we
do not care to remember a line. Plain
good sense is in general the character of
Bloomfield's writings: but this abounds
with passages of impenetrable obscurity,
and dull expletive; it is also defective in
the grammar, the adjectieve being continu-
ally used for the adverb. It is evidently
the forced offspring of a mind ill disposed
to the task, and a weary one he doubtless
found it. A descriptive poem, such as

"The Banks of the Wye" ought to have
been, asks far other and far higher powers
than his. Considering all his disadvan-
tages, Bloomfield has given that to the
world which will long do honour to his
name; but it is a question whether he has
not come to the conclusion of "William
and Jonathan," which "plainly proves
that poetry's not half so good as leather."

And, as far as the question concerns the
public, we cannot but feel that such writers

only afford a temporary gratification. Ge-
nius, however perfect or powerful, re-
quires labour and education to mature and
refine it: one Byron is worth a thousand
Bloomfields or Clares. When we visit a
mart, we expect to see it furnished with
articles highly finished in the respective
branches of the arts. In such a place, it
would weigh little with us to be shewn

a carriage, for which we must make allow-
ance because it was made by a shipbuidler ;
we might gratify ourselves by a momentary
inspection, but should certainly have no
desire to become a purchaser. With the
same feeling we enter the mart of litera-
ture, and would willingly (oh ! that it were
possible) see the questionable efforts of
the ill-fated and the ill-witted excluded.

Not that we wish to erect a literary
aristocracy: far from it, our only desire is
to see genius qualify itself ere it appears,
since without the necessary aids of learn-
ing and education it had; in most cases,
better not appear at all. Genius is the

RUSSIAN LOVE.

THERE are circumstances of distress which throw an interest around those involved in them, far greater than the most lavish gifts of a prosperous fortune could confer. Squalid poverty and pallid disease, even while they awake compassion and open the hand of benevolence, excite an almost involuntary disgust; and having relieved, we gladly pass on, unwilling to contemplate longer than may be absolutely necessary, objects so painful to our feelings, so degrading to our common nature. But the distress which still preserves the propriety of better fortune, the dejection evinced only by the pale cheek, the forced and infrequent smile, and the reserve that is assumed as a shelter from observation, these are attendant circumstances which plead to the susceptibilities of the heart and seize the imagination.

Thus circumsanced was Frederick Wolmar, when the fate of battle had placed him among the number of the unfortunate prisoners of war at Soissons, in 1813. To a countenance and form noble and expressive, the continual contemplation of his own and his wretched compatriots' misfortunes gave an air of deep melancholy. As he traversed the streets, the abstraction visible in his features plainly indicated that his soul was in his native Russia, and that its pent-up energies burned for freedom and for action. Whether it were that the

general ferment in which all Europe was at that period involved indurated the hearts of men, or whether the despotic government of the modern Caesar were inimical to the existence of the kinder charities of life, certain it is that Frederick found little in Soissons to soothe the rigour of his fate. *Des véritables malheureux*, as the unfortunate prisoners were generally termed, experienced every extreme of wretchedness; and Frederick, whom peculiar circumstances had afforded some little funds, did all in his power to relieve their necessities, while he participated in their sorrows. Thus had passed nearly five months, when he was one day suddenly recognized by Sir Harcourt Aimworth, whom he had known in Russia, and to whom he had once rendered an essential service. After the first warm expressions of salutation, Sir Harcourt introduced Captain Wolmar to a young Frenchman of distinguished air, his companion. This was the first kindly beam of fortune that had risen upon Frederick since his capture. Sir Harcourt Aimworth was generous and grateful, and sought every means of proving to him how fully he remembered, and how anxious he was to return former benefits; and Frederick soon found his situation meliorated, and his spirits improved, under the influence of friendship. "Wolmar!" cried Sir Harcourt, one evening before they

true nobility of nature, in whose presence the nobility of courts sink into insignificance, let it rise in what it may, whether the camp, the cabinet, or the closet, it strikes with a giant's arm, and hereditary honours tremble beneath the stroke. Feeling thus, we cannot be suspected of wishing to sanction a system of exclusion :

Gifford was born beneath an adverse star,
Forsook the labours of a servile state,
Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumphed over
fate!

but his triumph had neither been so perfect or so permanent, had he neglected to seek the supporting aid of study and labour.

Without a genius, learning soars in vain,
But without learning, genius sinks again.

THE POETS OF THE PRESENT DAY.

—ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

38

parted, “to-morrow I go to Compiegne. A grand fête is to be given in honour of Adolphe Clairville’s coming of age—he who was with me the first day I met you here. The chateau is delightfully situated, and the scene will be new and entertaining; you must accompany me.”

“Impossible! you forget that I am a prisoner.”—“No, I do not; I have sufficient interest to obtain permission for your leaving Soissons for so short a time, and so short a distance.”

“A change of scene, I confess,” replied Frederick, “would be refreshment to my wearied eyes; but this dress is unsuited to the scene you lead me to expect.”

All minor objections were soon overruled, and the following day, somewhat later than Sir Harcourt wished, they set forth for Compiegne. Some delay had occurred in obtaining the Commandant’s permission, which at their outset rather clouded the spirits of both; as the beauties of the country opened upon them, they forgot their chagrin, and, pursuing their way by the banks of the Aisne, Sir Harcourt gradually resumed his accustomed hilarity, and Frederick’s heart expanded with feelings of pleasure, less apparent, but infinitely more profound.

Compiegne is distant from Soissons about nine leagues. On entering the town, which is neat and pretty, many objects of interest presented themselves to Wolmar’s eyes; among these was the magnificent chateau of the Empress, and its beautiful gardens, of which, before proceeding to Monsieur Clairville’s, Frederick persuaded his friend to allow him a hasty view. Money, here as everywhere else, in despite of standing orders to the contrary, threw open the doors, and they traversed many apartments, through which the light steps of Maria Louisa had often passed. The disposition of the grounds afforded them even still more pleasure. From the middle of the garden an expansive plain, with a fine sheet of water, appeared; the plain continuing till the eye reached a hill thickly crowned with trees, which, having a passage cut through, allowed the eye to range over an immensity of space. In that space, the sole object that met their view was a marble crucifix of colossal size, apparently touching the heavens. A fine and exten-

sive gravel-walk, covered with mahogany, where in all weathers the Empress could take exercise, also attracted their attention. Having peeped into the wood that terminated the gardens, they hastened to resume their route to the less magnificent chateau of Monsieur Clairville.

The soft twilight of a September evening was stealing over the horizon, and had Wolmar consulted his own feelings, he would have chosen to wander in the open air, rather than seek the illuminated mansion they were approaching. However, he did not long regret the destiny which drew him thither, when, amidst a large family-circle to whom he was introduced, he beheld the beautiful Adoline Clairville. Just seventeen, she inherited from her mother, who had been a Parisian belle, the airy elegance of mien, the fine and graceful form, the dark and brilliant eye by which a truly beautiful French woman ever which is distinguished; while from her father she derived the Saxon distinctions of a complexion exquisitely fine, and a profusion of light hair. Her features, though delicate, were expressive, and animated by a soul highly susceptible and highly cultivated.

Deeply did Wolmar now regret the hours he had wasted in his progress from Soissons; for his heart, with an impulse instantaneous and impetuous, kindled with love to Adoline. Rarely is passion so spontaneous, and still more rarely is its object so calculated to excite it as she was. Wolmar, deprived of all presence of mind, gazed upon her with eyes in whose dark orbits the fire of his soul was too apparent; and he did not utter a word till Adoline left the room. The spell that bound him was then broken, and, reddening at the reflection of his appearance while so absorbed, he endeavoured to ingratiate himself with the family. He had himself been not a little the subject of observation. His uniform pointed him out as an object of interest in a political point of view; and the gentlemen canvassed him, under the influence of national or party prejudices; while his elegant and expressive countenance, fine form, and graceful air, interested the ladies in his behalf, although, as yet, he was more than the general bow on his entrance had acknowledged their presence.

It is allowed that an individual seldom

not come to the conclusion of “William and Jonathan,” which “plainly proves that poetry’s not half so good as leather.” And, as far as the question concerns the public, we cannot but feel that such writers only afford a temporary gratification. Genius, however perfect or powerful, requires labour and education to mature and refine it: one Byron is worth a thousand Bloomfields or Clares. When we visit a mart, we expect to see it furnished with articles highly finished in the respective branches of the arts. In such a place, it would weigh little with us to be shown a carriage, for which we must make allowance because it was made by a shipbuilder; we might gratify ourselves by a momentary inspection, but should certainly have no desire to become a purchaser. With the same feeling we enter the mart of literature, and would willingly (oh! that it were possible) see the questionable efforts of the ill-fated and the ill-witted excluded.

Not that we wish to erect a literary aristocracy: far from it, our only desire is to see genius *qualify* itself ere it appears, since without the necessary aids of learning and education it had; in most cases, better not appear at all. Genius is the

appears to less advantage than while under the dominion of the first impressions of love. Such was the case with Frederick: a stupor appeared to have seized his faculties; his remarks were common-place and unconnected; and he occasionally fell into a silence, which might have rendered his possession of consciousness doubtful, only that he never failed to turn his eyes to the door when it opened. One after another the ladies tripped away to their toilette; some lamenting that the *joli garçon* had not the vivacity of their countrymen, and receiving this specimen of Russian manners as a confirmation of the received opinion of the barbarism of the country; while others, more acute, or more liberal, attributed his abstraction to his misfortunes, justly conceiving that such a countenance could not be allied to an insensible or ill-informed mind.

