careful custody of the Marshal of the King's Bench. It was, however, no uncommon incident in the days of the second Charles. Lord Rochester, not content with giving to Dryden, who in his youth was a handsome man and of a pleasing countenance, though he afterwards became corpulent and florid, the nickname of Poet Squob, hired sundry ruffians to give him a good beating, as he returned home in the evening from the theatre in Drury-lane. They executed their commission in Cross-street, and so well, that a Crossstreet salutation became for a time synonimous with a sound cudgelling. With the exception of Rowe and Savage, Dryden is the last of our eminent poets, for I meddle not with the genus irritabile of the present day-who can lay claim to personal beauty. Pope and Swift, and Johnson and Goldsmith, and Churchill and Shenstone, and all the disciples of that school, were men of awkward and ungainly shape, and of coarse and homely features; and though they may figure in another compartment of my cabinet, must not be allowed to introduce their faces into this. Moliere, however, must be admitted into it, if upon no other authority, at least upon that of an actress of his troop,-no indifferent judge, by the by, on such a subject,who describes him as a handsome man, neither too fat, nor too lean, "with a noble carriage and a fine leg." Our own philosophic writers, with the exception of Lord Bolingbroke, who had an exterior eminently seductive, have destroyed their claim to the title of good-looking, by an ugly habit which they contracted in early life of studying deeply and thinking intensely. The French philosophers have for the most part been more fortunate in this respect than our own. Two instances will prove it as well as a thousand. The president Montesquieu, to the close of his life, was as much admired by the fair for the symmetry of his person, as by the grave for the truth, penetration, and terseness of his political aphorisms, whilst Helvetius owed a constant succession of bonnes fortunes to the perfect regularity of his figure, and to the gentleness and benevolence which shone in his features. A beautiful actress, of the name of Gaussin, evinced her admiration of him in a very pointed manner, by the reply which she gave to one of her admirers in the saloon of the Comedie Française. Having no other means of seduction but his riches, the fellow offered her six hundred louis-d'ors for her consent to his proposals. She instantly rejected them, adding in a tone loud enough to be overheard by all the bystanders, "Sir, I will give you twelve hundred, if you will only bring me a countenance like that of M. Helvetius."

But it is time that I should bring this rambling, disjointed, and gossiping article to a close; and, as I have now gone through my list of beautiful countenances and graceful forms, the sooner I withdraw myself from the presence of my reader, the more kindly will he be inclined to judge of my efforts to entertain him. A large collection of ugly faces,-" vile casks containing excellent wine,"-are still expecting commemoration from my pen. At another time their expectations may perhaps be gratified; but, at present, Discretion commands me to be silent, and leaves me no choice but to obey her behests. I retire therefore from the scene, and leave my place in it to be filled by more learned and experienced actors. "Claudo jam rivos, pueri ; — sat prata biberunt." N. S.

THE WISH.

Он, it is not on lip or brow
On which you may read change;
But it is in the heart below

That much of new and strange
Lies hidden. Woe the hour betide
That ever they had aught to hide!

My step is in the lighted hall,
Roses are round my hair,
And my laugh rings as if of all
I were the gayest there;
And tell me, if 'inid these around,
Lighter word or smile be found.
But come not on my solitude,
Mine after-hour of gloom,
When silent lip and sullen brow
Contrast the light and bloom,
Which seem'd a short while past to be
As if they were a part of me.

As the red wreaths that bind my hair
Are artificial flowers,

Made for, and only meant to wear
When amid festal hours:

Just so the smiles that round me play
Are false, and flung aside, as they.
And when the reckless crowd among
I speak of one sweet art,

How lightly can I name the song,
Which yet has wrung my heart!
That lute and heart alike have chords
Not to be spoken of in words-

Or spoken but when the dew goes
On its sweet pilgrimage,

Or when its ray the moonbeam throws
Upon the lighted page,

On which the burning heart has pour'd
The treasures of its secret hoard.

These are the poet's hours! oh! these,— Secret, and still, and deep

The hot noon lull'd by singing bees

Or the blue midnight's sleep.

When odour, wind, and star, and flower

Are ruling, is the poet's hour.

