Oh, tell to me if it is so! but do not-oh, do not be cruel to say it is if it is not. Are you marry?"

"I will not deceive you," said Stanley: "I am."

Isabelle dropped her head, and was silent. The tears flowed fast though unheeded by her, and she looked as if the answer of Stanley had been death to every hope she had cherished.

"Come, come," said he, "why are you so sad? Because I happen to be married? Why, I hope to see you married soon."

"Oh, nevare! You vill nevare see Isabelle marry: you vill nevare see Isabelle more!"

"Hark! what is that?" exclaimed Stanley, as at the moment he heard a loud scream, followed by cries which had a thrilling effect. "Remain here, my girl. Do not be alarmed. I will return to you immediately."

Isabelle pressed his hand, and he darted from the room.

Following the sound of the voices, which now became more and more loud, he soon entered the room in which supper had been laid, and which at that time presented a scene of a character the most lively and imposing. The tables were turned upside down; the chairs were broken; the pier-glass was starred; and the carpet was strewn with the fragments of bottles, and saturated with wine; and while those of the guests by whom the sport was enjoyed were pulling others back, and shouting, "Let them alone!" the noble individual who had produced so much mirth, and his rival, whom at supper he had totally eclipsed, were mounted upon the sideboard, engaged among the glasses in the performance of a musical pas de deux.

Stanley at first could not get even a glance at the principal characters engaged in the scene; but having, by dint of great perseverance, broken through a kind of ring, he perceived two of the redfaced ladies devoting all their physical energies, with the view of getting as much satisfaction out of each other as possible, to the manifest delight of those by whom they were respectively backed. One of these ladies struck out like a man quite straight from the shoulder and fairly; but the other, though incomparably less scientific, did with her talons the greatest amount of execution. They were both in a state in which ladies ought never to wish to be, whether they do or do not love their lords; and being so, the highest object of each was to damage the countenance of the other as much as she comfortably could.

"Pray-pray, put an end to it,-pray!" exclaimed Madame Poupetier, with an expression of agony. "O, the reputation of my house!-the reputation of my house!"

Stanley, on being thus appealed to, at once interfered, but in vain. "I'll teach her to run down my girls!" shrieked the more scientific of the two, who at the moment aimed a left-handed blow at her opponent, whose cap, though adorned with pinks, lilies, and roses, and long ears of corn, was so frightened that it flew off her head. "I'll show her the difference! I keep them like ladies, and that's more than some people do," and she aimed another blow, which had so powerful an effect upon the face of her opponent, that that lady considered it expedient to close; when, apparently with malice aforethought, she plucked off in an instant her more scientific anta

gonist's coiffure, consisting not only of a violet velvet turban, with three birds of paradise stuck up in front, but of an elegant, richly-curled, highly-wrought peruke! Oh! to the delicate and strictly-private feelings of that lady this was terrible indeed, and it may not be altogether incorrect to mention, that with her white bald head, and her round red face, thus completely unadorned, she did not look so comfortable quite as she did before. Still, although she felt it deeply, while the other shrieked with laudable exultation, she flew at her boldly again, and caught hold of her hair, expecting evidently a similar result, which would have made her comparatively happy; but, albeit she tugged and tugged with becoming perseverance, she found it so excessively natural that she really began to deem herself conquered, inasmuch as she felt that she could not inflict upon the feelings of her opponent so deep a wound as that which her opponent had inflicted upon hers. So natural a fact is it that, while she cared but little about an exposure of her moral defects, over which she had control, she could not bear the exposition of those physical defects, over which she had no control whatever; and hence, notwithstanding the enthusiastic promptings of her satellites, who really gave her every encouragement to " go in and win," she snatched from the ground her degraded coiffure, and rushed from the room, amidst loud roars of laughter.

Stanley now began to feel convinced that some of the persons there assembled were not of the most respectable caste; but, without at all dwelling upon the importance which ought to have been attached to this conviction, he returned to the ball-room, with the view of rejoining Isabelle. He reached the couch on which he had left her she had vanished. He inquired of those around; they knew nothing of her departure. He requested the servants to search the house, and they did search; they searched every room: she was not to be found. He remembered the last words she had uttered; and became apprehensive of her having madly rushed to selfdestruction. He wished that he had not been so candid, yet felt that he could not be blamed. He inquired of Madame Poupetier; he inquired of all whom he met; he could not obtain the slightest information. He felt that during the disgraceful confusion she must have escaped unperceived, and, being firmly convinced that she was lost, he changed his dress, and left the house, with her last words ringing in his ears, "You will never see Isabelle married: you will never see Isabelle more !"

CAPTAIN MORRIS.

A REVIEW.

I.

HERE goes a review, such as Yellow and Blue
Its pages most glorious ne'er clapt in;

And sure it were wrong, if in aught but a song
A notice we gave of THE Captain!

Hail, Morris! the chief, prime bard of prime beef!

Other poets on feeding more airy

Their thin muses may starve-richer diet must carve
Our old Beef-Steak-Club Se-cre-tá-ry.

II.

"

Moses tells us, that "when we 've reached threescore and ten,
Our work in the world is nigh over;"

And you'll find it true still, search wherever you will,
From the house of John Groat down to Dover.

