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teen-penny-halfpenny comes in return. We set out some fine morning after breakfast, when in good humour with oneself and all the world; and after bending one's steps to St John's Wood or Hackney, find the object almost without any trouble, enjoying all the luxuries and happiness of an English fireside. Thus an address is a complete leading-string to our object, for while we have the address of any of our friends we cannot say they are lost to us, although they may be far-far away. Again, I ever look with suspicion when I find that a person cannot readily give his address, and the inquiry sometimes acts as a kind of touchstone. The tongue faulters; you no longer look on a countenance void of expression, a barber's block, or a graven image; but the face assumes a complexion of a kind which to the observant eye cannot be mistaken for the blush of innocence, or hue of health. No. 'Tis because its head reposes on some dirty pillow in the neighbourhood of Manilla place, or the boundaries of the King's Bench. Though some there are who, lost to every sense of feeling in this respect, care not who knows their address, and who go on like the Caird in Burns's Jolly Beggars, saying,

"Let them cant about decorum

Who have characters to lose."

I was lately led into a curious speculation of certain classes of persons, who have no fixed residence or "address." Such as travellers, soldiers, and sailors; but first of all let me begin with myself. I often find myself in a humour to be alone, although I cannot imagine my own company half so delightful as Lord Ogilby's picture of himself, when alone, in the Clandestine Marriage. However, I sometimes steal away for a day or so, and place myself in the corner of some inn, in the suburbs, where I feel a peculiar satisfaction in being beyond the reach of anything like a twopenny-post man's knock, my address being for the time known to no single creature in the world, except myself; and there are people in this mighty Babylon, who "live and move and have their being" no person knows nor cares where (a hermit in London is proverbial); who live almost without the aid of the world, and who die (I may say) without an address. Again, a friend goes to visit the falls of Niagara and America. He may, meanwhile, be considered quite out of the world, in regard to us; suddenly we receive to our great joy, a ship letter containing his address. He thus immediately becomes again one of our kindred. A friend of mine lately related to me rather a curious incident of this kind. In the summer of last year, he left his house in Bond street, and after visiting various places in the north, during which time (about three weeks) he had not written home, nor heard from thence, he found himself curi ously situated, and quite alone, on some stepping stones, which led a considerable way into a lock, somewhere betwixt Loch Lomond and Loch Tay. It all at once occurred to him, that he stood, as it were, alone in the midst of the world. ing his eyes around, it so happened as if every moving and creeping thing on the face of the earth had hid itself. No lambkins sported near, nor shepherds piped on the lea. The descending sun was casting its long streaks of light and shade on the scene, shadowing the sides of the mighty hills, deep and motionless, into the waters of the lake, which all the "chalk and reel" of Salvator Rosa or Claude can give but a faint idea of. As he looked around on this calm and pleasing prospect, he was struck with the grandeur of the panorama. The mountains, near and at a distance, seemed by their profound stillness to be awaiting some awful event that was about to befall. Yet he thought of "home and beauty ”— he thought of Bond street-he thought of scales, weights, and measures-of the many pounds of tea and coffee that had that morning been served out to the many unwashed housemaids from the streets adjacent to his establishment. As to his young men, they knew nothing save that his name stood as bright in the gold letters above his door as ever, and that the shop was kept as regularly open from morning till night, as before. He also imagined that as many carriages and people would be passing his windows, as when he himself stood at the door of his house. But now, where was he? On the bounds of eternity!

On cast

"Awful thought!" said he to himself; "were I to jump a yard, or perhaps stir a foot, I might never again be heard of, my address being known only to myself; and having no relations, my goods and my chattels, what would become of them in all the world!"

Again, we may consider a correct address of the first importance in a commercial point of view. But for this, commerce, both by sea and land, would soon stand still. Look at this city, for instance, and at the recent returns of the Post Office, which show such a large sum coming yearly into the hands of Government, from being enveloped in an improper address; and at the West-end, morning visits, evening calls, soirées, and conversaziones, would be all at an end, but for this one thing. Changing our address is oftentimes attended with bad sequences, both to business and friends.


An ac

quaintance of mine, who had lived in Archangel, for some years, did not receive my last letter to him. When he came to London, he called on me as before. I was gone no one knew where; he gave up, as hopeless, the idea of finding me. But the very day before he sailed again for the White Sea, he met me near Hamlet's, the jeweller's, and accosted me thus ; "My dear fellow, I am truly glad to see you, only think what an extraordinary thing my meeting you amongst one million and half of people without an address!" A wide address may be considered as a great object of ambition, and may serve, if duly considered in well-regulated minds, to stimulate the youth of the present day to more than ordinary exertion. This kind of address has been enjoyed by some of our most eminent men in commerce and literature; thus-Kirkman Finlay, Glasgow-Dr Brewster, Edinburgh-Henry Brougham, London-Benjamin Constant, Paris-Washington Irving, America-Dr Herschel, Europe.

To conclude this sketch. Sailors may be considered as having no address, they being so often, as it were, out of the pale of society. They may send to us we cannot send to them. This circumstance no doubt must have grieved the heart of the gallant poet, Dorset, when he wrote that beautiful address "To all you Ladies now at Land," for no answer could come in return to men whose post was the tide, and whose address was the sea.



THIS is from the travels of Matthison, the German writer. We do not see the "inexpressible forbearance and benevolence" of Bonnet towards his visitor; though his conduct was truly polite and good natured, and worthy of a man of sense. Neither is the poor traveller despised: he at least meant well. But the scene is amusing.

Three days ago, I was at Geneva, and dined at a table d'hôte. A young Englishman sat by me, whom I soon recognised as one of the storks in Lessing's well-known fable, who, in their excursions, seldom concerned themselves with anything except to ascertain the topography of frog-ditches. He asked me where Bonnet lived; this introduced a conversation among us, which at length led to my inquiring if he had ever read any of Bonnet's works. "No; I know nothing at all about him, but he is here in my list;" and immediately taking out a pocket-book, he produced a paper, whence he read the following inventory of things worthy of observation in Geneva:I. The Portico of St Peter's Church;-II. The Junction of the Arve with the Rhone;-III. Saussare's Cabinet of Natural Curiosities;-IV. Monsieur Bonnet ;-V. Monsieur Bourrit. "As you have never read any of his works then," said I, "might it not be as well to go to the bookseller's and get him to shew you some: his Contemplation de la Nature, for instance, read some chapters, and you would then not only be less embarrassed in case he should ask you whether you are at all acquainted with his writings, but you would, I am sure, have very great pleasure in the perusal."

