their tomb. But we have been used to this all our

days, sir, and we make little of it now.-If you wish to see them you may lift the cloth."

I did so, and beheld a glass cover, dim and dusty. The old man took the corner of the pall, and, rubbing it a little, said, "Now, sir, here you may see them both, quite entire; they have been so beautifully embalmed.-Look"

"Oh, Joanne! that white face once again!—" I screamed in my agony, and awoke

"Here, sir," cries the Keeper,—“ here's a pretty-behaved gentleman, truly!—If it were night it were less matter; but no screaming and hooting here in the day-time. Here, squire, get up ! Do you feel this-and this-and this? If you wish to halloo so much, we must e'en try to give you some excuse for your noise. And here's the barber come to shave your head again. Do you think to frighten the barber, Mr Squire ?——"

LETTER TO P. R. Esq.

The blackbird in the summer trees,

The lark upon the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.

With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife, they see

A happy youth and their old age

:

Is beautiful and free.

But we are press'd by heavy laws,
And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

WORDSWORTH.

LETTER TO P. R. Esq.

(ENCLOSING THE FOREGOING MEMOIRS.)

SUCH, dear R, is the account which our old friend has bequeathed to us of that early part of his life, concerning which neither you nor I ever heard him speak. With the exception of a few passages, which I have found it necessary to strike out of the last two or three chapters, especially the last of all, you have the Memoir exactly as he left it in his cabinet.

Why he finished so abruptly, his letter does not say. Whether he did so in consequence of having been painfully agitated in the composition of the concluding pages which you have just read, and therefore fearing to proceed farther; or whether

the many years of which he has said nothing had really appeared to him, in his morbid retrospect, incapable of furnishing us with any materials, either of amusement or instruction, I am somewhat at a loss to determine. You are quite as well qualified to make guesses upon the matter as I am.

I think you will now have little difficulty in confessing that I was right, and you wrong, in the dispute we have so frequently renewed concerning him. I certainly had formed at first, and retained for a considerable time, an opinion pretty much the same with your own. That a man who possessed health and bodily strength to an extent so very uncommon in people of his years, who took so much exercise daily, who almost every year travelled several thousands of miles, and to the last thought little more of a trip to Paris than of a walk into the city-and, above all, who was, whenever any of us met him in society, the soul of the party, -light, buoyant, airy, and cheerful, to the distancing, not unfrequently, even of our own boyish spirits—that this man should have been in reality the habitual victim of the darkest and most melancholy reflections, was, undoubtedly, a thing not