moon, now in all her lustre, shone full in his face and upon the book. I started up and gazed in wonder, while a creeping thrill of awe came over me. Still the finger pointed to the open page, and, obeying the mandate thus held out, I endeavoured to read, but in vain; the letters danced and flitted about the leaf, forming all manner of combinations, yet never remaining long enough in the same position for me to catch the purport. The old man's brow grew yet sterner with impatience, and an angry fire seemed to light up his cold grey eyes. Again I endeavoured to fix the capricious lines, as much from a secret and undefined dread as from curiosity. This time I succeeded, and a groan of horror escaped me as I read the wavering letters; it was a prophetic page in the history of my life, the record of an event that was yet to be, but of so appalling an import that I would rather have read a tale of murder; it struck a blow at the peace of one I loved with a passion beyond the power of words to tell it. Love!-Love!-why have the poets painted thee as a young and innocent child? they should rather have shown thee in the guise and with the attributes of a devil, for you make devils of the best of us. The old man took no notice of my horror, though the feeling was much too strong not to have found its visible reflection in my face. So much of his errand seemed to be done, and he again proceeded busily to turn over the leaves, pausing every now and then upon a fresh page, but always going on again with a dissatisfied shake of his head, as if the object of his search was yet to be found. About the middle of the volume, it appeared that he had stumbled upon what he wanted, for he fixed his eyes, as before, upon me, and pointed with his finger to the open page. It was a glimpse -only a glimpse I caught of the happy future, when the old man hastily closed the volume, and, with all his features relaxed into a benevolent smile, slowly passed into the room that adjoined my bed-chamber, and which, like it, was on the ground floor. For the first moment the idea flashed across me that I was the dupe of some idle deception. Starting up, I hurried into the parlour, and saw the old man passing over the grass-plot in front of the French windows. How he had got there was to me incomprehensible, for the window was still bolted; and when I opened it to follow him, the cold air that rushed in almost stifled me, and he was gone. Did I dream?-impos sible; every thing was too palpable to the sense for dreaming. Was I the dupe of some childish plot?-that was just as unlikely, for in the first place no human ingenuity could have carried the thing so far, and in the next, if possible, no end whatever could have been answered by all this outlay of time and trouble. Might I not be the victim of the same sort of illusion that tormented the famous Nicolai, the Berlin bookseller, who was daily and hourly visited by spectral shadows, the consequences of an overwrought brain? I thought so at the time-I think so still; my mind and body had both, in the course of the day, been stretched beyond the healthy point of tension, and a passing fever, of which I was not myself conscious, might have been the result. But after all, what is real? Some philosophers have said that nothing is-and are they not right? May not life itself be the dream of another mode of existence? But I am getting into a chapter that certainly does not belong to the Court Magazine.-Farewell, therefore, gentle reader, and should you be disposed for another little excursion in my favourite island, I shall be most happy to accompany you. Perhaps we may pay a visit together to the smugglers. I will hold you harmless, for they are old acquaintances of mine, and, notwithstanding their rough faces and ruggid manners, you will find this "terribile gente," as Napoleon called them, more amusing than a host of the last fashionable novels. POLITICS OF FASHIONABLE LIFE DESCRIBED IN INTERCEPTED LETTERS. MY DEAR LADY MARY, LETTER NO. I. There ne'er was such treason, And our cares absorb'd in the cares of the nation. Or settling if Pats shall have new corporations. What are such things to us? 