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greatly impaired his power of elocution and utterance, and became at length so severe as to accelerate his end.

A few months, however, before his death, which happened in 703, he pleaded for his nephew, Messala, who was accused of illegal canvassing, and who was acquitted, more in consequence of the astonishing exertions of his advocate than the justice of his cause. So unfavourable, indeed, was his case esteemed, that, however much the speech of Hortensius had been admired, he was received, on entering the theatre of Curio the following day, with loud clamour and hisses, which were the more remarked, as he had never met with similar treatment in the whole course of his forensic career. The speech, however, revived all the ancient admiration of the public for his oratorical talents, and convinced them, that if he had always possessed the same perseverance as Cicero, he would not have ranked second to that orator. Another of

his most celebrated harangues was that against the Manilian law, which vested Pompey with such extraordinary powers, and was so warmly supported by Cicero. That against the sumptuary law, proposed by Crassus and Pompey, in the year 683, which tended to restrain the indulgence of his own taste, was well adapted to Hortensius's style of eloquence; and his speech was highly characteristic of his disposition and habits of life. He declaimed, at great length, on the glory of Rome, which required splendour in the mode of living followed by its citizens. He frequently glanced at the luxury of the consuls themselves, and forced them, at length, by his eloquence and sarcastic declamation, to relinquish their

scheme of domestic retrenchment.

The speeches of Hortensius, it has been already mentioned, lost part of their effect, by the orator's advance in years, but they suffered still more by being transferred to writing. As his chief excellence consisted in action and delivery, his writings were much inferior to what was expected from the high fame he had enjoyed; and, accordingly, after death, he retained little of that esteem which he had so abundantly possessed during his life. Although, therefore, his orations had been preserved, they would have given us but an imperfect idea of the eloquence of Hortensius; but even this aid has been denied us; and we must now, therefore, chiefly trust for his oratorical character to the opinion of his great but unprejudiced rival. It was by means of Hortensius that Cicero was chosen one of the College of Augurs,-a service of which his gratified vanity ever appears to have retained an agreeable recollection. In a few of his letters, indeed, written during the despondency of his exile, he hints a suspicion that Hortensius had been instrumental in his banishment, with a view of engrossing to himself the whole glory of the bar; but this mistrust ended with his recall, which Hortensius, though originally he had advised him to yield to the storm, urged on with all the influence of which he was possessed. Hortensius also appears to have been free from every feeling of jealousy or envy, which in him was still more creditable, as his rival was younger than himself, and yet ultimately forced him from the supremacy. Such having been their sentiments of mutual esteem, Cicero has done his oratoric talents ample justice, representing him as endued with all the qualities necessary to form a distinguished speaker. His imagination was fertile-his voice was sweet and harmonious-his demeanour dignified-his language rich and elegant-his acquaintance with literature extensive. So prodigious was his memory, that, without the aid of writing, he recollected every word he had meditated, and every sentence of his adversary's oration, even to the titles and documents brought forward to support the case against him—a faculty which greatly aided his peculiarly happy art of recapitulating the substance of what had been said He also originally by his antagonist or by himself.* possessed an indefatigable application; and scarcely a day passed in which he did not speak in the Forum, or exercise himself in forensic studies or preparation. But, of all the various arts of oratory, he most remarkably excelled in a happy and perspicuous arrangement of his subject. Cicero only slightly reproaches him with showing more study and art in his It appears, gestures than was necessary for an orator. however, from Macrobius, that he was much ridiculed by his contemporaries, on account of his affected gestures. In pleading, his hands were constantly in motion, whence he was often attacked by his adversaries in the Forum for resembling an actor; and, on one occasion he received from his opponent the appellation of Dionysia, which was the name of a celebrated dancing girl. Esop and Roscius frequently attended his pleadings, to catch his gestures, and imitate them on the stage. Such, indeed, was his exertion in action, that it was commonly said, that it could not be determined whether the people went to hear or to see him. Like Demosthenes, he chose and

As a proof of his astonishing memory, it is recorded by Seneca, that, for a trial of his powers of recollection, he remained a whole day at a public auction, and when it was concluded, he repeated in order what had been sold, to whom, and at what price. This recital was compared with the clerk's account, and his memory was found to have served him faithfully in every particular.-Senec. Præf. Lib. I. Controv.

put on his dress with the most studied care and neatness. He is said, not only to have prepared his attitudes, but also to have adjusted the plaits of his gown before a mirror, when about to issue forth to the Forum; and to have taken no less care in arranging them than in moulding the periods of his discourse. He so tucked up his gown, that the folds did not fall by chance, but were formed with great care by the help of a knot artfully tied, and concealed by the plies of his robe, which apparently flowed carelessly around him. Macrobius also records a story of his instituting an action of damages against a person who had jostled him, while walking in this elaborate dress, and had ruffled his toga, when he was about to appear in public with his drapery adjusted according to the happiest arrangement, an anecdote which, whether true or false, shows, by its currency, the opinion entertained of his finical attention to everything that concerned the elegance of his attire, or the gracefulness of his figure and attitudes. This appears to have been the only blemish in his oratorical character; and the only stain on his moral conduct was, his practice of corrupting the judges in the causes in which he was employed, a practice which must be, in a great measure, imputed to the effects of the judicial system at Rome; for, whatever might be the excellence of the Roman laws, nothing could be worse than the procedure under which they were administered.

