ripe.)* Men moreover," he acutely remarks, never see spectres except when they are in a fit of the blue-devils, which may impart their

FASHIONS FOR AUGUST.

EVENING CARRIAGE AIRING DRESS.--Round

devils are superinduced by the parties getting into hot water, which circumstance alone may account for a change of hue as violent as it produces on lobsters and fleas, and occasion the patients to imagine every thing blue, as men in a calenture fancy the whole world to be green." These lucubrations appear to me profound and philosophical, but I doubt whether we may implicitly adopt them without further inquiry.

Dr. Plot, in his Natural History of Oxfordshire, informs us that—

"Soon after the murder of King Charles I. a

commission was appointed to survey the King's house at Woodstock, with the manor, park, woods, and other demesnes, for which purpose, they met on the 13th of October, 1649, and took up their residence in the King's own rooms, sitting in the Presence Chamber for the despatch of business. On the 16th of this month, in the midst of their debate, there entered a large black dog howling, who overturned three of their chairs, crept under a bed, and vanished, although all the doors had been kept carefully locked. The next day, sitting in a lower room, they heard persons walking overhead, though the chamber was locked up; the wood of the King's oak was brought from the dining room, and thrown with great violence into the Presence Chamber; the chairs, stools, tables, and other furniture were forcibly hurried about the room; the papers containing the minutes of their transactions were torn, and the ink-glass broken, the doors all the while remaining fast, and the keys in the custody of the commissioners. The night following, Sharp, the secretary, and two of the servants, being asleep in the same room, had their beds' feet lifted up so much higher than their heads that they expected to have their necks broken, and then were let fall again with a violence that shook the whole house. On the night of the 19th, all being abed in the same room for greater security, and lights burning by them, the candles in an instant burnt blue, and then went out with a sulphureous smell, and that moment the wooden trenchers whereon they had eaten the day before, and which had been locked up in the pantry, were hurled about the room with great violence. On several following nights the candles changed colour as before, strange noises were heard, their honours received sore bruises from logs of wood and other substances thrown upon them, which kept rolling about the room all night, though next morning On the 29th about midnight, nothing could be seen. the candles went out bluely as usual, something walked majestically through the room, and opened and shut the windows, great stones flew about in all directions, and at about a quarter after one, a noise was heard as of forty cannon discharged together, and again repeated at about eight minutes distance, which being heard through the country for sixteen miles round, brought all the neighbourhood into their honours' room, where they gathered up the great stones, fourscore in number, and laid them by in the corner of a field, where in Dr. Plot's time they were still to be seen. The commissioners during this visitation gave themselves up for lost, crying aloud for help, and Giles Sharp snatching up a sword, had well nigh killed one of their honours, mistaking him for the spirit as he ran in his shirt from one room to the other. Still, however, they resolved on continuing their labours, when, on the 1st of November the most dreadful scene of all ensued: candles were lighted up in every part of the room, and a great fire made; at midnight, the candles all burning blue, a noise like the bursting of a cannon was heard, and the burning billets were tossed about even on their honours' beds, who called Giles and his companions to their relief, otherwise the house had been burnt

• See his and Sir Isaac Newton's joint Essay on Chromatics, which won the prize from the Board of Longitude. Philosop. Traus. vol. 7.

to the ground; an hour after the candles went out as usual, horses' bones came pouring into the room with great force, and curtains and windows were violently alarmed with such tremendous noises, that even the rabbit-stealers who were abroad that night in the warren were so terrified that they fled away, leaving their ferrets behind them. One of their honours this night spoke, and in the name of God asked the spirit what it was, and why it disturbed them so ? to which, however, no answer was given.

One of the servants now lighted a large candle, and set it on the door-way between the two chambers; and as he watched it, he plainly saw a hoof striking the candle and candlestick into the middle of the room, and afterwards making three scrapes over the snuff, scraped it out. Upon this he was so bold as to draw a sword, but had scarce got it out him, and at length prevailing, struck him so violently when he felt another invisible hand pulling it from on the head with the pummel that he fell down for dead with the blow. At this instant was heard another explosion like the broadside of a ship of war, and at about a minute or two's distance each, no less violently that they expected every minute it would than nineteen more such, shaking the house so fall upon their heads. But what put an end to their proceedings happened the next day as they were all at dinner, when a paper in which they had signed a mutual agreement to share a part of the premises among themselves, (which paper they had hid for the present under the earth in a pot in one corner of the room, and in which an orange tree grew,) was consumed in a wonderful manner by the earth's taking fire and burning violently with a blue fume and an intolerable stench, so that they were all driven out of the house, to which they could never again be prevailed on to return."