To soothe the fever that was taking possession of his breast, Frederick strolled into the gardens; but he found not the solitude he desired—the domestics were busied in the illuminations and decorations, and the incense sound of the arriving carriages announced the assembling of the guests. The ball-room opened on a splendid balcony, from which wide marble steps led into the garden. Frederick placed himself in a situation that commanded a view of the gay saloon, desirous to gaze on *one* only out of all the brilliant assembly. It was not long before she appeared; her gossamer robes were of snowy whiteness, while flowers of the most delicate hue were tastefully enwreathed with her hair. Scareely breathing, he approached nearer and nearer, till, sheltered under the shadow of a large tree, he stood almost before the steps of the balcony, into which, accompanied by Sir Harcourt Aimworth, Adoline now advanced. A frantic feeling of jealousy instantly seized the soul of Frederick; he thought he beheld a rival in Sir Harcourt; though a little reflection might have told him, that their tardy journey from Soissons was very unlike the progress which a favoured lover would have made to such an object. There was a pensive softness in Adoline’s air, which convinced him she must feel peculiar interest in listening to her companion; and there was but one subject that could suggest itself to the

heated brain of Frederick, as that on which they were conversing. In a few moments he saw Sir Harcourt bow and descend to the garden; and Adoline, returning to the room, was lost in a group of ladies.

Sir Harcourt passed without perceiving him, and inquired of a domestic if he had seen Captain Wolmar, a Russian officer? “He is in the garden,” was the reply. Frederick now advanced, and the moment his friend perceived him he exclaimed— “Where, in the name of wonder, have you been hiding! How unsought and how unmerited do the favours of fortune fall into the cap of some men, who will not give themselves the trouble to hold it out and receive them. Here has the lovely Adoline been in tears at your story, and is willing to accept you as a partner in the next dance.” Fervent was the pressure of hand which replied to this welcome news, and, rapid as electric light, Frederick was in the ball-room. Sir Harcourt conducted him to Mademoiselle Clairville, and buoyant with estacy he led her to the dance.

The passion that intoxicated him every moment gained new strength; and, without pausing to ask himself what might be the result, he determined to put a period to his suspense, by divulging it to Adoline before he returned to Soissons. Three days formed the utmost limit of his stay, and when might he hope permission to return? A prisoner of war, he had no power to quit the city without the commandant’s leave. If, hitherto, his loss of liberty had been oppressive, it was now insupportable, and a thousand wild visions of flying with Adoline Clairville fitted across his mind. Before the evening was half over, the silent but eloquent language of his eyes had imparted to her the secret of his heart; and her gentle blush, her soft and downcast looks, as eloquently replied. Animated by hope, spirits that had long lain dormant mantled into brilliancy, and the severest satirists on his first appearance, were the loudest to declare him as conspicuous for talent and address, as he was distinguished in person and in air.

At four in the morning, Adoline had quitted the ball-room; and though, from the continual flutter of coxcombs and admirers round her, Frederick had had no opportunity of breathing a connected sen-

true nobility of nature, in whose presence the nobility of courts sink into insignificance, let it rise in what it may, whether the camp, the cabinet, or the closet, it strikes with a giant’s arm, and hereditary honours tremble beneath the stroke. Feeling thus, we cannot be suspected of wishing to sanction a system of exclusion:

> Gifford was born beneath an adverse star,
> Forsook the labours of a servile state,
> Stemm’d the rude storm, and triumphed over
> fate!

> Without a genius, learning soars in vain,
> But without learning, genius sinks again.

e torture knows.

The review of “The Drake concludes with a work which proves features of the world a objects which the daily accustomed to and neglect, genius ensures the most fascinating most interesting talent to imagery alone, depicted might ensure that “The Farmer’s due with us and with the most pathetic of a heart alive to ties of humanity and its glowing landscapes, over them; a spirit of rational delight, which brightness of the Creator is difficult to say which

THE POETS OF THE PRESENT DAY.

10.—ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

tence, she carried with her a conviction of
the conquest she had made of his heart,
and felt how quickly she was surrendering
her own. "Strange, unfortunate fatality!"
she exclaimed, "out of the many suited to
my rank and situation, that none should
have awakened my heart; while to this
astranger, responsive emotions rise spon-
taneously. But it must not be—he is a
Russian—he is a prisoner—my father, my
brother never would consent. I must
shun his presence, I must banish him from
my thoughts."—The effort Adoline felt
would be painful; but she knew the sequel
of such an ill-sorted attachment could only
be fraught with the bitterest miseries, and,
with a resolution which it would be happy
for her sex if they more frequently possess-
ed, she determined to nip it in the bud.
She possessed a strength of character be-
yond her years, and an exemption from the
vice of coquetry uncommon to her coun-
try and all the people of the age of
try women. Unwilling to trifle with the
feelings of the unfortunate Wolmar, and
fearful that her involuntary admiration had
already given him too much encourage-
ment, she forebre to join in the various
entertainments prepared for those guests
who remained at the chateau, and, under
the plea of fatigue, did not make her ap-
pearance till the crowded ball-room again
demanded her presence, and precluded the
possibility of her receiving any particular
address. Frederick, however, was not to
be avoided: the hours passed since he had
last beheld her, had wrought his mind to a
pitch of desperation; and, seeing no means
unaided of compassing his views, he made
a confidant of Sir Harcourt. A weak
good-nature was the leading characteristic
of the baronet's mind: he readily promised
Frederick his assistance; and that evening,
while the guests were at supper, he mana-
ged to detain Adoline in the deserted ball-
room. Sedulously had she shunned Cap-
tain Wolmar the whole evening, never suf-
fering her eyes to meet his, and always
mingleing in some group the moment he
approached her. Infinite, therefore, was
her sorrow to see him advance towards
her, and at the same moment Sir Harcourt
leave the room. She read in his im-
passioned countenance the tumult of his
soul, and, trembling for her own strength,
she sought to pass him with a slight en-


passant salutation; but the mournful and
impressive tone with which he exclaimed
"Accord me one moment, madam!" sank
into her heart, and deprived her of all
power, if not of all wish to fly. The mo-
ments were precious; they were few and
fleeting, and another opportunity might
not be permitted. Frederick, therefore,
seized them, as the shipwrecked wretch
grasps the last fragment that gives the
hope of escaping death. In the passion-
ed language of an ardent and heated imagi-
nation, he pleaded his passion; and, in de-
spite of every effort to assume composure,
large tears dropped from the beautiful eyes
of Adoline as she listened. He interpreted
them too favourably: with a strong effort
she summoned all her native strength of
character, and thus undeceived him.

"Captain Wolmar, you have my esteem, be not offended if I say my pity—but hope— I can give you none. My fate allows me only the alternative of marriage with my father's consent, or a convent. His views, with regard to my destiny, are already fixed, and fixed irrevocably! Thus, we must never meet again! Farewell!" There was a mournful solemnity in her air that carried conviction to the heart of Frederick, and it paralized all the energies of a soul so lately burning with passion and elated with hope. When Adoline reached the door, she turned, and again exclaimed—"Farewell!" The pathos of her tone recalled him to himself, and darting towards her, he caught her hand, and with the wildest adoration pressed it to his lips; then, echoing her words, repeated—"Farewell! farewell for ever!" and rushed into the garden. Adoline clasped her hands, mentally ejaculating as she hurried to her own room—"Thank heaven! the effort is past! He at least is spared misery and humiliation. The proud Clairvilles will never wound him with their scorn. Wolmar, I have spared thee that!"

She by this time had gained her window,
which overlooked the garden, and she was
pressing her hands upon her burning eyes,
when the report of a pistol struck like a
thunderbolt upon her heart. A horrid ap-
prehension seized her brain, too soon con-
firmed—the unfortunate, the impetuous
Wolmar had fallen by his own hand!

M. L. G.

name, but it is a question whether he has
not come to the conclusion of "William
and Jonathan," which "plainly proves
that poetry's not half so good as leather."
And, as far as the question concerns the
public, we cannot but feel that such writers
only afford a temporary gratification. Ge-
nius, however perfect or powerful, re-
quires labour and education to mature and
refine it: one Byron is worth a thousand
Bloomfields or Clares. When we visit a
mart, we expect to see it furnished with
articles highly finished in the respective
branches of the arts. In such a place, it
would weigh little with us to be shewn
a *carriage*, for which we must make allow-
ance because it was made by a *shipbuilder*;
we might gratify ourselves by a momentary
inspection, but should certainly have no
desire to become a purchaser. With the
same feeling we enter the mart of litera-
ture, and would willingly (oh! that it were
possible) see the questionable efforts of the
ill-fated and the ill-witted excluded.

*Private torture knows.*

rable review of “The
Drake concludes with
is a work which proves
the features of the world
on objects which the
is daily accustomed to
ce and neglect, genius
pictures the most fasci-
most interesting ten-
not to *imagery* alone,
depicted might ensure
that “The Farmer’s
value with us and with
*lity* the most pathetic
ings of a heart alive to
uties of humanity and
its glowing landscapes,
ot over them; a spirit of
rational delight, which
createness of the Creator
*e.”

