own neck—a blood that would have laughed Charon's boat to scorn, and swam the Styx as lief as look at it. He had met with two or three disappointments in love, and had been choused out of happiness till he very properly learnt to despise it. Every thing he drew or wrote had a smack of bitterness, and was particularly fine fer a bold indication of what is called free-thinking, but making designs for his grave, which were usually in cross roads, and his numerous epitaphs, of which I counted about twenty, were, out of sight, his most congenial occupation. Most willingly would I treat the reader with some of the former, but I have not yet been long enough apprenticed to my new avocation to be much of a hand at engraving, and the suicide's style is very difficult to copy. I will give him one of the epitaphs, however, and welcome. Ay, call me back to life again, And wash with tears my peaceful tomb- And, if I could, I would not come. There is something very striking in this obstinate determination expressed in such sullen brevity, and I could perceive a pensive irresolution in the eye of my young friend, as to which of her two heroes should be sacrificed. It no doubt requires much deliberation, and I hope and trust that she will not decide hastily. I enquired after the suicide yesterday, and found that he was still living. It was quite a relief to turn from this intense study to a series of flower-drawings by a gentle young lady who had not been prevailed upon to exhibit without great solicitation. She was, however, one of my favourite's long string of bosom friends and confidants. The sweetest sympathizer in all her cares, and unhappily attached to Alphonso, who had doomed her, like himself, to a Stygian willow wreath. There was no doing without such a dear contributor as this, and, indeed, her performances were interesting to a degree. It was pleasingly melancholy to behold them. Her roses were as pale as if they had been in love themselves, and the butterflies which fluttered about them, were one and all, dying of consumptions. There was no positive colouring or touching-softness was her peculiar characteristic, and any appearance of vigour would have been rejected as absolutely indelicate. I was told that the bouquets were for the most part fashioned for the indication of some tender sentiment, or the exhibition of some beloved face which was formed by the outline of the flowers; and, after a diligent search, I found Alphonso peeping through a broken heart's-ease, and the fair artist, hard by, in a flower-of-love-lies-bleeding. There was an affecting simplicity in these conceits which perfectly atoned for the projectress's want of poetical talent. She had no particular knack at originality, though she was thought to select with great taste. She had copied all the performances of Hafiz and the Princess Olive from the Morning Post, and several privately circulated pieces, which were supposed to be the production of Lord Byron himself. I ventured to differ upon some of these, but my young friend satisfied me of their genuineness, by assuring me that they had been transcribed from an Album somewhere near Mont Blanc. After this I was introduced to some witty conceits by a middle aged rubicund roue, who cocked his hat and his eye, and set up for a wag. He practised chiefly in the Anacreontic line, and would have been excellent had he not sometimes been "a little too bad." His rhymes likewise were apt, occasionally, to be faulty, and he was in the habit of taking great poetical licences to bring them to bear. His style, therefore, was pronounced to be ungraceful, and my lady of the Album wished the odious creature would leave her book alone. Before I had time to become better acquainted with him, she laughed and blushed, and slapped it together, with a vow that I should not proceed unless I promised to pass him over. I regret that this circumstance prevents me from favouring the public with more than one stanza. Sweet maiden, when I you behold, I care not that for all the world Then why should hearts like ours sever? Now here it may be alleged that the inversion of the first line is not elegant, and the necessity of snapping your fingers at the word "that," in the second, is decidedly in bad taste. Ours," in the third line, is strained, with great poetical violence, into a dissyllable; the sense of the fourth is not quite apparent, and the rhyme of "world" and "behold" is unusual. Altogether, this stanza is a very fair specimen of the faults and beauties of its author. From hence I wandered through a great many pages of excellent riddles, with which I will not treat my reader, lest he should stop to puzzle them out. Numerous copies of Madonnas and children, of which the only defect was a trifling inclination to squint, it being very difficult to make the eyes match. Wonderous landscapes, by little persons of four years old, who never learnt to draw. Autographs of John Brown and William Williams, and many other celebrated gentlemen whom I did not know, but of whose families I had often heard talk. Fac-similes of the hand-writing of Bonaparte, imitated from specimens from recollection. Striking likenesses of notorious characters, cut out in coloured paper from imagination. In short, my progress was like a ramble through some newly discovered country, where every thing is rare and riveting, and thrown together in the graceful confusion in which nature delights. When I had come to a close, my pretty friend resumed her coaxing look, and besought me to take up my pen, for she was quite sure that I should not be eclipsed; and, moreover, that I should not be severely criticised. Her friends had the keenest eyes in the world for talent, and could spy it in every thing they saw; and, if her father chose to call them madmen and fools, it was a comfort to think that no one agreed with him. The command, therefore, was cheerfully obeyed, and I joined the throng of geniuses, by filling the title-page with the following appropriate dedication. This little book, with all the prize Its varied page imparts; I dedicate to gentle eyes And sympathizing hearts: Then all who bring their smile or tear May fearless drop the gem, For common sense shall be 'er come here To praise them or condemn. INDEX ΤΟ THE NINTH VOLUME. A ACRE, 148-Voyage from Alexandria Alexandria, 40-hatred of the Bedouins Amanieu des Escas, the complaint of, Animals sick of the plague, the, 340. Arab, lay of the wandering, 101. B Ballads, Provincial, No. I, 62-II, 249. Beautiful offspring, the term, 166. vindication of himself, ib. 528-his de- Brevity in writing and speaking, hints for с Campbell, Mr. T. his lectures on poetry, Chiefs, account of the, 603. merry-makings, revival of, 190 Clubs of London, 113. Cœur de Lion at his father's bier, 72. Cultivation of women, the, 58. 78 J Jerusalem, 283. 371.469. 557. K Kemble, John, and the British stage, 572 L Lady's Album, a, 613. Lay of the wandering Arab, 101. Letters from the East, XI 40-XII. 148 to Country Cousins, London, No. Lines on a lady who died of a sun-stroke, 28. written after reading “ Antommar- a lady's parting address to, 282. Love, lines to, 57. will find out a way, 353. M Manuscript of Earl Bothwel, 521. Matrimonial squabble, the, 243. Meeting the same people, 208. N New May-day, and Old May-day, 457. 0 O'Flummery, Mr. Terence, 102. Old English writers and speakers, 49. One thousand eight hundred and twenty P Passion flower, the, 266. Pasta, Madame and Mademoiselle Mars, Patriot, the, before his execution, 501. Perukes of King Charles the Second's Plunket and his informations, Mr. 182. Poetical Scenes, No. IV. 176—Raffaelle and Fornarina, ib.—V. the return from -the vale of love, 456-Imelda, 467 Poetry, lectures on, I. 217. Pope, conversations of, 548-dinner of Project for a new joint-stock company, |