Hortensius was first married to a daughter of Q. Catullus, the orator, who is one of the speakers in the dialogue De Oratore (Cicero, De Oratore, Lib. III. c. 61). He afterwards asked, and obtained from Cato, the loan of his wife Marcia; who, having succeeded to a great part of the wealth of Hortensius after his death, was then taken back by her former husband (Plutarch, In Catone). By his first wife Hortensius had a son and daughter. In his son, Quintus, he was not more fortunate than his rival, Cicero, in his son Marcus. Cicero, while pro-consul

of Cilicia, mentions in one of his letters, the ruffian and scandalous appearance made by the younger Hortensius at Laodicea, during the shows of gladiators. I invited him once to supper, says he, on his father's account; and, on the same account, only once. (Epist. Ad Attic. Lib. VI. Epit. 3.) Such, indeed, was his unworthy conduct, that his father, at this time, entertained thoughts of disinheriting him, and making his nephew Messala his heir; but in this intention he did not persevere. (Valer. Maxim. Lib. IV. c. 9.) After his father's death, he joined the party of Cæsar (Cicero, Epist. Ad Attic. Lib. X. Epit. 16, 17, 18.), by whom he was appointed proconsul of Macedonia; in which situation he espoused the side of the conspirators, after the assassination of Cæsar. (Cicero, Philip. X. c. 5 and 6.) By order of Brutus, he slew Caius Antonius, brother to the Triumvir, who had fallen into his hands; and, being afterwards taken prisoner at the battle of Phillipi, he was slain by Marc Antony, by way of reprisal, on the tomb of his brother. (Plutarch, In M. Bruto.) Hortensia, the daughter, inherited something of the spirit and eloquence of her father. A severe tribute having been imposed on the Roman matrons by the Triumvirs, Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus, she boldly pleaded their cause before these noted extortioners, and obtained some alleviation of the impost. (Valer. Maxim. Lib. VIII. c. 3.) Quintus, the son of the orator, left two children, Q. Hortensius Corbio, and M. Hortensius Hortalus. The former of these was a monster of debauchery, and is mentioned by Valerius Maximus among the most striking examples of those descendants who have degenerated from the honour of their ancestors. (Lib. III. c. 3.) This wretch, not being likely to become a father, and the wealth of the family having been partly settled on the wife of Cato, partly dissipated by extravagance, and partly confiscated in the civil wars, Augustus Cæsar, who was a great promoter of matrimony, gave Hortensius Hortalus a pecuniary allowance to enable him to marry, in order that so illustrious a family might not become extinct. He and his children, however, fell into want during the Tacitus has reign of his benefactor's successor. painted, with his usual power of striking delineation, that humiliating scene, in which he appeared with his four children to beg relief from the senate; and the historian has also recorded the hard answer which

he received from the unrelenting Tiberius. Perceiving, however, that his severity was disliked by the senate, the Emperor said that, if they desired it, he would give a certain sum to each of Hortalus's male children. lus, either from terror or dignity of mind, said not a They returned thanks; but, Hortaword; and from this time, Tiberius showing him no favour, his family sunk into the most abject poverty. (Tacit. Annal. Lib. II. c. 37 and 38.) And such

were the descendants of the orator with the park, the plantations, the ponds, and the pictures!

Titian's Portraits.-It may be said of them, that it is they who look at you, more than you who look at them.-Northcote.

PREJUDICE.

For the London Journal.

To hate a man,. and look upon him with suspicion, for no other reason but that he belongs to or was born

in some particular country, betrays a narrow and prejudiced mind; yet how often do we hear men who are accounted wise and learned avow an aversion to an individual, without being able to assign any reason for so doing, other than the one just mentioned. Though these gentlemen may be ever so prepossessed in favour of a stranger before he has spoken, let him but wag his tongue, and if his speech denotes him belonging to a country to which they have an antipathy, the charm is broken, and they immediately turn their backs upon him. This prejudice is generally very prevalent among those who have moved but in a limited sphere, who have never by travelling and reflection been able to rub off the rust of illiberalism that is so apt to incrust the soul. The Scottish Lowlander turns up his nose and thinks himself superior to the Highlander; the Englishman fancies himself a cut above the Scotchman, whom he considers servile and mean; and the American is never tired of cracking his jokes upon John Bull, who in return holds the Yankee in utter contempt.

Two reasons may be assigned for this illiberal conduct in the family of man. These are past outrages and climate. By past outrages we mean the cruel wars that it was customary in bygone times for one nation to wage with another, and the consequent devastations and crimes which caused the posterity

of each country to grow up with the idea that the other was its "natural enemy." Thank heaven! these stormy times are over; the sun of civilization is beaming upon the minds of men, but still their hearts are not yet sufficiently warmed towards each other the prejudices of their forefathers still exist among them, and dwell in their bosoms like the waves of the ocean after a storm.

The second cause is climate. In a country which is favoured by nature with every luxury the earth produces, where the ground yields spontaneously all that the appetite requires, and where few necessities exist to act as stimulants upon the minds of the inhabitants, they are apt to become slothful and indolent. On the other hand, the natives of a cold climate and comparatively barren soil, who are continually compelled to exert their utmost ingenuity to raise a subsistence, become eventually so ingenious and artful, that even Nature herself is hardly a match for them. They are incessantly at war with the elements, and their minds are never allowed to remain inactive. Necessity is the grand sharpener of their wits, and the new discoveries they are ever making in the arts and sciences are numberless. From these countries there is always a considerable part of the population emigrating into those of their neighbours. They carry along with them their native ingenuity, their hardihood, their industry and their poverty. The better-informed part of the community, among whom they locate, encourage them for their useful qualities; but the others, seeing themselves supplanted by these new comers, grow jealous, and begin to hate them. There may be certain duties in the country which the natives are prejudiced against, and which they consider a disgrace to perform: the foreigners, not having the same feelings towards such offices, and viewing them only as roads to wealth, fill them, and if they should happen to be polite and civil in the performance of their duty, they are too often called mean and servile. The country to which they belong is then fastened upon, and not only it, but all that are in it, and all that ever left it, are branded with the epithets of beggarly, mean, and servile. The sentiments of the jealous natives quickly spread, and the foreigners, ere long, find that it has become quite fashionable to hold them in derision and contempt, without their knowing why or wherefore. If a war should at any time have raged between the two countries, the aversion is doubly strong: generation after generation will imbibe this prejudice; and if a few of these foreigners should turn out unprincipled persons, the

hatred to the nation will become such as centuries of laws and constitution, is it his business, who is but
honourable dealing will scarcely cancel.
a stranger in the land, to sow the seeds of sedition
and discontent? If he is disgusted with their form
of government, why does he remain under it?
Why does he not pack up his goods and return to his
own" dear country?" No one will hinder him-
unless it may be his poverty or his creditors. But if
his interest tells him that he had better remain where
he is, let him learn to respect the feelings of those
by whom he exists, and bless the land he lives in,
until he can afford to go back to his own country-
men and relations, who doubtless will be glad to re-
ceive him, especially if he takes along with him a
well-lined purse and a liberal hand.

