turer reestablished, than his two heads began to frown, and snarl and snap; his hands to com -bat, and his feet to wrestle. The demon of war was alive, awake, and in action again; for "peace is only the sleep of war."—When will he sleep, and what will be his dream, next time?P. S. After an interval of eight years, (Midsummer, 1823,) every reader may answer this question in the way that will best satisfy himself.

13

THE EGOTIST, No. II. EXTRACTS FROM MY JOURNAL AT SCARBOROUGH IN SEPTEMBER, 1821. The Epistle Dedicatory: from Me to You. ******** October 21 1820.

f /

My dear Friend, In a letter addressed by You to Me, at Scarborough, dated September 29. you say, "I should like vastly to peep at you." Here you may do so, and at the distance of ninety miles, and a month after every thing happened, you may not only see my motions, but hear me think. It is true that this journal was written, in the first instance, for my own amusement, (though I grew tired of it at the end of nine days, the novelty having ceased,) yet as a man with a pen in his hand seldom writes on a fancy-subject to please himself alone, I acknowledge that one purpose of putting down these memorabilia was the hope of diverting you also, when you might have a few good natured moments to throw away on lucubrations so exquisitely trifling as mine; assured that where they are most foolish and faulty, You will forgive them as coming from

Me.

MY JOURNAL.

My journal!— Yes, there it stands, — a fair specimen of my handwriting. But who am I? —Nay, that is more than I can say. I have lived *****and ***** years in this world, and do not know myself yet, though I have been learning,—slowly enough, and at a mortal expense, —all the while. So much, however, I do know, that I would not tell the twentieth part of it to any human being for all the secrets that his own bosom contains, were he to reveal them to me in return.—But all this is rambling,—and for that very reason, an exceedingly proper commencement of my journal, which will be little else, and nothing better, if it be mine. September 12. This morning, after a night of such delirious dreamings as find their way into a man's head, when he expects to set out on a journey, and fears that he may not be called in time,—towards daylight I became so much more awake than asleep as to distinguish, that certain sounds which I had first heard, when I was more asleep than awake, were the chimes of the parish church of D. announcing the hour of five. After giddily listening to them till my brain grew tolerably steady, I lay still a few minutes longer to muster courage for the strange adventure of rising at so untimely an hour for the sluggard. There was no alternative but to make the effort or be left behind. I roused myself thoroughly, and did not repent the exertion, for just as the town-hall clock struck six, "smack went the whip; round went the wheels," and away we rattled in the Union coach for R. There was a special pleasure in finding myself snug within the little moving room, between its two chattering windows, because some of my fellow-travellers were not so fortunate as to keep the places which they had got on the outside. Two youths, one of whom had the care of the guns, and the other of the dogs with which they were setting out on a shooting expedition into Lincolnshire, were separated by an awkward accident. The guns did not go off, but the dogs did; and suddenly bolting out of the basket behind, they ran homeward up the last street as we left the town. The coach was stopt several minutes while the lad who was their keeper, followed the chace, whistling, and calling, and panting after them in vain. Whether he caught the game or not, is beyond my shrewdness to conjecture, for we saw no more of him; his companion with the artillery proceeded with us, and he—may live to come another day. The morning was misty, picturesquely so, but I was not poetical enough to enjoy its varying and evanescent beauties, till we reached the old stone-built, red-tiled village of H., partly situated on the slope of an opposite hill, and partly scattered along the high-road. There the vapour had left the valley, through which the river meandered in light; the broad slanting base of the castle-mount was glowing with field and forest verdure. A little higher, the blue haze engirdled the wood to its very crown, out of which uprose the grey Saxon tower, like the apparition of what it had been seven hundred years ago,—so delicately tinted and elevated in air, that it appeared not to rest upon the earth, but the eye gazed upon it as something never so seen before, and which could not be seen so long. It was the vision of a few seconds; suddenly changing from silvery whiteness to flat shade, without any relief on the surface, as a turn of the road snatched us from the sunny to the sombre side,—and presently it was no more. That wreck of a chivalrous age has stood, even as a ruin, for many generations, but such is the infinite vicissitude of glory and loveliness in landscape, that there is no hazard in saying, it never before presented, under any combination of light and shadow, precisely the same aspect as that which we beheld. The atmosphere thickened as we approached R., and a humid fog overspread the country, so that when we got out of the coach, — I say we, though I forgot to record that I had a compa