Father," said he "trusting in your patronage I relinquished my all, and have not left wherewith to pay my journey.' Away, I say, answered the Pope; "if my excessive bounty has made you neglect your patrimony, I will no farther encourage your waste and improvidence. Poverty is but a slight punishment for your crimes."-" But, Father," rejoined Don Julian, "my wants are instant; I am hungry: give me but a trifle to procure a supper to-night. To-morrow I shall beg my way out of Rome.' "Heaven forbid," said the Pope, "that I should be guilty of feeding the ally of the Prince of Darkness. Away, away from my presence, or I instantly call for the guard."-" Well then," replied Don Julian, rising from the ground, and looking on the Pope with a boldness which began to throw his Holiness into a paroxysm of rage," if I am to starve at Rome, I had better return to the supper which I ordered at Toledo." Thus saying, he rang a gold bell which stood on a table next the Pope.

The door opened without delay, and the Moorish servant came in. The Pope looked round, and found himself in the subterraneous study under the Tagus. "Desire the cook," said Don Julian to the maid, to put but one partridge to roast; for I will not throw away the other on the Dean of Santiago."

The supernatural machinery employed in the preceding tale, or the supposition that by some means unknown the human mind may be subjected to a complete delusion, during which it exists in a world of her own creation, perfectly independent of time and space, has a strong hold on what might be called man's natural prejudices. Far from there being any thing revolting or palpably absurd in such an admission, the obscurity itself of the nature of time and space, and the phenomena of the dreaming and delirious mind, are ready to give it a colouring of truth. The success, indeed, of the tales which have been composed upon that basis, proves how readily men of all ages and nations have acknowledged, what we might call, its poetical truth. The hint followed by Don Juan Manuel, in the Deon of Santiago, is found in the Turkish Tales, from which Addison took the story of Chahabeddin, in No. 94 of the Spectator. It is very probable that the Spanish author received it through the Arabs, his countrymen, and was the first who adapted it to European customs. The imitations of the Spanish tale are numerous. The learned antiquary Mr. Douce has, with his usual kindness, given us a list of seven works, where it is found in a variety of dress and costume. We subjoin their titles in a note."

B. W.

* Scot's "Mensa Philosophica," a very rare book. Blanchet's "Apologues." In verse, from Blanchet, by Mr. Andrieux, in L'Esprit des Journaux, for 1799. In English prose, in Vol. VII. of Anderson's " Bee," probably from the French, by Mr. Johnes. Tales from the French, 2 vols. 12mo. 1786. Boyer's "Wise and Ingenious Companion." Twine's "Schoolmaster." 1576.

THE BACHELOR OUTWITTED;
Or the Power of Association and Sculpture.
It was a bright and lovely afternoon,

Some years ago such as we see in May,
Given in our northern climate like a boon,
And dearly cherish'd for its rarity—
That entering in my garden I was soon
Led in a meditative mood away,

Thinking how art might best improve on nature,
Or both in union show a fairer feature.

I'll make, thought 1, a scene of beauty here,
Joining with garden, orchard, shrubbery, field,
Flowers of all hues, all fruits the clime will bear,
And every shrub and tree the earth will yield:
I'll tread upon a living carpet, clear

Of weeds and rankness, and my walks 1 shield
From summer heats with foliage cool and green,
And sparry grots shall variegate the scene.
And then I build a mossy hermitagensions 7?
With Gothic door, and all things à propos
And there beneath those elms, grotesque from age,
I'll place an urn to Friendship, so and so; v
A Brown or Repton I'll at once engage

To wind my walks, direct the water's flow, d
Plan out the whole, revise, and execute, į
Scoop the ha-ha, and make the cascades shoot.
Art shall with error be so temper'd too,

That order shall be mingled with confusion,
Appearing ever in an aspect new,

Or a fresh shape, or scene of sweet delusion; And here I'll have a basin clear to view

Shaking its crystal waves in bright profusion, it Reflecting sunbeams, painting earth and sky,

And foliage rich, in its transparency.

I'll have a kiosk there; a fountain nigh
Shall murmur music all the summer day,
In that I'll take my books and read, or ply)
The pinions of my fancy far away
Among dim scenes of eld, delightedly,,
Mid classic lore or the romantic lay;
Steeping the soul in the unearthly bliss.
Of time long past, or any time but this.
As I design'd, I did-all was complete;

No spot in Britain, garden of the earth, Could equal mine, where art precise and neat Was temper'd by rude nature, and the birth Of flowers in seas of odour did create Voluptuous inebriety-dancing mirth

Laugh'd round in lightness: heaven's own tenants there
Secure from man poured gladness on the air.

Now with my books, and home, and competence,
I had no more to wish; and so 1 thought
My life would smoothly travel-no expense,
For I had riches, barr'd me out from aught
That reason might desire-then, reader, hence
Scorn not by my experience to be taught
I was a bachelor in middle life,

And the last thing I dream'd of was a wife :

Could I have found a perfect woman—this

I

I would not hope, Mahomet found but four Throughout the teeming East, where wedded bliss Consists in marrying by the gross or score,

Till

you can find one to be Sultaness,

And favourite of your bed, to ride all o'er, And trample on the entire horde beside, Like Austrian satrap on Italian pride.