In a conversation which we lately had with an intelligent but prejudiced friend, he expressed himself strongly against the Scotch, whom he professed to dislike above all other nations. Upon asking his reasons for such dislike, he said, he had always found them so mean and selfish that he felt disgusted with them. Have you, we asked, never met with a straightforward, disinterested Scotchman?

Very seldom, answered he, with a significant shake of the head.

Then you have met with some such in your lifetime?

Why, said he, after a short pause, upon consideration, I have met with some exceptions to the rest of their countrymen, but I always suspected them, and have carefully avoided any sort of intimacy or intercourse with them, excepting what was accidental or absolutely necessary.—Our friend is only one out of thousands who express a dislike to a people without being aware that it is early prejudice that causes this dislike, and not their own experience.

But how often are foreigners themselves to blame for rousing and keeping alive this enmity and ill-will between them and the people with whom they sojourn! We were a short time since at a social party in London, where the majority were English, when a young Scotchman, being asked to contribute his share to the hilarity of the meeting, started one of those songs of his country which inveighs against the Southrons, and which seemed to have been composed when the two nations were at deadly variance. He sang with all the enthusiasm of a would-be patriot, darting his glances around him as if he was eyeing his foes, and striking the table with his fist, as though he fancied he was busily engaged with his broad-sword in the battle field. In looking from him to the Southron part of the company, we observed a jolly good-natured old gentleman shrug up his shoulders, and look over to a friend on the other side of the

room, who, in his turn, smiled, winked, and shrugged his shoulders also. A few of the youngsters looked fiercely and disdainfully at the Scotchman, while others seemed at a loss whether to construe this illtimed song into an insult, or ascribe its introduction to the rawness and ignorance of the singer. The moment he had finished, an older Scotchman, and a man of the world, perceiving the spirit that his imprudent countryman had roused among the company, proposed, and almost immediately began, a favourite English drinking song, which he sung with so much glee and spirit, as completely restored the good humour, and banished the feeling which had a few minutes previous threatened to disturb the harmony of the evening.

How often, too, are the feelings of the natives hurt by foreigners drawing comparisons between the land they live in and the one in which they were born and bred. These comparisons are generally partial, especially if he who draws them left his country when young. It is the nature of man to look back upon the scenes of his infancy, when his heart was free from care, with "an interest which is heightened by distance, present troubles, and imagination. He expatiates on the joys of his boyhood, and all the pleasurable sensations of his early days, as if the loss of them was intirely owing to his removal from the scenes where he enjoyed them. He does not reflect that he must again be young, and his heart as buoyant as ever, before he can again appreciate the charms of those scenes that possessed his heart and delighted his fancy in the bright morning of youth. If you believe him, his country, though it may be one of poverty and meanness, is a fairy-land to the one in which he now resides; and its government and institutions, though perhaps despotic and corrupt, are founded on principles of wisdom and liberalism, while the powers by which he is now governed are tyrannical and oppressive. But even allowing all this to be true, what right had he to hurt the self-love and patriotic feelings of those in whose country he shelters himself, by drawing such comparisons? If they are content with their

There are some branches of certain trades and
professions in which the French completely out-
strip the English. When one of these skilful mon-
sieurs enters a town and divides a business with a
native, who has monopilised it for years, what can be
said? The feelings as well as the prospects of the
Englishman have a severe blow; but is the French-
man to blame? Certainly not. The law of the land
allows foreigners to settle and trade in this country,
and he has only done what any other person with the
same ideas would have done, namely, taken up his
abode where he had the greatest prospect of doing
well. Is it the public, then, on whom the blame
descends? Surely not. By employing this stranger
they are enabled to get their work done in a more
elegant manner and cheaper than they could when
they employed their own countryman, and at the
same time are treated with more politeness and civi-
lity. No one can reasonably blame them for study-
ing their own interest. Who then is the supplanted
artisan to storm against, if he cannot justifiably do so
against his rival or the public? We answer, against
no one; for no one is censurable. But if he must
needs storm, let him do so against chance, or his own
Instead, however, of grumbling about the caprice of
inability to keep his place in the public estimation.
the unpatriotic public, and cherishing and encourage-
ing an inveterate hatred for all foreigners, and French-
men in particular, if he is a wise man he will pocket
his gains, and thank his stars that he so long fattened
uninterruptedly upon a business for which, he now
finds, he was not so well qualified as others in the
world. He will also reflect that his son-if he has
one is able to learn certain trades in this coun-
try, in which Frenchmen never attain any remark-
able degree of excellence, who, when he pleases,
has the same liberty to go over to France and
supplant French artisans, as the aforesaid French-
man had to come over to England and supplant
his father. Supposing, however, that the rival
had been an Englishman with the same tact and
genius as the Frenchman, would he not have suc-
ceeded as well? There is not a doubt of it. The

public do not patronize the Frenchman merely be-
cause he is a Frenchman; it is his superior workman-
ship and pleasing politeness that obtain for him
their support and estimation.

Until the day arrives when man shall become more of a cosmopolitan, and allow his reasoning powers to act less shackled by pride and blind selfishness, prejudice must and will be one of his ruling passions. The sooner knowledge gains the ascendancy in the human mind, the sooner will prejudice cease to exist. Men, who now look upon each other as "natural enemies," because Providence ordained them to be born in certain climates, and nurtured under particular governments, will, we trust, ere long, recognise each other as brothers belonging to one family, and the earth which they inhabit as one country, in which each will be encouraged according to his talents and industry.