He thanked me for my advice, which he said he would certainly follow, and then left me, after having carefully entered the name of Bonnet's place of abode in his pocket-book.

Yesterday, after dinner, as we were playing at chess, a foreigner was introduced, whom I immediately recollected to be the person I had seen before. Bonnet received him with that cordiality and conciliatory kindness with which you are so well acquainted, and begged him to sit down on the sofa. After the conversation had ran through the customary forms of "Whence come you?" and "Whither are you going?" &c. &c., Bonnet addressed him—

You have probably occupied yourself, sir, with speculative philosophy?'

No, not at all, but I saw all your works yesterday.'

Saw them!'-He stopped short, but supposing that the young man who spoke French very ill, had made use of some wrong expression, immediately proceeded :—' It would make me very happy if my writings afforded you any entertainment. Might anything in particular strike you?'

Yes, yes, indeed, the Glaciers in particular, for they are all excellens naturels.'-I give you his own expressions.

There was no occasion for an Edipus here to divine that, according to my advice, he had been to a bookseller's where, confusing Bonnet with Bourrit as they stood together on his list, he had inquired for the works of the latter, and had seen his travels in the Alps, the engravings in which had probably attracted his attention, and were the only part of which he had any idea. Bonnet immediately perceived his mistake, and it was really quite affecting to see how, instead of taking advantage of it and leading him on to stumble further and further, so as to produce a piquant scene, (as an hundred others would have done

in his place), he instantly with inexpressible forbearance and benevolence gave the conversation another turn, and asked him many questions about his own country, his family, and even about his horses and dogs.

Such traits as these, which at the first glance, may appear insignificant, are however those by means of which Plutarch, in his Biography, gives such impressive pictures, and which so completely delude the imagination, that Timoleon, Dion, and Philopom en do not appear as spirits called forth from the hoa ry ages of antiquity, but as intimate friends, with whom we have lived in social intercourse for many years, in the same town at least, if not under the same roof. And, after all, this kind of forbearance is one of the most amiable features in the human character, and perhaps one of the most difficult to practice.




Art thou the land with which my fancy teems,
Whose golden plains once brightly round me shone?
Which oft hath shed sweet magic o'er my dreams,
And cheer'd me on with hope when feeble grown?
Art thou the land? Art thou the land?

I greet thee, I greet thee, O my fatherland!
Art thou the town, beside the rippling stream,
Tow'rd which, in sadness, oft my eye I've cast?
Where life's unclouded spring did on me beam,
And the young hours in thrilling pleasure passed?
Art thou the town? Art thou the town?
To thee, to thee I come, O native town!
Art thou the home in which my cradle stood,

Where sorrow's bitter pang I never knew? The future there appeared a glowing flood, The world a path, where joys celestial grew.

Art thou the home? Art thou the home? Receive me once again, paternal home! Are ye the meads? Art thou the peaceful vale, Which oft at silent eve, I've blithely crossed? My spirit then would o'er your bound'ries steal, Until each trace in fading blue was lost.

Are ye the meads? Are ye the meads? Receive me once again, O native meads! Could I here rest, and rural joys be mine, The storm would cease—a brighter morning break; My pilgrim-staff I'd to the brook consign, And, borne by friendship, life's last journey take To thee, O grave-To thee, O grave, Where rest my fathers; gladly, then, O grave!

Art of being Obeyed.-The mandate which exacts obedience may lose the despotic character with which harshness would invest it, and become even pleasurable, if communicated in forms and terms of kindness. Men there are, whom to serve, is in itself pleasurable, from the consideration for the feelings of others which accompanies their demands for service.— Bentham.


Thanks to the Freeman's Journal (Dublin) and our cordial friend Mr D. who sent it us. Also to Mr L. who wrote to us on Windown, and sent us the magazines. And to the other Mr L. who forwarded the book on the Metropolis. The approbation of these gentlemen has highly gratified us. The letter on 66 Swearing" in our next.

In reply to our Correspondent's answer, we asked the age of the writer on "Gallantry," because, if young, (as we find he is,) there is promise in his writing, though it is hardly yet ripe enough for publication. The same observation applies to our modest friend TESTATOR.

Mr Lewis is informed that the whole of Mr Shelley's poetical works are to be had (together with those of Coleridge and Keats) in one large volume, octavo, published in Paris by Galignani. We believe also that a London edition, in small volumes, has lately been completed.

The "Musings on a Stone" shall be carefully read, and the answer given next week.

LONDON: Published by H. HoOPER, 13, Pall Mall East. From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney street.



WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 17, 1834.


IN the window beside which we are writing this article, there is a geranium shining with its scarlet tops in the sun, the red of it being the more red for a back-ground of lime-trees, which are at the same time breathing and panting like airy plenitudes of joy, and developing their shifting depths of light and shade, of russet brown and sunny inward gold.

It seems to say " Paint me!" So here it is. Every now and then some anxious fly comes near it:-we hear the sound of a bee, though we see none; and upon looking closer at the flowers, we observe that some of the petals are transparent with the light, while others are left in shade; the leaves are equally adorned after their opaquer fashion, with those effects of the sky, showing their dark-brown rims; and on one of them a red petal has fallen, where it lies on the brighter half of the shallow green cup, making its own red redder, and the green greener. We perceive, in imagination, the scent of those goodnatured leaves, which allow you to carry off their perfume on your fingers: for goodnatured they are, in that respect, above almost all plants, and fittest for the hospitalities of your rooms. The very feel of the leaf has a household warmth in it, something analogous to clothing and comfort.

Why does not every body (who can afford it) have a geranium in his window, or some other flower? It is very cheap; its cheapness is next to nothing if you raise it from seed, or from a slip; and it is a beauty and a companion. It sweetens the air, rejoices the eye, links you with nature and innocence, and is something to love. And if it cannot love you in return, it cannot hate you; it cannot utter a hateful thing, even for your neglecting it; for though it is all beauty, it has no vanity: and such being the case,

and living as it does purely to do you good and afford you pleasure, how will you be able to neglect it?