But ill betide the time when he

Shall wish to hear his song

Borne from its own sweet secrecy
On words of praise along:

Alas for fame! 'tis as the sun

That withers what it shines upon.

My lute is but a humble lute,

Yet o'er it have been thrown

Those laurel leaves, that well might suit

With one of loftier tone.

And yet is there one chord appears

Unwet with sad and secret tears?

Are there not in yon midnight sky

Planets, whose ruling sway
From our birth shape our destiny ;-
Some that with darkling ray
In one fix'd mournful aspect shine?
Such natal star I feel is mine.

And once my horoscope was read,-
They said that I should have
A brightness o'er my pathway shed,
And then an early grave;

Feelings worn with a sense their own,
As chords burst by their own sweet tone.
I have one wish, 'tis wild and vain,
Yet still that wish will be,
That I might rest in yon wide main,
My tomb the mighty sea;
As if at once my spirit went
To blend with the vast element.
One day I saw a grave just made,

How drear, how dark, how cold:
There when the coffin had been laid,
They trampled down the mould:
A week more 'twas a step and seat
For heartless rest, and careless feet.
Be my death-pillow, where the rock
Admits no mortal tread-
No carved epitaph to mock

The now unconscious dead;

Or be my grave the billows deep,

Where the sun shines and the winds sweep.

L.E. L.

RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. PARR, BY A PUPIL.—NO. III. On one occasion, I recollect the Doctor's making the pupils get up at two o'clock in the morning, during a tremendous thunderstorm. We found our preceptor in the library, smoking with philosophical tranquillity, the windows and door being open. He was dressed in a suit

of rusty black, with a large glazed cocked-hat over his nightcap. After desiring us to sit down, he gave us a most interesting account of the facts and discoveries connected with electricity, Dr. Franklin's invention of conductors, &c. interspersed with amusing anecdotes, having reference to the same subject. All this time, Parr went on smoking at intervals, with perfect composure, whilst the rain fell down in torrents, which, with the awful claps of thunder, and vivid flashes of lightning, produced a very striking effect upon our minds. It was like listening to a disquisition upon lava, near the crater of Mount Vesuvius.

Nothing could exceed my preceptor's benevolent zeal on occasions where his services as a clergyman were required by the sick, the oppressed, or the unfortunate, or by the criminal sentenced to forfeit his life to the laws of his country. In one instance of this latter description, having reason to suppose the evidence defective, his exertions were most active and unremitting to obtain a respite, which he effected through the late Duke of Portland, to whom he addressed a

very eloquent letter on the subject: and he had ultimately the satisfaction of procuring, through the same channel, a full pardon for the unfortunate man, whose innocence was proved satisfactorily; and of which the Doctor was so convinced, that he took him into his service until he had obtained another situation. It is gratifying to add, that the man's subsequent conduct was such as to justify the exertions which were made in his favour.

Of a similar description was the conduct of Parr, when his friend Mr. Oliver, an apothecary at Stafford, was tried for the murder of a gentleman who was proprietor of a pottery in that neighbourhood, and whose consent Mr. Oliver had obtained to marry his daughter. Having subsequently refused to fulfil his promise, and having forbidden the visits of Mr. Oliver, the latter was so exasperated by the disappointment of his hopes, that he called upon the father of the lady, and upon hearing him repeat his refusal, shot him on the spot. The only ground of defence on the trial was the insanity of the prisoner, of which the Doctor was so firmly convinced, that he strained every nerve in his favour. But all his exertions were fruitless. The murder, indeed, was effected with much deliberation, and after previously purchasing a mould wherewith to cast the bullets. This circumstance was fatal. During the interval between the sentence passed on Mr. Oliver and his execution, Parr visited him daily in his cell, and remained with him during the whole of the night preceding the awful catastrophe, pouring balm into the wounds of his friend's afflicted mind, and preparing him by prayer and exhortation for another world. This was a subject to which the Doctor could never allude without visible

emotion.

me,

A day or two after my first arrival at Hatton, the Doctor took me into the library, and with the utmost gravity of countenance, said to "An impression prevails among my servants, that my wine-cellar is haunted by a ghost. Now, I do not pretend to say whether there is any foundation for the idea or not. But I do know, that it protects my wine; and therefore I must insist upon your never alluding to it with any levity:"-then, after a pause, he emphatically added, " If you do, you must take the consequences.-You understand me."