It is difficult to say which
ence. “The Miller’s

Not that we wish to erect a literary
aristocracy: far from it, our only desire is
to see genius *qualify* itself ere it appears,
since without the necessary aids of learn-
ing and education it had; in most cases,
better not appear at all. Genius is the

true nobility of nature, in whose presence
the nobility of courts sink into insignifi-
cancy, let it rise in what it may, whether
the camp, the cabinet, or the closet, it
strikes with a giant's arm, and hereditary
honours tremble beneath the stroke. Feel-
ing thus, we cannot be suspected of wish-
ing to sanction a system of exclusion:

but his triumph had, neither been so per-
fect or so permanent, had he neglected to
seek the supporting aid of study and labour.

HORTUS HORNSIANUS.

"Quales Eurotus" ripis, aut per jugat Cynthia

"Exercet Diana choros —" VIRGIL.

As some famed florist, summoned by his friend,
'Midst his gay walks and borders to attend;
There each bright species of the flowery tribe
To name, and all their beauties to describe:
Pleased at the task, his eyes, in silent joy,
O'er sweet parterres, which e'er his thoughts employ,
Wander around, where varied tulips bloom,
Where pinks and roses shed their soft perfume,
Where Peonies, Narcissus' please the sight,
Anemonies, and Amaranthus bright,
And rich Ranunculus, and Hyacinths delight.
Amidst their charms, uncertain, long he stands,
Which first and most his ready praise demands,
Till the fire kindles as his heart expands;
And, whilst he names each shining flower that blows,
With rapture filled, his warm description flows.

So called on all the charms, in verse, to tell,
Of the fair nymphs, that in this village dwell.
Albeit, alas! unequal to the strain,
Dubious, yet still unable to refrain,
Thus charmed, thus rapt, I stretch the daring wing,
And, prompted by each Muse, aspire to sing.

Arise, fair St. J—N, thy just praises hear,
St. J—N, a name still to the Muses dear;
With grace and joy thine every feature drest,
Though little, yet with beauty largely blest,
And all thy smiling charms by envy's self confest.

* Banks of the New River.

† Top of Muswellhill.

2

The youthful D—V—S—N demands my lay,
Sweet, artless, tender, innocent, and gay.

May Gallia's shore, accursed, no more contain,
Nor with corrupted air, such beauty stain!

Yet if she stay, what thousands must deplore
Their peace destroyed, and pangs unfelt before!

Two sisters next the willing tribute claim,
Two sisters fair, and H—W—TS—N their name.
Such charms are theirs, as, when Aurora wakes,
And all the sky o'erspreads with rosy streaks,
In stature graceful as the wife of Jove,
They move to conquest, nor in vain they move.

See K—MPS—N! born o'er yielding hearts to rule,
She is indeed surpassing beautiful.

How soft the beaming of her dove-like eyes!

They pierce at once, and conquer by surprise.

Whilst in the tresses that adorn her head,
Love, mighty Love, himself is captive led.

Next two fair cousins, of distinguished grace,

The lovely D—V—S's assume their place.

Each formed for conquest, though with different arms,
Since each can boast her own peculiar charms.

That nymph with lively wit her beauty aids;

With winning softness this the heart invades.

The D—NV—NS'S! alas! how vain th' essay,

This host of beauties justly to pourtray!

Of more than mortal grace here shines a star,

Like Venus known, and worshipped from afar.

If one alone, incomparably bright,

With countless charms, so dazzle and delight,

What must our ruin be, when all unite?

3

Whilst younger sisters to the view succeed;

Soon to demand their share of beauty's meed.

With sweet attractive grace the B—CKT—NS move,
Their steps pursued with Envy or with Love.

Expression mild and heavenly softness dwell

In all their features, and by far excel

Whate'er, in ancient, but immortal verse,

Maro and great Mæonides rehearse,

Of fair Lavinia, or of Helen's charms,

That ruin'd Troy, or raised all Italy to arms.

Th' enchanting K—N—ST—NS the next succed,
Like Thracia's queen, they mount the flying steed.

In form more graceful, as in face more fair,

Though nor the quiver, nor the bow they bear;

Yet Love attendant, soon the want supplies,

And wings his arrows from their radiant eyes.

A nest of beauties here my thoughts recall,
Accomplished, graceful, fascinating all.

Each should by eminence be styled the Belle,

Who look so lovely, and who sing so well.

The sage Ulysses scarcely could withstand

Thy syren's charms, and shun the fatal strand.

Beware then, youths, far greater danger lies,

Where'er these charmers turn their all-subduing eyes.

Nor yet the WY—TTS must remain unsung,

Enchanting, lively, beautiful, and young.

Sweeter than soft-descending vernal showers,

Which breathe new fragrance o'er the fields and flowers.

And bright as summer suns, with genial fire,

That warmth, and life, and joy, and love inspire.

NUS

IL

oply,

lows,

ig.

lill.

of incipient genius, while the advertisement
shows the *budding* of that overweaning con-
ceit which is now full blown. It is, however,
free from the gross absurdities which charac-
terise his subsequent productions. For some
time he filled a subordinate situation under
government, which was for some cause or
other exchanged for the profession of author-
ship. He wrote for the daily prints, espe-
cially "The News." In conjunction with his
brother he then set up the paper called
"The Examiner;" and in the course of time
published "The Feast of the Poets," a piece
possessing some merit; "Liberty," a Masque;
and "The story of Rimini," which we will
take the trouble to examine, and to para-
phrase Mardonius's compliment to Xerxes,
is not only the most absurd thing that ever
was, but that ever will be written.

"That no part of this curious morceau may be lost, we will begin with the dedication to Lord Byron, which is, to our feeling, in a strain of offensive familiarity; this, however, may be false delicacy, since, if they are really on terms of intimacy, it is nothing more than the tone which intimates commonly assume to each other. But we feel the immeasurable distance too strongly—it is a pigmy, affecting to walk with careless arm-in-arm ease with a giant. We would remind Mr. Hunt of the fate of the frog in the fable. He besides libels his lordship in asserting that he (Lord Byron) "likes his verses." It is very probable that politeness may have extorted some words of unmeaning approbation, for what are you to say to a man when he pops those home questions about himself, which such opinionated and egotistical beings as Leigh Hunt are so apt to do? The most fastidious lover of truth will forgive his lordship in such a case. "You have yourself," he continues, "set the example of poet dedicating to poet, and it is under that nobler title, &c. &c. I address you."

Who does not see the effort to establish equa-
ity, and " who but must smile?" It seems
he should not have written the dedication, had
he not felt convinced, "the poem was capable
of standing on its own bottom," and proceeds
to add, that having vindicated his "fellow dig-
nity," and "put on his laurel, (how got he
this same laurel?) to meet his lordship in
public," he takes it off again to recur to the
"humanities" of private life. This is surly

the ne plus ultra of self-sufficiency, yet we
cannot help fancying we see beneath this
bombast a conscious sense of inferiority, which
the writer vainly endeavours to shake off;
aware that no one else would do it for him,
cost him what labor it might, he determined
to raise himself to the elevation of the greatest
genius of the age; but, alas, it is "Love's
(self-love's) labor lost!" How weak, how
impolitic to provoke such a comparison.

A peep at the preface, and then to the
poem. "With the endeavour to recur to a
freer spirit of versification, I have joined one of
still greater importance,—that of a free and
idiomatic cast of language.

made an attempt to describe natural things
in a language becoming them, and to do some-
thing towards the revival of what appears to
me a proper English versification." Peace to
its manes! may it rest for ever, if it is such
as we find in "The story of Rimini." The
poem commences with a description of a ca-
valeance coming to take the bride from Ravenna.
It was a fine morning, there was a "crystal
clearness all about," the leaves were "sharp,"
"the hills looked out," very much delighted,
of course, with the pageant, and "a balmy
briskness came upon the breeze."

"And all the scene, in short—sky, earth,
and sea,
Breathed like a bright-eyed face, that laughs
out openly."

It seems the roads were "leafy," a word we
could have comprehended, had the season
been autumn instead of spring; and "the
deep talk heated," and "with heated out
tapestry the windows glowed;" at length

from the walls

Firm, and at once a silver answer calls,
Then heaved the crowd.

This, and many other "rude heaves from
side to side, is all for the heavers (whether
coal-heavers or not is left to imagination) to
see the "procession proud" of the bride.
Among the objects worthy of notice on that
brilliant day, it seems there was a young man

With the poet looking out in his earnest face.

The bride had a "clipsome waist," and the
people gazed at her with "tiptoe looks." In

the course of two pages we meet the follow-
ing repetitions:

"Which tell us they look backward in the
wind, [behind."

The bearings of the knights that ride

"Which thrown apart, and hanging loose
behind,

Rests on his steed, and ruffles in the wind."

"But all are wide and large, and with the
wind, [behind."

When it comes fresh, go sweeping far

The horses of the Prince's cavalcade are de-
scribed as having "their jauntiness behind,
and strength before." The procession passes
where the Princess is seated, and after an
interval of "stately length," comes by "a
troop of steeds,"

"Milk-white and unattired, Arabian bred,

* Each by a blooming boy rightsomely led."

