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last, and has now three daughters almost grown up. I wonder your sisters never married; they were very fine girls. I remember how Phillips and I used to try to be beforehand with each other, in engaging them for the first dance. I hear that Rose has become very deaf; and is it true that Grace has become quite a cripple from the rheumatism ?-Well, there is a great pleasure in talking these things over.

I think I shall remove into your part of the town, that we may spend our evenings together. Ah!

you remember that farm that you were obliged to throw up,—Higgins took it, and you would not know the place; he got it all into fine condition, and lays up money every year. I was down there last summer : I saw your picture at your uncle George's; but, bless me! nobody who saw you now, could ever guess that it was intended for a likeness of you,—when one comes to grow heavy, and to lose one's hair, it makes such a differ

Do you draw as much as you did ? I see you have taken to glasses,' &c. &c. &c. This insufferable Bore, or old friend, as he has sometimes the impudence to call himself, while he is stabbing one's pride, and lacerating one's sensibility, never fails to put one in mind of every sorrow one wishes to forget, but cannot every folly one endeavours to excuse, but may not. Have you ever been drawn into an unwary intimacy with a specious fellow of infinite wit, talent, and agreeableness, who afterwards turns out to be a villain ? Your Friendly Bore brands you for ever with the shame of your gullibility, by never naming the fellow without the accusing preface of your friend Mr. A. ; and moreover, sometimes adds, with an intolerable chuckle of merry condolence, ‘Ha! ha! my poor friend, how you were taken in!' Did you ever apply in vain for a place, a partnership, or a living, or a wife, or a commission; or haply to get out a tragedy, or get in a claim ? You may lay your account of never hearing the last of any of these misadventures and vexations, so long as you have old acquaintances extant, and cannot keep away from them by living only with your friends, or by yourself; which we hold to be the only mode of existence worth the trouble of getting up and lying down, dressing and undressing, talking and hearing talk, eating and drinking, &c. &c. &c.


it e'er by words can be exprest,

The mind of man when broken hearted,
Or sighsmor tears, console the breast,

From what it loves for ever parted :-
Then every grief I have to tell,

Mid sighs just breathed and tears just started
Read thou in this wild word " Farewell !'




Thou art our Father Lord, our Lord,

And thou wilt every want fulfil
Of promised love, and Zion-ward

Wilt lead the tribes in Judah still.

Though mute within thy walls we stand,

Nor harp, nor tabret's sound is there;
Nor bended knee, nor lifted hand,

Nor solemn vow, nor voice of prayer :

The heart contrite, the lowly mind,

The strength implored, the trembling plea,
The cherished joy of years resigned,

In grateful incense rise to thee.
Sometimes, perhaps, as 'reft and weak

Along her walls may Zion mourn ;
Because they be but few that seek

Her day of feast or solemn morn.
But thou shalt still inhabit there,

And there shall still thy glory shine ;
And Sinai's fount thy name shall bear,

And Sion's hill shall still be thine.
Yet shalt thou teach her sons thy ways;

Her courts with prophets yet shall fill;
And on her gates shall still be Praise,

And on her walls Salvation still!
There shalt thou bid thine ensign stand,

And blow thy trumpet, that from far
Shall call the nations, land by land,

And they shall answer, "Here we are !
And Cush and Hamath, as of old,

And Taprohamt shall come to her,
With richest offerings, gems, and gold,

And balm, and frankincense, and myrrh.
Around her borders shalt thou lead

The streams that gladden where they flow;
And there Nebaioth's rams shall feed,

And there the flocks of Kedar go.
Within-thy love, thy peace shall rest;

The unmeasured Spirit all shall hear ;
And every tongue shall call her blest,
And name her name-The Lord is here !



* These beautiful lines are from the pen of a member of the Society of Friends. Ed. Lit. Mag. + Supposed to be inteaded for Taphanes, V. Jer. XLIII. 7, 8.


roll on.

Wreck a ship, or overturn a coach. Let there be an interesting young woman, with a child in her arms, saved from the perils of drowning, or overthrow. Let her faint; cause her to be carried into the house of a kindhearted old lady, who puts her into a warm bed, and gives her some weak brandy and water. Let the young woman die! Examine her pockets ; find in one, a letter, written to her, probably, by her husband, with the address and signature both torn off; in the other, a curious old thimble, or pencilcase, or locket, or any thing you please, provided it be the only one of its kind in the world. Let the baby smile. Let the old lady vow to bring it up. Let years

Let the babe become a beautiful young woman. Let her hair be auburn;-her eyes, celestial blue;-her mouth like rubies ;her teeth, seed-pearl;—her complexion, transparently delicate;-her cheeks, such as to make roses and lilies wither with envy;-her form, sylph-like; -her step, elastic;—her manners, dignified, yet simple;—and let her be unconscious of her beauty, though she is' beauty's self.'

Let the old lady have kindly instructed her in drawing; and nature in singing; and let her be a proficient in both.

Let a nobleman and his lady come to live in the neighbourhood. Let the lady take a fancy to the beautiful Julietta, or Amoretta, or Heavenlietta, or whatever name you may have selected for her. Let her go to London with the nobleman and his lady. Let their only son, Lord Tenderheart, fall in love with the beautiful Heavenlietta. Let her fall in love with him, but let her fancy he is engaged to another lady. Let him go abroad without having come to any explanation. Let her become pale, and interestingly pensive. Let her go to balls and routes, and make innumerable conquests. Let her dance most beautifully, though she has never learned a step. Let her have masters in French, Music, and Italian. Let her refuse seven or eight offers, some of them unexceptionable ones. Let her go to a masquerade. Let one of her rejected admirers run away with her, and carry her to a dismal looking house in the country. Let her stab him with a pair of scissors. Let him faint from loss of blood. Let her jump out of the window, and run back again to London. Let a duel be fought about it, and let one man be killed. Bring Lord Tenderheart back again. Let there be an eclaircissement. Let them vow eternal love, though Lord T.'s father will not consent to the union on account of the obscurity of Heavenlietta's birth.