'Tis beyond all endurance, He says "Louis Philip's rather puzzled with France;" And if I attempt explanation to gain, He 66 says, General Evans is puzzled in Spain; " Speaks fierce against Cumberland, lauds young Victoria, And even must flatter Maria di Gloria ; Thus puzzled, tormented, how sad is his case, 'Twixt interest and duty, affection and place. Though his manners are alter'd, his court'sies grown cold, But is not this horrid, to lose such a lover, That held by these wretches in servile dependence, She gives up all her balls, all her opera nights, You ne'er saw such creatures, such gaping, such staring, Instead of "My Lady," one ventured to "Miss" me, Was forc'd to lisp out "Wont you vote for my brother?" Sister Jane, who, you know, is determin'd to joke all, T'other night to a ball I was ready to go, When Mamma call'd me down to take her to "Jim Crow ;" I was sitting as still as a cat on a shelf, While I wish'd to be turning and wheeling myself; He loves not to go (can you tell me what man does?) And puzzle the rustics with mingled oration On the stock of their farms, and the stocks of the nation, Give a hint at the follies of Bilboa's battle, Then turn to a lecture on breeding of cattle; 'Gainst annual parliaments issue a summons, Because members and sheep are averse to short commons; Because in the city 'tis scarce worth a Grote. He cannot, like Chandos, be statesman and farmer; As I live 'tis a call from the vulgar old fury 'Tis a summons, that through me so instantly sends a "Go tell her, to-morrow I hope I'll be better;" Though your Pa is a Whig, and though mine is a Tory, With a smile on our lips, and a blush on our cheek, The destinies order we ne'er shall see more; My aunt, her soirées, the perfection of ton, In short, every one whom ambition or money In the House so improperly nicknam’d Reform'd, We should call it the House which the vulgar have storm'd, Where both rank and fashion no longer bear sway, But merchants and traders gain ground every day; The young nobles, cough'd down, to my aunts bring their speeches, He could manage the country much better than Peel; I wonder my aunt can endure the dull praters, Such broken-down statesmen and hopeless debaters; But she has four sons, and if once we get in Good places for all she is certain to win. But the papers-why those that at one time would handle Some delicate topics of gossip and scandal, Describe our court dresses, record every ball, The dullness of politics seizes them all ; Those that came once a week, those that issue diurnal— The Herald, John Bull, Morning Post, and Court Journal Alas! for old times, when all these lov'd to dash on, No parties but parties of pleasure and fashion. If I take up the Post, what will first meet my vision? "The evil effects of the Poor Law Commission." If I glance at John Bull, 'tis the Connellite faction, I exclaim with Macbeth, "Hence, avaunt, leave my sight, And your balls (not your eyeballs) have lost speculation?" You can't think with what bitter feeling he said it— But with all my limbs sound, every Radical Turk, When I ask'd him for alms, would say, "Hussy, go work!" The Movement, however, is going so fast, That to this consummation things must come at last; But when that time arrives, the death-bell will be knelling Your ever-affectionate HELEN. INDEPENDENCE. WHAT a glorious and animating word is Independence! Whisper but a distant promise thereof into the ear of man; and, straightway, though he were sluggish, and dull, and torpid as the sleeping sloth, he shall arise to gird on his armour and prepare for the strife. The hope of independence stirreth up his soul; and, as the war-horse that heareth "the trumpets, and the thunder" of the battle and the "shouting afar off," "he paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength, and he goeth on." But what is this wondrous possession, so prized, so sought, so ever dear? Is it a reality, or but a lovely phantom which poets have dreamt of and melodiously invoked? Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky! sang a bard of our own isle, rapt in the splendid visions of imagination, while a chord within his own breast vibrated in unison with the dulcet symphonies of hope. Independence is the admired, the coveted of all, the ideal goal of earthly happiness; and we all press onward, by paths, various as our manifold and dissimilar passions and inclinations, to attain the prize. And hope, undying hope, is by our side, grasping at shadows of coming good, and ever crying, "Lo, here!" and "lo, there!" as a glimpse of unreal things appears amid the rolling, dark clouds of futurity. All join in the pursuit: but what is the end thereof? Alas! it may be compared to the race of children, hunting the gaudy butterfly of summer, which playeth before their eyes in tantalising, many-coloured beauty, flitting from tree to tree, and from flower to flower; often apparently within reach; and, then, Q |