Thus far Dr. Plot, whose narrative, occurring in a grave and authentic county history, affords abundant testimony to the fact which forms the subject of this Essay, while it supplies much matter for serious and deep reflection. Later writers offer current evidence. Colman in his pathetic ballad, describing the appearance of the gardener's ghost, particularly notes that the candle turned blue

Though a large Dip of four to the pound;" and Lewis, in his Lorenzo the Brave, fails not to record, that at the appearance of the skeleton guest

All pleasure and laughter were hush'd at his sight,
The dogs as they eyed him drew back in affright,
And the lights in the chamber burnt blue:

but neither author attempts any solution of the phenomenon.

ference, is entirely founded on the system of chroMy own theory, which I submit with great dematics. Every ray of light, it is well known, consists of seven primary colours, and that the colours of bodies proceed from their disposition to reflect one sort of rays and absorb the other; such substances as reflect two or more sorts of rays appear

ing of various colours; the whiteness of bodies arising from their reflecting all the rays of light promiscuously, and their blackness from their inability to reflect any. Now, if a candlebut I forgot

to mention in the conclusion of Dr. Plot's marvellous narrative, that the whole contrivance was sub

sequently discovered to be the invention of the memorable Joseph Collins, of Oxford, otherwise called Funny Joe, who, having hired himself as secretary to the Commissioners under the name of Giles Sharp, by knowing the private traps belonging to the house, and the help of pulvis fulminans, and other chemical preparations, and letting his fellow servants into the scheme, carried on the deceit without discovery to the very last. Combining this cirof ghosts themselves, I conceive it less necessary to cumstance with the great doubts as to the existence proceed with the exposition of my theory, because, if there be no spectres, there can be no change of colour in the candles; and if there be, the change is perfectly natural, for I should like to know which of us, standing in such a presence, would not look blue.---LOND. MAG.

with two rows of lemon-coloured sarsnet bouillones, leaves are of Urlings patent lace, and have a light over which are leaves or languettes of white; the have them of white satin. The sleeves, which are and beautiful effect; ladies who prefer the languettes, ornamented in a novel style, are likewise finished with Urling's lace; and all the lace appendages to this dress are of the same fabrication. The hair is arranged à la Sappho, and is partially covered by a fichu hood of lace with a full blown rose on the front curls, near the left side. A shawl of lavendercoloured silk, with a variegated border, is carelessly thrown over the form. Necklace and ear-rings of Egyptian pebbles.

lavender gray sarsnet, ornamented round the border MORNING PROMENADE COSTUME.-High dress of with cherry-coloured satin, and belt of the same, fastened with a gold buckle. Collar falling over of embroidered muslin, richly trimmed with Urling's patent lace. Bonnet of white sarsnet, or chip, ornamented with ears of corn and white marabout feathers. Dove-coloured kid slippers, and lemon-coloured gloves.

WALKING DRESS.-A silk pelisse, of a beautiful pale Spanish green, made to fit the shape; long sleeve, easy, but not tight; full epaulette, confined with three bands, the lower half of each embroidered and edged with satin of the same colour.

EVENING DRESS.-A round dress, of fine tulle, ornamented with rich colonnades of folded white satin, narrow at the wrist, and slightly extending to their termination, with a star composed of a centre rose, green leaves, and leaves en applique; beneath are chevrons of roses, leaves, and May-blossoms; three rouleaus of white satin, the upper one entwined with rich pink satin, harmonizing with elegant simplicity the colour and form of this tasteful decoration.

PSYCHE, BY R. WESTMACOTT, Esq. R. A.

THE EUROPEAN MAGAZINE, published on the first of August, being the first number of the Eightysecond Volume, embellished with an excellent engraving of that admirable specimen of Sculpture, in the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, called the PSYCHE; also a Portrait of WILLIAM ROSCOE, Esq. Author of the Life of Lorenzo de Medici, &c.; contains Original compositions in prose and verse; Notices of recent Foreign and English publications; Foreign and Domestic Literary intelligence; the Drama; Fine Arts; Political Digest of Europe, &c. &c. To be had of LUPTON RELFE, 13, Cornhill; and all Booksellers in the United Kingdom, price, Two Shillings.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We shall be happy to have an interview with “C. P.”
The letter of "V. D. on Dreaming," shall appear in our next.