Let there be a severe frost, and afterwards a thaw, to make the streets slippery. Let an old gentleman tumble down, and break his leg, or his arm, (it matters not which), and let him be carried to the house where Heavenlietta resides. Let him have a fever, and recover slowly. Let him start when he sees Heavenlietta. Let her be sewing some day with the old-fashioned thimble,— or writing with a pencil fastened in the old silver pencil-case, -or dangling the locket between her finger and thumb ;-and let the old gentleman change colour at the sight of the said thimble, or pencil-case, or locket (which ever you choose to select). Let him discover to Heavenlietta, that he is her grandpapa, and the Earl of Eatwater,—that her father is dead, -and that the trinket in question, once belonged to her great-great-grandmother.

Let her confide to him her attachment to Lord Tenderheart, and let the consent of his father be obtained. Let the old lady, who brought up Heavenlietta, be sent for to their wedding. Let the grandpapa be smitten with her charms, and marry her. Let them all be happy!

Let these ingredients be carefully mixed together, with a considerable quantity of honey and sugar ; stuff the whole composition with sentiment, and let your garnish consist of zephyrs' wings, cupids' darts, and other light ornamental trifles, and you will not fail to produce as sweet a novel as one would wish to see on a summer's-day.


In a late number of Blackwood's Magazine “The Devil's Walk,' so long ascribed to Porson, is given to its real authors, Messrs. Southey and Coleridge. The following Charades, which have been also attributed to the Professor's pen, may possibly be in the same predicament.


My First, with more than Quaker pride

At your most solemn duty ;
You wear; nor deign to throw aside,

Even though it veil your beauty.
My Second on your cheek or lip

May kindle Cupid's fire;
But on your chin or pose's tip

Would scarce provoke desire.
But, if



For your unhappy poet ;
In pity, Laura, spare his pain,

And never let him know it.


My First is the nymph I adore,
The sum of her charms is my Second
I almost had call'd it my Third ;
But having courted a million or more,
I found that they ne'er could be reckoned,
And therefore discarded the word.


The child of a peasant, Rose thought it no shame,

To toil at my First all the day;
But when fair Rose's father a farmer became,

My First to my Second gave way.
Rose married a merchant, who took her to town,

To that affluent station preferred;
My First and my Second aside both were thrown,

And she gives all her time to my Third.


LIEUTENANT M- was, unhappily, born of parents who could trace their descent, on both sides, through many ages of illustrious ancestors. Their genealogical tree had its root from some old king of most apocryphal existence, and was adorned with barons, knights, and nobles, who flourished before the conquest. But the family estate was irretrievably encumbered; and their property neither bore any reasonable proportion to their notions of aristocratic grandeur ; nor was at all on a level with the rank which they assumed to themselves among their neighbours. The mind of my poor friend was early imbued with the same haughtiness, and, although the youngest of four brothers, he had no slight opinion of his own dignity and importance. Yet, with many of the faults, he possessed all the virtues which are engendered by ideas of hereditary distinction. He recoiled from every thing illiberal and mean, either in action or in thought; he imbibed, almost with his mother's milk, the nicest sense of honour and generosity. Frank, high-minded, open-hearted, and impetuous, he scorned all falsehood and dissimulation, as unworthy, not only of himself, but of those of his race who went before him. Family pride was with him an additional incentive to rectitude of conduct.

But he had a fortune to make in the world; and, by an unlucky fatality, he was not merely disinclined to flatter or conciliate any created being under heaven, but he was too often disposed to look down upon those who were both able and willing to do him service.

Another misfortune of his life was that, he early loved, and was beloved, by a beautiful girl, without either family or wealth. Love laughs at the idle distinctions of society; and he married her, after a severe struggle between his pride and his affection, But the connexion was an offence which his family never could forgive, and he quarrelled with them for ever. The same pride which had yielded with reluctance to a stronger passion, now taught him to support the object of his choice by a marked, exclusive, and almost idolatrous regard.

A small sum of money, which had been left to him by an uncle, was soon dissipated, by the warm and too liberal hospitality of the youthful pair. Ignorant of its value, and careless of its expense, they hardly knew that it was diminished before they had wasted it almost to the last guinea. My friend, on this emergency, placed his wife, and an infant daughter, under the care of one of her relatives; and, impressed with the haughty belief, that the army was the only profession for a gentleman, sought and obtained a commission in a regiment which was on the eve of sailing for Walcheren. In that ill-fated expedition he caught a fever, from which he never afterwards entirely recovered. His health, however, was so far restored, that he was enabled to serve gallantly throughout the war: and his reward was, that when his regiment was paid off at the end of it, he had nothing to subsist upon but the half-pay of a lieutenant.

His wife, in the meantime, harrassed with perpetual fears respecting his safety, and feeling herself a burthen to her friends, had sunk beneath the pressure of unremitting anxiety, and died of premature old age. A daughter now only remained to Lieutenant M- the representative, and so far as extreme youth can resemble maturity of loveliness, the counterpart of her mother, at the time when he first beheld, and too sincerely loved her.

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