In the meantime let us make it an inviolable rule never to speak against nations or communities en

masse.

If an individual or individuals of any country have betrayed our confidence, and proved themselves unworthy members of society, it is our duty to expose them, for such exposure may put those on their guard whom they are now deceiving; but never let us be so uncharitable as to cast unpleasant reflections on the country which gave them birth, as though it was

responsible or reprehensible for the delinquencies of its unprincipled sons. In our own lifetime we have met with honest Jews, disinterested Scotchmen, li beral Englishmen, sincere Irishmen, polite Americans, intelligent Indians, and good and noble of nearly every country. We have also met with their countrymen possessing the opposites to all these qualities: but are we to condemn the former and their countries because of the latter? Heaven forbid

FAIRY SONG,

DEAR SIR, I see by your number for the present week, that you have taken up my favourite subject of the Fairy People. In return for the gratification you have afforded me, I request your acceptance of the following poetical trifle, if you think it worth presenting to your readers.-I am, dear sir, your sincere well-wisher,

CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.

October 2, 1834.

THE FIRST OF THE FAIRIES.
SET TO MUSIC BY VINCENT NOVELLO.

WHAT ho! ye minims of earth,
Enwomb'd in your cells,
The buttercup bells;
Come forth at my call-
Come forth one and all-
'Tis Oberon calls you to birth.
Whence we came, and what we were,
Let no one ask-let no one care,

Since here we are!-since here we are!
You, Brisk, and Frisk,

With Whip, and Nip,

Come forth in your ranks,

Come forth with your pranks,

And crown we our birth-night with mirth.
Come one, come two,

"With mop and mowe;"
Come twenty in order meet;
And as you pass

O'er the dewy grass,

In lightning glance
Of your whirling dance,
Make rainbows with your twinkling feet.
You, Mustard-seed, go tweak
With roguish freak
The nose of cramming priest;
While Cob-web there, and Nip,
Will pinch and grip
The snoring slattern in her nest.
And when the owl has wing'd his flight,
And the pearly drops of night
Hang thickest on the lime-tree flower,
You, Bean and Pea-blossom, go clamber
To the sleeping maiden's chamber,
And prank anew her window bower.
Now hey for a roundel!-So-so!
And now through the roundel we go;

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My fairies keep time

To the cricket's chime,

And the laugh of our chorus-" Ho! ho!"

A Pretty Note of Acceptance.-Balzac sent to borrow four hundred crowns of Voiture. His brother wit cheerfully complied, and taking the promissory note which the servant put into his hands, wrote on it thus: "I, the underwritten, acknowledge myself debtor to M. Balzac in the sum of eight hundred crowns, for the pleasure he did me in borrowing four hundred of me." He then returned it to the servant, to carry back to his master. "What are all Voiture's finest letters (says a French author) in comparison of such a note!"

"

Correcting the Press. The publishers of the French Dictionary of French Dictionaries' have adopted a phenses and Elzivirs. The proof sheets of the work plan somewhat similar to that followed by the Stewill be open to general examination for seven days previously to the operation of pulling off the copies; and a premium of 50 cents (5d.) is offered for every typographical error which may be detected. Twenty errors discovered in one or more numbers of the wor! will intitle the discoverer to a gratuitous copy of t whole Dictionary. The Printing Machine.

every door till he found the right. It was a truly miserable place: the woman of the house was one of the worst class of women in London. She knew that Bampfylde had no money, and that, at that time, he had been three days without food. When Jackson saw him there was all the levity of madness in his manners; his shirt was ragged and black as a coalheaver's, and his beard of two months' growth. Jackson sent out for food, and said he was come to breakfast with him; and he turned aside to a harpsichord in the room, literally he said to let him gorge himself without being noticed. He removed him from hence, and, after giving his mother a severe lecture, obtained for him a decent allowance, and left him, when he himself quitted town, in decent lodgings, earnestly begging him to write.

THE VILLAGE ALEHOUSE. A PICTURE IN DETAIL.

DEAR ramblers all-an Alehouse sign

You'll own as good a sight as greets ye; When summer's long, long mornings shine, Where leisure reigns, and " All hail" meets ye. There rests the waggon in its track,—

A corn-bag round each horse's nose is; There comes the miller and his sack; And there at ease the beggar dozes.

There limps the ostler with his pails,'
And there the landlord stalks inspector;
Two farmers there discuss their sales,

And drain by turns one goblet's nectar.

Hay-ricks are near, and orchard fruit;

The cock's shrill crow and flapping wing; The low contented neigh of brute;

;

The pipe's perfume, and tankard's ding. The fiddle's scrape,-the milking cows,The snapping cork,-the roaring joke ;The birds by thousands in the boughs ;The creaking wheel, and whip's loud stroke. Sunshine strews all the kitchen floor,

Reposes on the home-field cropBlister's the Doctor's fine new door,'

And kisses copse and chimney top. Clouds fleecy dot the blue immense_ Farm-houses-cities-vales-and streamsAnd seats, and parks, and forests dense, Sleep, stretch'd afar, in floods of beams.

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AFFECTING ACCOUNT OF MR
BAMPFYLDE.

[By Mr Southey. From the Autobiography of Sir Egerton Brydges. Samples of the poetry of this unfortunate gentleman are to be found in Sir Egerton's Censura Literaria,' and in Mr Southey's Specimens."]

Keswick, May 10, 1809. SIR, I hold myself greatly indebted to you, not only for the list of authors, but for the very gratifying manner in which you have introduced my name in the Censura Literaria.' That list, with another of equal length, for which the selections were prepared for the press, but omitted during the course of publication by the friend who undertook to superintend it, will enable me, in an additional volume, to supply the bibliographical defects of the work. It gives me great pleasure to hear that Bampfylde's Remains

"

are to be edited. The circumstances which I did not mention concerning him are these. They were related to me by Jackson of Exeter, and minuted down immediately afterwards, when the impression that they made upon me was warm.