We have inserted the letter of "A Friend."-We did so, however, with reluctance, as we think that the attack which was made upon him was, in every respect, unworthy of notice. For our own parts we have long since determined never to reply in the Iris to the rancour of "a certain contemporary publication."

We would recommend "Juvenis" to forbear rhyme till he has learned reason.

[THE invention of the Tread Mill, as an improvement in Prison Discipline, has attracted so very great and general a degree of public interest, that we have illustrated our notice of the subject with a Wood-cut; by which means it will be more clearly brought under the cognisance of our readers, and especially of those in foreign countries to whom these home visible plans are altogether new. Both the plate and the description are copied from a pamphlet published by the Committee of the "Society for the Improvement of Prison Discipline;" and our task is merely the humble one of giving so important a matter that universal circulation which our pages command. Upon the broad question itself of prison employment, we are not inclined to enter; but we firmly believe that nothing is so appalling to the rogue and villain as the idea of unremitted labour, and that therefore the Tread Mill will be found to be more efficacious in deterring from crime, than all that sanguinary and uncertain Code which has so long constituted the weak barrier against the guilty and almost useless fence of social security.]-LIT. GAZ.

Advertisements.-The last column of the Iris is open to such advertisements only as are of a Literary or Scientific nature, comprising Education, Institutions, Sales of Libraries, &c.

This wheel, which is represented in the centre of the Engraving, is exactly similar to a common water-wheel; the tread-boards upon

PRICE 34d.

number range themselves upon the wheel, it commences its revolution. The effort, then, to every individual is simply that of ascending an endless flight of steps, their combined weight acting upon every successive stepping board, precisely as a stream of water upon the float-boards of a water wheel.

its circumference are however of considerable | ascend at one end, and when the requisite length, so as to allow sufficient standing room for a row of from ten to twenty persons upon the wheel. Their weight, the first moving power of the machine, produces the greatest effect when applied upon the circumference of the wheel at or near the level of its axle; to secure therefore this mechanical advantage, a screen of boards is fixed up in an inclined position above the wheel, in order to prevent the prisoners from climbing or stepping up higher than the level required. A hand-rail is seen fixed upon this screen, by holding which they retain their upright position upon the revolving wheel; the nearest side of which is exposed to view in the Plate, in order to represent its cylindrical form much more distinctly than could otherwise have been done. In the original, however, both sides are closely boarded up, so that the prisoners have no access to the interior of the wheel, and all risk of injury whatever is prevented.

By means of steps, the gang of prisoners

The Wheels erected at the House of Correction, at Cold-bath Fields, are each capable of containing forty or more prisoners, and the joint force of the prisoners is expended in giving motion to a regulating by, which, by ex pauding itself in proportion to the power, will keep any at the same degree of hard labour. number of men, from twenty to three hundred and twenty,

During this operation, each prisoner gradually advances from the end at which he mounted towards the opposite end of the wheel, from whence the last man taking his turn descends for rest (see the Plate), another prisoner immediately mounting as before to fill up the number required, without stopping the machine. The interval of rest may then be portioned to each man, by regulating the number of those required to work the wheel with the whole number of the gang;-thus if twenty out of twenty-four are obliged to be upon the wheel, it will give to each man intervals of rest amounting to 12 minutes in every hour of labour. Again, by varying the number of men upon the wheel, or the work inside the mill, so as to increase or diminish its velocity, the degree of hard labour or exercise to the prisoner may also be regulated. At Brixton, the diameter of the wheel being five feet, and revolving twice in a minute, the space stepped

over by each man is 2193 feet, or 731 yards per hour.

mittal, conviction, and maintenance, cannot but be considerable.

It is unnecessary to occupy much time in proving the advantage which the invention of the Stepping Mill presents as a species of preventive punishment. Although but very recently introduced, and hitherto but sparingly brought into action, the effects of its discipline have in every instance proved eminently useful in decreasing the number of commitments. As a corrective punishment, the discipline of the Stepping Mill has had a most salutary effect upon the prisoners, and is not likely to be easily forgotten; while it is an occupation which by no means interferes with, nor is calculated to lessen the value of, those branches of prison regulation which provide for the moral and religious improvement of the criminal.