If that date we o'erpass, our strength is, alas!
Shrunk away down from giant to fairy,
Except in such case, as the reader may trace
In these songs of a non-a-ge-ná-ry.—

Dear Morris [at ninety.]

Well, I'm come, my dear friends, your kind wish to obey,

And drive, by light Mirth, all Life's sha. dows away;

To turn the heart's sighs to the throbbings of Joy,

And a grave aged man to a merry old boy.

'Tis a bold transformation, a daring design,

But not past the power of Friendship and

Wine;

How many bright spirits I've seen disap

pear,

While Fate's lucky lot held me happily here!

How many kind hearts and gay bosoms gone by,

That have left me to mingle my mirth with a sigh.

But whate'er be the lot that Life's course may afford,

Or howe'er Fate may chequer this everloved board,

So the memory of Pleasure brings Sorrow relief,

That a ray of past joy ever gleams o'er the grief.

And still in your presence more brightly it glows:

Here high mount my spirits, where always they rose;

Here a sweet-mingled vision of present and past

Still blesses my sight, and will bless to the last.

When my spirits are low, for relief and delight,

I still place your splendid memorial* in sight;

And call to my Muse, when Care strives

to pursue,

Bring the steaks to my memory, and bowl to my view.'

When brought at its sight all the blue devils fly,

And a world of gay visions rise bright to

A large and elegant silver bowl, with an appropriate inscription, presented by the Society as a testimonial of affectionate esteem.

Then take, my dear friends, my best

thanks and my praise,

For a boon that thus comforts and honours my days;

III.

And permit me to say, as there's Life in a Bowl,

That Taste forms its body, but Friendship its soul."

The Beefsteaks are done,-pepper, salt, mustard gone,―
Not a songman, or speechman, or quillman

Now is found in the haunt, where was heard their last chant-
('Twas a grog-shop, establish'd by Spilman.)

Burnt down is the house where they used to carouse:

O Arnold! what fun and vagary,

Before the old Strand had grown gaudy and grand,
Was by Exeter 'Change Me-na-gé-rie.

IV. A

You ought not to think it was merely the drink
Brought those wonderful fellows together;
To be sure we have heard that the bottle was stirr'd,
And the bowl too, in wintersome weather.
Though they never profess'd that "water is best,"
(See Pindar, translated by Cary,)

Yet something beside the wine's glowing tide
Was deem'd by those wits ne-cess-á-ry.

Hear Morris.

"Think not, because I praise my glass,
That brute excess my song excites;
That Nature's charms unheeded pass,
And naught of mental joy delights:
Did not my soul's best feelings wake,
My fancy's sweetest visions rise,
Soon would my lip that fount forsake
Where now my bosom's blessing lies.

'Tis the past ardours of my soul,

The glowing transcript of my joys, That, brightly pictured in my bowl, Enchant, and fill my moistening eyes; 'Tis the sweet trace of raptured days,

That fondly glide through Memory's dream,

'Tis that alone that wakes my praise, And tempts me to the magic stream.

'Tis warm devotion to those powers That dwell in thought and mind alone;

'Tis the sweet triumph of those hours, When man's sublimest bliss is known:

V.

Did not my glass this heaven disclose,
For ever tasteless would it be;
If there no blest Elysium rose,

Dead would be all its charms to me.

When wine unlocks my bosom's store,

It stirs no heartless boisterous noise;
Far from the thoughtless revel's roar

My raptured fancy reaps its joys;
My glass ne'er prompts the clamorous din
That bursts on Riot's senseless ear;
But feeds a softer fire within,

And soothes the breast with Memory's
tear.

Yes! 'tis a soul-subliming cup,

That, with its pure refining glow,
Still wakes and lifts each virtue up,
And shows Love's eyes its heaven be-
low:

Then say not to my ardent soul,

That vicious Folly prompts her mirth; Love's holy fervour charms my bowl, And Virtue gives that fervour birth."

And of songsters the first, sweetest cry i' the burst,
Was Morris, from whom we are quoting,

Long caroll'd the strain which, to prince or to swain,
Sang of that on which mankind is doting.

But our times more demure, so pragmatic and pure,
Must (in printing, at least,) be more wary ;

Of his loves all and some, we must therefore be mum
In this our review li-te-rá-ry.

VI.

The days are now past, when the King before last
Was kicking the world all before him.
He was old, and too fat, full of fuss, and all that,
When, as King, we were call'd to adore him;
But what were the tales of the gay Prince of Wales
When, as eaglet fresh fledged from his eyrie,
He first started forth, the prime star of the North,
Our ple-ni-po-ten-ti-á-ry.

VII.

Some songs here we know are very so-so,
In the style of a Laureate-ode ditty;

But as old Fum the Fourth (see Tom Moore) had the worth
Of pensioning Morris, 'twas pretty

That in his old age he should ink out a page

With verses though heavy and hairy,

For him who, when young, he had charm'd in a song
Of a style that would bang Tipperary.

VIII.

Some remembrances old does our Nestor unfold-
We wish that he gave them more plenty,-
What a life he could write, if he chose to recite
All he saw up to ninety from twenty!

Two only we'll take, in which the old rake
Sings out in a tone rather dreary,

Over palace o'erthrown, and tavern pull'd down,
And the death of a chief culináry.