When I commenced my vocation of Amanuensis, the Doctor gave me some instructions as to the mode of fulfilling my duty. Among other things, he desired me always to spell honour, favour, &c. with the u-saying, "None of your coxcomical abbreviations." In dictating, it was always his wish that I should put him in mind of any too frequent repetitions of the same word, or other instances of what might appear to me faults in composition, which he would instantly correct, at the same time thanking me for my suggestion. He once introduced me to a lady into whose house he had brought me as a guest, in the following manner. "Allow me, Madam, to introduce to you an old pupil, whom I have often flogged, and who is, I assure you, all the better for it."

Dr. Parr used to express his sentiments of his three favourite divines, Hooker, Barrow, and Jeremy Taylor, as follows:-

Ώκηρον μὲν σεβω-θαυμαζω δε βαῤῥουον-και φιλῶ Ταὶλωρον. Parr's correspondence was so extensive, that the expense of postage would have been very serious, if the letters received by him had not

been franked, as was almost invariably the case, for which purpose several of his parliamentary friends volunteered their services. His own letters to individuals in London were always inclosed in an envelope to a peer or member of parliament.

Although it is undoubtedly true that the Doctor attributed "The Pursuits of Literature" to Matthias, yet I have heard him say, "Rennell, Sir, had a finger in the pie," alluding to Dr. Rennell, who, as my preceptor thought, entertained hostile sentiments towards him. I recollect, many years ago, going with Parr and Sir James Mackintosh to the Temple Church, to hear Dr. Rennell, who was master of the Temple, preach. He took for his text, "Ye men of Athens, I see that in all things ye are too superstitious," which he made the groundwork of a violent philippic against the Roman Catholicks, endeavouring to prove that their doctrines and principles necessarily made them atheists. Never shall I forget the indignant gestures of Parr, who sat with Sir James Mackintosh and myself in a pew near the pulpit. "Good God," he exclaimed, "was there ever before an instance of a clergyman delivering from the pulpit a discourse, the object of which is to show, that the whole of Christendom was for upwards of fourteen centuries under the dominion of atheism?"

Dr. Rennell preached five sermons on the abovementioned text. The four first were a continued climax of severity against the papists; and it was therefore thought that the fifth and last would be the ne plus ultra of vituperation. Under this impression, the Temple church, on the day of its being preached, was thronged by visitors from all parts of the metropolis, including a considerable number of Roman Catholics. After the preliminary prayer, the expectations of the congregation were raised to the highest pitch. But greatly were they disappointed; for the sermon in question was a mere milk and water affair in comparison with those which preceded it, the severity of which Dr. Rennell endeavoured to soften down as much as possible. Some persons said at the time that this was in consequence of a hint from a distinguished member of the cabinet. Speaking of a volume of Dr. Rennell's sermons, Parr said, "There is only one that I like. It is on gambling. That, Sir, is very fine indeed. Rennell never wrote so well, either before or since."

Having asked the Doctor his opinion of a Latin translation by Mr. Daniel French, the barrister, of the first book of Telemachus, which I had put into his hands a few days previously, Parr said: “ Sir, it is a noble translation, quite Ciceronian, and worthy of a work of Fenelon. Why does not Mr. French continue it?" This was very high praise from my preceptor, who was extremely fastidious as to modern Latin. Having inquired of Parr what he thought of Milton's "Paradise Regained," he replied, "I recollect one very fine passage." He then repeated the following description of the banquet prepared by Satan for our Saviour in the wilderness.

"He spake no dream, for as his words had end,
Our Saviour lifting up his eyes, beheld

In ample space under the broadest shade

A table richly spread in regal mode,
With dishes piled, and meats of noblest sort
And savour, beasts of chase, or fowl of game
In pastry built, or from the spit, or boil'd,
Gris-amber-steam'd; all fish from sea or shore,