To provide regular and suitable employment for prisoners sentenced to hard labour, has been attended with considerable difficulty in many parts of the kingdom: the invention of the Discipline Mill has removed the difficulty, and it is confidently hoped, that as its advantages and effects become better known, the introduction of the Mill will be universal in Houses of Correction. As a species of prison labour, it is remarkable for its simplicity. It requires no previous instruction; no task-master is necessary to watch over the work of the prisoners, neither are materials nor instruments put into their hands that are liable to waste or misapplication, or subject to wear and tear the internal machinery of the mill, being inaccessible to the prisoners, is placed under the management of skilful and proper persons, one or two at most being required to attend a process which keeps in steady and constant "When the machinery of the mill has atemployment from ten to two hundred or more tained its proper speed, certain balls rise by prisoners at one and the same time; which their centrifugal force, so as to draw a box can be suspended and renewed as often as the below the reach of a bell handle, which will regulations of the prison render it necessary, then cease to ring a bell, placed in some conand which imposes equality of labour on every venient situation for the purpose. But should individual employed, no one upon the wheel the men at the wheels cease to keep up the being able in the least degree to avoid his pro-requisite speed in the mill work, the balls will portion. descend, and a projecting pin on the box, striking the handle, placed in the proper situation for that purpose, will continue to ring the bell, till they go on again properly; and by this means, a certain check will be kept on the labourers, and the governor or task-master apprised, even at a distance, that the full work is not performed."

The arrangement of the wheels in the yards radiating from the Governor's central residence, places the prisoners thus employed under very good inspection, an object known to be of the utmost importance in prison management. At the Brixton House of Correction, with the exception of the very few confined by the casualties of sickness or debility, all the prisoners are steadily employed under the eye of the Governor during a considerable part of the day.

The classification also of the prisoners according to offences, &c. may be adhered to in the adoption of these discipline wheels; the same wheel or the same connected shafts can be easily made to pass into distinct compartments, in which the several classes may work in separate parties. In the prison from which the annexed Drawing is taken, a tread-wheel is erected in each of the six yards, by which the inconvenience and risk of removing a set of prisoners from one part of the prison to another is obviated.

As the mechanism of these tread mills is not of a complicated nature, the regular employment they afford is not likely to be frequently suspended for want of repairs to the machinery; and should the supply of corn, &c. at any time fall off, it is not necessary that the labour of the prisoners should be suspended, nor can they be aware of the circumstance: the supply of hard labour may therefore be considered as almost unfailing.

With regard to the expence of these machines, it may be observed, that although their original cost may in some instances appear heavy, the subsequent advantage from their adoption, in point of economy, is by no means inconsiderable, and it is derived in a manner which must be most satisfactory to those who have the important charge and responsible controul of these public establishments, viz. from the diminution in the number of persons committed. Such have been the results already experienced at those prisons, where this species of corrective discipline is enforced. The saving to the county (in consequence of the reduction in the number of criminals) in the public charges for their apprehension, com

By a contrivance of machinery which we cannot here illustrate by a plate,

THE AUGUSTAN AGE IN ENGLAND.

(See page 219.)

SPENSER is a poet whose admirers are enthusiastic, and on whose detached beauties all must dwell with delight-but he is not generally popular, and we think the reason is plain. He has chosen an allegorical subject, and even his powers of poetry could not overcome its artificial and unhappy influence. We would ask even those who admire Spenser the most, whether they would not wish him to have written on a more human subject. In our view, it never can be sufficiently regretted that one who had such knowledge of the passions, should have wasted it in moulding them into the cold and unnatural form of allegorical personages. But even in despite of this original and formidable disadvantage, Spenser's beauties shine uncontrollably forth. His exquisite fancy-his playful and delicate tenderness-his admirable power of painting, must always yield delight, notwithstanding the trammels in which they are involved. His soaring imagination springs from such toils, and we are reminded of them only by the regret that it should have had to struggle with them at all. What would its productions have been had it been left free to its own magnificent nature!

and watch its workings within. He delights, too, in that full, deep, engrossing voluptuousness, which so often is the attendant of stormy passion; and he shadows it luxuriously forth with the same striking truth that marks his fiercer delineations. The feelings and passions of Marlow's writings appear to be more his own, than do those of almost any other poet. Others copy from general nature he seems to transcribe from himself. We can well conceive Marlow to have resembled his own Faustus-that, granting the possibility of similar circumstances, the picture would have been that of himself. What has come down to us of his life strengthens this idea; his actions shew him a wild, self-indulged voluptuary ;his writings prove him to have been a man of deep thought and splendid genius. It is the same with Faustus. His ability and learning have placed super-human power in his grasp, and he uses it for the attainment of unbounded gratification. We look on this work as immeasurably Marlow's best. It is indeed a mighty production. There is true knowledge of human heart, in the apparently incongruous union we have noticed above; and it is embodied in poetry worthy of the splendid conception. Where did the age of Anne produce a work like this?