My paradise had therefore got no Eve, lithole pla
Or, to be plain, no woman, the same thing,
Save ancient casts of her that seem'd to grieven &
Like Niobe, or haply simpering

As Flora, might a ready eye deceived
By Nature's self so closely mimicking;
Or carved in rapture of the beau ideal
That's something out of nature and unreal.
Such as the Venus with her witchery,

1

Outrying earth's creation, heaven's own love, The essence of all beauty, save of eye

That she might not be perfect, though above Her full rich eye-glance flashes ceaselessly

The arrowy beams of passion, and old Jove Himself had tempted been, but for his mater Who awes the thunder-god with threats and prate Thus I had all things reason could demand

I now might study, write, climb up to fame From this my loved retreat, or cash in hand Swell my revenues, or enhance my name Like Coke by rural honours, and thus stand The benefactor of a realm, and frame Codes of Agrarian law, feed kine, give dinners, Make rustic matches and reward the winners. Fate order'd differently-one idle day, Lolling in indolence within a bower, Prank'd out with flowers, the sober and the gay, Breathing their fragrance in a ceaseless shower Around my seat, my fountain in full play,

Its bright drops sparkling in the noontide hour In silvery coolness, and the dark green dress Of the soft shade casting voluptuousness; I'll have, I said, a marble statue here,

Its white will well contrast with this dark shade, And it shall be a female; I've no fear That the dumb image will my peace invade, Or cause me interruption-she'll appear In Nature's character, and I'll have made At her full breast a child carved as alive, Of Nature and her offspring figurative.

I spoke to Chantrey, and the work was done,
Finish'd consummately the naked form;
Our common mother scarcely look'd in stone,
But instinct quite with life, though she had none,
And the child lay her polish'd arm upon

And gazed into her eyes and smiled, as warm
With its infantine joy-the parent stood,
Love gushing from her heart in a full flood.

Her head was small, with fair locks clustering round,
And shoulders low, and smooth her ample chest,
With blue veins branching on each glorious mound
That rose luxuriant on her spotless breast,
The pillow of love's happiness, the ground

Whence flows the stream of being, duly prest
By infant lips-fed from the heart's best veins
As from a life-spring pure and free of stains.
Proud of my statue, hours I sat and gazed
Upon the figure, and I liked it more
Each time I looked upon it-nought erased
Its image from my memory-who could pore
On so much loveliness and not be pleased?
Who could so contemplate and not adore?
In brief, at last, like Paphos clever sire,
To hear it speak I felt a strong desire.
But he of whom I tell, Pygmalion hight,
Was cleverer far than I can ever be,
I had no hope to realize the sight

Of speaking statuary, yet long'd, to see
The marble lips move in the summer light,
And call me by my name as much as he;
Or the poor girl who the French Louvre near,
Died mad of love for Phoebus Belvedere.

I long'd in vain at last by the strong charm
Of what most folks association call,

I thought if stone and Chantrey thus could warm
By sight alone, where life was not at all,
There could not to a bachelor be harm

From granting love and beauty had some small
And meet proportion of attractiveness-

In short, might have a sovereign power to bless.
And then the infant-who would nameless be
In future time and die with his own death,
When he might have a fair posterity

To close his eyes and drink his latest breath ?-
Yet who would venture in the lottery,

Of marriage registers, when St. Paul saith

"Tis better to live single as I do!"—

A wise authority to keep in view.

Ruosseau, I think, says that deliberation,

Halting, and reasoning, pausing, and what not,

Is certain ruin in a virgin's station,

Who for a lover has a roue got;

A firm, decisive, prompt, downright negation,'
Is safety's path-alas, it was my lot

Not to remember Rousseau's good advice, del 14,

Or I had settled all things in a trice,

And so I mused, and ponder'd-spite of boast,

Thought brought on thought, and we are prone to end
With that sly felon one, the uppermost,

That sought insidiously our will to bend

Till it became a favourite to our cost:

And thus mine prompted me whole hours to spend
Before that statue, resolution blinking,-

Of beauty, love, and woman ever thinking.
Yet sometimes, too, I scarcely could help smiling
At my own folly, but no orders gave
For its removal, though I knew beguiling
My brain with wife and offspring it must slave
My bachelorship at last till by its wiling

Inch after inch, like Benedict the brave,

I deem'd that marriage must be quite divine,
If one of thousand of the sex were mine-

One perfect as an angel of the sky,

Could such be found,-one that would look as sweet
As Chantrey's statue, and with living eye, do

And glance more lovely her young innocent greet,

Bound strong as death by the maternal tie;

How swift would my delicious moments fleet!—
Such was at last the humbling termination

Of

my vow'd bachelorship's long cogitation!
At last chance gave me Leila in her youth,-
I wedded-had a son-and now set by
That statue fair, the son and mother both;
And then I find how poor is art's supply,
Even in sculpture, for the breathing truth
Of Nature's self; but still most thankfully
I cherish art, by whose directing feature
I was first led from dead to living nature.
'Tis customary at a story's tail

To pin a moral for a warning voice,
As if the sense of those who read could fail
To see its drift, and make their hearts rejoice.-
I hope this will not happen to my tale;-

But lest it should-" O bachelors from choice,
When against woman you your bosoms harden,
Banish her semblance even from your garden!"

MRS. CULPEPPER'S "uncle the Sergeant," of whom reverential mention has been made in one of these immortal epistles, has fallen in love! He felt a slight vertigo in Tavistock-square, of which he took little notice, and set off on the home circuit; but imprudently venturing out with the widow Jackson in a hop-field, at Maidstone, before he was well cured, the complaint struck inward and a mollities cordis was the consequence. Mr. Sergeant Nethersole had arrived at the age of fiftynine, heart-whole; his testamentary assets were therefore looked upon by Mrs. Culpepper as the unalienable property of her and hers. Speculations were often launched by Mr. and Mrs. Culpepper as to the