But pray, if you chuse a geranium, or possess but a few of them, let us persuade you to chuse the scarlet kind, the "old original" geranium, and not a variety of it, not one of the numerous diversities of red and

white, blue and white, ivy-leaved, &c. Those are all beautiful, and very fit to vary a large collection; but to prefer them to the originals of the race, is to run the hazard of preferring the curious to the beautiful, and costliness to sound taste. It may be taken as a good general rule, that the most popular plants are the best; for otherwise they would not have become such. And what the painters call "pure colours," are preferable to mixed ones, for reasons which Nature herself has given when she painted the sky of one colour, and the fields of another, and divided the rainbow itself into a few distinct hues, and made the red rose the queen of flowers. Variations of flowers are like variations in music, often beautiful as such, but almost always inferior to the theme on which they are founded, the original air. And the rule holds good in beds of flowers, if they be not very large, or in any other small assemblage of them. Nay, the largest bed will look well, if of one beautiful colour; while the most beautiful varieties may be inharmoniously mixed up. Contrast is a good thing, but we should first get a good sense of the thing to be contrasted, and we shall find this preferable to the contrast, if we are not rich enough to have both in

[From the Steam-Press of C. & W. Reynell, Little Pulteney-street-]

No. 25.

due measure. We do not, in general, love and honour any one single colour enough, and we are instinctively struck with a conviction to this effect, when we see it abundantly set forth. The other day we saw a little garden-wall completely covered with nasturtiums, and felt how much more beautiful it was than if any thing had been mixed with it. For the leaves, and the light and shade, offer variety enough. The rest is all richness and simplicity united,-which is the triumph of an intense perception. Embower a cottage thickly and completely with nothing but roses, and nobody would desire the interference of another plant.


Everything is handsome about the geranium, not excepting its name; which cannot be said of all flowers, though we get to love ugly words when associated with pleasing ideas. The word “ "geranium" is soft and elegant; the meaning is poor, for it comes from a Greek word signifying a crane, the fruit having a form resembling that of crane's head or bill. Crane's-bill is the English name of Geranium; though the learned appellation has superseded the vernacular. But what a reason for naming the flower! as if the fruit were any thing in comparison, or any one cared about it. Such distinctions, it is true, are useful to botanists; but as plenty of learned names are sure to be reserved for the free-masonry of the science, it would be better for the world at large to invent joyous and beautiful names for these images of joy and beauty. In some instances, we have them; such as heart'sease, honey-suckle, marygold, mignonette ("little darling"), daisy (day's-eye), &c. And many flowers are so lovely, and have associated names otherwise unmeaning so pleasantly with one's memory, that no


new ones would sound so well, or seem even to have such proper significations. In pronouncing the words, lilies, roses, pinks, tulips, jonquils, we see the things themselves, and seem to taste all their beauty and sweetness. “Pink” is a harsh, petty word in itself, and yet assuredly it does not seem so; for in the word we have the flower. It would be difficult to persuade ourselves that the word rose is not very beautiful. "Pea" is a poor, Chinese like monosyllable; and Briar" is rough and fierce, as it ought to be; but when we think of Sweet-Peu and Sweet-Briar, the words appear quite worthy of their epithets. The poor monosyllable becomes rich in sweetness and appropriation; the rough dissyllable also; and the sweeter for its contrast. But what can be said in behalf of liver-wort, blood-wort, dragon's head, devil's bit, and devil in a bush? There was a charming line in some verses in our last week's journal, written by a lady.

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are neither pretty in themselves, nor give us information. The country people are apt to do them more justice. Goldy-locks, ladies'-fingers, bright-eye, rosea-rubie, shepherd's-clock, shepherd's-purse, saucealone, scarlet runners, sops-in-wine, sweet-william, &c. give us some ideas either useful or pleasant. But from the peasantry also come many uncongenial names, as bad as those of the botanists. Some of the latter are handsome as well as learned, have meanings easily found out by a little reading or scholarship, and are taking their place accordingly in popular nomenclatures: as amaranth, adonis, arbutus, asphodel, &c., but many others are as ugly as they are farfetched, such as colchicum, tagetes, yucca, ixia, mesembryanthemum; and as to the Adansonias, Browallias, Koempferias, John Tomkinsias, or whatever the personal names may be that are bestowed at the botanical font by their proud discoverers or godfathers, we have a respect for botanists and their pursuits, and wish them all sorts of little immortalities except these: unless they could unite them with something illustrative of the flower as well as themselves. A few, certainly, we should not like to displace, Browallia for one, which was given to a Peruvian flower by Linnæus, in honour of a friend of his of the name of Browall; but the name should have included some idea of the thing named. The Browallia is remarkable for its brilliancy. "We cannot," says Mr Curtis, "do it justice by any colours we have."* Now why not have called it Browall's Beauty? or Browall's Inimitable? The other day we were admiring an enormously beautiful apple, and were told it was called " Kirk's Admirable," after the gardener who raised it. We felt the propriety of this name directly. It was altogether to the purpose. There was use and beauty together, the name of the raiser, and the excellence of the fruit raised. It is a pity that all fruits and flowers, and animals too, except those with good names, could not be passed in review before somebody with a genius for christening, as the creatures did before Adam in Paradise, and so have new names given them, worthy of their creation.

Suppose flowers themselves were new! Suppose they had just come into the world, a sweet reward for some new goodness: and that we had not yet seen them quite developed; that they were in the act of growing; had just issued with their green stalks out of the ground, and engaged the attention of the curious. Imagine what we should feel when we saw the first lateral stem bearing off from the main one, or putting forth a leaf. How we should watch the leaf gradually unfolding its little graceful hand; then another, then another; then the main stalk rising and producing more; then one of them giving indications of an astonishing novelty, a bud! then this mysterious, lovely bud gradually unfolding like the leaf, amazing us, enchanting us, almost alarming us with delight, as if we knew not what enchantment were to ensue: till at length, in all its fairy beauty, and odorous voluptuousness, and mysterious elaboration of tender and living sculpture, shone forth

"the bright consummate flower!"

