*'Grav'd with an iron style-Oh! who shall sever
That record from the stone?-It lasts for ever.

It is the hour of even-gentlest hour,

That calls the wearied traveller to his rest;
(When the soft twilight creeps from flow'r to flow'r,
And nature's peacefulness becalms the breast),
That knits our souls in heavenliest sympathies,
And bears the soaring spirit to the skies.

Farewell,-farewell-the mountain torrents fall,
Re-echoing deeply round from shore to shore,
And the rough billow's angry splash, are all

The sounds that break this silence-but no more

Still ever-swelling roll the foamy seas

Mid the wan splendor of the Cyclades.

PHILACHEUS.

ON THE NATIONAL PROPENSITY TO

FEASTING.

Sir;

Your correspondent Impransus has humorously insinuated that the grand rallying point of Englishmen is a dinner; and in truth, not without reason, for upon reflection we must acknowledge, that on every pretence, however slight, on every occasion, however trivial, our countrymen expect a feast.

Thus cabinet ministers form schemes of economy, and project plans of retrenchment in the junior parts of their offices, while they, the heads, are carousing. Thus on the anniversary of a Dispensary, the friends of the institution love to meet, and drink wine, perhaps not much better than the physic which they themselves give. Thus

* Vide Job Ch. 19, v. 24. They were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever.

commissioners of a road, or guardians of a minor, assemble as it were only to differ; but thinking it wrong to part from each other in ill will, they drown their disputes in a bottle of wine, at the expense either of the public, or the ward. But yet there is really no evil to be dreaded from this propensity; though certainly at some dinners the wit is so appalling, that if I was disposed to speak in heroics, I should boldly assert that it made my blood run cold in my veins. veins. A moderate man can put up with bad wine, or a bad dinner, but bad wit is in its consequences so dreadful, that a tax ought to be laid on every old pun, conceit, or quibble. Thus at a Dispensary dinner the jokes are so technical, that we almost fancy ourselves patients. To give the reader some idea of my meaning, let us imagine this conversation. Two apothecaries disputed, and the following dialogue passed between

them :

A. Sir, your wit is all puns.

B. Sir, your puns are not all wit.

A. Sir, your jokes are strong emetics.

B. Sir, your's by use have lost even that effect. An apothecary joking, is like a cat playing with a mouse previous to killing it. But if your muscles obstinately refuse to relax into a smile, the son of Galen gives a grin, as much as to say, "For this I'll be the death of you." To give the reader some idea of the manners of the people at public dinners, let us record this anecdote. A gentleman helping the soup, said to a man opposite, "Sir, shall I have the pleasure of giving you a little soup?" To which the disciple of Chesterfield replied, "No, give a good deal!"

But in private there is the same relish for a good dinner; for when a young heir comes of age, he is expected to give a dinner to all his friends and tenants. The latter class invariably, when requested to pass the wine, help themselves in the middle. On the birth-day of the head of the family, he is required to give a grand feast to all his relations; and, should he lately have succeeded to a large fortune, some general, in the person of an aunt, whom he never before saw, leads on to the attack a battalion of cousins, whom he never before heard of.

Some Cynics, indeed, find fault with the luxury of this age, and books are constantly published, shewing the way to live to an old age, by observing a proper regimen ; but the fact is, that those who give us such judicious advice, are themselves the best livers, like captains of militia, who brag most of the hardships of a military life. We have, indeed, heard of a doctor, who said that his constitution was weak, and his system required support, and so prescribed for himself turkey and chine, mild ale, and old port; while, on the other hand, he said that his patient must be lowered, and confined him to water-gruel.

Were I a physician, and accused of being an epicure, I should answer in the words of a Bon Vivant of my acquaintance :-" Why, truly, I prefer a good to a bad dinner." This answer suits every purpose, it at once precludes every suspicion of sensuality or affectation, and shews that you neither gormandise like an epicure, nor fast like an anchorite.

B.

MANLIUS OVER THE DEAD BODY OF HIS SON.

My child, my child, now all are gone,
The fountain of my tears may flow-
One long last look, my gallant son !—
Thou canst not see thy deadliest foe,
Who bends in writhing o'er thy bier,
And prays in mercy for a tear.

They will not flow, they will not flow!
Who dar'd to slay the Consul's son ?-
I bend to kiss thy pallid brow,

And the red gore flows slowly on !—
That dreadful witness* does not err-
I was-I am-thy murderer!

Thanks for these tears, to my despair
They bring, if aught can bring, relief :-
Oh, no-my spirit cannot bear

This change from madness into grief.
Though madness be a bitter curse,
This horrid consciousness is worse.

Yet have I done a Roman deed—
An act of Roman justice-what!
I that have doom'd my son to bleed-
I cannot mock my grief with that.
I can but be in sullen gloom,
And wither slowly to the tomb.

* I have taken a poetical licence, in transplanting the old Gothic Superstition of the blood of the victim flowing afresh at the approach of the murderer.

My brave !-my beautiful!-farewell!
My salt tears wash thy ghastly wound-
They come-I know those sounds too well-
To lay thee in the cold, cold, ground!
And I must learn to hide, and bear,
The gnawing canker of despair!

F. J.

WRITTEN ON A WOODY DELL, AT

Much admired for its romantic situation, and beauties.