fain have her break her engagement to another. My love, this must not continue. I will seek an interview with Lady Hertford. She is a woman of sense and feeling. It cannot be, after the representations I shall make to her, that you will be put to any further pain on this gentleman's account.'

I sought an early occasion of waiting upon Lady Hertford. I told her without reserve what had been imparted to me by Elizabeth; and, reminding her of her knowledge of the existence of the contract between that young lady and myself, and of the approval she had formerly given to it, I ventured to inquire how it came to pass that she should set herself in the way of its fulfilment.

She heard me with attention, and with an unmoved countenance. She replied nearly as follows:

"When my friend, Sir Richard Steele, waited upon me, and opened to me his perplexity in relation to Miss Wilfred, whom he had been compelled to withdraw from the house of Mrs. Brett, I consented at once to receive her into my family. I have had cause to congratulate myself upon having done so. I intended a service to Sir Richard; I have gained a blessing to myself. Miss Wilfred is a most admirable young lady. I love her as a mother, or rather here her ladyship bridled, 'as an elder sister might do. I feel that I ought to interest myself in her welfare and happiness. I feel also, that I have, in some sort, a right to counsel, and, if necessary, direct her. I must not be interrupted. I confess, Sir Richard's character of you, joined to your peculiar misfortunes, pleaded strongly for you in my favour, and I acknowledge that for a long time I believed the happiness of Miss Wilfred might be safely entrusted to your keeping; but She paused.

'I have been anxiously waiting for the "but," madam, 'said I, with an easy smile. I saw the rogue all along; though, as he always does, he skulked behind his betters. Let me hear, I beseech you, what the disparaging conjunction has to say for himself, or against

me.'

Your levity displeases me,' returned Lady Hertford stiffly. 'I, Mr. Savage, have to say this. Whatever hopes I might formerly have entertained of you have been disappointed long since. I have been told, and I believe you cannot deny, that your excesses-I will say no more. O, sir! you are not worthy of Miss Wilfred.'

Lady Hertford had gone too far. I gulped down my rising choler. Placing my hand upon my breast, I made her a very low. bow.

Your ladyship is very considerate. But for Lady Hertford, I might have forgotten my dependent condition. Lord Tyrconnel never reminds me of it. Your ladyship, I conclude, frequently relieves Miss Wilfred from all danger of forgetting her obligations.'

1

I had wounded her to the quick, and was sorry that I had done so. Her ladyship's face expressed shame and contrition.

'I am afraid, Mr. Savage, I have hurt your feelings. Your answer was severe; but I deserved it. Pardon me.' So saying, she extended her hand.

I raised it to my lips, and without a word withdrew. She was mistaken. She had not hurt my feelings, or but little. Feelings may be pinched till they become numbed; and many a horny thumb and forefinger had wrung mine already.

Lady Hertford's opposition to my scheme being withdrawn, I proceeded to put it into execution without delay. I hired a handsome and commodious lodging for Elizabeth. The house was situated in an agreeable and fashionable quarter of the town, and was kept by a widow-lady-a Mrs. Phillips,-a most respectable woman, and, in a word, in every way not only unexceptionable, but ex

cellent.

This step was highly approved by Lady Hertford, who came to inspect the lodging, and to satisfy herself as to the character of the good woman of the house. She promised frequent visits, and made them. Elizabeth renewed her friendship with Mrs. Gregory, who, with her husband, frequently called upon her, and who as often invited her to their house; Langley, then just become Sir Edward, and his lady, also condescended to wait upon her; and were pleased in a very ceremonious manner to express a wish that she would honour them with her company for a month at their country-house; but as there was reason to believe this was intended merely for civility, the visit was never paid.

I had not seen Gregory for some time, when he called upon me one day in deep mourning, and informed me that both Myte and his wife were dead.

You were aware,' said he, that Mrs. Myte had been ailing weeks past, and that the poor little man had taken a lodging for her at Edgeware, which he said was just far enough to make the smoke of London airy, and the air of the country smoky. He had no suspicion that his wife was dying; indeed, as you know, he never thought of death, and could not bear to hear it mentioned. When she died (we were all present, Langley and his wife, myself and Martha,) a stupefaction came over him. He could not believe she was dead-he would not-it could not be. The preparation necessary on these occasions restored him to consciousness, and enforced belief upon him. It was a piteous sight to see this man, unacquainted with sorrow, receive this heavy affliction. I will not shock you with the description.'

Here Gregory was much troubled, and could not proceed. 'Go on, go on; my heart bleeds for the little fellow.' His screams,' continued Gregory, screams like those of a woman, were heard throughout the house-nay, they filled it. His daughters, terrified, you may be sure, endeavoured on their knees, clasping his, to soothe him, imploring him to bear his sorrows like a man; but he spurned them from him with blows. At length he was got to bed; and there he lay for four days, rejecting everything that was offered him, refusing comfort, preserving an obstinate, or rather, perhaps, an insensible silence. On the evening of the fourth day he spoke, Where are my girls?” ꞌ

'I was watching by his side. "I will fetch them to you, dear

sir."

"Is that you, Gregory? what is the time? bring them to me. I think I am dying."

That was certain. There is no mistaking death. His daughters knelt by his side.

"Have you prayed for your poor mother? my darlings - pray for me too -death is upon me. Langley, Gregory, all of you pray

for me."

'We all knelt down. There was a long silence. We withdrew from the bedside, thinking that he would sleep. Suddenly he said these words, in a loud, articulate and earnest voice: "I want to see Richard Savage."