Yet this phenomenon, to a mind of any thought and lovingness, is what may be said to take place every day; for the commonest objects are only won

We learn this from the Flora Domestica, an elegant and poetry-loving book, specially intended for cultivators of flowers at home.

ders at which habit has made us cease to wonder, and the marvellousness of which we may renew at pleasure, by taking thought. Last spring, walking near some cultivated grounds, and seeing a multitude of green stalks peeping forth, we amused ourselves with likening them to the plumes or other head-gear of fairies, and wondering what faces might ensue; and from this exercise of the fancy, we fell to considering how true, and not merely fanciful, those speculations were; what a perpetual reproduction of the marvellous was carried on by Nature; how utterly ignorant we were of the causes of the least and most disesteemed of the commonest vegetables; and what a quantity of life, and beauty, and mystery, and use, and enjoyment, was to be found in them, composed out of all sorts of elements, and shaped as if by the hands of fairies. What workmanship, with no appa rent workman! What consummate elegance, though the result was to be nothing (as we call it) but a radish or an onion, and these were to be consumed or thrown away by millions! A rough tree grows up, and at the tips of his rugged and dark fingers he puts forth,-round, smooth, shining, and hanging delicately,—the golden apple, or the cheeklike beauty of the peach. The other day we were in a garden, where Indian corn was growing, and some of the cobs were plucked to show us. First one leaf or sheath was picked off, then another, then another, then a fourth, and so on, as if a fruit-seller was unpacking fruit out of papers; and at last we came, inside, to the grains of the corn, packed up into cucumber-shapes of pale gold, and each of them pressed and flattened against each other, as if some human hand had been doing it in the caverns of the earth. BUT WHAT HAND!

The same that made the poor yet rich hand (for is it not his workmanship also?) that is tracing these marvelling lines, and which if it does not tremble to say so, it is because Love sustains, and because the heart also is a flower which has a right to be tranquil in the garden of the All-Wise.


From Wednesday the 17th, to Tuesday the 23rd September.


We have been looking through Rousseau's Eloisa again, (for we never could thoroughly read it), and have unfortunately had the impression confirmed, that was made upon us in our youth. We say "unfortunately," in a socio-literary sense, (and in that only, for in any other sense, social or otherwise, we are not aware of having reason to regret it); but it seems a misfortune to be unable to like a celebrated book,— one that is approved by so many people; and we cannot but think the work a marvellous failure in its greatest pretension, the love. Some love there certainly is, and eloquently is it set forth; but there appears to us to be a great deal more will, and outcry, and pedantry, even making allowance for French gesticulation. St Preux is by far the more genuine lover of the two, and he is of a scene-making temper. As to Julia, the "new Heloise," we cannot help thinking her quite unworthy of her namesake. There is quite as much lecturing as loving in her correspondence, and the two things are incompatible. She absolutely "huffs" the poor man at every turn in his behaviour, or way of thinking, that does not quite satisfy her. To be sure this "huffing" is Rousseau's; he puts it in her mouth; and to him also is attributable the temper and suspiciousness of St Preux; but this only shews how unfit he was to write a love-story. In short, this book, and a reperusal of two volumes of the Confessions,

have convinced us that Rousseau, admirable writer as he was, and of the greatest service to the world (in shaking up their thoughts for them, and inciting them to recur to first principles) was all his life a victim to bad temper, and made others victims with him. This, we have no doubt, was the secret of much which he has left unexplained, and the real reason of his estrangements with lovers and friends, from first to last. Latterly indeed he confesses it; and his friends became too well aware of the extravagances to which his morbid

self-secking drove him. Never however is it to be forgotten, that although he could not make love as well as he fancied, he struck notes of other truths and universalities into the hearts of mankind never to be for gotten, and that the misgiving egotist, who justified the alienation of those that loved him by condemning himself before-hand in his own complaints and exactions, was also the bold philosopher who interrogated half the existing opinions of mankind, and found them tremble before him.

We select from a translation of the "New Eloisa" a passage, worth the attention of the lovers of gardening, and such as will afford our readers another snug scene of sylvan enjoyment, fit for the month, and exhibiting the charming combination of the two ideas of home and remoteness. Rousseau is truly at home here, with Nature, to whom he was nothing, and therefore whom he could not plague or be plagued by. If the trees could have spoken to him, he would have quarrelled with them. Something which they said, or did not say, would have been found unsatisfactory. Why did he not discover that there are hearts which could have been equally tranquil with him, if he could have been content to think of their kindness, instead of his own misgivings?

After having admired the good consequences attending the vigilance and attention of the prudent Eloisa in the conduct of her family, I was witness of the good effects of the recreation she uses in a retired place, where she takes her favourite walk, and which she calls her Elysium.

I had often heard them talk of this Elysium of which they made a mystery before me. Yesterday, however, the excessive heat being almost equally in tolerable both within doors and without, M. Wolmar proposed to his wife to make holiday that afternoon, and instead of going into the nursery towards evening, as usual, to come and breathe the fresh air with us in the orchard: she consented, and thither we went.

This place, though just close to the house, is hidden in such a manner by a shady walk, that it is not visible from any point. The thick foliage with which it is environed renders it impervious to the eye, and it is always carefully locked up. I was scarce got within side, but the door, being covered with alder and hazeltrees, I could not find out which way I came in, when I turned back, and seeing no door, it seemed as if I had dropped from the clouds.

On my entrance into this disguised orchard, I was seized with an agreeable sensation; the freshness of the thick foliage, the beautiful and lovely verdure, the flowers scattered on each side, the murmuring of the purling stream, and the warbling of a thousand birds, struck my imagination as powerfully as my senses; but at the same time I thought myself in the most wild and solitary place in nature, and appeared as if I had been the first person who had ever penetrated into this wild and desert spot. Being seized with astonishment and transported at so unexpected a sight, I remained motionless for some time, and cried out, in an involuntary fit of enthusiasm, “O Tinian! O Juan Fernandez! Eloisa, the world's end is at your threshold !"—" Many people (said she, with a smile,) think in the same manner; but twenty paces at most presently bring them back to Clarens; let us see whether the charm will work longer with you. This is the same orchard where you have walked formerly, and where you have played at romps with my cousin. You may remember that the grass was almost burned up, the trees very thinly planted, affording very little shade, and that there was no water. You find that it is now fresh, verdant, cultivated, embellished with flowers, and well watered; what do you imagine it may have cost me to put it into the condition you see? For you must know that I am the superintendant, and that my husband leaves the intire management of it to me."" In truth (said I), it has cost you nothing but inattention. It is indeed a delightful spot; but wild and rustic, and I can discover no marks of human industry. You have concealed the door; the water springs I know not whence; nature alone has done all the rest, and even you could not have mended her work."-"It is true (said she) that nature has done everything; but under my direction, and you see nothing but what has been done replied) I cannot conceive how labour and expense under my orders. Guess once more."—" First (I can be made to supply the effects of time. The trees

"As to them, (said M. Wolmar,) you may observe that there are none very large, and they were here before. Besides, Eloisa began this work a long while before her marriage, and presently after her mother's death, when she used to come here with her father in quest of solitude." "Well (said I), since you will have these large and massy bowers, these sloping tufts, these umbrageous thickets to be the growth of seven or eight years, and to be partly the work of art, I think you have been a good economist, if you have done all within this vast circumfer

ence for two thousand crowns."-" You have only guessed two thousand crowns too much (says she), for it cost me nothing."-" How! nothing!"_" No, nothing; unless you place a dozen days work in the year to my gardener's account, as many to two or three of my people, and some to M. Wolmar, who has sometimes condescended to officiate in my service as a gardener." I could not comprehend this riddle; but Eloisa, who had hitherto held me, said to me (letting me loose) "Go and you will understand it. Farewell Tinian! Farewell Juan Fernandez! Farewell all enchantment! In a few minutes you will find your way back from the end of the world."