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER are always coupled together-but the former has much less share in the works which go under their joint name, than this custom would lead one to suppose. The more energetic parts, both in comedy and passion, are by Fletcher. It is the mellower and more tender fillings-up which belong to Beaumont. It is of the works, however, and not of the men, that we wish to speak We are inclined to rate them very highly. If the tragedies be here and there somewhat stilted, they are for the most part majestic, powerful, and impassioned. It is perhaps, however, more the occasional style than the delineations of feeling and passion, that we would object to as over-wrought; but these blemishes are not very frequent, and where they do not appear, the images and diction are of the first order, and the versification is throughout sonorous and beautiful. The comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher we think excellent. The Chances, and Rule a Wife and have a Wife, are specimens of flowing and gentlemanly wit as is the Wild Goose Chase in a minor degree-while Monsieur Thomas, and still more, the Little French Lawyer, teems with the richness of a broader humour. We think the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher very undeservedly neglected on the stage. Their best are certainly far supe rior to the second order of Shakespeare's; and yet we see the one remain stock-plays of the theatre, while a revival once in ten years is all the homage paid to the merit of the other.

Or when Philaster Hamlet's place supplied,
Or Bessus walked the stage by Falstaff's side,-

much more due discrimination was shewn, we do think, to the powers of both writers. There could not be more happy instances cited of Beaumont and Fletcher than those named beautiful conception exquisitely wrought out. in the couplet above.* Philaster is a most

The romantic and devoted attachment of Euand delightful picturings of female fondnessphrasia to Philaster is among the most delicate and her expressions of it are the most beautiful that we remember to have met with in the

Colman the Elder's Prologue to the revival of Phi

whole world of poetry. They are the very soul of love breathed into words. Philaster's jealous and wayward temperament is also admirably sketched out. We should designate him as a jealous and more intelligible Hamlet. A King and no King,-the play in which is the character of Bessus-we look on as a production of very superior merit. Arbaces, we suspect, must be meant as a portraiture of Alexander the Great. He is represented as drunk with success and vain-glory to a degree almost inconsistent with the powers of mind which are conceded to him. In love, as well as in war, he has a sort of splendid egotism, the very extravagance of which prevents its appearing ridiculous. In the play, however, the poet has in reserve a punishment which must have been bitterly felt by minds like those of Alexander and his prototype. Arbaces is discovered to be of low birth-and hence the title A King and no King.'-Bessus is an officer in Arbaces' army, and either a copy from, or a fellow-creation with, Falstaff. More of the jest turns on his cowardice and less on his sensuality than in Falstaff-and, though the fat knight is far and far our favourite, we do not know whether Bessus be not the truer to nature. We say this because he creates no interest or affection, as Falstaff does-and we are well convinced that such would be the case in real life. Falstaff is a coward, a liar, a drunkard, a glutton-and wholly and utterly careless of every being in the world except himself—and yet we cannot help liking-almost loving-him. Bessus is all this, but he inspires nothing but the contempt which he so eminently merits-though he is almost equally endowed with wit as his prototype. We leave to those who have the misfortune of knowing living Falstaffs, to say which is the truer effect of the amiable qualities we have enumerated above. If Bessus, however, be below Falstaff in interest, Arbaces we look on as superior to Hotspur in his own way. Why should the acting the one be a bar to our ever being presented with the other? The Faithful Shepherdess is confessedly wholly by Fletcher and a most beautiful imagination it is. It has all the summer luxuriance of forest life-and the simplicity of poetic pastorals. It abounds in passages of playful and exquisite fancy, and breathes throughout the perfection of this style of poetry. Still, however, there is a fadeur inseparable from pastoral poetry, from which even Fletcher has not been able to shake himself free. It is in this that Comus so much differs from the Faithful Shepherdess, from which it has been supposed to have been taken -it has nothing pastoral. We consider, however, the Faithful Shepherdess to be the first poem of its kind in the language.