We looked at each other, doubtful at the moment whether the voice had proceeded from him. There was something awful-thrilling in the tone. I stept to the bedside, and bent over him.

"He is miles away, dear sir,-in London."

'He took my hand, and sighed heavily.

"Would he were here! poor dear lad, I want to see him." 'He turned restlessly in his bed, clasping his hands, and holding them above his face. I knew not what to say.

"I will tell him that you thought kindly of him, dear sir."

"Do, do. Oh, my God! have mercy on me. I am all darkness. Tell him to pray for me-all, all pray for me." Another sigh,—and he was gone.'

I shed many tears during this recital, for I loved the man, and not less the good Flusterina,' who had been to him the best wife in the world, as, indeed, he deserved that she should be; for there could not be a more tender husband, or a more indulgent father than Myte.

I want to see Richard Savage.' And wherefore did he want to see me? This question did not suggest itself to me for months afterwards; and I am almost ashamed to avow that it has recurred many times since, as it does now for the last time; for I will entertain it no more. 'Poor dear lad,' were his words. This is idle. And yet will I give the reader a cue to-I will not call them my suspicions, my fancies-I set down the name of Ludlow. If this do not suf fice, perhaps I am glad of it. Rest in peace, Daniel Myte! Between thee and Richard Savage there is peace!

but

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

BY G. COCKBURN HYDE.

SWEET Virgin! I kneel at thy shrine,

Where sinner ne'er sought thee in vain;

I gaze on thy features divine,

Pure, dovelike, and free from all stain.

The painter whose pencil portray'd

Thy image so heavenly fair,

Must have won some bright seraph to aid,

Or quitted his task in despair.

Oh, grant me a spirit at rest,

Not broken, but gently resigned;

The sunshine of peace in my breast,-
Let truth sit enthroned in my mind.
And teach me through thee to implore
The Saviour who suffer'd for me,
Whom, if ever I cease to adore,

Sweet Mother of God pray for me!

I never tie myself to hours; les heures are made for the man, and not the man for les heures. Therefore it is that I make my prayers in the fashion of stirrupleathers, I shorten or lengthen them when I think good. Brevis oratio penetrat calos et longa potatio evacuat scyphos. By my faith,' said Ponocrates, I cannot tell my pillicock, but thou art worth gold.'' Like you,' said the monk.

Festinat enim decurrere velox

Flosculus angustæ miseræque brevissima vitæ
Portio; dum bibimus, dum serta unguenta puellas
Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.

RABELAIS.

JUVENAL, Sat. IX.

What does Mr. Wordsworth mean-if he can be said to mean anything-when he calls the lark' drunken ?'-Edinburgh Review.

Joyous as morning

Thou art laughing and scorning.

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,

Drunken lark, thou would'st be loth

To be such a traveller as 1.-WORDSWORTH.

Buvons, amis, le temps s'enfuit
Menageons bien ce court espace,
Peut-être une éternelle nuit
Eteindra le jour qui se passe.

Let's drink, my friends, time flies away,
Let's husband well this little space,
For what we know this very day
May to eternal night give place.
Monsieur de la Motie.

I HAVE just returned from a sunny ramble amid the roses of July, and find on my table the proofs of the Third Part of Anacreon. Without any preface, O, gentle reader, who hast accompanied me so far with indulgence, thou and I shall plunge at once into the middle of the songs. Criticise them with indulgence-they were written to amuse thy idle hours. Flout not at their boisterous jollity-it was struck off when the author was in the least merry of his moods. Bear gently with their sentiments, bacchanalian and otherwise, and condemn them not therefore:-they are sent forth to make thee laugh not love them. Above all, identify not the writer with these loose fragments of fun; but courteously remember that Erasmus was not less wise for eulogizing Folly, nor Rousseau less learned for celebrating Ignorance.

ODE XII. TO A SWALLOW.

Tell me, giddy, babbling thing,
Shall I for thy twittering

Clip thy light aërial plume;
Or cut out thy guilty tongue,
Which, as minstrels old have sung,
Was the hapless PROCNE'S doom?

While I lay, my love caressing
In a dream, thy odious noise
Snatch'd me from the fancied blessing,
Snatch'd me from my throne of joys.

Several epigrams in the style of this ode of our minstrel, are to be found in the Greek Anthology. But they are extremely frigid and

insipid.

ODE XIII. ON HIMSELF.

The sun-crown'd CYBEBE,
Whom ATTIS had slighted,
Vow'd revenge, and with madness
The shepherd requited.
Through the hearts of the mountains
The boy wander'd screaming,
While the lightning of frenzy
Around him was gleaming.

Those who drink from the waters
Of PHŒBUS's river,

That rushes by CLAROS,
Grow frantic for ever.

And wildly they traverse

Through valley and meadow,
While the bright Star of Reason
Lies veil'd up in shadow.

On my board of wild olive

Let grapes richly cluster,
And bring me the maiden

With dark eyes of lustre.
The cup, and her kisses

Shall fill me with madness,
And my soul feel the rapture
That lies in love-madness.

This ode has a fault, of which Anacreon is often guilty. There is but little apparent connection between its premises and conclusion. It is a poor conceit for a poet to say that he will be mad just as well as Attis, and some water-drinkers. There is more point in the old epi

gram.

Great Jupiter, old Chronos' son, descended from the sky,

To sport, and play, and love, my dear,-then why not you and I?

only into an open heart, but also into a heart well fortified, if watch be not well kept.' If all that we hear of lovers be true, they are gentlemen very ill-used, and very much to be pitied.