Which same beautiful animals

"Lend their streaming tails to the fond air,"
at how much an hour is not stated. After a
minute narration of all that passes, it appears
there is another interval, not as before, of
"stately length," but of "a lordly space," and

"A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place."

At length the young Prince, who comes as his
brother's proxy, appears:

"Never was nobler finish to fine sight."

This prince is uncommonly handsome, and he

"Lightsomely dropt in, his lordly back,"

his thigh

"Was heaped with strength.

* But above all, so meaning is his look,
  Full, and as readable as open book,
  And so much easy dignity there lies
  In the frank lifting of his cordial eyes."

That this hero is a most wonderful fellow, may
be guessed from the circumstance, that in
spite of the rearing and prancing of his stead, he

"_________ on his back sits still,
And looks where'er he likes, and sways him
at his will."

The prince distinguishes in the crowd the poet
with "the earnest face," and sends him a
'ewel, and on receiving it, "the youth smiles
up." The circumstance on which the
story hinges is, that the Princess mistakes
the proxy for the real husband, hence the
foundation of a passion which terminates so
fatally. When the parade was over, there was
some dissatisfaction among the people,

"Who got in clumps, or paced the mea-
sured streets, [heat."

Filling, with earnest hum, the noontide

Who does not feel the elegances of the fol-
lowing lines descriptive of the Princess's sen-
timents:

"She had stout notions on the marrying
score."

She finds the Prince Giovanni very different
from his brother, but she resolves on a strict
performance of her duties. We almost forgot
to mention, in the course of her journey to
Rimini, she met with a great natural curio-
sity—"an old religious tree." Her dangerous
friendship with her brother-in-law continues;
they are much together, and she is the perpe-
tual contemplation of charms of no common
order,

"A graceful nose—lightsomely brought
Down from a forehead of clear-spirited
thought."

"It was a face, in short, seemed made to
shew [go."

How far the genuine flesh and blood could

We have found a match to an instance of
elegance, which we noticed above, speaking
of Giovanni's disposition, we are told he was
not

"_________ wanting on the generous score."

The Princess is often described with a "down-
ward cheek," and a "double smile," which
never having had the pleasure of seeing,
we are at a loss to conceive them. In the
course of time, however, her smiles were
reduced, we suppose, to single ones. Among
her luxuries she had a beautiful summer-
house, situated at the end of a wood, to add
to the climax of its beauty,

"Indeed the whole was leafy."

Brighton September 17/25

on a circumstantial
view that is what you
W. Smith bars us good
the top, & Lucy & I
reached the Elephant
and increased our melon-
At last a respectable
client old gentleman
up a very animous

London air was very
unpleasant, too, but
reached Sutton, my strength
very fast, & my spirits to flag.
I thought once or twice
I should have fainted, but
I should have had both
biscuits & lavender & sugar
with me, & they revived me.

Lucy bore the journey very well, & slept a good deal.
The horses for the last stage were four sulky (and
as the old gentleman called them) getting horses.
For some little way the men turned the wheels to make
them get on saying with the humor so common to those
people "We shall soon get to Brighton." At this time
all the gentlemen papers were standing looking
on, when all at once the horses took it in their

reached Sutton, my strength then began to fail me
very fast, & my spirits to flag, I thought once or twice
I should have fainted, but thought to myself. I had both
biscuits & lavender & sugar with me, & they revived me.

whenever you pleased you had the power of
turning off " into a leafy walk," and there
the birds kept " leafy houses," the summer-
house itself

" Looked lordly forth with many window'd
ken."

This was the Princess's favorite retreat, and
one summer evening she went there through
"the low-talking leaves," she sat in musing
melancholy some time, and then

"—reached o'er-head, and took her down
a book,

And fell to reading with a fixed air."

Paulo, her brother-in-law, strolls by chance
to the same place, and stood some time
viewing her through the window, and at
length cries, " May I come in?" "His
smiling voice" made her start, but she replied,
"O yes, certainly." The hitherto virtuous
wife falls from her innocence, and the short
transport of a guilty passion is succeeded by
bitterness and sorrow. Francisca betrays the
secret to her husband, by some words she
utters in her sleep, and he flies off to his
brother's room,

"May I request, sir," said the Prince, and
frowned, [ground?"

"Your ear a moment on the tilting
There, brother?" answered Paulo with an
air surprised and shocked. "Yes, brother."

b beried he "there." They proceed to the place
appointed, where the Prince said

"Before you answer as you can,
I wish to tell you as a gentleman,
That what you may confess—

Will implicate no person known to you,
More than disquiet in its sleep may do."

Paulo for a long time parries his brother's
efforts to make him fight, during which the
dialogue is contemptible, at last he's provoked
to draw his sword, but he rather plays than
if fights.

"Paulo retired, and warded, turned on heel,
And led him, step by step, round like a
wheel."

At length he manages to throw himself on
Giovanni's sword, who utters a long soliloquy

in praise of the deceased, very weak and very
dull. Paulo's squire informs Francisca of
his fate; she receives the mournful news with
fortitude, and gives the bearer of it a ring, he
accepts it with tears,

"And looking on it once, gently up started,
And in his reverent stillness, so departed."

Francisca died that night, and that the lover's
may be buried in the same graves, their remains
are carried to Ravenna, where the hapless
 Duke Guido receives them.

"He clasped his hands, and looking round
the room,

Lost his old wits forever. From that morrow
None saw him after. But no more sorrow."

In mercy to our readers we have omitted to
notice many absurd passages, but they must
already have had sufficient. Never had a
poem fewer counterbalancing beauties, but
it is but justice that we should endeavour to
see if there is a brighter side of the picture.
It appears that Mr. Hunt has sometimes very
tolerable ideas, but he is always a bungler at
giving them expression, his best passages are
deformed with affected or obsolete phraseology,
the following is pretty:

"And in the midst fresh whistling thro' the
scene, [green,
A lightsome fountain starts from out the
Clear and compact, till, at its height o'errun,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun."

The apostrophe to Francisca is even still
more unexceptionable,

"But ill prepared was she, in her hard lot,
To fancy merit where she found it not.—
She, who had been beguiled,—she who was
made

Within a gentle bosom to be laid,—
To bless and to be blessed—to be heart-bare,
To one who found his better likeness there,—
To think for ever with him like a bride,—
To haunt his eye like taste personified,—
To double his delight, to share his sorrow,
And, like a morning beam, wake to him
every morrow."

"The story of Rimini" is a fair specimen of
our author's style and talents, and we shall
therefore have too much regard for our limits
to enter into an examination of any other of

his futile productions; he is so possessed
with ridiculous affectation, that he cannot
write twenty continuous lines of plain sense,
and heaven defends us from the ornaments of
his verse. His song of "Mary, dear Mary,
list, awake," has been very much admired,
but it partakes largely of all his faults—it is
full of false imagery, and sound in the
place of sense. From any other writer we
might hope amendment—might suffer ourselves
to anticipate future efforts from a mind
purified by the ordeal of criticism: not so
with Mr. Hunt, his errors are rather burnt in
than eradicated by censure, however judi-

cious or well meant, and we may therefore be
allowed most devoutly to hope he will write
no more. We may hope, but dare not expect
such an event; for, if he pleases no one else,
he certainly does himself to the utmost point
of satisfaction. If we have been free with
Mr. Hunt, let it be remembered it is only in
his literury capacity, with his private character
we do not meddle; and if he had kept
his muse at home to amuse " little ranting
Johnny," who, according to his father's account,
sings "Nonny nonny," we should
certainly have neither felt a right nor an inclination
to have interfered with it.

Brighton September 17/25

THE HEROIC DAUGHTER.

WHEN the French revolution first began to desolate the homes of France, to drag its devoted victims one by one from the circle of affection, and crowd, the scaffolds with martyrs, D'Azinval fled his country. A moment he paused as the spirit of patriotism spoke within him; and the throngs of his heart grew quicker, while he contemplated the altars of France overthrown, her laws outraged, her children massacred; while the myrmidons of anarchy and theism desecrated the sceptre of her power, and filled her high places. But, alas! for his country he felt it vain to raise his arm: it might draw down destruction on his own head, but could not avert it one moment from her's. The demon of discord, like the hot blast of the sirocco, withered her virtue and invaded her strength; and hostile as it was to his nature, he saw it was the part of wisdom to prostrate himself, like the traveller in the desert, till its fury had passed.

Nor was this resolution the result of considerations that centred in self: he had a tie that weakened the love of country; the feelings of the patriot were merged in the fears and the affections of the parent, and to withdraw his young and lovely Adele from the scene of terror was the first motive of his flight.

In their early progress, one engrossing anxiety, the safety of his darling charge, pervaded his soul. The companionship of the precious pledge of early love and former happiness gave an elasticity to his step, an energy to his conduct, that would have been unknown to him as a lonely fugitive; but, embarked upon the broad bosom of the ocean, in proportion as her security became certain, home recollections and regrets arose: the wide waters, and the clear sky, spoke of no foes to the happiness and innocence of his child, but they left him leisure to recreate the past, and to anticipate the future. He turned to the land of his fathers, the cradle of his hopes and the grave of his happiness, and now first felt himself an emigrant. "Il en coûte d'avantage pour quitter sa patrie quand il faut traverser la mer pour s'en éloigner; tout est solennel dans un voyage

dont l'océan marque les premier pas: il semble qu'un abime s'entr'ouvre derrière vous, et que le retour pourrait devenir à jamais impossible."

