difficulty to ascertain what he was worth. The farm which his father had cultivated, and the house in which he had dwelt, belonged to Sir Arthur Bradley; but the furniture of the house, and the stock of the farm, after payment of his father's debts, belonged to Ferdinand therefore, the heir with a laudable diligence and propriety of procedure, set himself to examine into the amount of the debts and the extent of the property; and, when he set the one against the other, they seemed so well fitted, as if they had been made for one another; and, thus, when all was settled, nothing remained. Ferdinand consulted with his friends what was best to be done. He spoke first to the parish-clerk, his old schoolmaster; and he was decidedly of opinion that Ferdinand had better consult his friends. With this recommendation he called upon the parson, who was exactly of the same opinion as the clerk, saying, that the best thing that he could do, would be to consult his friends. From the parson he went to Sir Arthur himself, who gave him a most cordial reception, shook him by the hand with condescension, and expressed his great readiness to serve the young man, according to the best of his power. That was just the thing that Ferdinand wanted. "Do you intend to carry on the farm ?" said the worthy Baronet. "I should be very happy to do so," replied Ferdinand, “only I have no capital, and I don't very well understand farming."

Those were certainly objections, and the baronet saw the force of them, and he replied, saying, "The best thing that you can do is to consult your friends, and see if they can assist you."

Now Ferdinand Harwood, who had talents equal to anything, found himself at a loss to discover his friends. Very likely he is not the first in the world that has been so puzzled. For a few weeks he was invited, now to this neighbour's, and now to that; not so much, it appeared, out of compassion to his wants, as out of compliment to his genius; but this sort of thing cannot last long; people in the country prefer pudding to poetry, and they cannot think why people who have hands should not support themselves. So they one and all began to think and say, that it was a pity a young man of such ability as Ferdinand Harwood should bury his talents in a country village; that London was the only place in the world for a genius to thrive in; and thus they unanimously recommended him to try his fortune in London. Kind-hearted people do not like to see their friends starve, and it is rather expensive to feed them, so they endeavour to get rid of them. The parishclerk knew nothing of London, but the parson did, and was ready enough to give Ferdinand letters of introduction to some men of letters, by whose means he might be brought into notice. The baronet also was willing to give him five guineas towards paying his expenses; and the parish-clerk was willing to give him a copy of Cocker's Arithmetic, to teach him how to make the best use of his five guineas. With five guineas, Cocker's Arithmetic, Thomson's Seasons, and Young's Night Thoughts, and the blessings and good wishes of the whole parish, who were proud of his talents

and glad to get rid of him, Ferdinand journeyed to London, in search of a livelihood and immortality. All the way along did he amuse himself with thoughts of what should be his first literary production-whether an epic poem, or a tragedy; anything lower he thought would be degrading. At length, when he entered the great city, he was full of poetry and covered with dust. Nine o'clock at night, in Fetter-Lane, in the middle of March, is not a very poetical season; nor are the sights, sounds, and smells, of the closer parts of a great metropolis, vastly conducive to inspiration. Ferdinand could not help congratulating the Dryads, Oreads, Nymphs, and Fauns, that they were not under the necessity of putting up even for a single night, at the White Horse, Fetter Lane a very good inn, no doubt, in its way, but far from being a poetical object to the eye of an unsophisticated villager.

It was the first concern of our genius to deliver his letters of introduction, in which he supposed, of course, that he was described as a genius of the first order, and by means of which he expected to receive a cordial and admiring welcome. He was, therefore, not a little surprised to hear, from the very first person to whom he presented himself, that the present was the very worst time for any one to come to London with a view to literary success.

"Which do you think would be the best time?" said Ferdinand, with much seriousness and sincerity, and with a real desire of information.

"You are disposed to be waggish," said his new friend.

There, however, the worthy gentleman was in error; for Ferdinand Harwood was as little inclined to waggery as any man living. He was a perfect realist; he thought that every thing was what it was: he knew that people did laugh sometimes, but he could not tell why they laughed, nor did he know what they laughed at, besides, ho was a genius, and there was a solemnity in genius incompatible with laughter and waggery, especially in the higher order of geniuses-that is, epic poem and tragedy geniuses.

When he had presented all his letters of introduction, he found that all were unanimous in the opinion that the present was the worst possible time for a young man to come to London on a literary speculation. But there was another point on which they were also unanimous, and that was a most important one-they were all quite willing, and would be most happy, to do anything to serve him. With this consoling thought, he betook himself to his lodgings, and set about writing an epic poem. What a very great genius, or what a very small stomach, a man must have who can write an epic poem in less time than he can spend five guineas in victuals and drink and lodging!-especially when one pound sixteen shillings and sixpence have been deducted from that sum for travelling expenses. But with genius so great, or with stomach so small, Ferdinand Harwood was not gifted; therefore, his money was all gone before his epic poem was finished. That was a pity. Still there was no need to be cast down, for he could but 2 U

VOL. II. NO. XII

call on those friends who would be most happy to do any thing to serve him. He called accordingly; but that very thing which would have been of the greatest immediate service to him, viz, a dinner, none of them would give him: he did not ask them, to be sure-but it was their business to ask him: it was not, however, their pleasure. Generous people, I have frequently had oc casion to observe, like to do good in their own way-they object to all kind of dictation: so it was with Ferdinand Harwood's friends. They did not give him a dinner, which, at best, could have served him but a single day. They gave him good advice enough to last him for many months; they recommended him to finish his poem as soon as he could, and, in the mean time, perhaps, his friends, they said, would afford him some temporary assistance. "Alack! alack!" said Ferdinand to himself, "I wish my friends would tell me who my friends are!"

It happened, in the course of his multifarious reading, that Ferdinand had somewhere seen it set down in print that booksellers are the best patrons of genius; so he went to a very respectable bookseller, and, after waiting two hours and three quarters, was admitted to an audience. Ferdinand thought he had never seen such a nice man in his life-so pleasant, so polite, such a praytake-a-chair-ative style of address, that, by a hop, skip, and jump effort of imagination, Ferdinand, with his mind's eye, saw his poem already printed, and felt his mind's fingers paddling among the sovereigns he was to receive for the copyright. At the mention of an epic poem, the bookseller looked serious; of course, it is all right that he should look so-an epic poem is a serious matter. "What is the subject-sacred or profane?"

"Sacred, by all means," replied Ferdinand; I would not for the world write any thing profane."

66

Certainly not," said the bookseller; "I have a great abhorrence of profanity. What is the title of your poem ?"

The Leviticud: I am doing the whole book of Leviticus into blank verse. It appears to me to be a work that is very much wanted, it being almost the only part of the sacred scriptures that has not been versified."

The bookseller looked more serious, and said, "I am afraid, sir, that I cannot flatter you with any great hopes of success, for poetry is not in much request, and especially sacred poetry-and, more especially still, epic poetry."

"Now, that is passing strange!" said Ferdinand, "Poetry not in request! Pardon me, sir; you ought of course to know your own business; but I can assure you that poetry is very much in request. Is not Milton's Paradise Lost in every library? and have not I, at this very moment, the tenth edition of Young's Night Thoughts in my pocket?"

"All that may be true," replied the bookseller, relaxing from his seriousness into an involuntary smile; but modern poetry, unless of very decided excellence, meets with no encouragement."

(To be continued.)

Domestic Intelligence.

The whole of our Domestic Intelligence is extracted from the Journals of the Island with trifling alterations.