persisted in his suit. He solicited not her ten derness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance, that her heart was unalterably another's. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance 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 Irish poet, composed the following lines: She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, He had liv'd for his love-for his country he died, Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, THE ART OF BOOK MAKING. "If that severe doom of Synesius be true-it is a greater offence to steal dead men's labours than their clothes,'-what shall become of most writers?" BURTON'S ANAT. MELANCHOLY. I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how it came to pass that so many heads, on which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, yet teemed with voluminous productions. As a man, however, advances in life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus it has been my hap, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book making |