The possession of property in the island had determined him to make choice of St. Domingo. When its craggy rocks first struck his view, he gazed on it as a vast dungeon, and those rough outworks with which nature had fenced it appeared the barriers of hope. Not so to the young and buoyant heart of Adele, who, wearied with her voyage, longed to tread again on terra firmà; certain, in all the confidence of young existence and unchecked expectation, of meeting happiness every where, Her joyous and brilliant nature was never long under eclipse, even when her sensibility was most touched with the apparent melancholy of her father.

Established on the island, Adele made her father's home the theatre of her exer-
tions; her taste, elegance, and ingenuity
supplied the place of expensive luxuries;
while her lively spirits and happy temper
pervaded the whole sphere of domestic
management with a harmony and lustre
which were sunshine and music to the soul.
D'Azinval felt that the indulgence of sor-
row was ingratitude to Heaven; and though
the destiny of France threw a shadow on
his happiness, it grew, under the influence
of the expanding charms and virtues of his
child, more pure than he had ever dared to
hope for in this world.

Their little habitation, seated on the
gentle declivity of a mountain, was at once
sheltered and embellished by all that nature
so abundantly yields in this rich and fertile
island. The golden orange and the fra-
grant citron gratified the senses with their
sweetness, odour, and beauty—while the
oak, the elm, the pine, and numerous other
trees, rose majestically around the remote
precincts of their cottage. Its access was
a terrestrial paradise; D'Azinval had em-
ployed his time in forming it to his own
and Adele's taste: fountains, supplied from
springs of the purest water, every where
"shook their loosened silver in the sun,"
and gave a delicious coolness to the scene,
in the midst of which the beautiful Adele,

shut her father from her eve. Then
like another Eve, would often spread a
sweet repast of fruits. All that could pre-
serve the memory of France was studied,
yet mixed with much of the wild and pic-
turesque beauty of luxuriant nature. This
combination was no where more remark-
able than in Adele herself, whose dark and
abundant tresses were usually intertwined
with fresh flowers, in almost endless va-
riety, as taste, or the whim of the moment,
might suggest.

It was a rich sunset, and Adele was
standing by her father with a tame bird
perched upon her finger, to the pecking
beak of which he held part of a pine-apple
on which he had been regaling, when their
attention was attracted by the approach of
an Indian, who led towards them a Euro-
pean youth. Young and beautiful, he came
"like Morning led by Night." D'Azinval
rose to meet them, and Adele stepped back,
sheltering as she did so her little fluttering
favourite in her bosom.

The Indian, who spoke a little broken French, addressed D'Azinval with a vehe-
mence of voice and gesture that considera-
bly increased the difficulty attendant on
understanding him, and he turned to the
young stranger for explanation. The youth
addressed a few words to his guide, which
had the effect of procuring silence; and
then, with a pure accent, and much pro-
priety of language, he stated that he was
the only survivor of an unfortunate refugee
family whom chance had thrown on the
Indian's hospitality, in whose hut a malig-
nant fever had carried off his last remaining
relatives, an uncle and a brother—and that
he was himself only just recovered from an
attack of the same disorder; that the In-
dian was poor, and could ill bear the bur-
then with which his humanity had encum-
bered him, and having heard by chance of
the vicinity of Monsieur D'Azinval, he had
persuaded Cubal (the Indian) to conduct
him to his countryman, hoping through his
means to be placed in some way, as soon
as his strength should be restored, of pro-
viding for himself, and probably reward-
ing his benefactor, the generous Indian.
D'Azinval listened to the youth with in-
terest, received him with the warmth of a
brother, and bade him welcome. Cubal
partook of some refreshment, but could be
persuaded to accept of nothing more: he

shrieked was heard and Adele from whose
pressed the young Lorraine to his heart,
and bade him farewell in his own expres-
sive language: then, turning to D'Azinval,
he called him " le bon blanc ," and with an
act of reverence to Adele, as to a being of
a brighter sphere, the dusky stranger de-
parted.

All the hoarded love of country that had
silently accumulated in D'Azinval's heart
poured itself forth on this unfortunate
child of France, who had been thus un-
expectedly thrown under his protection.
He saw with delight the natural conse-
quences of two beings so young, so beauti-
ful as Adele and Louis, being brought into
contact, and he smiled on their young and
innocent loves, as we may imagine did the
patriarchs of old on those of their chil-
dren, when the world was yet young, and
equal worth and mutual affection formed
the only bonds of union.

If Adele had before been a creature of
happiness and beauty, she was much more
so now, when every charm was heightened
under the influence of the most powerful
stimulant the human heart acknowledges.
From the first she had united with her-
father in all the kindly offices of hospita-
lity; as a stranger, as an invalid, Louis
Lorraine had called upon her pity; her
sweet song, and sweeter smile, were ever
ready to chase sorrow and despondence
from his soul—while her gentle cares and
delicate attentions wooed back the glow
and vigour of health. Louis paid her sweet
charity with all he had to give—his heart;
and never was there heart more warm,
more undivided.

The felicity of a purer sphere than this
appeared to crown the dwelling of D'Azin-
val; and the regrets of the past were lost
in the enjoyments of the present. The
richest charms of nature, the purest sweets
of domestic life, blessed his home of exile,
and he sometimes doubted whether the
meridian of Paris, or his villa in its envi-
rons, would have afforded so sweet and
safe a sanctuary. The interests of politics,
the finesse of society, would have crept in;
pomp and pageantry would frequently have
displaced social enjoyment, and careless
ease; Adele, instead of being the arbitress
of one happy and devoted heart, had
been the idol of a crowd with scarcely a
heart among them; and, in drawing these

## The Native's Lament.

Oh! where are the wilds I once sported
'Among the trees'

When as free as my clime through its forests
I sprung;

When no track but the few which our fires
had made;

Had tarnished the carpet that nature had laid;
When the lone waters dashed down the dark-
some ravine;

O'erhung by the shade of the Huon's dark
green;

When the broad morning sun o'er our mountains could roam,

And see not a slave in our bright Island
home.

When our trees were unscath'd, nor our
echoes awoke,

To the hum of the stranger, or woodman's
wild stroke;

When our rocks proudly rose 'gainst the dash
of the main;

And saw not a dark on the wide azure plain;
When the moon through the heaven's roll'd
ouward, and smil'd;

As she lighted the home of the free and the
wild.

Oh! my country, the stranger has found thy
fair clime;

And he comes with the sons of misfortune
and crime;

He brings the rude refuse of contries laid
waste;

To tread thy fair wilds, and thy waters to
taste;

He usurps the best lands of thy native domains;

And thy children must fly, or submit to his
chains.

He builds his dark home, and he tricks it
about,

With trikets and trifles within and without;
When the bright sun of nature siuks into the
main,

He lights little suns to make day-light again;
And he calls a crowd round him, to see him
preside;

And 'our tyrant himself is the slave of his
pride!

Oh! dearer to us, is our rude hollow-tree,
Where heart joins to heart with a pulse warm
and free;

Or our dew-covered sod, with no canopy
o'er it,

But the star-spangled sky,--we can lay and
adore it!

Or if worn with fatigue, when the bright
sun forsakes us,

We lay down and sleeps, till he rises and
wakes us!

Our wants are but few, and our feelings are
warm,

We fear not the sun, and we fear not the
storm;

We are fierce to our foes, to our loves we are
fond,

Let us live and be free—life has nothing beyond.

Oh! I would not exchange the wild nature
I hear,

For life with the tamesons of culture and care,
Nor give one free moment as proudly I stand,

For all that their arts and their toils can command;

Away to the mountains, and leave them the
plains,

To pursue their dull toils, and to forge their
dark chains.

April 22, 1826.

## ON VISITING THE CEMETERY IN HO-
BART TOWN.

lie

Here and like England's exiles!—this wild
spot,

The sad conclusions of their mournful lot!
Here a true type of all their griefs I find,

This scene neglected, naked, and unkind.
Here, as I wander through the weed-grown
graves

Of some, perchance yet lov'd beyond the
waves,

The splashy waters rise at every tread
As if the tears of the indignant dead,

Reproaching with mute eloquence the race,
That could assign such a resting place,

Where is the decent order that should keep
The least sad home where friends and lovers

The last preside, Where is the neatness that should still preside,

Where rest the objects of our love and pride?
Oh! my own country when thy hamlets rise

In all their rural graces to my eyes,
Not such the scene thy humble churchyard's
yield,

Where love yet guards the tomb that death
has seal'd;

Where hovering o'er the graves of age and
youth,

The holy calm still speaks the moral truth
That all must know full soon, yet learn too
late,

The doom of human kind—deeree of fate !
Oh! here where all is young, save grief and
crime,

Toil must anticipate the work of time,
Nor were that task least holy which should

A decent scene for death's sad dwelling place;
Where grief might look with sad respect, and
dry

The tear that starts unbidden to the eye:
And where, when years have sooth'd the mourner's
pain,

Memory may wake those fond regrets again
With less of bitterness, while tears will roll

With less of bitterness, while tears will roll
That purify the heart; and soothe the soul!