He was the brother of Sir Charles, as you say. At the time when Jackson became intimate with him he was just at his prime, and had no other wish than to live in solitude, and amuse himself with poetry and music. He lodged in a farm house near Chudleigh, and would oftentimes come to Exeter in a winter morning, ungloved and open-breasted, before Jackson was up (though he was an early riser), with a pocket-full of music or poems to know how he liked them. His relations thought this was a sad life for The a man of family, and forced him to London. tears ran down Jackson's cheeks when he told me the story. Poor fellow, said he, there did not live a purer creature, and, if they would have let him alone, he might have been alive now.

When he was in London, his feelings, having been forced out of their proper channel, took a wrong direction, and he soon began to suffer the punishment of debauchery. The Miss Palmer, to whom he dedicated his Sonnets' (afterwards, and perhaps still, Lady Inchiquin), was niece to Sir Joshua Reynolds. Whether Sir Joshua objected to his ad dresses on account of his irregularities in London, or on other grounds, I know not, but this was the commencement of his madness. He was refused admittance into the house; upon this, in a fit of half anger and half derangement, he broke the windows, and was (little to Sir Joshua's honour) sent to Newgate. Some weeks after this had happened, Jackson went to London, and one of his first inquiries was for Bampfylde. Lady Bampfylde, his mother, said that she knew little or nothing about him; that she got him out of Newgate, and he was now in some beggarly place. Where?-In King street, Holborn, she believed, but she did not know the number of the house. Away went Jackson, and knocked fat

The late Sir Charles Bampfylde, who was shot.-Ed.

But he never wrote: the next news was that he was in a private madhouse, and Jackson never saw him more. Almost the last time he met, he showed him several poems, among others, a Ballad on the Murder of David Rizzio. Such a ballad! said he. He came that day to dine with Jackson and was asked for copies. I burned them, was the reply. I wrote them to please you; you did not seem to like them, so I threw them into the fire. After twenty years' confinement, he recovered his senses, but not till he was dying of consumption. The apothecary urged him to leave Sloane street (where he had always been as kindly treated as he could be), and go into his own country, saying that his friends in Devonshire would be very glad to see him. But he hid his face, and answered, No, sir, they who knew me what I was, shall never see me what I

am.

THREE PLEASANTRIES,

OF WHICH THE READER MAY TAKE HIS CHOICE.

'Tis pleasant climbing the green hill's ascent, Soaring in undulations from the sea,

To spy in fancy's mirror stream and tree,
Cottage and castle, beautifully blent-
'Tis pleasant from the lonely peak to gaze
On scenes above the wizard Fancy's power,
The sunset gleaming in a golden shower,
And maidens dancing in the rainbow's rays.-
And sweeter far, descrying in the vale
Her whom we love to give the person scope,
Winged with joy, adown the glittering slope
To the fair creature in the echoing dale;
And while she smiles or laughs aloud, to hope
The tender mood may in its turn prevail.

TABLE TALK.

66

St Overseer and St Overall.-M. de Lannoi, from his strict inquiry into the merits of canonized saints, and his discovery of abuses, got the nick-name of the Unnestler of Saints; so that M. Godefroi, historigrapher of France, meeting him on a new year's day, embraced him with a great deal of civility, and after wishing him a happy new year, Pray, my good friend, what saints do you intend to unnestle this year?" said he. Lannoi, though a little startled at this question, after so much ceremony, readily answered, "Far be it from me to be wanting in reverence to those saints, whom God and their sanctity have placed in heaven; but no endeavour of mine shall be wanting to unnestle those whom the ignorance and superstition, or knavery of the world have surreptitiously conveyed in there, without the approbation of God or the learned." A great deal of this rubbish still remains, according to an ingenious Englishman (Middleton), who, in a letter from Rome, mentions some original papers which he found in the Barbarine Library, giving a pleasant account between the Spaniards and Pope Urban VIII. in relation to saintship. The Spaniards, it seems, have a saint held in great reverence in some parts of Spain, called Viars; for the further encouragement of whose worship they solicited the Pope to grant some special indulgences to his altars; and upon the Pope's desiring to be better acquainted first with his character, and the proofs which they had of his saintship, they produced a stone with the antique letters, S VIA R, which the antiquaries readily saw to be a small fragment of some old Roman inscription in memory of one who had been PræfectuS VIA Rum, or, Overseer of the Highways. To this he adds, that in England they have a still more ridiculous instance of a fictitious saintship, in the case of a certain saint called Amphibolus (Fling-round, or Overall), who, according to the monkish historians, was Bishop of the Isle of Man, and fellow-martyr and disciple of St Alban; yet the learned Bishop Usher says he has produced irrefragable reasons to convince us that he owes the old acts or legends of St Alban, where the Amphi honour of his saintship to a mistaken passage in the

bolus mentioned, and still reverenced as a saint and a

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martyr, was nothing more than the cloak which Alban happened to have at the time of his execution.

An Honest Lover.-As D'Aubigné (Henry the Fourth's friend and rough monitor) was once relating his misfortunes to M. de Taley, the latter interrupted him, saying, " You have papers of the highest tired to his seat, and quite worn out; if you will consequences to the late Chancellor, who is now reconsent that I should send to acquaint him with what crowns, if not from him, from those who would make is in your custody, I'll engage you shall have 10,000 fetched all these papers which were at once to ruin use of them to ruin him." Upon which, D'Aubigné him, and threw them in the fire before M. Taley, who, beginning to reprimand him smartly for it, D'Aubigné answered, "I have burnt them, lest they might burn me, for the temptation might have overpowered me." The next day, the old gentleman taking him by the hand, said, "Though you have not made your thoughts known to me, I am too quicksighted not to perceive that you have a love for my daughter that she is courted by persons in better circumstances than yourself cannot be unknown to you; but your burning those papers yesterday is such a proof of integrity, that it has disposed me to signify to you, that I am willing you should be my son-in-law."

man (he was one of the Scotch family of Hay), had Address of Virtue.-Du Chattelet, a French statessuch an unshaken integrity, that he was imprisoned for refusing to act in some unworthy measures. pel: but the King (Louis XIII.) affected to look Being afterwards released, he went to the royal chaanother way, that he might not meet the eyes of a person to whom he had lately done such flagrant injustice. Hereupon Du Chattelet whispered one of the noblemen, "Be so good as to tell the king, my Lord, that I freely forgive him, and beg the honour of one look." This set the king a-laughing, and all was well.

