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brance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.
It was on her that Moore, the distinguished
And lovers around her are sighing:
For her heart in his grave is lying.
Every note which he lov'd awaking-
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
They were all that to life had entwined him-
Nor long will his love stay behind him!
When they promise a glorious morrow;
From her own lov'd island of sorrow!
ART OF BOOK-MAKING,
« If that severe doom of Synesius be true—'It is a greater offence to steal dead men’s labour, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers ?,
Burton's ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY.
I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which nature seems to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries