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Spectacles-who took the Glasses out come now, why I've lost my Feeling and when the old Gentleman put them too !'” on-finding that he could not see, ex To conclude ; he must be shortclaimed, Marcy me, I've lost my sighted indeed who does not perceive Sight !--but thinking the impediment the many merits of this little producto Vision might be the dirtiness of the tion; and of all the Economies ever Glasses—took them off to wipe them— practised, it will be one of the least when not feeling them, he, still more profitable not to become possessed of frightened, cried out, Why what's The Economy of the Eyes.



(Extracted from Blackwood's Magazine.)

-A Good cold collation, backed by Hurst, and their marriage was soon

a foaming jug of ale, stood before looked forward to. us. We invited the old gunner to join in One Sunday afternoon, it was prothis part, (and that not the worst part,) posed that herself, her lover, and her of the day's journey. A girl of the brother, should take a sail in a boat up public-house waited on us, and as she to Yarmouth; and (without leave) she did not froth the veteran's glass of took one of the officer's borrowed stingo with the dexterity of a true tap- books, in order to while away the long ster, it drew forth from him a rueful afternoon of their voyage-a petty lireproach as soon as she was out of berty, which she perhaps considered hearing.couched in these terms:-"Ah! herself half entitled to use, being so now, that girl can't even give one a great a favourite with their guest for dranght of ale as she should. How it her neatness, readiness, industry, and makes one miss poor Mary !” Poor eternal good humour ; but it was desMary I had known; she was the daugh- tined to be her destruction—she neter of the master of the house, and had ver came back. It was fine summer been dead, by a lamentable accident, weather, with a very fresh breeze. The about a year or more. As a book, lover was to manage the sail ; and as originally belonging to one of my bro- I am no proficient in nautical terms, I thers, had, in some sort, contributed to can only blunderingly relate the disthe catastrophe, I drew nearer the old aster according to my conceptions of man's knee, and heard with more heed it. The lover sat with one arm round what his kind old heart bad to say in Mary's waist, and read on the same praise of her. I think her name was page of the book with her; he held in Mary Chiddell. What made my young the other hand the sheet or rope which feelings more especially alive when her regulated the sail, and did not fasten fate was deplored, was this :- A high- it to its proper place. In assisting to ly respectable officer, who was intimate turn over a leaf, he let the rope fily with my father's family, was called in- loose—a squall came on at that very to garrison at Hurst Castle, and as instant- the boat upset, and out of the there were no comfortable apartments three, the brother only, (from whom for him in the fortress, he lodged at the these particulars were heard) was salittle inn. Naturally enough he bor- ved by regaining the overturned boat, rowed some books of us to amuse him- as it floated bottom upwards; and the self with in this dreary state of half- corse of the hapless young woman was exile. This “ Mary the Maid of the discovered some days after, a great Inn," of course, waited on him to keep way off, upon the mud. Can it be his room in order---she was at this time wondered at, that, as a boy, I crept engaged to a young carpenter living at closer to the old mourner, and heard, Keyhaven, who, no wonder, spent all with a full heart, the dismal story, his spare time and holidays down at which I knew so well before? But, as


I have said, it made more than an or- souls !" Little bosoms heaved with dinary appeal to my sympathy; for I sighs at the recital, and little eyes swam thought myself somewhat involved in with tears in that inn-parlour-but the it by the circumstance of the book.- tears of childhood are proverbial for Indeed the volume, young as I was, their rapid evaporation ; and, with rewas a thing not above my comprehen- ference to the present circumstance, I sion, for it was one of a miscellany,cal- might allegorize this pretty stanza led the Pocket Magazine. I had read xes the time of year, in a little in the identical one so lost; and the poem of my acquaintancegap in the set at hone did then bring, “ It was the pleasant season yet, and has often since brought, that fatal When stones at cottage doors turning of the leaf full upon my imagi Dry quickly, while the roads are wet, nation. Upon what a brittle thread After the silver showers." does our existence hang ! The warm Let the shining stones be the smooth pulses of youth, and love, and beauty, cheeks of the child, and the roads the of high and undoubting hope, and of channelled features of the aged-and passionate but innocent transport, were here were some of us youngsters in the all stopt without a warning! Here pleasant seasons yet, in which the sat two young creatures, this moment silver showers of sympathy dry quickin fond belief that their course of life ly, while the transition resused to take was as fair before them as the sunny place so easily beneath the wrinkled path upon the waves, over which their eyelids of our old guide, which still boat was dancing the next moment, were wet, and for a time he was not so “the rush of water was upon their light-hearted as before.

