titude of the count forsook him, and he burst into tears; it was with difficulty that he was separated from the body, and being at last carried back to his convent, he spent the remainder of his days in austerities which hastened his death. Tit Bits. SNUFF AND NOSES. My nose is in great indignation. SHAKESPEARE. AS a friend to Noses of all denominations, I must here enter my solemn protest against a barbarous abuse, to which they are too often subjected, by converting them into dust-holes and sootbags, under the fashionable pretext of taking snuff, an abomination for which Sir Walter Raleigh is responsible, and which ought to have been included in the articles of his impeachment. When some "Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain," after gently tapping its top with a look of diplomatic complacency, embraces a modicum of its contents with his finger and thumb, curves round his hand, so as to display the brilliant on his little finger, and commits the high dried pulvilio to the air, so that nothing but its impalpable aroma ascends into its nose, we may smile at the custom, as harmless and not ungraceful foppery; but when a filthy, clammy compos is perpetually thrust up the nostrils with a voracious pig-like snort, it is a practice as disgusting to the beholders, as I believe it to be injurious to the offender. The nose is the emunctory of the brain, and when its functions are impended, the whole system of the head becomes deranged. A professed snuff-taker is generally recognizable by his total loss of the sense of smelling-by his snuffling and snoring--by his pale sodden complexion-and by that defective modulation of the voice, called talking through the nose, though it is in fact an inability so to talk, from the partial or total stoppage of the passage. Not being provided with an ounce of civet, I will not suffer my imagination to wallow in all the revolting concomitants of this dirty trick; but I cannot refrain from an extract, by which we may form some idea of the time consumed in its performance. "Every professed, inveterate, and incurable snuff taker, (says Lord Stanhope) at a moderate computation, takes one pinch in ten minutes. Every pinch, the agreeable ceremony of blowing and wiping the nose, and other incidental circumstances, consumes a minute and a half. One minute and a half out of every ten, allowing sixteen hours to a snuff-taking day, amounts to two hours and twenty-four minutes out of every natural day, or one day out of every ten. One day out of every ten amounts to thirty-six days and a half in a year. Hence, if we suppose the practice to be persisted in forty years, two entire years of a snuff-taker's life will be dedicated to tickling his nose, and two more to blowing it." Taking medicinally, or as a simple sternutatory, it may be excused; but the moment your snuff is not habit which literally makes you grovel in to be sneezed at, you are the slave of a the dust; your suuff-box has seized you as Saint Dunstan did the Devil, and if the red-hot pincers with which he performed the feat, could occasionally start up from an Ormskirk snuff-box, it might have a salutary effect in checking this nasty propensity among our real and pseudo fashionables. But I apprehend that your readers will begin to think I haveled them by the nose quite long enough; and lest yourself, Mr. Editor, should suspect that I am making a handle of the subject, merely that you may pay through the nose for my communication, I conclude with a Translations. FROM BOWRING'S RUSSIAN Evening Reflections on the Majesty of God, on seeing the great Northern Lights. Now day conceals her face, and darkness fills The field, the forest, with the shades of night; The gloomy clouds are gathering round the hills, Veiling the last ray of the lingering light. The abyss of heaven appears-the stars are kindling round; Who, who can count those stars, who that abyss can sound? Just as a sand 'whelmed in the infinite sea, A ray the frozen ice-berg sends to beaven; A feather in the fierce flame's majesty; A mote, by midnight's maddened whirlwind driven, Am I 'midst this parade: an atom, less than nought, [thought. Lost and 'o'erpower'd by the gigantic And we are told by wisdom's knowing ones, That there are multitudes of worlds like this; That yon unnumber'd lamps are glowing suns, And each a link amidst creation is :There dwells the Godhead too-there shines his wisdom's essence His everlasting strength-his all-supporting presence. Where are thy secret laws, O Nature, where? Thy north-lights dazzle in the wintry Zone : How dost thou light from ice thy torches there? There has thy sun some sacred, secret throne? See in yon frozen seas what glories have their birth; Thence night leads forth the day to illuminate the earth. Come then, philosopher! whose privileged eye Reads nature's hidden pages and decrees: Come now, and tell us whence, and where, and why, Earth's icy regions glow with lights like these, That fill our souls with awe :-profound inquirer, say, For thou dost count the stars and trace the planets' way. What fills with dazzling beams the illumiu'd air? What wakes the flames that light the firmament? The lightnings flash;—there is no thunder there And earth and heaven with fiery sheets are blent: The winter night now gleams with brighter, lovelier ray, Than ever yet adorn'd the golden summer's day. Is there some vast, some hidden magazine, Where the gross darkness flames of fire supplies? Some phosphorus fabric, which the mountains screen, Whose clouds of light above those moun tains rise? Where the winds rattle loud around the foaming sea, And lift the waves to heaven in thundering revelry? Thou knowest not! 