BEN JONSON is very different from all the poets of this age whom we have mentioned. He had not their fancy-their luxuriance their extravagance. Their thoughts come flowing forth like the risings of a copious spring-his are drawn with labour like water from a well. Like a miner, he produces gold only with toil and digging-but he does produce it. His serious style is majestic and imposing if it does not win its way to the heart, or plead powerfully to the passions, its severe and lofty gravity strongly impresses the mind, and makes an ally of the understanding. We consider his Sejenus as his best tragedy. There is a vigorous indignation against both oppression and baseness, which gives a rapidity to his style, and an impassioned tone to his

characters, which they do not often possess. The whole piece is powerful and energetic in the highest degree But it was for his humour that Jonson was chiefly famed in his own time, and we think it is by that his name will live. Nothing can be so different as his comic vein and that of Shakspeare. Shakspeare's wit is flowing, keen, and brilliant-Jonson's terse, biting, caustic.-Shakspeare's humour is that of voluptuous buoyancy of spirit-of irrepressible side-holding laughter-Jonson's is shrewd, sarcastic, pithy-operating by a single word, or even look-and almost always aimed at holding up some one to utter scorn. Every Man in his Humour is a striking exemplification of this. The Town Gull and the Country Gull are bantered and roasted till ridicule would almost turn to pity, were it not for the utter meanness which Jonson throws into the characters of his fools. Bobadil we think superior to Parolles-Bobadil's courage might be suspected by some, but it generally passed current; whereas the accounts which Parolles gives of his feats gain no credit whatever. Much more gusto is thence given to the character, and the taking down of Bobadik has much more ludicrous effect. But it is the Alchemist that we look on as Jonson's chef-d'œuvre. He is most at home when he pourtrays the folly and gullibility of human nature-and in the ample field for it which the subject of the Alchemist gives, he has shewn himself on his favourite ground. Nothing can be finer than the whole conduct of the piece. The knavishness of Subtle and his associatesthe doubting irascibility of Drugger and the complete and drivelling credulousness of the old Knight, are all given with the utmost power. The diction of this fine old play is admirable. It is almost the finest specimen we have of that mode of his writing which has fallen into undeserved disuse-blank-verse comedy. We consider this play the chief monument of Jonson's genius; and no one, we think, can read it without being convinced of the high class in which that genius should

rank.

OLD BOOTS.

I HAVE got a pair of old Boots.

was a Molossus tête-a-tête with a Pyrrhic; Golightly's meditations seemed to be of the same cast; he once or twice turned his eyes to the ground, as I thought with no very complacent aspect. "My friends grow ashamed of me," I said to myself "I must part with my Boots!" As I made up my mind to the sacrifice, Lady Eglantine met us, with her husband. She was constantly looking another way, nodding familiarly to the young men she met, and endeavouring to convince the world how thoroughly she despised the lump of earth which she was obliged to drag after her. "There is a woman," said Frederick, "who married Sir John for his money, and has not the sense to appear contented with the bargain she has made. What can be more silly than to look down thus upon a man of sterling worth, because he happened to be born a hundred miles from the Metropolis?"-" What can be more silly?" I repeated inwardly; "I will never look down on my Boots again!"

We continued our walk, and Golightly began his usual course of strictures upon the place and the company. Hurried away by the constant flow of jest and wildness with which he embellishes his sketches, I soon forgot both the Boots, which had been the theme of my reflections, and the moral lessons which the subject had produced. There was an awkward stone in the way! Oh! my unfortunate heels! I broke down terribly, and was very near bringing my companion after me. I rose, and went on in great dudgeon. "This will never do," I muttered; "this will never do! I must possitively cashier my Boots!" I looked up;an interesting girl was passing us, leaning on the arm of a young man, whose face I thought I recognised. She looked pale and feeble; and, when my friend bowed to her with unusual attention, she seemed embarrassed by the civility. That is Anna Leith," said Golightly; "she made an imprudent match with that young man about a year ago, and her father has refused to see her ever since. Poor Girl! she is in a rapid decline, and the remedies of her physicians have no effect upon a broken spirit. -I would never cast off a beloved object for a single false step!"

"I will keep my Boots," I exclaimed,though they make a thousand! "

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

James) was upon the scaffold, he desired the spectaWhen Raleigh (sent to death by the contemptible tors to join with him in prayer to God, "whom," said he, "I have most grievously offended, being a man full of all vanity, who have lived a sinful life in all sinful callings for I have been a soldier, a captain, a sea-captain, and a courtier, which are all courses of wickedness and vice."-Having put off his doublet and gown, he desired the executioner to show the axe.

