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,
As that of the Whigs in destroying our season;
No balls, routs, or suppers; no pleasures, I fear,
Will be known in this dull and detestable year,
But politics, politics still be vexation,

And our cares absorb'd in the cares of the nation.
Lord help us poor ladies, thus left in the lurch,
While the men are contesting the rights of the Church;
Discussing the merits of Peerage creations,

Or settling if Pats shall have new corporations.

What are such things to us? 'Tis beyond all endurance,
Low people, to tease us, should have such assurance;
But ten-pound electors, whose voting a trade is,
Have carried away all the beaux from the ladies.
My cousin Lord John, my admirer you know,
Who followed me ever to ball, play, and show,
Since return'd for some vile manufacturing town,
Has become, I protest, a mere hard-working clown.
If I ask what he thinks of a waltz or a dance,

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; "
And when I complain that the fashions are gone ill,
He declares that the ruin is caused by O'Connell.
Lord bless us! I'm sure I was never a hater,
But I can't help detesting that base agitator;
Both he and Joe Hume had the meanness to mention
The trifling amount of my grandmamma's pension.
I can't tell, to be sure, for what service 'twas granted,
But we know very well that 'twas very much wanted
While the boys have the church, and the army, and navy,
What would have become of us girls, let me crave ye,
Had not my poor grandmamma's quarterly payment
Supplied us with pin-money, trinkets, and raiment ?
To return to Lord John,-though a Tory in heart,
He's compell'd, 'gainst his will, with the Whigs to take part;
Though a friend to Don Carlos, he fights for Queen Isabelle,
Whom we all believe to be worse than a Jezebel:

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,
I pity his state and feel too much to scold.

But is not this horrid, to lose such a lover,
Just when to proposal I thought him won over;
To find him so hamper'd by weavers and spinners,
And blacksmiths, and other such Radical sinners,

That held by these wretches in servile dependence,
To the House, not to me, he must give his attendance.
Poor Mamma! you remember how gay were her parties,
But now since her son for the county to start is,

She gives up all her balls, all her opera nights,
And invites to her house, oh! such bumpkins and frights;
Squires, parsons, and farmers, wives, daughters, and cousins,
In that county the families count by the dozens,
And were one omitted from out the vast whole,
An excellent vote would be lost at the poll;

You ne'er saw such creatures, such gaping, such staring,
Such vulgar assurance, such insolent daring;

Instead of "My Lady," one ventured to "Miss" me,
And an overgrown booby attempted to kiss me;
While I, scarcely able my passion to smother,

Was forc'd to lisp out "Wont you vote for my brother?"
There's a fussy old lady just come up to town,
With a red velvet bonnet and blue satin gown,
In the fashion I guess of the reign of queen Dick,
I wish the old beldame went strait to old Nick;
I'm forc'd to escort her with all her young scions,
By day and by night, while she visits the lions,
But she musters of votes half-a-hundred at least,
And so we must try to gain over the beast;

Sister Jane, who, you know, is determin'd to joke all,
Wishes she would be just like her interests, local.

T'other night to a ball I was ready to go,

When Mamma call'd me down to take her to "Jim Crow ;"
There was sport to be sure, and the piece was well acted,
But the "turn about, wheel-about," set me distracted;

I was sitting as still as a cat on a shelf,

While I wish'd to be turning and wheeling myself;
Shut out by ill-stars from the joy of Almack's,
I longed to leap down, and to join with the blacks;
And had I been ask'd, on my word I believe,
I'd accept for a partner Jim Crow, or Jack Reeve.
My brother, Lord Robert, dislikes the connection,
And would, if he dar'd it, avoid the election;

He loves not to go (can you tell me what man does?)
To markets, and fairs, like the Marquis of Chandos,

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;
And swear that the ballot shall ne'er have his vote,

Because in the city 'tis scarce worth a Grote.
In this way poor Robert will ne'er be a charmer,

He cannot, like Chandos, be statesman and farmer;
Nor change from the praise of potatoes and pigs,
Το
pour out his wrath on O'Connell and Whigs.
I think, my dear friend, if I rightly divin'd,
My lord Robert was rather a beau to your mind;
In the crush-room you ever made him your protector,
And you petted his dog too, the beautiful Hector;
Chose him for your squire when you rode in the park,
And flirted-But what's that?-a servant comes-hark!

As I live 'tis a call from the vulgar old fury
To claim me to join in a visit to Drury;

'Tis a summons, that through me so instantly sends a
Thrill, that I can safely plead influenza.

"Go tell her, to-morrow I hope I'll be better;"
She's off, I thank Heav'n; I'll go on with my letter.

Though your Pa is a Whig, and though mine is a Tory,
I'm sure you have wept o'er my pitiful story.
You remember, when children, the juvenile balls
Old King George us'd to give in St. James's proud halls,
How politics ne'er interfer'd with our pleasure,
And none of us dream'd our expressions to measure;
When the king us'd to say that we two would unite
The parties that then were preparing for fight;
Bade you marry Tory, bade me marry Whig,
While we two for merriment ever agig,

With a smile on our lips, and a blush on our cheek,
Knew as much what he said as 'twere spoken in Greek.
We laugh'd-I remember that laugh blithe and hearty—
At the nonsense of these stupid watchwords of party.
Alas! Lady Mary, I fear on that score

The destinies order we ne'er shall see more;
These magical words hope to ruin have hurl❜d,
And quite overset the West end of the world.

My aunt, her soirées, the perfection of ton,
Are now party unions, not worth an old song ;
Her lions were poets and painters, romancers,
The opera singers, and opera dancers;

In short, every one whom ambition or money
Could induce for a night to be odd, quaint, and funny.
Now she takes to old parsons and lawyers who wail
O'er the days are gone by; to young members who fail

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,
And stick to the audience as closely as leeches;
The orations, unspoken, in her house are read
Until she and her company all are half dead.
Then their plans for a cabinet, each of them feel

He could manage the country much better than Peel;
He's too yielding, they say, and they date our vexation
From his free trade and Catholic conciliation.

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,
The dinner at Glasgow, and glorious reaction."
And thus disappointed, and abîmée quite,

I exclaim with Macbeth, "Hence, avaunt, leave my sight,
Your bones have no marrow, blood no circulation,

And your balls (not your eyeballs) have lost speculation?"
You perceive, Lady Mary, how sad is my case;
My mind's out of tune, and papa's out of place.
No pleasure is near us, no sporting, no dash;
I've got no companions, and he has no cash.

You can't think with what bitter feeling he said it—
"The loss of my office was loss of my credit :
With my mortgaged estates, retrench, love, I must,
For my salary's gone, and my tradesmen won't trust."
What will be the end, dear, of all this confusion?
This is surely as bad as the French Revolution,
When the gentry and nobles were driv'n to a distance,
And forced to beg, work, or to trade, for subsistence.
Lord bless me! should such be the end of our glories,
What shall we ladies do, poor unfortunate Tories?
By teaching, my bread, love, I never could win ;
And my hands are too soft and too tender to spin.
Had I got a blind eye, broken arm, or lame leg,
I might muster up courage to go out and beg;

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
The fate of

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,
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye!
Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare,

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky!
VOL. X.-NO. III.-MARCH 1837.

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