I began to wander over the orchard thus metamorphosed with a kind of ecstacy; and if I found no exotic plants nor any of the produce of the Indies, I posed and blended in such a manner as to produce the found all those which were natural to the soil dismost cheerful and lovely effects. The verdant turf, thick, but short and close, was intermixed with wild thyme, balm, sweet marjoram, and other fragrant herbs. You might perceive a thousand wild flowers dazzle your eyes, among which you would be surprized to discover some garden flowers, which seemed to grow natural with the rest. I now and then met with shady tufts, as impervious to the rays of the sun, as if they had been in a thick forest. These tufts branches of which they bend till they hang on the were composed of trees of a very flexible nature, the ground and take root, as I have seen some trees naturally do in America. In the more open spots, I saw bushes of roses, raspberries, and gooseberries: little plantations of lilac, hazel-trees, alders, syringa, broom, and trefoil, dispersed without any order or symmetry, and which embellished the ground, at the same time that it gave to it the appearance of being overgrown with weeds. I followed the track through irregular and serpentine walks, bordered by these flowery thickets, and covered with a thousand garlands composed of vines, hops, rose-weed, snake weed, and other plants of that kind, with honeysuckles and jessamine, designed to intertwine. These garlands seemed as if they were carelessly scattered from one tree to another, and formed a kind of drapery over our heads which sheltered us from the sun; while under foot we had smooth, agreeable, and dry walking upon a fine moss, without sand, or grass, or any rugged shoots. Then it was I first discovered, not without astonishment, that this verdant and bushy umbrage, which had deceived me so much at a distance, was composed of these luxuriant and creeping plants, which running all along the trees, formed a thick foliage over head, and afforded shade and freshness under foot. I observed likewise, that by means of common industry, they made several of these plants take root in the trunks of the trees, so that they spread more being nearer the top. You will readily conceive that the fruit is not the better for these additions; but this is the only spot where they sacrificed the useful to the agreeable, and, in the rest of their grounds, they have taken such care of the trees, that, without the orchard, the return of fruit is greater than it was formerly. If you do but consider how delightful it is to meet with wild fruit in the midst of a wood, and to refresh one's-self with it, you will easily conceive what a pleasure it must be to meet with excellent and ripe fruit in this artificial desert, though it grows but here and there, and has not the best appearance; which gives one the pleasure of searching and selecting the best.

All these little walks were bordered and crossed by a clear and limpid rivulet, which one while winded through the grass and flowers in streams scarce perceptible; at another, rushed in more copious floods upon a clear and speckled gravel, which rendered the water more transparent. You might perceive the springs rise and bubble out of the earth, and sometimes you might observe deep canals, in which the calm and gentle fluid served as a mirror to reflect the objects around. "How! (said I to Eloisa) I comprehend all the rest, but these waters which I see on every side."—"They come from thence (she replied, pointing to that side where the terrace lies). It is the same stream, which, at a vast expense, supplies the fountain in the flower garden, for which nobody cares. M. Wolmar will not destroy it, out of respect to my father who had it made; but with what pleasure we come here every day to see the water run through the orchard, which we never looked at in the garden! The fountain plays for the entertainment of strangers; this little rivulet flows for our amusement. It is true, that I have likewise brought hither the water from the public fountain, which emptied itself into the lake, through the highway, to the detriment of passengers, besides its running to waste, without profit to any one. It formed an elbow at the foot of the orchard, between two rows of willows; I have taken them into my inclosure, and bring the same water hither through different channels.

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I perceived then that all the contrivance consisted in managing these streams, so as to make them flow in meanders, by separating and uniting them at proper places, by making them run as little upon the slopes as pos sible, in order to lengthen their course, and make the most of a few little murmuring cascades. A layer of earth, covered with some gravel from the lake, and

strewed over with shells, forms a bed of these waters. The same streams, running at proper distances under some large tiles covered with earth and turf, on a level with the ground, form a kind of artificial spring, where they issue forth. Some small streams spout through pipes on some rugged places and bubble as they fall. The ground, thus refreshed and watered, continually yields fresh flowers, and keeps the grass always verdant and beautiful.

ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. One of the sources upon which we have drawn for our Romances of Real Life,-the "Lounger's Common-Place Book," begins to pump a little drily (though not in the instance before us); but we are much mistaken, if we have any reason to dread the failure of resources, intimated by a correspondent who writes in the present number. In fact, we look confidently not only to old stores of our own, but to new ones in all quarters, among which we shall be happy to reckon those which he is good enough to promise us.


ARNOLD DU TILB, a native of Sagias, a village near the city of Rieux, in the Upper Languedoc, who, towards the middle of the sixteenth century, was the object of a criminal prosecution, extraordinary in its nature, perplexing and difficult to decide.

At Artigues, a country hamlet, only a few miles from the place of Du Tilb's residence, lived a little farmer, whose name was Martin Guerre, married to a modest handsome young woman born in that neighbourhood, but himself of the Spanish province of Biscay; they had a son; and, for their situation in life, possessed tolerable property.

Ten years after their marriage, in consequence of a dispute with his father-in-law, Martin suddenly quitted his family, and, charmed with the licentious freedom of a roving life, or cooled in his affection towards his wife, although she had conducted herself with exemplary propriety, had not been seen or heard of for eight years.

It was during this long absence (to lovers as well as husbands a dangerous interval), it was at this time that Arnold du Tilb, the subject of our present article, who had formerly seen and admired the wife of Martin Guerre, meditated a most perfidious and cruel stratagem.

In age and appearance he greatly resembled the absent man; like him, too, Du Tilb having for many years quitted his country, was generally considered as dead; and having made himself acquainted with all the circumstances, connexions, and general habits of Guerre, as well by collateral inquiries, as by actual association with him during two campaigns as a private soldier, he boldly presented himself to the wife and family as her long lost husband.