'tis doubt, 'tis darkness all; Even here on earth our thoughts benighted stray, And all is mystery through this worldly ball. Who then can reach or read yon milky way? Creation's heights and depths are all unknown-untrod; Who then shall say how vast, how great creation's God. Trifles. LINES INTENDED FOR A WATCH CASE. Onwards for ever moving, These faithful hands are proving, How quick the hours steal by; Swift, swift, the moments fly: Reader be ready, or, perchance, before These hands have made one revolution more, Life's spring is snapp'd,—you DIE! On reading some "Lines to Mr. BARTLEY," on his Astronomical Lecture, by JOHN TAYLOR, Esq. What Orator on Orreries soars higher Than GEORGE BARTLEY, who (excuse a pun) With bold Promethean powers can draw down fire, Extracted from a TAYLOR in the Sun! To JESSY. Lord Byron. There is a mystic thread of life, So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both or none. There is a Form on which these eyes Have fondly gaz'd with such delight; By day that Form their joy supplies, And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice whose tones inspire Such soften'd feelings in my breast, There is a face whose blushes tell But pallid at our fond farewell, There is a lip which mine has press'd, There is a bosom all my own, Has pillow'd oft my aching head; A mouth that smiles on me alone; An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts, whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet, They both must heave, or cease to beat. There are two souls, whose equal flow 106 THE TICKLER MAGAZINE. THE FLOWERS. By Theophilus Swift, Esq. These violets to my fair I bring, The purple progeny of Spring; Nor thou, dear girl, the gift refuse, Love's earliest tribute to the Muse. Whate'er has beauty, worth, or power, Or grace, or lustre, is a flower: Wit is a flower; and Bards prepare The flowers of fancy for the fair. In flower of youth the loves appear, And lovelier blooms when thou art near, The flower of health. The dancing hours Earth's joyful bosom dress with flowers, And beauty's flow'ry fetters bind, In sweet captivity, the mind. With flowers the Graces Venus deck, And these adorn a fairer neck; That neck, whose Paradise to range, A flower I'd prove, and bless the change: One little hour I'd live, then die, A violet in that heav'n to lie. Of violets kisses first were made, And Venus swore they ne'er should fade; She swore, and by the oath she swore, The spell improv'd and charm'd the more: Purpling it rose, the fairest flower The flower of breeding marks her mien. And well these violet buds express THE LILLY OF THE VALLEY. White bud, that in meek beauty so dost lean Thy cloister'd cheek,as pale as moonlight snow; Thou seem'st, beneath thy huge high leaf of green, An Eremite beneath his mountain's brow. White bud! thou'rt emblem of a lovelier thing; The broken Spirit, that its anguish bears To silent shades--and there sits, offering To Heaven the holy fragrance of it's tears. THE AZURE BELL. Howwhite,sweet love,is the hawthorn bush! And bright is the Azure Bell! And fragrant the breeze As it sighs o'er the leas; And the song of the thrush Trills sweet from the trees, As we rove through coppice and dell. Thou art fair, sweet love, as the hawthorn is white; And thy voice is a musical spell! As the bloom on the heath; In its silken sheath, Is as blue as the Azure Bell. We must part, sweet love, at this hawthorn 'Tis not the loud, obstreperous grief, Upon the starving orphan's head; THE TICKLER MAGAZINE. The throbbing forehead's burning pain, While frenzy's fiend usurps the brain. These are the traits no art can borrow, Of genuine suffering and sorrow! THE FORSAKEN HEART. My heart is like a lovely lyre, Whose melody hath died away; The flame of a neglected fire, Burning away. And thou art like the careless fingers, Which tore those tuneless strings away; The gale which, as the last spark lingers, Wastes it away. The world, the senseless world remembers, But thou art gay. HAPPINESS. Oh! Happiness, thou airy sprite, Leaving no trace behind. A mortal scarcely hears thee sing, 'Till far away ye've fled. A sparkle on the scenes long past, Yet ever with sweet warblings wild, Alas! in vain-he ne'er will find But, ah! in grief his tears fast flow, Perchance, subdued by length of years, He lingers to rejoice, As on the murm'ring breeze he hears A sound which still his bosom cheersIt is thy hymning voice. He sees the fount thy grotto lave, And this is all man e'er shall see, 107 H. D. B. BY THE LATE Mrs. ROBINSON. THE beautiful poem which was published in the Annual Register, and entitled, by Mrs. Robinson, "Lines to him who will understand them," evidently seems to have been composed at no very distant period from the date of her separation from the Prince. As these lines breathe a pensive spirit of tenderness, affection, and regret, we shall offer no apology to our readers for presenting them with an extract from them in this place : "Thou art no more my bosom friend; Now his Majesty George the Fourth. +Mrs. Robinson, at this period, was about to set out to the Continent for the recovery of her health. |