TO NEWTON'S STUDY.* THOU lonely relic of a name

Not Pharaoh's massy pyramids, Emblazon'd on the roll of fame

Not Angelo's dome in radiance hid In an immortal line :

or heaven's refulgence wide, Wert thou the consecrated place

Can outshine thee in worth and note, (Some ten feet square thy cabin'd space)

Where Newton reason'd, thought, and wrote, of one almost divine ?

of vision, time, and tide. Was it within thy narrow room

Whate'er his name might consecrate, Where Newton's wisdom pierced tbe gloom

Is safer from the rage of fate That Science bad conceal'd ?

Than pyramid or dome, Was it within thy narrow cell

Though one may shrine a monarch's clay, He sat and broke the secret spell

In t'other popes and prelates sway, That gravitation veild 2

The plagues of ruin'd Rome. Where, while corporeally at rest,

The humblest spot wbere science grew, The labouring genius in his breast

Whence knowledge, born of genius, threw Begat prophetic thought ;

Its glory on the mind, Or, leaving its cribb'd mansion here,

Like thine is e'er a sacred site, Sprang upward to some nobler sphere,

Circled around with holy light, With inspiration fraught,

A Pharos to mankind. Or round the eternal heavens careerd,

Yet still, what passengers gone by Nor the sun's burning influence fear'd,

Cast not on thee the uplifted eye, Nor bearded comets pale :

Nor noted if they saw : But o'er the orbits where they fly

of London's million souls but few On lightning pennons through the sky,

Mark thee as I for ever do, Steer'd his triumphant sail !

Witb reverence and awe. What stately halls can rival thee

In Italy thou would'st be knownIn thy unobtrusive dignity,

As Petrarch's house at Arqua shown, Temple of thought sublime !

Or as Voltaire's in France :Thy inmate scann'd within thy wall

Here the 'Change walls move more than tbine A thousand worlds, and there bis call

Where knavery, traffic, gold combine Subdued both space and time.

To lead the sordid dance. The palace owns more glittering things,

Yet do these sober walls to me Lords, courtiers, parasites, and kings,

For ever speak thy dignity, The visible alone,

Philosophy refined ! And not the best that earth can boast

And tell me of wbat mighty worth Wbile thou hast held th' invisible bort

In intellect on this low earth Round a great spirit's throne.

Was Newton's wondrous mind.-N.Monthly. * Still to be seen on the roof of his house in St. Martin's-street, nearly in the same state as he left it.

(Lon. Mag.)


I KNOW of nothing more calcula. and pale and ghastly images of death

ted to bring back the nearly-faded are hovering round me. I see him, dreams of youth-the almost oblitera. whom I loved, and prized, and honourted scenes and passions of our boyhood ed, shrunk into poor and wasting ashes. -and to recall the brightest and best I mark a stranger closing his powerless associations of those days,

lids—a stranger following him to the When the young blood ran riot in the veins, grave—and I cannot trust myself again And boyhood made us sanguine

to open his last letter. It was written nothing that more easily conjures up

but a short time before he fell a victim the alternate joys and sorrows of ma- to the yellow fever in the West Indies, turer years—the fluctuating visions and told me, in the affecting language that have floated before the restless

of Moore, that imagination in times gone by, and the Far beyond the western sea breathing forms and inanimate objects

Was one whose beart remember'd me. that wound themselves around our On hearing of his death, I wrote hearts, and became almost necessary to some stanzas which I have preserved our existence, than the perusal of old - not out of any pride in the verses letters. They are the niemorials of at- themselves, but as a token of esteem tachment—the records of affection for him to whom they were addressed, the speaking-trumpets through which and as a true transcript of my feelings those whom we esteem hail us from at the time they were composed. I afar. They seem hallowed by the bro- make no apology for inserting them ther's grasp, the sister's kiss, the fa- here. Those who have never loved, ther's blessing, and the mother's love. nor lost a friend, will be backward in When we look on them, the friends perusing them—those who have, will whom dreary seas and distant leagues recur to their own feelings and not divide from us are again in our pre- withhold their sympathy. sence. We see their cordial looks, and hear their gladdening voices once

STANZAS. more. The paper has a tongue in every character it contains-a language in

Farewell ! Farewell ! for thee arise,

The bitter thoughts that pass not o'er ; iis very silentness. They speak to the

And friendship's tears and friendship's sighs souls of men like a voice from the grave, and are the links of that chain For thou art fled, and all are vain which connects with the hearts and To call thee to this earth again. sympathies of the living an evergreen remembrance of the dead. I have one And thou hast died wbere strangers' feet at this moment before me, which, al

Alone towards thy grave could bend; though time has in a degree sofiened

And that last duty, sad but sweet,

Has not been destined for thy friend : the regret that I felt at the loss of him

He was not near to calm thy smart, who penned it, I dare scarcely look

And press thee to bis bleeding heari. upon it. It calls back too forcibly to my remembrance its noble-minded author—the treasured friend of my ear When reason fled her ruin'd shrine, liest and happiest days, the sharer of To soothe with pity's gentle power, my puerile but innocent joys. I think And mingle his faint sighy with thine : of him as he then was the free-the

And pour tbe parting tear to thee, spirited-the gay- the welcome guest

As pledge of his fidelity. in every circle where kind feeling had its weight, or frankness and honesty

He was not near, when thou wert borne

By others to thy parent earth, in fuence; and, in an instant,

To think of former days, and mourn comes the thought of what he now is ; In silence o'er departed worth:


Can never reach thee more.


Ile was not near, in that dark bour


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And seek thy cold and cheerless bed,

He is the most convivial of letter-wri. And breathe a blessing for the dead.

ters—the heartiest of epistlers. Then 5.

there is N— who always seems to Destroying death! thou hast one link

bear in mind that it is a better to be That bound me in this world's frail chain ; And now I stand on life's rough brink,

brief than tedious," for it must indeed Like one whose heart is cleft in twain ; be an important subject that would eliSave that at times a thought will steal

cit from him more than three lines, nor To tell me that it still can feel.

has his rib a wit more of the cacoethes 6.

scribendi about her.* Oh! what delights,--what pleasant hours,

But there are letters differing in chaIn which all joys were wont to blend,

racter from all that I have yet mentionHave saded now, and all hope's flowers Have wither'd with my friend.

ed-fragments saved from the wreck Thou feelst no pain within the tomb,

of early love--reliques of spirit-buoy. But they alone who weep thy doom.

ing hopes-remembrancers of joy.7.

They perchance remind us that that Long wilt thou be the cherish'd theme

love has set in tears—that those hopes Of all their fondness-all their praise

were cruelly blighted—that our joy is In daily thought and nightly dream

fled forever. When we look on them In crowded balls and lonely ways; And they will hallow every scene

we seem to feel that Where thou in joyous youth hast been.

-No time

Can ransom us from sorrow. Theirs is the grief that cannot die,

We fancy ourselves the adopted of miAnd in their hearts will be the strife

sery--Care's long inheritors. The That must remain with memory

bloom has gone off from our lives. For Uncancell'd from the book of life.

my own part, I have but one written Their breasts will be the mournful urns Where sorrow's incense ever burns.

token of her whom I loved in my

youth. It is one of consolation, and But there are other letters whose yet of sorrow, for I received it on the perusal makes us feel as if receding evening after we had parted forever. from the winter of the present to the If the reader will listen to the story spring-time of the past. These are of my love," he will not feel surprised from friends whom we have long that the sight of this letter should even known, and whose society we still en now fill me with emotions which I canjoy. There is a charni in contrasting not and would not control. the sentiments of their youth with those Jt was on a beautiful July evening of a riper age : or rather, in tracing that I wandered from the small but rothe course of their ideas and following mantic village of R- in the south them up to their full developement;- of France. I turned from the high for it is seldom that the feelings we en- road, and struck into a retired and shel. tertain in the early part of our lives en tered path. As I strolled onwards, the tirely change-they merely expand, as the grown tree proceeds from the shoot, *I have more than once suspected them or the flower from the bud. We love to be the hero and the heroine of an anecto turn from the formalities and cold read, of a gentleman who by mere chance

dote, which I remeinber somewhere to have politeness of the world to the “ Dear strolled into a coffee-house, where he met Tom,” or “ Dear Dick," at the head with a captain of his acquaintance, on the of such letters. There is something point of sailing for New York, and from

whom he received an invitation to accomtouching about it ;-something that

pany him. This he accepted-taking care awakens a friendly warınth in the however to inform his wife of it, which he heart. It is shaking the hand by did in these terms: proxy-a vicarious “good morrow.” Dear wife, I have a whole packet of such letters

I am going to America. from my friend G-, and there

Yours, truly. is scarcely a dash or a comma in them

Her answer was not at all inferior either

in laconism or tenderness : that is not characteristic of the man.

Dear Husband, Every word bears the impress of free

A pleasant voyage. dom--the true currente calamo stamp.

Yours, &c.

Jast faint streak of twilight disappear- from my reverie. Henriette stood beed, and the shadows from the trees fore me, without my having heard threw an air of gloom over the face of

The music of ber footsteps on my spirit. the scene, which gave it double interest Henriette had the kindest heart and in my eyes. After roaning for some the finest eyes of any girl I ever knew. time, I at length reached the extremity Her voice stole oʻer the mind like of the path, and beheld—not a bower, nor temple, with shrine of flowers, to ple word became music when she ut

a spirit of Hope. The most simwhich the winds pay homage-not the cot of bumble industry, with its wood

tered it ; bined front, and cheerful hearth, and

'Twas whisper'd balm—twas sunshine spoken. smiling faces, which my busy iinagina- and a smile ever lingered round her tion had pictured, but a solitary mound lip, as if enamoured of its ruby haunt. of earth, strewed with a few sweet She was, indeed, a joyous-hearted creaflowers. At one end, was the fragment ture, and seldom sighed-or if she did, of a simple cross, and at the other a it was for my sorrows, and not her own. wild rose-tree, bearing neither flower, We wandered homeward ; I scarcely nor blossom, nor bud, nor leaf. It was, felt her arm within my own, except at as I afterwards heard, the grave of a times when the shadow from some lofty young soldier, who had borne bravely tree or passing cloud alarmed her, and and honourably the dangers and the then she drew nearer to my side.toils of many battles—but the faithless. Once, indeed, her lips came so close to ness of the maiden he loved subdued mine that I could not choose but press the spirit that never bowed before. He then. A kiss was not thought so died broken-hearted, and left none to great an offence in France as in Eng. weep for him, save an aged mother, land—thus she was not very angry : whose palsied hands had gathered the but I remarked that she did not shrink scattered fowers that I saw on bis from the shadows as before. grave. They were the first-the last We reached her father's residence, -she ever placed there, for she died which was situated at the extremity of whilst strewing them. The rose-tree the village of R-, and I could not was supposed by the peasantry of the help noticing that Henriette appeared place to have been secretly planted by paler than usual, and that her hand the maiden who deserted him, as it ne- trembled as she took the glass of Burver bloomed, although many flowers gundy, which I presented to her. We Dear it were in all the pride of freshness had hitherto lived as brother and sister, and beauty. How could the roses guilelessly and happily together; but bloom upon bis grave, when planted by the kiss of that night had betrayed the her hand who had blighted the rose of state of my heart. She grew not less hope in his heart—that heart which kind, but less familiar towards me: and proved how well it loved by dying I cannot say that it grieved me, for in when she smote it? On a sudden the my situation it was a sin to love her. I moon, that fair and noiseless spirit who was a poor boy, and had neither father baunts the sky at night, rose in her nor mother, nor a single relative to beauty. The winds gave a last sigh whom I could confide my puny cares. to the flowers, and died upon them. I had been lett almost alone in the The birds had gone to their rests—the world, and the world seemed unkind to grasshopper

me : but, no! no! there were some Chirped one good-night carol more.

few hearts that loved me the better for and all was silent-silent as the grave my misfortunes; and strove to soothe near which I stood. I seated myself my wounded spirit with sweet words, beside the broken cross, and gazed and smiles, and hopes of happier days. with mingled sensations on the scene I inherited a small but sufficient patriaround me and the moon which silver- mony from my father, who appointed ed it, when the voice of the nightingale Mr. C-, a merchant, then residing and another still sweeter, roused me in London, my guardian. He was a

43 ATHESEUM vol. 1. 2d series.

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