The risk he incurred and the difficulties he encountered were considerable: a thousand little circumstances which it is easy to imagine, but unnecessary to describe, must daily and hourly have led him to the brink of destruction; indeed, it is not easy to conceive how he could succeed, unless the unhappy dupe of his delusion had been herself a promoter of the deceit, which does not appear to have been the


The stranger, at once, and without hesitation, was received with transports of joy by the wife and all the family, which at that time consisted of four of her husband's sisters and an uncle: one of them remark

ing that his clothes were somewhat out of repair, he replied, "yes," and in a careless and apparently unpremedited way, desired that a pair of taffety breeches might be brought him. His wife, not immediately recollecting where she had put them, he added, "I am not surprised you have forgot, for I have not worn them since the christening of my son; they are in a draw at the bottom of the large chest in the next room; in this place they were found and immediately brought to him.

The supposed Martin's return was welcomed by the neighbours in the old French way with song and dance; and he enjoyed the privileges and pleasures, he shared the emoluments and cares of a husband, and a few days after his arrival, repaired to Rieux to transact some necessary law business, which had

been deferred in consequence of his absence; the fond couple lived apparently happy for three years, in which time two children were added to their family.

But their tranquillity was gradually interrupted by the uncle, whose suspicions of imposture were first excited by a traveller passing through the vil lage; this person hearing the name of Martin Guerre accidentally mentioned, declared, that eigh

teen months before he had seen and conversed with an invalid of that name in a distant province of France, who informed him that he had a wife and children in Languedoc, but that it was not his design to return during the life of his uncle.

The stranger being sent for, and privately questioned, repeated in a clear and consistent manner what he had before communicated, confirmed the apprehensions of the uncle that the real Martin Guerre was still absent, and added, that since quitting his wife, he had lost one of his legs in the battle of St Quintin.

The family, alarmed by this account, now saw, or thought they saw, many little circumstances, which had before escaped their notice, but all tending to prove that the man with whom Mrs Guerre cohabited, and by whom she had had two children, was not in fact her lawful husband.

But they found it extremely difficult to convince
the deluded female of her mistake; and she loudly,
and with tears insisted that her present domestic
companion was her first love, her real and original

husband; it was not till after several months that
the unhappy woman was at length prevailed on to
prosecute the impostor.

He was taken into custody and imprisoned by the
order of the criminal judge of Rieux, and a time
fixed for examining the evidence, and hearing what

Du Tilb had to offer in his defence.

On the day appointed, the offender was brought into court, followed by a number of people whose curiosity was naturally excited; the deposition of the traveller, concerning the absent Martin Guerre, was first read; the uncle, the sisters, and many of the inhabitants of Sagias, were next closely questioned on their oath; some declared that the prisoner was not Martin Guerre, others as positively insisted that he was the identical person, corroborating their testimony by many collateral circumstances; but the greater number averred without scruple that the resemblance between the two, if two there were, was so great, that it was not in their power to distinguish; the weight of evidence was thought by many to preponderate in favour of the prisoner.

The judge demanding of him what he had to say in his defence, he answered, without embarrassment, that the whole was a conspiracy of the uncle and a certain part of the family, who, taking advantage of the easy temper and weak understanding of his wife, had contrived the story in order to be rid of him, and to get possession of his property, which he valued at eight thousand livres.

The uncle, he observed, had for some time taken a dislike to him, had frequently assaulted him, and in one instance would have killed him by the stroke of an iron bar on his head, had he not fortunately parried the blow.

The remark of the prisoner on the weakness of his wife's understanding, served to diminish the surprise of the court at her being so easily duped, nor indeed could they blame any relation for endeavouring, in any manner they were able, to expel the violator of the wife and property of their kinsman.

Du Tilb then proceeded to inform the court of the reasons which first induced him to quit his house and family; related minutely where, how, and with whom he had passed his time; that he had served in the French army seven years, and on his regiment being disbanded, had entered into the Spanish service, from which, being impatient to see his wife, and sorely repenting that he had ever quitted her, at a considerable expense he procured his discharge, and made the best of his way to Artigues. At this place, notwithstanding his long absence and the loss of his hair, he was directly and universally recognized by his old acquaintance, and received with transports of joy by his wife and sisters, particularly by his uncle; although that unnatural and cruel relation had now thought proper to stir up the present prosecution against him.

The prisoner, in consequence of certain leading questions from the judge, gave a minute description of the situation and peculiar circumstances of the place in Biscay, where he said he was born (still insisting that he was Martin Guerre) mentioning the names, ages, and occupations of the relations he had left there, the year, the day, and the month of his marriage, also the persons who were present at the ceremony, as well as those who dined with them; which, on referring to collateral evidence, were found to tally.

On the other hand, forty-five reputable and credible witnesses, who were well acquainted with Martin Guerre and Arnold du Tilb, swore that the prisoner was not and could not be Martin; one of these, Carbon Barreau, maternal uncle of Du Tilb, acknow

ledged his nephew with tears, and, observing that he

was fettered like a malefactor, bitterly lamented the
disgrace it would bring upon his family.

These persons also insisted that Martin Guerre
was tall, of a slender make, and as persons of that
form frequently are, awkward and sloping in his
gait; that he had a remarkable way of protruding
and hanging down his under lip; that his nose was
flat and that several scars were to be seen on his left

eyebrow, and other parts of his face.

On the contrary, they observed that Du Tilb was a middle-sized, well-set man, upright, with thick legs, a well-formed nose, and without anything remarkable about his mouth or lips; they agreed that his

countenance exhibited the same scars as that of Martin.

The shoemaker, who had for many years furnished Guerre with shoes, being called, deposed, that his foot reached the twelfth size, but that the prisoner's was rather short of the ninth; it further appeared that he formerly had, from his early youth, been dexterous at cudgeling and wrestling, of which the impostor was wholly ignorant.

As a strong circumstance against the person accused, it was added that his manner of speaking, and the sort of language he used, though at times artfully interlarded with patois and unintelligible gibberish, was very different from that which used to be spoken by the real Martin Guerre, who, being a Biscayan, spoke not wholly Spanish, wholly French, nor wholly Gascon, but a curious mixture of each; a sort of language called the Basque.

Lastly, and what seemed to make an impression on the court, the prosecutors referred to the internal evidences of the offender's character, which, they proved, had been from his childhood vicious and incorrigible in the extreme: they produced satisfactory proofs of his being hardened in all manner of wickedness and uncleanness; a common swearer and blasphemer, a notorious profligate, every way capable of the crime laid to his charge.