Excellent Advice to Poets.-The ordinary poet, like the ordinary man, is for ever seeking, in external circumstances, the help which can be found only in himself. In what is familiar or near at hand, he discerns no form or comeliness; home is not poetical, but prosaic; it is in some past, distant, conventional world, that poetry resides for him; were he there, and not here,-were he thus, and not so,—it would be well with him. Hence our innumerable host of rose-coloured novels and iron-nailed epics, with their locality not on the earth, but somewhat nearer the moon. Hence our Virgins of the Sun, and our Knights of the Cross, malicious Saracens in turbans, and copper-coloured chiefs in wampum, and so many other truculent figures from the heroic times or the heroic climates, who, on all hands, swarm in our poetry. Peace be with them! But yet, as a grand moralist proposed preaching to the men of this century, so would we fain preach to the poets a sermon on the duty of staying at home. Let them be sure that heroic ages and heroic climates can do little for them. That form of life has attraction for us, less because it is better and nobler than our own, than simply because it is different; and even this attrac

tion must be of the most transient sort. For will not our own age one day be an ancient one, and have as quaint a costume as the rest, therefore, and be ranked along with them, in respect of quaintness? Does Homer interest us now because he wrote of what passed out of his native Greece, and two centuries before he was born? or because he wrote of what passed in God's world, and in the heart of man, which is the same after thirty centuries? Let our poets look to this: is their feeling really finer, truer, and their visions deeper than that of other men, they have nothing to fear, even from the humblest subject; is it not so, they have nothing to hope, but an ephemeral favour, even from the highest.Thomas Carlyle.

DAY-BREAK.

-See, the dapple coursers of the morn Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs, And chase it through the sky.-Marston.

TO CORRESPONDENTS. The Kent Herald next week.

We are sorry to be obliged to postpone to the same time some further notice of the Poems of John and

and Mary Saunders.

An answer was given two or three weeks ago to the Gentleman who (under his initials) sent us the article intitled "Smoke."

The verses on the " Squirrel who was found dead," will be gladly inserted.

Mr F. F. D. of Maidstone, highly gratified us with his letter. Insertion shall be given to what was inclosed in it, as soon as possible.

Also to the communications of F. E. J.

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

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LONDON JOURNAL.

TO ASSIST THE INQUIRING, ANIMATE THE STRUGGLING, AND SYMPATHIZE WITH ALL.

WEDNESDAY, Nov. 19, 1834.

TWILIGHT ACCUSED & DEFENDED. A MONSTROUS thing has happened. Here is a correspondent of ours, and a pleasant one too, and witty withal, aiming a blow at our gentle friend, Twilight! What possible mood could he have been in? Did he expect a friend who had disappointed him? or a new book? or a letter? Was his last bottle of wine out? Or did he want his tea? Or was he reading, and could not go on, the servant not being in the way to bring candles? Or was the evening rainy? Or had he said anything wrong to any one else, and so was out of temper? Or had he been reading something about twilight, badly written, a "twaddle," and so was disposed to go to an extreme the other way, and be perverse in his wit? His first verse looks like it. Or had he a tooth-ache? or a head-ache? or nothing to do? Or had his fire gone out?

We should almost as soon have expected a blow from him at gentleness itself, as at our gentle dusk friend, the mildest and most unpresuming of the Hours, meek, yet genial withal, like some loving Mestizo or Quadroon, something between fair and

dark, or dusk and dusker, who, by her sweet middle tone between merit and the want of pretension, and by having nothing to arrogate, and much to be prized, charms the amorous heart of some contemplative West Indian, who is tired out between the flare of his whiter favourites, and the undiscerning presumption of his black. Certain it is, that, vehemently howsoever he speaketh, we hold him not to be in earnest (the less so by reason of that enormity); but, in order to prevent the peril of any false conclusions, in minds accustomed not to such facetious perversity, and still more to take the opportunity of vindicating the character of our gentle friend, and make our correspondent remorseful the next time he sees her (for having even appeared to treat her ill), we have thought it incumbent upon us to follow up his hard words with others more fitly soft and overwhelmingly balmy. Oh, there is nothing like defending a good easy cause, and a tender-hearted client ! It makes one, somehow, so sure of triumph, so able to trample on one's enemy with the softest foot and the most generous reputation-so gifted (dare we say it?) with the pleasures of malignity by the very exercise of benevolence. Mark you, dear reader, with what a tender savageness we will set him down. Yet he rails in good set terms. There is no denying that. Far be it from us to deny it, who shall only gain the greater praise from our refutation. Hear him how he sets out with the ingenious impudence of his pun and his alliteration→→→

A TRIMMING FOR TWILIGHT.

How I despise the twaddle about twilight,
That most unserviceable sort of sky-light;
Weak wavering gleam, that, wending on its way
Towards the night, still lingers with the day.

Twilight's a half-and-half affair, that would
With all its heart be moonlight if it could;
Dim, but not dark; you pause at the bell-handles,
'Tis scarce worth while to conquer it with candles.

Twilight is eve grown grey before its time,
Mystified mummer, ape-ing the sublime
Day with its eye half clos'd, and half a-peep;
The afternoon, making believe to sleep.

(From the Steam-Pressóf C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney-street.]

No. 34.

'Tis like that forming frown yet undefin'd That yon half-smiling female face has got, As tho' it hadn't quite made up its mind Whether it should look angrily or not..

Twilight's an interloper in the sky;
The face of nature painted with one eye:
Something between blank darkness and broad light,—
Like dotard day coquetting with young night.