This not being done readily, he said, "I prithee let Upon which it was handed to him. He felt upon the edge of it, and smilingly observed to the Sheriff, "This is a sharp medicine; but it is a physician that that will cure all diseases." Being asked what way he would lay himself on the block, he replied, "So the heart be right, it is no matter which way the head lieth." And on a signal being given by himself, the executioner beheaded him at two blows, his body never shrinking nor moving.--Lady Raleigh procured his head, and kept it by her in a case 17 years; and

me see it. Dost thou think that I am afraid of it."

his son Carew afterwards preserved it with equal care and affection. Before his condemnation, he repeatedly said, he had rather die in the way he did than by a burning fever; and on the scaffold he seemed as free from all apprehension, as if he had been a spectator and not the sufferer, neither voice nor counte

POETRY.

TO MY FATHER'S PROFILE!

Dear image of a form decay'd,
Of one by death untimely laid

Within the silent tomb;

Snatch'd from the hopes, the joys, the strife Of this poor fleeting, transient life,

To heaven's eternal home!

My father!-how that honour'd name,
Affection's tie still seems to claim

Within my youthful breast;
Oh! yes, and ev'ry feeling, heaven
Hath kindly unto mankind given,

Springs forth without request.

I knew thee not, for e're begun
My race of life, thine had been run,-
Thy day had clos'd in night.

The op'ning flower just rais'd its head,
Had scarce to heaven its beauties spread,
When sudden fell the blight.-

I knew thee not, but still I love,
Aided by one supreme above,

To bid this image live;

By fancy's help remembrance hold,
And all those happy scenes behold
Thy presence used to give.

I knew thee not, but yet I view
Thy splendid beams of virtue through,
The clouds which time hath placed;
Honour and pride attend his call,
Their greatest monuments will fall,
Whilst thine is ne'er defaced.

Cold is the heart which in the cause
Of heaven's all sacred, changeless laws,
Puts forth a righteous tongue,
Those eyes have lost their native fire,
Again those lips will ne'er inspire

With awe, the listening throng.

Deep in the mould'ring grave they lie,
Whilst many a tear of sympathy

Bedews the sacred spot;
And whilst religion holds her sway,
And truth shines as the lord of day,
Thou ne'er wilt be forgot.—

Oh! hadst thou liv'd to call me thine,
To guide me through those paths divine
In which thy footsteps trod;

I might have spent full many a day
Of happiness, now pass'd away,
And better known my God!

Thus like some shadow of the mind
Which living in our sleep we find,

The days that might have been;
At times flit past my waking sight,
And momentary give delight,

'Till real cares are seen.

For Time with his swift sailing wing,
Can ne'er again those moments bring,

When life was thine, oh! never!
With spring returns the budding rose,
All nature rises from repose,
But thy sleep is for ever.
Yet if in heaven thy spirit shine,
And oh

where else should worth like thine Hereafter find a rest

If there thou art allow'd to see,
And aid us here, my prayer shall be
"Oh! reign within my breast."

Farewell-and until time shall rid
This breast of care, and death shall bid,
My spirit homeward flee,

This dear rememb'rancer I'll link,
Next to my heart, and constant think
Of virtue and of thee!
August, 1822.

H. B. P.

THE SERENADE.

"The maiden paused, as if again
She thought to catch the distant strain,
With head upraised, and look intent,
And ear and eye attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art."
SCOTT.

ANNA, list! the zephyrs play
Over the blue wave fleetly;
And the boatman's distant roundelay
Breaks on the still night sweetly.
"Ope the casement-open wide-
Let us drink the moonbeam's light;
Like a proudly glitt'ring bride,

Rides she through the clouds of night.
"O'tis sweet-the bour I love-

The lovely hour of placid Even,-
Thus to let our spirits rove,

And mingle with the stars of Heav'n.
"Nature sleeps-and all around

A holy silence spreads her reign;
Save the sheep-bell, not a sound

Is heard along the tranquil plain.
"While the halcyon calm we view,
Anxious cares and troubles fly,
We the bliss that's past renew--
Breathe to absent love a sigh.
"Hark! a lute-I heard its tone-

Again the sound salutes my ear:
Who the Wand'rer late and lone,
Thus that joys rude night to cheer?
"List thee, Anna; list, I pray-

Softly steals the melody-
Sweet the voice, and sweet the lay,
Floating o'er the silent sea:

"The dew-drop that shines on the violet's bed,
Or the stars that are glitt'ring in Heav'n above,
Or the diadem gracing a conqueror's head,

Are never so bright as the eyes of my Love. "The odour exhaled from yon opening rose, Or the breezes that play round Arabia's grove, Or when labour is over, the peasant's repose

Is never so sweet as the kiss of my Love. 'Selina, thou fair one, O! list to my tale, 'Mid her heaven of purple rides blithely the Moon; O! waft me that kiss on the wings of the gale, Or waft me thyself-a far lovelier boon."

