charitable, so I will not insist. Certain it is that it must have taken a good while to read as many novels and commit to memory as much poetry, as lined the head and exalted the sensibilities of our fair visitant.

Her dress was in the height of fashion, and all her accoutrements point de vice. A gold pencil-case of the most delicate proportions was suspended by a kindred chain round a neck which might be called whitybrown; and a note-book of corresponding lady-like-ness was peeping from the pocket of her highly-useful apron of blue silk-ever ready to secure a passing thought or an elegant quotation. Her album-she was just the person to have an album-was resplendent in gold and satin, and the verses which meandered over its emblazoned pages were of the most unexceptionable quality, overlaid with flowers and gems-love and despair. To find any degree of appropriateness in these various offerings, one must allow the fortunate possessor of the purple volume, at least all the various perfections of an Admirable Crichton, allayed in some small measure by the trifling faults of coldness, fickleness, and deceit ; and to judge of Miss Fidler's friends by their handwriting, they must have been able to offer an edifying variety of bumps to the fingers of the phrenologist. But here is the very book itself at my elbow, waiting these three months, I blush to say, for a contribution which has yet to be pumped up from my unwilling brains; and I have a mind to steal a few specimens from its already loaded pages, for the benefit of the distressed, who may, like myself, be at their wits' end for something to put in just such a book.

The first page, rich with embossed lilies, bears the

invocation, written in a great black spattering hand,

and wearing the air of a defiance.

It runs thus :

If among the names of the stainless few
Thine own hath maintain'd a place,
Come dip thy pen in the sable dew
And with it this volume grace.

But oh! if thy soul e'er encouraged a thought
Which purity's self might blame,

Close quickly the volume, and venture not
To sully its snows with thy name.

Then we come to a wreath of flowers of gorgeous hues, within whose circle appears in a miminee piminee hand, evidently a young lady's—

THE WREATH OF SLEEP.

Oh let me twine this glowing wreath
Amid those rings of golden hair,
'T will soothe thee with its odorous breath
To sweet forgetfulness of care.

'Tis form'd of every scented flower

That flings its fragrance o'er the night;

And gifted with a fairy power

To fill thy dreams with forms of light.

'T was braided by an angel boy

When fresh from Paradise he came

To fill our earth-born hearts with joy-
Ah! need I tell the cherub's name?

This contributor I have settled in my own mind to be a descendant of Anna Matilda, the high-priestess of the

Della Cruscan order. The next blazon is an interest. ing view of a young lady, combing her hair. As she seems not to have been long out of bed, the lines which follow are rather appropriate, though I feel quite sure they come from the expert fingers of a merchant's clerk -from the finished elegance, and very sweeping tails of the chirography.

MORNING,

Awake! arise! art thou slumbering still?
When the sun is above the mapled hill,
And the shadows are flitting fast away,
And the dews are diamond beneath his ray,
And every bird in our vine-roofed bower
Is waked into song by the joyous hour;
Come, banish sleep from thy gentle eyes,
Sister! sweet sister! awake! arise!

Yet I love to gaze on thy lids of pearl,
And to mark the wave of the single curl
That shades in its beauty thy brow of snow,
And the cheek that lies like a rose below;
And to list to the murmuring notes that fall
From thy lips, like music in fairy hall.
But it must not be-the sweet morning flies
Ere thou hast enjoyed it; awake! arise!

There is balm on the wings of this freshen'd air;
'T will make thine eye brighter, thy brow more fair,
And a deep, deep rose on thy cheek shall be
The meed of an early walk with me.
We will seek the shade by the green hill side,
Or follow the clear brook's whispering tide;
And brush the dew from the violet's eyes-
Sister! sweet sister! awake! arise!

This I transcribe for the good advice which it contains. And what have we here? It is tastefully headed by an engraving of Hero and Ursula in the "pleached bower," and Beatrice running "like a lapwing" in the background. It begins ominously.

ΤΟ

Oh, look upon this pallid brow!

Say, canst thou there discern one trace
Of that proud soul which oft ere now
Thou'st sworn shed radiance o'er my face?
Chill'd is that soul-its darling themes,
Thy manly honour, virtue, truth
Prove now to be but fleeting dreams,
Like other lovely thoughts of youth.

Meet, if thy coward spirit dare,

This sunken eye; say, dost thou see
The rays thou saidst were sparkling there
When first its gaze was turn'd on thee?
That eye's young light is quench'd forever;
No change its radiance can repair :
Will Joy's keen touch relume it? Never!
It gleams the watch-light of Despair.

I find myself growing hoarse by sympathy, and I shall venture only a single extract more, and this because Miss Fidler declares it, without exception, the sweetest thing she ever read. It is written with a crow-quill, and has other marks of femininity. Its vignette is a little girl and boy playing at battle-door.

BALLAD.

The deadly strife was over, and across the field of fame,
With anguish in his haughty eye, the Moor Almanzor came;
He prick'd his fiery courser on among the scatter'd dead,
Till he came at last to what he sought, a sever'd human head.

It might have seem'd a maiden's, so pale it was, and fair;
But the lip and chin were shaded till they match'd the raven hair.
There lingered yet upon the brow a spirit bold and high,
And the stroke of death had scarcely closed the piercing eagle eye.

Almanzor grasp'd the flowing locks, and he staid not in his flight,
Till he reach'd a lonely castle's gate where stood a lady bright.
"Inez ! behold thy paramour!" he loud and sternly cried,
And threw his ghastly burden down, close at the lady's side.

I sought thy bower at even-tide, thou syren, false as fair!" "And, would that I had rather died! I found yon stripling there. "I turn'd me from the hated spot, but I swore by yon dread

Heaven,

"To know no rest until my sword the traitor's life had riven."

The lady stood like stone until he turn'd to ride away,

And then she oped her marble lips, and wildly thus did say : "Alas, alas! thou cruel Moor, what is it thou hast done!

66

This was my brother Rodriguez, my father's only son."

And then before his frenzied eyes, like a crush'd lily bell,
Lifeless upon the bleeding head, the gentle Inez fell.
He drew his glittering ataghan-he sheath'd it in his side-
And for his Spanish ladye-love the Moor Almanzor died.

This is not a very novel incident, but young ladies like stories of love and murder, and Miss Fidler's tastes were peculiarly young-lady-like. She praised Ainsworth and James, but thought Bulwer's works "very