had nothing to complain of on the score of connubiał "And too are altered, my father." felicity. you "Yes, my son, time and trouble have done their work on me, as on others; but I too am happy now." A fervent pressure of the hand was the mutual assurance that all that was painful in the recollection of the past should henceforth be cancelled between us, and affection on one side, and affection and gratitude on the other, take the place of less kindly and less natural feelings. "And shall I not have your history, Edward?” "Not to-night, dear sir. Let us now look at your wound; we have neglected it too long in our joy at meeting.” "You need not worry yourself, Edward; it is scarcely skin-deep. See, it was not worth while even to remove the handkerchief." "You have a servant with you, sir?" "Yes, I left him at the inn." "I will send for him directly, and for your trunks ;you shall not leave us, dear sir.- Now, we will speak of to-night's adventure; for I see my true woman of a wife is anxious to know what mean the bandage on your arm and this mysterious talk of wounds, and your little namesake here is longing to have his say. To-morrow I will tell you what has happened to me since we parted, and you, dear sir, shall requite me for my story by your *Here ends the tale. If the work be already of too arrogant a size for a candidate, who, doubtless, according to ancient and classical usage, should present himself before the honour-giving public with as blank a face as possible, (toga candida,)— few pages and a wide margin, it is not likely to shrink into a more modest compass by the addition of a narrative more pregnant with adventures than even mine own. Should, however, the Reader be so well satisfied with the flavour of these memoirs as to feel an appetite to dip into my son's, prepared for digestion by the same hand, he knows how to express his wishes in a manner that my publishers will find quite easy and pleasant of comprehension. "O, what so sweet as cares redress'd, "When the tir'd mind lays down its load!" Translation (Lond. 1795.) HAVING thus led the special subject of these pages, my proper self, through the closing act, I will take advantage of the very laudable, though not very dramatic custom, of giving, in what may be called a tail-piece, their " quietus to those subordinate characters who have not genteely died, or been disposed of in some other summary manner, in the body of the narrative. Imprimis of LADY MARY MAITLAND, (Miss Paynthurnley and Mrs. Snubbs that was.)- Her ladyship is still living, at the autumnal age of sixty-eight. If the Reader, in thinking of her now, cannot divest himself of the idea of caps, gray hairs, and wrinkles, let him couple with it the idea of every virtue that can render a woman beloved and respected, and I am sure he will find the picture not intolerable, if very unromantic. LAWYER FOX-(that we should bring the crow into such proximity with the swan !) sleeps like his ancestor Bravo John. His polished partner is fermenting with her father the brewer. The two MISSES Fox, thirty years back, having purchased with their wealth a change of name, were doing their duty in their generation by rearing up a numerous posterity to know "what is what,” the youngest, pretti est, and most childish, "pleased," according to her nature, "with a Rattle," having accepted the hand of our boon companion the LIEUTENANT,- the other having been espoused by PROXY not the proxy of imperial ladies, but something more substantial, in the person of our rosy-cheeked acqaintance and "kind of cousin." MRS. BULLEYE lived to see her honest industry of no avail, by slipping out of life a week before her uncle. SPLINT was found dead in his bed, with the last "Edinburgh" open on a table beside him and having the emphatic monosyllable "Damn!" written in large characters on the title page,— a sentence which most judges of common pleas have thought should have been passed upon it, as well as on its rival the Quarterly, long before that. However, some things seem to flourish under a bad name,as your beetle fattens by rolling in filth. TOM DRAMMER, soon after he had entered the workshop of the Quarterly, walked off the stage of life with a precipitation very unseemly in a hero of the buskin. For, having taken the liberty to compliment an author on the possession of a leaden intellect, the latter forthwith crammed some of his brains into the barrel of a pistol and fired them at Thomas; whereupon, our long-legged ac. quaintance, unable to stand so heavy a charge, fell down incontinently, and gave up the ghost. THE SPITSES, both, lie mouldering in one green churchyard, though Katey still, a dutiful rib, keeps the same "respectable" distance from her Johnny as she did when in the flesh. Their "Bull," I believe, has taken in his horns, and, of course, holds forth no more accomodation for either man or beast. Nor must we pass unmentioned the widow of fat Doctor Smith, gratitude to the memory of that jolly friend obliging us to take some notice of his yellow, relict. The lady is still living, and still a widow, though under another name; for the lawyer to whom the Doctor ordered his breeches to be offered, in order to let him pilfer what he chose about them, delighted with their ample accomodations, and not thinking it worth his while to fumble in the pockets when he could step into the whole concern with equal ease, grasped the emblem of conjugal authority in the very face of Mr. Catheter, who was squirting amorous glances at the same, and made the happy Lory Mrs. Catchem. As for myself -(Will you not indulge me, gentle friends, in this brief peroration?) As for myself;— I have laboured under sorrows; but they have not crushed me. I feel myself the better for their chastening. I can still laugh, when dance before my memory the merry visions of scenes that waked the laughter of my youth; and when I open the little drawer, where the tokens of friends now dead are treasured, and my eyes rest on the dark curl, still glossy and still soft as ever, and the little jet crucifix, and the box of tortoise-shell with the withered flower, I think of thee, Nannette, and of thee, Agata, and the tears course down my aged cheeks, as free as when those cheeks were in their bloom and the morning of life shone bright in my now dim eyes. |