His apartments

cated, literature and antiquarian pursuits are his hobby-horse; but too small an income has restrained the bent of his soul nearly in all the circumstances of his life. What struggles, what privations, what trouble and pain, were not suffered or made use of, as necessary engines, to arrive fairly and most honestly to the object of his wishes? . . . . . . However, perseverance and economy have

ed all.

conquer

Retired, as a lonely anchorite, in the attic apartment of an inn of Court, there, not unlike the bird of Minerva, who perches on the neighbouring gutter, and "moping to the Moon complains,” our friend silently and wisely enjoys what he calls (and who dares say he is not right?) a comfortable life.

He is fond of old engravings and musty pictures; his room does not exhibit an inch of plaster that is not closely co

a true Microcosm.

vered with such precious decorations. His tolerance has allowed him to be fond of popish relicks; and pieces of copes and chalices from the times of the Heptarchy to this day, are hung respectfully around his bed-chamber. Old missals, curious editions of scarce books, sleep on his shelves; and precious medals repose in his cabinets. Ancient stained glass chequers his window-frames with the seven-fold glories of the rainbow, and Mambrino's helmet chides its neighbour, the real bit of copper-ore, for its not exposing more significantly the greenish treasures of its bosom. In fact, and without joke, Mr. Baxter's small apartment is truly a kind of microcosm, where time and place have lost their distances; where the produces of Otaheite and Mexico, are contiguous to the English and French beautiful china; where the Etruscan vase displays its red and black allegories by the sides of modern filigree.

His Means.

But how could any body gather so many and valuable curiosities, with no other help but a very small patrimony, which his prudence bids him to preserve, and natural fearfulness forbids him to increase? For these last thirty years he has employed the same hair-dresser, who, out of respect (we suppose) never raised his price; the same laundress and her daughter have constantly attended him for the same wages, because, as they say, they are sure of their money, let it be ever so little; and the same cookshop, or, if you will, the same tavern, has contributed to his subsistence. A constant customer for so long a period, is sure to be well-treated, and Mr. Baxter never found cause to change his board. Sobriety with him is the order of the day; but a friend can enjoy, at his chambers, as comfortable a cup or dish of tea, as at any Alderman's rose-wood table.

His Haunts.

Generally averse to crowds, he runs through the street; and, if he is ever pressed or jammed any where, it must be in some foreign chapel, where, though bred up a member of the established church, he often repairs to enjoy the sight of the Russian or Roman liturgies, As his days are peaceful and harmless, his nights are undisturbed and happy. His diet is regular, light, and wholesome; therefore he enjoys his health. But do not believe that the overplus of his income is exclusively spent to satisfy his whims, and buy fodder for his hobby-horses. He feels as a man ought for the miseries of others; the sly shilling often drops from his hand into the wornout hat of the blind and lame, and they bless him, as they would an angel, invisi ble and unknown.

In one word, Mr. Baxter's life, which, we are sorry to say, is now on the decline, has been like the nightly lamp, that

The only Fault he ever committed.

keeps itself in darkness, whilst it illuminates all around, and for the many years we have observed him attentively, we never heard him complain of any body, nor any body complain of him; the only harm he has ever been the cause of, and often deplored, was his treading unknowingly on the tender corn of a lady's foot, at the Queen's birth-day, ten or twelve days ago.

Mr. Baxter is a bachelor, therefore he never enjoyed the sweets of conjugal love, and the comforts of a father: nosurely-nor the bitterness of jealousy, and the continual anxieties of a tender parent for his children.

The journal of his daily conduct is as follows:-Mr. B. rises at half past seven in winter, and at half past five in summer; lights his fire himself, and dusts his curiosities; breakfasts exactly at nine; remains in his red damask morning-gown