Where when we quit the house of prayer, we
may

With chasten'd spirits through its pathways
stray,

And still prolong the feeling we have caught,
From the bright altar of a religious thought;

Ponder again the precepts that are given
To lead us to the grave, and then to Heaven.

M. L. G.

## TO AN INFANT.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND.

My newly born why do I weep,
That cradl'd in the earth thou'rt sleeping,
And I alone am left to keep

My watch in this cold sale of weeping?
The little bird when dzed'd, must I

To seek the nourishment it needeth—
Must often brave a wintry sky,

Must die perchance where no one heedeth.
And thou hadst one day left the throb to slumber,

That hush'd thee with its throb to slumber,
Perchance to seek a scene unblest—

To weep wild waters too fast to number.

At least, I was never thine to know

The various pangs that nature feeleth;
Untouch'd by time, unworn, by woe;

Thy spirit to its Author stealeth—

Just like the bud that never bloomed—

But died with all its sweets ungiven,

Thou in thy innocence entomb'd—

Art flown to breathe it all in heaven.

Oh! happy to be still laid
A stranger e'en to life's best blisses,

And only to have known my babe

Thy mother's smiles, thy mother's kiss.

IRIS.

## REPLY TO THE LINES ENTITLED
**Ecclesiastes' Heart.**

Too late you prize the treasure,

The last that man received;

You court the phantom pleasure,

And seek to be deceived;

Thro' all its paths you trifle,

While aught they can impart,

Regardless how you rifle

Confiding woman's heart.

When next ambition calls you

To rougher scenes after,

No thought of her recalls you

From all the waste of war;

You seek the phantom glory

Wherein its form may start,

Nor count in future story,

Her torn and bleeding heart.

But when the world's gay visions

Like rainbow tints are gone;

When pleasure's wile elysians,

And prides cold dreams are flown;

When time from life's last embers

Bids late-heard reason start;

Tis then thy soul remembers,

And sighs for woman's heart.

For oh! when wrong'd and slighted,
You feel the world a waste;

When all the hopes lie blighted,

You once so wildly chaac'd;

Her nature fond and tender

Would peace to thine impart,

Oh! where has love such splendor

As warm in woman's heart.

M. L. G.

The above poems and a few others, which
I have not by me, I contributed anonymously
to the newspapers during my stay in Hotart
Iron. But the restaurants were so many
of them self imposed, by fear of annoyance
my connections by acting otherwise, were
most fatal to my powers, and ultimately
combined with other causes to my health both mental and physical
There was a period of which the prostration of my intellect
was so complete that I would have committed at the instigation
of another forger or vobberg, it being enough for me that I was
told to do it—my own reasoning powers were perfectly paralysed
This instance shows how cautious we should be of condemning
each other—this period of my life also constitutes me now
an object of the human machinery—has to preface my store of
myself we are

THE INJURED LOVER'S WISH.

On! for the wing that cleaves the air
With light unwearied play;
That I might once more hover where
That false one yet may stray,
When all the world is wrapped in sleep
That I might softly move,
Light as the silver beams that steep
The foliage of the grove;
And while on every leaf so light,
The beam and dew-drop meet,
Descending from my airy height,
Sink fondly at her feet.
Then—if, still false, she shunned my prayer—
If all of hope was o'er—
Spread my wild wings upon the air,
And ne'er be heard of more!
Might hie me where the shoreless seas
In desolation lie;
Where wintry winds the waters freeze,
That mock the sullen sky.
The iceberg thence my home should be,
The albatross my mate,
My grave should be the depthless sea,
When time should fix my fate.

And thus unknown I'd thenceforth live,
And thus I'd like to die—
Her perjury I might forgive
When cold my frame should lie!
No monument should rise to tell
The story of my woes,
No mockery of hearse or knell
Should mark my being's close;
But far and still beneath the deep
Unnoticed I'd be laid,
Nor leave it any wretched to weep
The wreck that love had made!
But to the winds I'd give my last,
My deadly, deathful cry,
And bid it fill the wintry blast,
When storms deform the sky;
And round her dwelling let it sweep,
Like death's own dreadful chimes,
And wake the false one from her sleep
With memory of her crimes!
Let her remember the fond smile
That lured me from repose;
The sighs, the tears, that would beguile
And soften all my woes;
Then let her recollect the change,
Most undeserved by me,
That sent me forth, a wretched, to range,
And mourn her perjury!
May this, then, be the false one's meed,
Thus may she ever find,
Still as the wintry blasts succeed,
My wild voice in the wind!

M. LEMAN GRIMSTONE.

LINES

WRITTEN IN HOBART-TOWN, VAN DIEMAN'S LAND,
*On the 21st of October.*

AND has another natal day
Come circling on the fleeting year;
And I, Louisa, far away,
A sad, and home-sick wanderer here?
Vast seas divide our sister hearts,
And barrier mountains round me rise;
And only Hope her meteor darts,
To cheer me in these distant skies.
Oh! be thou happy! may the hours,
Go round thee but in change of bliss;
And a bright future yet be ours,
To pay a parting such as this.

M. L. G.

Said of
but
do
76
skis
goes
to

["A COAT FROM FLOWERS", "SOCIAL MELODIES.", "No. I.", "EACH FOR ALL.", "AIR,— 'RULE BRITANNIA.'", "fortHE social brotherhood of man", "gro! Can bless the boon of birth,", "ceivAnd nature in her generous plan", "wiv Has taught us how to use the earth.", "five Hail, brothers all, in bark, or but, or hall,—\nyet Hail, for each must live for all!", "arrwWhy should not gen'ral sympathy", "and Prevail throughout the breathing world,", "migAnd o'er the human family", "con The flag of union float unfirl'd?", "her Hail, brothers all, &c. &c.", "slgWhy should a difference of birth,", "nor Of greed, or country men divide?", "she Behold the flowers of the earth,", "fabl Though various, blooming side by side.", "nev Hail, brothers all, &c. &c.", "to 'The trees that love the mountain height,", "hel And they that in the valley grew,", "nor Transplanted, will they not unite,", "hel And join their shade,'and share the dew !", "fit Hail, brothers all, &c. &c.", "we Man, poor and feeble, when alone,", "Wl The sport of ev'ry passing wind,", "soil In war—in trade—in art has shown,", "frorHail, brothers all, &c. &c.", "see Hail, brothers all, &c. &c.", "her If then when fears or interests plead", "gen Sustaining crowds together press,", "loolWhy should not social kindness lead", "nei Mankind to join for happiness?", "therHail, brothers all, &c. &c.", "M. L. G.", "SOCIAL MELODIES.", "No. II.", "THE BREAST'S BRIGHTEST GEM.", "AIR,— 'Hurrah for the Bonnets of Blue?'", "I'here's wealth for the merchant in mines—", "winlThere's wealth for the student in tomes—", "ed a And there's wealth for the Bacchant in wassail and wines,", "beat When with riot and review the hollands", "nevBut the wealth of all wealth is a heart", "therBy no narrow feeling confined,", "Mar That looks round the world with a wish to impart", "her Its glowings to gladden mankind.", "her Then hurrah for the breast's brightest gem,", "culle That kindles at sympathy's call;", "thenHere's the love and the blessing of all unto them,", "little Whose hearts hold a blessing for all.", "eightThere's pride in the pomp of a throne—", "towl There's pride in the patriot band,", "thenWhen they stand in the breach unsustain'd and alone,", "kisse And strike for their loves and their land.", "she (But there's pride that is purer than this,", "the 'That runs like a rill in the soul,", "you,'Tis a holier pride for it aims at the bliss,", "but Not of one spot of earth but the whole.", "the Then hurrah for the breast's brightest gem", "sold That kindles at sympathy's call,", "coat Here's the love and the blessing of all unto them", "Marl Whose hearts hold a blessing for all.", "M. L. G.", "FEMALE FAITH.", "She loved you when the sunny light", "Of bliss was on your brow:", "That bliss has sunk in sorrow's night,\nAnd yet—she loves you now.", "She loved you when your joyous tone", "Taught every heart to thrill;", "The sweetness of that tone is gone,", "And yet—she loves you still.", "She loved you when you proudly stept", "The gavest of the gay;", "That pride the blight of time has swept,", "Unlike her love, away.", "She loved you when your home and heart", "Of fortune's smile could boast:", "She saw that smile decay—depart—", "And then—she loved you most.", "O! such the generous faith that grows", "'Tis like the star that stays and glows", "Alone in night's dark vest;", "That stays because each other ray", "Has left the lonely shore,", "And that the wanderer on his way", "Then wants her light the more.", "M. L. G.", "SOCIAL MELODIES.", "No. III.", "MAN TURN UNTO MAN—THY BROTHER.", "AIR,— 'Here's a Health to the World, God bless him.'", "A CIRCLE of pleasure the world might prescribe,", "Undash'd and undimmd' by a cloud,", "Of pleasure that asks not the trafficking bribe,", "That purchases bliss for the proud.", "Q would heart turn to heart in the spirit of Him,", "Whose spirit so few know to follow,", "The miraculous wine might the goblet yet brim,", "And our hopes be no longer all hollow.", "Man would turn unto man—his brother,", "His brother,", "His brother,", "And whatever his fate, whether lowly or great,", "They'd love, and they'd cherish each other.", "Mankind cannot hope for the bright fruit of bliss,", "While to any, good gifts are denied;", "Why, why in a world so abundant as this,", "Are the many so poorly supplied?", "O the wide feast of nature was spread for us all,", "All, all have been called—might be chosen;", "But pride built his palace, and lighted his hall,", "And the stream of affection was frozen!", "Q man, turn unto man—thy brother,", "Thy brother,", "Thy brother,", "And whatever thy fate, whether lowly or great,", "Ye may love, serve, and cherish each other.", "M. L. G.", "SOCIAL MELODIES.", "No. IV.", "THE WORLD IS BEFORE US.", "AIR,— 'Fly from the world, O Bessy, to me.'", "THE world is before us; in beauty and light,", "The power of love has arrayed it;", "There's a sun for the morning, and stars for the night,", "And verdure, and foliage to shade it;", "There are castles and cots, there are hills and green lawns;", "Works of nature and art, bright and many;", "But of all that the map of creation adorns,", "The heart is the dearest of any.", "It is there that the pulse and the principle lives,", "That to earth all this beauty has given—", "The love that bestows, that forbears, that forgives,", {"bbox": [529, 732, 792, 746], "category": "Text", "text":

THE VOICE OF CHILDHOOD.