The accusation lay heavy upon the prisoner, a pause ensued for deliberation, and the court, fatigued by a long and patient examination of a host of witnesses, took refreshment; the town-house being still crowded by persons impatient to give their testimony in behalf of the prisoner, whom they considered and pitied as an injured man.

The first parties next examined astonished the judge and staggered the whole court. They were the four sisters of Martin Guerre, all reputed to be women of sound understanding, and of character unblemished; they positively swore that the man in custody was "their dear brother Martin." Two of their husbands, and thirty-five persons born or brought up in the neighbourhood corroborated their assertions; among others, Catherine Boere, who carried Martin and his wife the medianoche, or, as an Englishman would call it, the sack-posset, after they were put to bed on their wedding-night, declared, as she hoped for everlasting salvation, that the prisoner, and the man she saw in bed with the bride, were the same person.

The majority of these last witnesses also deposed, that Martin Guerre had two scars in his face, and that the nail of his forefinger, on the left hand, in consequence of a wound received in his childhood, grew across the top of his finger; that he had three warts on the back of his right hand towards the knuckles, and another on his little finger; the judge ordered the culprit to stretch forth both his hands, which were found to agree with this description.

It further appeared that, on his first arrival at Artigues, the prisoner addressed most of the inhabitants by name, and recalled to the memory of those who had forgotten him, several circumstances with respect to the village, on the subject of births, marriages, and deaths, which had happened ten, fifteen, and twenty years before; he also spoke to his wife (as he still insisted she was) of certain circumstances of a very peculiar nature.

He who could give an assumed character so strong a resemblance to reality, and so dextrously clothe falsehood in the robes of truth, was no common impostor; like other great villains, he must have been a man of abilities.

To add to the perplexities of this business, the wife being called, her pretended husband solemnly addressed and called on her, as she valued peace of mind here, and everlasting happiness hereafter, to speak truth without fear or affection, that he would submit to instant death without repining if she would swear that he was not her real husband; the woman replied that she would by no means take an oath on the occasion, at the same time, she would not give credit to anything he could say.

The evidence on both sides being closed, and the defence of the prisoner having been heard, the judge pronounced Arnold du Tilb guilty, and sentenced him to suffer death; but the culprit appealed to the parliament of Toulouse, who not long after ordered a copy of the proceedings, and the convict, to be forthwith transmitted to them.

The parliament, at that period a court of justice as well as registry of royal edicts, wisely determined to take no decisive step in the business till they had endeavoured to get sight of and secure the man with a wooden leg, as described by the traveller; the uncle strenuously insisting that he and no other was his long-lost nephew.

A commission was called to examine the papers and call for new evidence, if necessary; descriptions of the person and circumstances of Martin Guerre, the absent husband, were also circulated throughout the kingdom. At length, after several months had elapsed and considerable pains had been taken, the absentee was fortunately discovered in a distant province, conveyed to Toulouse, and ordered into close custody, with particular directions that he should have no intercourse with any person whatever, even


at his meals, but in the presence of one of the commissioners, who ordered an additional lock to the door of the room in which he was confined, and themselves kept the key.

A day was fixed for a solemn and final re-hearing, and a list of such witnesses as would be required to appear before the parliament, was in the meantime sent to Rieux for the purpose of preventing the trouble and expense of conveying to Toulouse, so large a number of persons who had crowded the court and streets of Rieux.

The parliament assembled at an early hour; the former proceedings were read; the prisoner still persisted in asserting his innocence, and complained of the hardship and injuries he had suffered.

The real Martin Guerre now walked into court on his wooden leg, and Du Tilb being asked if he knew him, undauntedly answered, "No." The injured husband reproaching the impostor for the perfidiousness of his conduct, in basely taking advantage of the frankness of an old companion, and depriving him of his wife and property, Du Tilb retorted the charge on his accuser.

The present was thought a curious instance of audacity contrasted with simplicity of heart and unassuming manner; an impudent and flagitious adventurer who had for several years enjoyed the wife and property of another, and, in the face of his country, endeavouring to persuade the injured man out of his name and personal identity: it was further observed that the gesture, deportment, air, and modé of speaking of the prisoner were cool, consistent, and steady; while those who appeared in the cause of truth were embarrassed, hesitating, confused, and on eertain points contradictory in their evidence.

The wife, the four sisters, and the uncle had not yet seen the real Martin Guerre; they were now called in court; the first who entered was the eldest sister, who, the moment she caught sight of the man with a wooden leg, ran and embraced him, exclaiming with tears, "Oh, my dear brother, I now see and acknowledge the error and misfortune into which this abominable traitor hath betrayed us.'

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The rest of the family, as they approached, confessed in a similar way how much they had been deceived; and the long-lost Martin, mingling his tears with theirs, received their embraces, and heard their penitential apologies with every appearance of tenderness and affection.


But, towards his wife he deported himself very differently she had not yet ventured to come near him, but stood at the entrance of the court trembling and dismayed; one of the sisters, taking her arm, conducted her to Martin, but he viewed her with sternness and aversion, and, in reply to the excuses and advances she made, and the intercession of his sisters in her behalf, "That she was herself innocent, but seduced by the arts of a villain," he observed, "Her tears and her sorrow are useless; I shall never love her again; it is in vain that you attempt to justify her, from the circumstance of so -a wife has many others having been deceived, always ways of knowing a husband unknown to all the world; in such a case as this, it is impossible that a woman can have been imposed on, if she had not entertained a secret wish to be unfaithful. shall for ever regard her as the cause of all my misfortunes, and impute solely to her the whole of my wretchedness and disgrace."


The judge, reminding the angry husband that, if he had remained at home, nothing of what had happened could have ever taken place, recommended lenity and forgiveness.

Du Tilb was pronounced guilty of fraud, adultery, sacrilege, rape, and theft, and condemned to make the amende honorable in the market-place of Artigues, in his shirt, with his head and feet bare, a halter round his neck, and a lighted torch in his hand; to demand pardon of God, the king, the nation, and the family whom he had so cruelly deceived; it was further ordered that he should be hanged before the dwelling-house of Martin Guerre, and that his body should be burned to ashes; his effects were adjudged to be the property of the children begotten by him on Martin's wife.

The criminal was taken back to Artigues, and as the day of execution approached, was observed to lose his firmness; after a long interview with the curé, he at last confessed his crime, acknowledging that he was first tempted to commit it by being frequently mistaken for and addressed by the name of Martin Guerre; he denied having made use of charms or of magic, as many suspected, very properly observing, that the same supernatural act which could enable him to carry on his deception, would also have put it in his power to escape punishment.