A dame passé, who, growing old and wan, Affects to veil the charms she feels are gone; Knowing her day is o'er, the wily jade Enwraps the ruin where the sunshine play'd.

Lovers love twilight, but I'm not a lover;
And why they love it I could ne'er discover ;
For light is passion's parent: do ye deem
Beauty no debtor to the radiant beam
That lamps its loveliness; say, can we know
That beauty lives, and one bright glance forego?
To close the eyes, and see but with the heart.
Or is't a fancy of love's selfish art,

Haply 'tis so: in love's delirious trance,

That has a joy beyond it, dims the light
The raptur'd soul grown jealous of the glance
To lend to young imagination sight.

Fancy that peoples darkness with bright rays, And makes a darkness that it thus may gaze; How is't that every feeling, fond, intense, Tempts us to lose awhile our visual sense?

Is it superfluous? We drink love thro' it;
'Tis then in us; we can no longer view it
By gazing outwards; now, a glance to win,
Our eyelids close, and turn their sense within.

This is digressive, but enough for me;
Lovers, in fact, are no authority;

So, as I said at first, old twaddling twilight,
Be still the lover's gleam, you sha'n't be my light.

Thou'rt day declared a bankrupt, offering round
A dividend of ten-pence in the pound:
Plague take such compositions; I'll for one
Have twenty-shillings' worth of light, or none.

Not day-break, but day broken, light fades fast;
Do as thou wilt, thou'rt sure to fail at last.
"Come, sealing night," before thee twilight flies,
Put out the mocker with your starry eyes.
Dusky-hued coward! hast begun the race,
Darest thou not look dame Dian in the face?

Now flickering fainter, now more darkly dull,
"I that am cruel, am yet merciful;

I would not have thee linger in thy pain :"
Come, light the candles; struggle not,—'tis vain.

Is that thy shadow, lingering on the moor?
No matter; you shall never come in-door.
The stars come out at thee, pale day-diminisher;
Now the moon gleams at full,-ay, that's a finisher.

Beneath the hillock's shadow, cloak'd in grey,
Cautiously creep before the light away;
But when the morning moon grows sick and pale,
Then, stealthy stepper, come across the vale.

PRICE THREE Halfpence.

Child of the mist, isthmus 'twixt light and shade!
Shadow of chaos, from which earth was made!
Day, dying of decline! doubt-dreaming ray!
Thy presence saddens me-away-away!

W. L. R. "Away-away!" Our correspondent must have been in a great hurry, to speak thus to the poor gentle twilight, which has not a word to say for itself, unless it be the muffin-bell, the next thing in humbleness of sound to the sheep-bell. We take him to be a prodigiously active and eager spirit, with an ultra flow of health and life, and never easy but when occupied, perhaps not then, unless the occupation perfectly suits him. But he has a soul withal; you may know it even by what is implied in his style of abuse; and therefore it is not the twilight he hates, but the absence of something which he wanted instead of it. Yes; assuredly he has been "snubbing" the poor Quadron, like some lordly planter, because somebody else has not brought him his sangaree.

He lets we cannot say the "cat out of the bag "— but the dove out of the cage-in what he says about lovers. He tells us he is "no lover," merely in order to avoid what he knows to be conclusive against him; and, in fact, he runs into a digression about love, on purpose to disprove his own argument. Besides, if he happens to be so limited or so unlucky in his circle of acquaintances as to be in love with nobody, he must love all sorts of loveable things, otherwise how could he write so well about loving? and if a man loves anything at all, he must needs love so mild and loving a thing as the twilight. (Here are a great many repetitions of the word "love;" but it is a pleasant note, and will bear reiteration like the nightingale's.)

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Furthermore, in this passage of our correspondent's about love, compared with certain letters which he has written to us privately, urging us to give an article "Coleridge," we have detected him in the fact of nis disingenuousness; for this very passage has manifestly been suggested by some stanzas of that favourite of his, in the poem intitled the "Day-Dream." It is a lover's picture of twilight in a room, and is so beautiful and true, that it might serve, alone, as an answer to all the stanzas of this pretending rogue :My eyes make pictures when they are shut: I see a fountain, large and fair,

A willow, and a ruin'd hut,

And thee, and me, and Mary there. O, Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! Bend o'er us, like a bow'r, my beautiful green willow.

The shadows dance upon the wall,

By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber, moveless all!

And now they melt to one deep shade! But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee; I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

Very beautiful, and spiritual, and truly loving. But lovers, the most honourable and delicate, have a trick of taking other advantages of the good-natured twilight; and the poet goes on to let us know as

much:

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play. Far be it from us to deny the merits of light and seeing. Beauty was surely meant to be seen as well as loved, or why is it so beautiful? But it is a maxim with us never to deny the merits of one go

thing because there is another; and twilight, where love is, has its loveliness also, as well as lamp and daylight. One of the greatest tests of true love is the sense of joy imparted by the mere presence of the beloved object, apart from light, speech, or anything else; and twilight, somehow, rewards us for the sincerity and generosity of this feeling, by bringing us nearer to the object of our affection, in its abolition of intermediate objects, and a general sense of its mild embracement.

of belief in good there must be in celestial natures, we may conceive some little stooping to it even in the happiness of heavenly cheeks.

Come-let us consider what our correspondent would say further in behalf of the twilight, if he were in the humour for it. We wish we had time to say it in verse; but here we heave a great sigh (one of the sighs of our life); and as we always feel ashamed of sighing in the midst of this beautiful creation (of which to be able to discern a millionth part of the beauties, is to waken up as many consolatory angels, who lie in wait to become visible to loving eyes) we shall proceed to express ourselves in our accustomed prose, from which, at all events, the love of what is poetical cannot be excluded.