BY THE AUTHORESS OF "WOMAN'S LOVE."

Original.

I heard it where the jasmine's flower
Around the casements press,
A faint young voice, yet full of power—
The power of helplessness.
I heard it in the home of pride,
The one sweet sound shed there;
I heard it at the beggar's side
Mix'd with the wail of care.
I heard it in the dungeon dark,
Where recklessness sat gloom'd;
I heard it by the miner stark
In the deep earth entomb'd.
I heard it in the savage scene,
Where fear with freedom strives;
I heard it on the village green,
Where gladness still survives.

O every where, the same sweet sound
Of fond appeal it gave,
Gushing, as springs gush from the ground
Where flowers or wild weeds wave,
Throwing its gladness upon all
Unconscious of its power,
Hallowing the hearthstone of the hall—
Blessing the lowly bower.
With artless eloquence it spoke—
With power divinely given:
"O leave *not one* to error's yoke,
When *all* might rise to Heaven.
Awake, at Childhood's voice, awake,
O world with weeds o'er run!
New bliss with better beings make—
Neglect *not one*—*not one*!"

DISSOLVED LIKE A MIRAGE.

BY LORD BYRON.

Original.

Dissolved like a Mirage of air are the days,
When youth rock'd my heart in illusions that smiled;
And, poor wither'd dupe! it still glows as I gaze
On times of first love, while romance yet beguiled,
Young fancy all fervent and wild.
I laughing ran, dancing life's pathway along,
And while pleasure strew'd her fair flow'rs at my feet,
My passage was hail'd by a complacent throng,
Who swore they were friends—the delusion was sweet;
And memory still hallows the cheat.

But, ah! what remains me of youth's tender trance?
The sighs of a heart busy passions have worn;
Sad truth hath broke down my bright pile of romance,
And I hang o'er its ruins, heart-broken—forlorn!
Surviving it only to mourn.
Then, wine—give me wine! for the goblet can drown
The ails of the soul, and the monsters of truth;
My spirits light up, as I drink the draught down,
And warm my chill'd breast with the dreams of my youth—
Yea! steel me to care's canker'd tooth.

What though my head suffers, and reason grows blind,
If the heart dances light and fancy will fly,
The bowl makes a universe after my mind—
Plucks the sigh from my lip—the tear from my eye—
And hangs round my hope a blue sky.
These locks sorrow whitens, no longer seem grey,
And feeling each furrow depart from my face,
I become all I was in life's early day;
Joy springs from the goblet to meet my embrace,
And takes in this heart its old place.

Men all look sincere—ev'ry woman seems true—
This valley of tears grows a garden of flow'rs;
And, shaping the pictures my young fancy drew,
I live o'er again in the airy

# THE FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG.

## BY THE AUTHORESS OF "WOMAN'S LOVE."

Original.

Sweet flowers, ye seem in your sweetness all blest,
The soft rose has sunk on the lily's white breast;
As she leans o'er its beauty, how fondly she glows
With the blush she reflects from the balm-breathing rose.

And this delicate hyacinth—fairies can tell
Of the music that breathes from its bright little bell,
O sometimes I fancy I hear the wind tone,
As tender as twilight—as sad as my own.

This imperial tulip has woo'd and has won
A glow from the gorgeous and glorious sun:
What passion is painted in ev'ry warm streak
That tints the soft beauty that textures its cheek.

O why has this violet clung to its side?
Humility blends not with pomp and with pride:
Come away gentle gem, you were meant for the shade
And if passion should pluck thee it also may fade.

Sweet flowers your sighs as they pass fond and free,
Like the vows that my lover has whisper'd to me;
With a breathing divine, tremble over my brain,
But I feel both are fleet, and they woo me in vau.

I must bid him farewell, and sweet flowers through you—
He'll not dream that my tears have augmented the dew;
Nor when your leaves tremble and fall at his touch, a/
Think they whisper of one that might love him too much.

But he is of high—I of lowly degree,
His name is too proud to be given to me;
Yet my truth and my tenderness tell me that I
Am a flower too pure to be plucked and flung by.

—Yet go not on, or I may murmur, that
Like a caged fawn, I may not see mine home.
But ere we go, sing me one other lay,
For the pale stars are gleaming through the vine
And shining on the dew that gemmeth it,
I love the sparkling of each dewy blossom
Methinks, is't not a quaint conceit?—that they
Will catch the sound as it doth gently fall,
And when the sun hath dried it on the flower,
It makes the perfume and the melody,
Which fling their beauties to the laden air :
Then sing a strain of love.

PAGE sings.

My fair hair'd girl, my precious pearl,
I love each curl of thy ringletted hair,
I love the sound of thy glad feet bound—
On the flow'r strew'd ground, my gentle fair.

My golden flower, the brightest dower
Within thy power, is thine own dear love;
My heart's prized spring, my fairy thing,
To thee will I cling, my gentle dove!

[Exeunt.]

THE WIDOWER'S LAMENT.

Original.

Thou art gone with thy starry eyes,
Thou art gone with thy voice of mirth,
Thou art gone with thy light and perfumed sighs,
Thou hast gone from thy place of birth :
Thou art gone, and no more may be heard,
Thy song as 'twas heard of yore,
Thou hast spread thy wings like a bright young bird,
When it seeketh its native shore.

And now thou art not by

THE TOMR.

Original.

It rose amid embow'ring shades—
That solitary tomb,
Where far the silent forest spread
Sepulchral gloom.

But still the early sunbeam came,
And pierc'd the dark green shade;
Like infancy that on the lap
Of sorrow play'd.

The milder moonbeam threw its light
Among the quivering leaves;
Like tenderness that comes to soothe
The heart that grieves.

And near the tomb a sparkling spring
Its silent waters kept,
Bright as the unobtrusive tears
By virtue wept.

Who slept within that sepulchre?
A mother it might be,
Whose children in their orphan home
Laugh'd sunnily.

Perhaps it was some worshipp'd one,
The lov'd of some lone heart,
That smil'd to think that they should be
Not long apart.

Perhaps a benefactor fill'd
That tomb of solitude,
For whom flow'd soft the silent tears
Of gratitude.

No matter—yet it sooth'd, it charm'd
My musing mind to see
The fountain smile, the bright beam play
Lone tomb on thee.

THE LASSIE I MET YESTREEN.

BY WILLIAM A. FERGUSSON.

Original.

Oh! many a beautiful maiden I've seen,
But ne'er ane like her I met yestreen;
The hope o' high heaven amaist I would tine,
To ca' the young heart o' that dear lassie mine;
She has locks like the rich gowden cluds that play
Round the drowsy e'ed sun at the close o' day,
Wi' a forehead as fair, bright, unclouded, and high,
As the clear crescent moon in the midnight sky.

There's an ocean o' love in her saul-speaking ee,
In its glance there's a warld o' witcherie—
Her voice is mair mellow, beyond e'er a doot,
Than the saft melting tones o' the siller-stringed lute.
Ye hae seen the blob in the meek gowan's breast,
When the first streak o' light sprung to life in the east,
The gem is as pure then as can be amaist,
But a purer heart beats in her sma' taper waist.

Oh! could I but hope, that dear lassie would gie
The heart and her hand to a puir wight like me,
'Twould mak me content wi' my weirdless estate;
Nor mair at the dictates o' fortune I'd fret.
But I fear that her young heart is pledged tae anither,
That a' my fond hopes like the blossom maun wither,
Yet I'll pray for a blessing baith mornin and e'en,
On her the beloved ane, I met wi' yestreen.

The only way that man has to render himself like God is to
be virtuous, to do good, and to speak truth.

LINES FOR AN ALBUM.

Original.

A stream of crystal brightness fell
Into a marble fount,
And flowers of varied hue and smell,
Grew on a verdant mount.
As shaded by the sparkling light,
That glittered in the sun.

BYRON'S VIOLETS.

Maria Montanari, an old woman of ninety-five, was an object of Lord Byron's bounty, during his residence at Ravenna in 1821. In testimony of her gratitude she brought him some violets.

Original.

She came with the young violets,
The fairest of the field,
And bade them breathe the gratitude
Her glowing heart conceal'd.