""Tis he, 'tis be-I know the strain

His flatt'ring tongue was wont to sing-
That lute-which could my heart enchain,
When Lona touched the pliant string.
"Dear youth, I come-but no!-my soul,
While love entwines his flowery bands,
Forgets a father's stern control-

Forgets his oft-renewed commands.
"But O! I love-shall bolts or bars,
Shall all restrictions out of number,
Impede the light of kindred stars!
Keep hearts that Love has joined asunder!"
She said, and o'er her downy cheek
There stole a tinge of deeper dye,
And 'prison'd Love would try to speak
Its anger through her twinkling eye.
She flung away, in trembling haste,
The ringlets of her flowing hair;
And Zephyr left the billow's breast,
To frolic and to nestle there.
Then look'd on Anna-and a sigh
Unheeded from her bosom fled-
And then-in speechless apathy,

Gaz'd on the ocean's tranquil bed.
The minstrel youth, who, ling'ring nigh,
A lover's hopes and fears had prov'd,
Thought ev'ry breeze that murmur'd by
Brought news of bliss from her he lov'd.
But all was silent-all was still-
Again he wak'd the trembling lyre;
Again, obedient to his will,

It uttered love and soft desire.

A voice arose, whose every word
Fell sweet as Hybla's honey tear,
And plaintive as that lonely bird

That tells her woes in Evening's ear.

"Can the river flow on in a unison stream,

If the fountains that feed it with waves are supprest? The snu-flower withers, if reft of the beam

Of the God that enlightens and nurtures her crest. "Then pity the lover, who sighing implores

One smile to disperse his soul's lowering shade; If bereft of the light of those eyes he adores,

Like the flower when blighted, he'll sicken and fade. "O can that fair bosom, Selina, O can it

Be deaf to the cries of the wretched? O no! As the billow bends down to the breezes that fan it, So woman's soft heart bends to accents of woe. "Then bid me but hope, and my wandering lute

Again shall sound cheerly, again shall be gay, But frown on me, lov'd one, but frown on my truth, And then silent the wand'rer, then hush'd is the Lay.

The maid had heard-her bosom heav'd,
And passion sparkled in her eye;
E'en for a while of sense bereav'd,
She stood entranc'd in ecstasy.
For music, with its magic pow'r,

Each fibre of the soul can move;
But doubly charms at lonely hour,
When warbled by the lips of love.
With gentle blandishment it woos,
And weaves a chain the heart around,
Till every pulse the strain pursues,

And beats responsive to the sound.
But short the bliss that wrapt her soul,
And short that visionary calm;
She spurned her Anna's soft control,
And flung away the lifted arm.
That image, which in Fancy's eye

She saw to touch the trembling lyre,
Rais'd in her breast Love's tempest high,
Usarp'd Affection's softer fire.
There was but one-one heart alone,

That moment all the world within, That she would wish to call her own, That she would care to lose or win. And still the strain her Lona sung

Would vibrate on her list'ning ear; Each airy accent of his tongue

Seem'd still as if 'twas warbling near. She stood awhile--but passion's tide Was pour'd along her eddying soul! And, springing from her Anna's side, She darted, reckless of control. Through that fair window's open frame, And gain'd the balcony-her form Shone lonely as some fairy dame,

Or white-rob'd spirit of the storm. She saw the much-lov'd youth beneath, While kindled love her bosom warms; And hardly daring to take breath,

She rush'd to meet her Lona's arms.

I know no more-a little bark,
Whene'er the moon illum'd the tide,
Was seen amid the billows dark
In bounding playfulness to glide.
And there was heard the murm'ring sound
Of oars, that dash'd the briny spray;
And when the zephyr play'd around,
It bore along this simple lay:

"O smile, Love, to-night, for together we trace
The rude ocean of billows, deriding its ire;
I'll warm thee, when cold, in a lover's embrace,
And lull thee to sleep with the sound of the lyre.
"Then smile, Love, to-night-for the breast of the wave
Seems to sparkle aneath the rude dash of the oar;
For the Nereids laugh in their coralline cave,
And speed up away to some happier shore."