point or applicability to the subjects under her consideration. Her second marriage would seem, in a great measure, to have un-Anglicised her. She no longer saw with the same eyes, nor listened with the same ears. Her organs and faculties appear to have undergone a complete metamorphosis.

It is a matter of surprise to us how a book so utterly devoid of interest should have been so generally encouraged as these travels would seem to have been, coming as they did so soon after the sprightly and amusing volumes of Doctor Moore upon the same subject.

About ten years after this publication Mrs. Piozzi put forth a work, entitled "British Synonymy, or an Attempt at regulating the Choice of Words in familiar Conversation,” in two octavo volumes, of which Mr. Gifford has in his Baviad and Mæviad, spoken with memorable severity. "To execute such a work," says he, "with any tolerable degree of success, required a rare combination of talents; among the least of which may be numbered, neatness of style, acuteness of perception, and a more than common accuracy of discrimination; and Mrs. Piozzi brought to the task a jargon long since become proverbial for its vulgarity, an utter incapability of defining a single term in the language, and just as much Latin as sufficed to expose the ignorance she so anxiously labours to conceal." This is a very harsh but in some degree a merited sentence. The book is full of flippancy and affectation, and often involves in tenfold obscurity that which it should have been its object to explain.

The earliest regular exploit of Mrs. Piozzi in authorship, however, was her crown octavo volume of " Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson." These were published in 1786. Two years afterwards she gave to the world a collection of letters to and from our great moralist. The letters had been written between the years 1765 and 1784. Her anecdotes, from her intimate knowledge of the exalted individual, whose character they were intended to illustrate, could not fail of being interesting and valuable. At the time of their publication they were exceedingly popular; but the charm of novelty which made them

acceptable, is now in a great measure dissolved. There is a sacredness in the character of him who, besides extorting from us a tribute of admiration as a public writer, has benefited society by the example of his private life, and has confirmed and instructed us both by precept and example. The feelings of such a man ought not to be forgotten in our veneration for his general usefulness and worth. The deteriorating anecdotes related by Mrs. Piozzi of Dr. Johnson have, we doubt, not their foundation for the most part in fact; but we have no relish at this period for any statements that are likely to turn the course of our esteem and reverence for a character for which we have imbibed a veneration from our earliest years.

We have already made several extracts from this agreeable gossiping volume. We quote from it the following verses addressed by Johnson to Mrs. Piozzi, during his residence with her on one of her birth-days.

Oft in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
Better years than thirty-five,
Could philosophers contrive
Life to stop at thirty-five.
High to soar, and deep to dive,
Nature gives at thirty-five:
For howe'er we boast and strive,
Life declines from thirty-five:
He that ever hopes to thrive
Must begin at thirty-five;
All who wisely wish to wive

Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.

The late intelligent Joseph Barretti was severe in his animadversions upon the work, as was also Boswell, in his life of Johnson, while the late Dr. Wolcot has humourously satirized both the lady and her critic, Boswell, under the designations of Bozzy and Pozzy.

For the last fifteen years of her life Mrs. Piozzi resided

almost constantly at Clifton near Bath. Her Italian husband dying in 1809, left her once more a widow.

She died at Clifton, after a very short illness, in her 83d year, and was conveyed for interment to the family burialplace in North Wales. She preserved her health and faculties to the last; indeed, so hale and vigorous does her constitution appear to have been, that a short time before her death, on the completion of her 82d year, she gave a ball, and led off the first dance herself.

We copy the following pieces by Mrs. Piozzi, from the pages of the Literary Gazette, where they appeared a few weeks ago. They were never before published, having been in all probability, written only a short time before her death.

Then with a smile, "keep off, my dear,
Nor force me thus to be severe.'

"Dear Sir!" cries Pleasure," you're so grave!
You make yourself a perfect slave:
I can't think why we disagree,
You may turn Methodist for me.
But if you'll neither laugh nor play,
At least don't stop me in my way :
Yet sure one moment you might steal
To see the lovely Miss O'Neil;
One hour to relaxation give;

Old age advances, haste away!
Nor lose the light of parting day;
See Sickness follows, Sorrow threats,
Waste no more time in vain regrets:

O Duty! one more effort given

May reach, perhaps, the gates of Heaven;
Where only each with each delighted,
Pleasure and Duty live united."

Translation of Donna Laura's well-known Verses on the Gate of Bologna.

THY mansion splendid, and thy service - plate;
Thy coffers filled with gold; well! what of that?
Thy spouse the envy of all other men;
Thy children beautiful and rich: what then?
Vigorous thy youth, unmortgaged thy estate;
Of arts the applauded teacher; what of that?
Troops of acquaintance, and of slaves a train;
The world's prosperity complete; what then?
Prince, Pope, or Emperor's thy smiling fate,
With a long life's enjoyment; what of that?
By Fortune's wheel toss'd high beyond our ken,
Too soon shall following time cry - Well, what then?
Virtue alone remains, on virtue wait,

All else I sweep away · but what of that?

Trust God and time defy - Immortal is your date.

May he, at least sometimes, remember

That glimmering light which saved his timber;
And hail the destiny that shone
Upon his constellation.

Verses made on a Mile-stone in Cornwall, when pursuing her
Journey to Penzance.

THE journey now begins t' advance,
And takes us nearer to Penzance.

We have met, thank Heaven! with no ill chance,
Through this long distance to Penzance.
And though just now too tired to dance,
Have brought good spirits to Penzance.
No fowl in Prague, no trout in France,
Beats fish and poultry at Penzance.
Indeed a retrospective glance
To Clifton Terrace from Penzance,
Would not exceedingly enhance
The few delights of low Penzance;
Yet this blue sea will pay the prance
We made to arrive at warm Penzance.
Eh! finessons une fois ces stances,
Les Muses n'habitent pas à Penzance.

Addressed to a Friend, to whom she bequeathed her Repeating-
Watch.

Down Time's rapid stream to Eternity's ocean,
Here see the swift moments each other pursue,
Nor take, without feeling some tender emotion,
My Time's old accountant

- transmitted to you.

Your monitress still, in this varied Repeater,

A useful memento recorded may be ;

If, wishing once more in the next life to meet her,

You scorn not the precepts of poor

H. L. P.