From Nature's book of poesy,
She took the leaves new blown—
They spoke unto the British Bard
In language like his own.

The summerazure of the heart,
That gratitude imprints,
The violet's velvet leaf reveal'd,
In all its softest tints.

The glowing tear of gladden'd age,
Contentment's sparkling spell
Breath'd in the bright and balmy dew,
That from the fair leaves fell.

The pious prayer of thankfulness
That seeks its source on high;
Was wafted softly on the breath
Of the silent violet's sigh.

There's not a flower that ever bound
The poet's radiant brow,
That may compete with the soft grace
Of these sweet violets now.

Amid his laurel wreath of fame
They glow with lovely light,
And breathe a balm on Byron's name
That makes it bland as bright.

The home of holy rest,
Though mournfully her soft beams lay
Their beauty on thy breast.

No stone is there—the rank weed plays,
And pansies brightly bloom;
Yet not a line thy name betrays,
Nor epitaphs thy tomb.
And dost thou Thyrza slumber low,
In last and lonely sleep,
Where rain clouds only spend their woe;
And cypress branches weep?

Is this the only trace that tells
Of virtue's deathless lot?
Oh! no, in memory's silent cells
The good are ne'er forgot!—
Then let the winter's torrent pour
Upon thy lonely tomb;
Thy spirit roves the blessed shore,
Where flow'rs of promise bloom.

INA.

To the idiot every thing is nothing; to the man of genius
nothing is everything.

COME ROAM WITH ME.

BY J. BLOCKLEY.

Come roam with me, 'neath the greenwood tree,
Where the young spring flowers are bright and fair,
Where life but seems as a summer dream,
For mirth and joy have their dwelling there.
Thy home shall be, where the young rose tree,
Is shedding its softest fragrance round;
And the pearls that lie, in the violets eye
Shall smile like stars from the mossy ground.

Thy matin lay at morning grey,
The lark shall sing as she soars on high,
And the twilight hymn, when the eve is dim,
The breeze shall softly whisper by.

TO THE MEMORY OF A BROTHER.

Original.

He sleeps the sleep that may not know
Awakening unto joy or woe;
He sleeps the sleep on which may gleam
No giddy or no gladd'ning dream;
He sleeps the sleep that may not fly
Though friend or foe stand breathing by;
The hostile hand might touch him now—
No frown would mark that marble brow;
The loving lip, his lip might press—
It would not lose its iciness;
Convulsive passion's sob might start—
It would not pierce his pulseless heart.

O death! how dark a change is wrought—
The heart of love—the home of thought—
All voiceless, lifeless, cold, undone!
He was a husband—brother—son—
What is he now?—the buried one!
The mould of mother-earth o'erlays
And hides him from affection's gaze;
And only love's fond memory keeps
The record of the one it weeps.
O long o'er every future bliss
'Twill cry—"How he had joy'd at this!"
And turn away with sick despair,
And shun the good he cannot share:
And, O! when wintry blasts of grief
Shall tear hope's roses leaf by leaf,
How love will let the tears flow free
In pining for his sympathy.

O lost too soon—O lov'd too well—
Too dear for death—farewell! farewell!
One soothing solace yet is given—
Thou'rt lost to earth, to live in heaven:
Fond faith forbids us to deplore—
For thou'rt "not dead, but gone before."

STANZAS.

Original.

'Tis twilight's soft and stilly hour,
Come wander forth with me;
With dew-drops gemm'd is every flower—
The sun sets glowingly.
Rich perfumes float upon the gale,
Borne from the violet beds;
The nightingale begins her tale,
And night flowers show their heads.

The evening star is shining bright
In the clear vault of heaven—
The glow-worm lends its little light
To cheer the shades of even.
'Tis in an hour serene as this
We think of those we love,
When the world so still and quiet is,
It seems like that above.

And thronging on us bright and fast
Remembrances arise—
Of gilded hours, long since by-past,
No more to glad our eyes.
And early life—and youthful bliss—
And all we valued most,
Now swallowed up in time's abyss,
Flit by us like a ghost.

But see the moon has tinged the spire,
And shines upon the stream;
And twilight's shadowy rays expire,
Like fancy's airiest dream.
So fade the joys to which we cling,
So vanisheth alas!
Those fairy loves which sometimes spring
To cheer the way we pass!

E. S. F.

# THE PEASANT GIRL'S PLAINT.

Original.

Why did'st thou come to steal the peace,
That like a dove lay at my breast?

Why did'st thou cause the song to cease
That us'd to soothe my bed of rest?

I murmur'd not to toil all day—
I took the lot that Heaven assign'd,
But thou hast stolen content away,
And left a dreary waste behind.

I us'd to rise to meet the sun,
And had a heart almost as bright;
And when the rosy day was done,
I tripp'd it gaily home at night.

But now I wish whene'er I wake,
That daylight would not shine on me;
But that my silly heart might break
In darkness, where no eye might see.

I know I should not have believ'd
The words of love you breath'd so oft,
But one more wise had been deceiv'd
By looks so fond, and tones so soft.

Though thou can'st boast a lordly name
And I am but of low degree,
Think not I cannot feel the shame
That thy false love hath brought to me.

Why did'st thou come a heart to win
That I alas! too fondly gave,
And leave it then, in shame and sin
No other refuge than the grave?

'Tis ever thus, Heav'n calls the fair
And lovely from the earth,
To bloom in the celestial air,
That gave their beauty birth.
We must not mourn for their decay,
Who bloom in lands of endless day.

J. F. C.

He was suddenly borne upon the winds and storms to the
ocean of an eternal winter: he fell stunned and unstruggling
upon the ebbless and sluggish waves,—slowly and heavily
they rose over him as he sank: then came the lengthened and
suffocating torture of that drowning death—the impotent
struggle and convulsive contest with the closing waters—the
gurgle—the choking—the bursting of the pent breath—the
flutter of the heart—its agony—and its stillness.

E. L. BULWER.

O FOR THE WINGS OF YONDER DOVE.

BY BENJAMIN GOUGH.

Original.

O for the wings of yonder Dove
That hovers o'er her nest,
Soon would I soar to worlds above,
And be for aye at rest!
No mortal tie should hold me back
I'd spurn earth's crumbling sod;

GENIUS,

Original.

Hail mighty spirit, understood by few—
Fear'd by the feeble—aye, oft hated too:
Thou pensive pilgrim, seen in ev'ry land,
Fated to drudge, though fitted to command—
Foster'd by sensibility to know
How wild and various are the ways to woe!
How soon doth malice pour with envious aim
The black'ning vapor o'er thy bright'ning name;
The dull despise—the ignorant condemn—
And the vain wear, and then destroy the gem.
When with the sheeted dead thou'rt laid to rest,
When fade the fires that fill'd thy brain and breast,
Then those, that cower d beneath thy kindling eye,
Creep forth to live on thy biography,
And, like the worm at work upon thy clay,
Gnaw all the beauty of thy name away!

O this is malice! martyrdom o'er much—
Yet hast thou that the torturers cannot touch;
The soul within the soul—the inmost mind
Woes cannot waste, and fetters cannot bind:
That keeps thy brain and bosom all embu'd
With lights with which *thou* only art endu'd—
With feelings, fancies all too pure and proud
To warm the bosoms of the babbling crowd;
And still upon Time's ocean-tide must roll
The relics of thy light-illumined soul,
Buoyant and bright, all deathless and divine,
For proud and just Posterity to shrine.

True poetry is not a profusion of glowing words; there must be order, there must be sentiment, there must be aim, else all is profitless and nonsensical.

A bad imitation of Scott is bad,—a bad imitation of Byron worse,—but a bad imitation of Moore worse than all.

## WOMAN'S LOVE.

Original.

What is the one bright star
All others far above,
Undimmed by darkest clouds?
The star of Love!

What is the fairest flower
Blooming where'er we rove,
Living mid clouds and storms?
The flower of Love!

What cheers amid the crowd
In palace, cot, or grove,
And makes all nature glad?
The smile of Love!

And where the star, the flower,
The smile soft as the dove?
Seek and you'll find them all
In Woman's Love!

E. S. F.

NEAR THIS SPOT ARE DEPOSITED THE REMAINS OF
JOHN GILLIES, LL.D. F.R.S. F.A.S.

MEMBER OF SEVERAL LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC INSTITUTIONS,
BOTH AT HOME AND ABROAD;

HISTORIOGRAPHER TO HIS MAJESTY FOR SCOTLAND,
AND AUTHOR OF MANY WORKS, DISTINGUISHED BY SOUND LEARNING
AND PHILOSOPHICAL RESEARCH.

IN YOUTH HE WAS AN ARDENT AND INDEFATIGABLE STUDENT;
HIS MANHOOD WAS DEVOTED TO THE USEFUL AND HONOURABLE
APPLICATION OF HIS ACQUIREMENTS.

A LIFE
OF THE STRICTEST INTEGRITY AND MOST ACTIVE BENEFICENCE
WAS CLOSED IN RETIREMENT,
BLESSED WITH CALM PIETY AND FIRM FAITH IN
THE ATONEMENT AND MEDIATION OF HIS
REDEEMER.

HE DIED AT CLAPHAM ON THE 15TH OF FEBRUARY, 1836,
IN THE 90TH YEAR OF HIS AGE.