the exception of the celebrated Earl of Rochester, and Mr. Gregory Griffin, who have given the world the benefit of their lucubrations upon this important subject. This has always been a matter of no small surprise to me, since there have uniformly existed a great many individuals preeminently well qualified to write upon it: for although few are candid enough to permit their writings to go by their real name, yet I feel confident you will agree with me, that there are many Law Reports, many poems, many cumbrous dissertations upon misunderstood points, which ought to be designated by this comprehensive word and it is chiefly owing to the vanity of mankind, that they are so tenacious of their talents, however small, as to call these productions "treatises," "plays," "reflections," "dissertations," 66 essays, ""criticisms," &c. &c. Were I to attempt to mention the names of any of the works which I think ought to be thus designated, such an endless variety of authors would be presented to my view, that the selection would be no easy task. You are, of course, well aware, my dear Sir, that I am a very extraordinary being, and that my tastes and propensities are as peculiar as your own. A love of paradox has uniformly been the distinguishing feature of my character, and although the old saying, that "nothing" can arise out of "nothing," has been held, and is still held by some, a sound and undisputed maxim of philosophy, I have always

had some doubts upon the subject, and questioned the practical application of this maxim to the ordinary affairs of life: whether my doubts are rational or ill-grounded, I leave you to judge; but I will endeavour to refute the above-mentioned, and prevailing maxim-to prove the truth of Horace's remark, that it is by no means impossible

-Ex fumo dare lucem;"

and to show, that from what is by the generality of mankind denominated "nothing," spring all the most important events which daily take place around us. If I ask what took place at the House of Commons last night, the answer is, "nothing." If I ask, "Has any thing been done at Court," the answer is the same. If I ask, "Is there any news at the Stock-Exchange, Foreign-Office, in the City ?" I receive for answer, "nothing." But is this à correct representation of what has been actually taking place? I think not: armies and fleets have been equipped-and those armies and fleets, though they have gained no great victories, though they have imprisoned no kings, have, notwithstanding, kept formidable armies at bay, and have contended with them for the sovereignty of the world! And is this "nothing"? Look next at the city-Is there no avarice displayed there? or is it "nothing"? Are there no frauds committed? no extortions practised? or are all these things "nothing"? Is there no stock-jobbing? no hypocrisy? is this "nothing"

Falsehoods are disseminated: this is "nothing." Malicious stories are propagated: this is “nothing." Scandal is hatched: this, too, is "nothing." Numbers were ruined yesterday! numbers are ruining to-day! and numbers will be ruined to-morrow! Now, my dear Mr. Bouverie, if you think that this is "nothing," will you not allow that "nothing" is accompanied by very important results? Will you not allow that "nothing" originates quarrels; that "nothing" causes dissension; that "nothing" creates suspicion? Do you not, in short, concur with me in opinion, that "nothing" is the cause of " every thing"?

'Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas,
Gaudia; discursus."

I am sorry to have given you so much trouble in perusing this empty and good-for-nothing Epistle : by the way, I call it good for nothing; but whether you will consider it in the usual signification of the word, utterly worthless, or really GOOD, for nothing, I am at a loss to know: but I am vain and presumptuous enough to imagine that my letter is actually better than "nothing." As I have "nothing" more to communicate at present, if you will favour me with the insertion of these few remarks in your valuable publication, you will much oblige

Your sincere and faithful Friend,

LAWRENCE LOVENOUGHT.

P. S.-I have just been alarmed by hearing,

from a friend, that "nothing" is without an end but on second thoughts, I find myself the more strongly confirmed in my opinion, that my letter iş "better than nothing," since, as you will see, I have already come to a conclusion. L. L.

3

THE PREDICTION.

'Tis night-in Guadalquiver's stream
The stars reflected wildly gleam;
"Tis night-beneath the moon's pale ray,
So silent glide the hours away,
That the soft waters seem to grow
Louder and louder as they flow;

You would not deem, to gaze on bowers

Of myrtle and the orange flowers;
You would not deem that, by the side
Of Guadalquiver's gentle tide,

Scarce waiting till the day drew nigh,
Two mighty hosts were met to die;
The sacred banner of Castile,
The very crescent seemed to feel,
As they floated idly there;
How ill agreed that lovely night,
How ill those distant isles of light
With the war-shriek of despair,

So Roland felt, while all around
Lay hush'd in slumber so profound,

That he could not bear to know

That those who drew the careless breath

Must yield to Sleep's stern brother, Death,

'Ere another sun was low.

The youth was brave as ever knight

Who couch'd in rest his spear;
He waited for the morrow's fight,
He waited with a fierce delight,

To run his first career.

But yet he felt a solemn thrill,

As he recall'd the doom of ill
Foretold him in that hour of dread
By one arisen from the dead,
The demon of his race:

That spirit of the grave, who came,
With brow of night and eye of flame,
To usher all who bore that name
To the tomb's cold embrace.

Awhile he gazed with flashing eye,
That seem'd the crescent to defy,
And shook his plumed crest;
He grasp'd the sabre by his side,
His press'd lips quiver'd with the tide
That boil'd within his breast.
Awhile he gaz'd-one murmur broke,
While his brow blacken'd as he spoke;
Then starting from his troubl'd dream,
His dark eye lost its savage gleam,
And on he rush'd to bid farewell
To her whom he had lov'd so well.

The lady sat within her bower,

And strove to while the passing hour
With music's holy strain.

There, as she, graceful, swept the strings,

The airy gush on echo's wings

Seem'd floating to remain

The splendor of the changing cheek,
The eye's dark lustre seem'd to speak,
And every gesture serv'd to tell
What varying passions rose or fell :
'Twas now that calm and holy fire,
That mildness of the dove,

By which the gods are won from ire,
And soften'd into love.

C