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Twilight is the time between light and darkness, when the facility afforded for action by the daylight is over, and the aid of candle-light, for the renewal of action, awaits our pleasure to renew it or not. It is therefore the precise time, of all others, which seems We say, by designed by nature for meditation. nature; for though we hold it to be man's nature to be artificial as well as natural, yet it is natural for him, being a thinking being, to "take pause;" and nature in this gentlest and most intermediate hour seems to offer it him. The greatest part of his duty is over (we hold, that in a more civilized state of society it will all be over, except for purposes of entertainment); he cannot see to work; he cannot see, very actively, to travel; his very book begins to fail him, unless he has determined to keep up the train of his reading, and goes nearer and nearer to the window, and at last he must give it up. He is therefore thrown upon his meditations.

Now" think a little."

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Not of your cares, dear reader, if you can help it; not of your work; not of other people's faults; not of your own. There is time enough to attend to those, when we have more light-unless indeed you do it in great charity, first towards the faults of others, and then towards yourself (having earned the right), and always provided you end, as indeed you must if true charity meditates with you, in resolutions befitting the mildness and considerateness of the hour. We would not even have you think of the sufferings of others, provided you think of them at any other time, and do what you can to help them. Twilight is a placid hour, and you must entertain it with placidity or not at all. You must have so acted, or so wished to act, at other times, as to be able to give gentle welcome to gentle guest. You must be worthy of the twilight.

(Here our correspondent gives a great wince; and begins to inquire of his conscience, whether he has ever cracked any one's skull, or written any impiety except the above.)

"Let us think" of that, and of all other possibilities beyond the regions of mere earthly utility, not excepting it nevertheless. It is the privilege of the imaginative,' that they include everything which is good, besides seeing a germ of it at the core of the

thorniest evil.

We put these words, "let us think," within marks of quotation for a reason very proper to mention in this place; for we scarcely ever begin meditating at twilight without calling them to mind as uttered to us by the beloved parent to whom we are indebted for most of our aspirations after anything useful or beautiful. She would say to us sometimes at this hour, when our spirits appeared to her to be a little too incessant, "Come-let us think a little." And then we used to sit down on a stool at her side, and look at the fire, and be led into a sedate mood by some story she would tell us of her own mother, or of the sea, or of some great and good people of old.

So now this is good hushing time, is it not, reader? and fit for keeping a little from the candles; and not what our ultra-lively friend (now growing remorseful) would make of it. You and we are sitting on each side of the fire-place, one of us with a knee between his hands, the other with a child between his knees, and there is a fair friend with us, and we are all as quiet as mice, our faces lit up by the fire, and our shadows shifting on the wall. When we speak, it is in a low voice; for twilight has this also in common with the sweetest of its friends :

Now let us think of all mild and loving things,— of our childhood, of the fields, of our best friends, of twilight itself and its shadows, of the quiet of our fireside, and the fanciful things we see in the glowing coals, of the poets who have spoken of evening, of the beauty of stillness, of scenes of rural comfort, of the travels of the winds and clouds, of stories of good angels, nay, of dear friends whom we have lost, provided we have lost them long enough or loved them well enough to consider them with reference to the beauty of their own spirit, rather than to their absence from ourselves. Perhaps they are commissioned to be good angels over us:-perhaps they are now this minute in the room, smiling in the certainty of their own lovingness, and the knowledge of our future good; ay, and (as far as their sympathy with our present struggles will permit) smiling to think even how startled we should be to see them, if it were within heaven's knowledge of what is best for us that we should do so. For God is the author of mirth as well as seriousness, and considering what security

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Ed. Hush, hush, not so very loud and enthusiastic. (All laugh.) You see how little he was in

earnest. The moment he hears of a comfortable

party and a charming woman, he is for being in the midst of it, twilight and all.-Come, as we are Christian people, we will give him, by way of penance, what shall be no penance at all. He shall recite to us Coleridge's poem, intitled Frost at Midnight.' There is mention in it of a fireside and of the little

fluttering film on the bars before us; and the spirit of the whole piece is suited to the occasion, quiet, reflective, and universal. The last line is the perfection of ideal sympathy.

W. L. R. (suppressing the vehemence of his enthusiasm in order to recite with a gentleness fitted to the lines, and gradually growing softer and more seasonable, till nothing can be better given)—

FROST AT MIDNIGHT.

The frost performs its secret ministry Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side, My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form

Whose puny flaps and freaks, the idling spirit
By its own moods interprets, everywhere
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of thought.

But O how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come. So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt Lull'd me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams, And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book, Save if the door half open'd, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up, For still I hop'd to see the stranger's face— Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike. Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought,My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore And in far other scenes! for I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And nought-nought lovely but the sky and stars; But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountains, and beneath the clouds Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach, Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the white thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops
fall,

Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.

HINTS FOR TABLE TALK. No. II. 'Tis night—all is silent-the dwellers in the habitations round are hushed in slumber, or else wooing sleep ;-recumbent they ponder on the transactions of the past day, or take thought for those of the morrow. 'Tis October, and the winds sough round the gable end of the house and o'er its roof;-the last of the flies buzzes drearily through the room. I am in my chamber a garret, according to Bacon, the best place for light and poetic study, and, therefore, authors should descend in proportion to the character of their studies, to the second floor, first floor, parlour, kitchen, cellar, and to the very vaults of Somerset House, for heavy, profound metaphysics; because in proportion as they are high in the air, their spirits and thoughts are exhilarating and ebullating, and the nearer they approach the centre of gravity, their minds are constrained into a deeper and more sombre train of thought. But sombre is not the character of writing at which I am at present engaged-neither do I claim the poetic strain-light writing for light reading is my present aim. Light, said I? I' faith my lamp burns dim, and must be trimmed. Lamp, -said I? No-'tis an unpoetic candle. I cannot, as is the manner of some, persuade myself into the belief that there is some of Shakspeare's fat, or Milton's marrow burning in it, to give light, or to shed a lustre on my poor lucubrations-No-Tis as genuine a mutton fat as ever burned in socket-some of it, mayhap, supplying combustion, for a second or third time, to illuminate the deeds of a mortal.

"Out, out, brief candle!" said the poet, to the last inch of life, flickering in the socket of time.

64

Hide not thy light under a bushel," said a greater

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