He was executed according to his sentence, first addressing a few words to Martin Guerre's wife, and died offering up prayers to the Almighty to pardon his sins, through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ.

This singular narrative is authenticated by the respectable evidence of Gayot de Pitaval, and related in good Latin by the worthy De Thou.


From Mr Bentham's "Deontology." THERE is a class of people in the world, offensive intruders, forward hypocrites, and bold usurpers, who, under the mask of friendly advisers, are great creators of misery.

Not that, on every occasion, the counsels of the adviser, even though injudicious, can be taken as evidence of an unfriendly purpose. For foolish though it be, hastily concocted and inconsiderately communicated, it may have had its source in sympathy, and be really a mark of good will.


But such cases are exceptions. Selfishness untouched by sympathy is ordinarily the inspirer of the intrusive counsellor. Pure selfishness is abundantly sufficient for the production of the character. without good grounds for believing that credit is to be given to benevolence, it may, with great probability, be presumed, that some quality, far removed from benevolence, gave birth to the intervention.

It is clearly then demanded by morality, that advice-giving, as a habit, should be abstained from; and if the demand for it be obvious and undoubted, if the case be clear and urgent-that it should be accompanied with such statements and reasons as will, in so far as may be, plead its excuse and justification to the person advised, and cause to him as little suffering as may be necessary to give the advice its intended effect. Without strong evidence both of the necessity for its application, and the probability of its success, virtue requires the suppression of the advice, and the abstention of the adviser.

Revenge itself sometimes takes the shape of advicegiving. For a gratification of ill-will a man censures another in the shape of counsel. He visits another with the burthen of evil, for obtaining a small pleasure in the infliction of that evil. In so far as the inflictor is concerned, no doubt the infliction of evil is good, for no action can have its source in any other motive. However enormous the evil may be, and however trifling the pleasure of inflicting it, still the pleasure is good, and must be taken into account. But the law of effective benevolence requires that the advice you give to a man, or the evil-speaking of him, necessary to do him good, should lead to no waste of evil. Only in the absolute necessity of drawing on him punishment from the popular source, or sanction, are you authorized to speak evil of him to others; and then be sure there is reason to believe that the awarded punishment will bring a result of good.

[The great secret perhaps of giving advice successfully, is to mix up with it something that implies a real consciousness of the adviser's own defects, and as much as possible of an acknowledgment of the other party's merits.-ED.]

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[THE following whimsical jeu d'esprit is taken from a little German periodical, in prose and verse, and in a variety of languages, entitled Chaos, which was (or is) got up,' if we are not mistaken, under the superintendence of Goethe's daughter-in-law, and appears to receive any contributions, from respectable quarters, in a very indulgent spirit. We know not who the author is, perhaps some accomplished German who writes English, perhaps some English resident, unaccustomed to speak his own language exclusively; for there are marks of stiffness and obsoleteness in the versification, as well as a no-rhyme here and there. But it is very pleasant. We have been obliged to modify an adjuration which would have been a little too strong for the general ear in England.]

I read in Mrs Glass's page

The neatest way to roast a goose,
Basted with lard and stuffed with sage,
With apple sauce and lemon juice:

I slumbered; does it wondrous seem,
That as I snored, I had a dream?

I dreamt a form of heated air
Stood by a blazing sea coal fire,
His cheeks were red, his arms were bare,
And wofully he did perspire;
Beef on the spit was smoking hot,
And turtle soup was in the pot.

A red hot poker in his hand,

Looked like a warrior's blood-stained lance;
Around him hung an iron band,

Of gridirons, pots and frying pans ;
And by his watery bloodshot eye
I guessed a cook, and well guessed I.

Beside him, like in blazing face,

There stood another female ghost,
With stockings black, and russet dress,

She watched with anxious eye the roast;
The beef seemed her especial care,
She was fat and forty, but not fair.

A murmur then, confused and low,
From out the sable pot I heard,
The turtle soup did bubble slow,

And the green fat seemed oddly stirred;
The force meat rose and sunk again,
As whales play wanton in the main.
The fiery shadow calm surveyed

The bubbling of the precious soup,
He told his friend the kitchen-maid
To lift the pot, and take it up;
But the soup (which had some time boiled)
Now bubbled over, and was spoiled.

And then he spoke. "Now, fire and blood!
Could not you see the soup was done?"
The cook was in an angry mood,

And gave her a blow that knocked her down; But little he suspected what

The consequence was of his being so hot.
A clang burst from the iron crowd,

Fiery the gridiron hissed, and red
With chivalrous indignation glowed,

And threw the shovel at his head;
Burning with rage, it asked to know,
How he could treat a woman so?

And suddenly, with might and main,
Fish, patties, beef, and fricandeaux,
Grew animate, and did hotly rain

A torrent of their boiling blows
Upon the cook's devoted head,
Till the poor devil was nearly dead.
And knives and forks and ladles round
The unhappy victim madly ran;
The table on his head did bound,

As swift as kitchen table can;
The cruet flew at him, and o'er
Him pour'd an oil and vinegar shower.
The roasting fire blushed rosy red,
The grate ope'd wide its blazing jaws,
One monstrous ember boldly led

The coals in the kitchen-wench's cause;

But as descends the fury shower

I started, and-my dream was o'er !




[The author of the following elegant Sonnet says, in his letter to us, that it is descriptive of Mr "mode of relaxation from his literary Southey's labours." So at least he says he has "read;" for he has "never had the happiness of seeing it."

We thank our correspondent for the other sonnets he has sent us, which will be gladly inserted, with the exception of one; and we only make that exception because it contains a mixture of politics, such as might produce a retrospective bitterness of criticism from quarters which would have an equal right to express their feelings. And this, we are sure, is what he desires as little as we do.]

WHO pull the skiff along the glassy lake?
Two fairest creatures are they-fairer ne'er
To the rapt eye of Poet did appear,

His deep thirst of the beautiful to slake.

Oh, let my heart susceptible awake
To their budding beauty-and be cleft in twain,
As the deep bosom of the lonely main
Some beauteous bird in its embrace to take:
A Poet's Daughters, shewing in their May
How the sire's virtues in the woman shine,
The household virtues, meek as day's decline,
In feminine sweetness fading soft away.
Oh, be the virtues of the father mine;
Mine, Daughters beautiful and good as thine.
J. C.

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