delight, and her cheek would mantle with enthusiasm ; or, if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigb and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness.

Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the connection in levity; for he had often heard his brother officers boast of their village conquests, and thougbt some triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervour. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and dissipated life: it caught fire from tbe very flame it sought to kindle; and before he was aware of the nature of his situation, hé became really in love.

(Continued at page 170.)

NEWSPAPER-WRITERS. THE merits of newspaper writers are of a very equivocal nature. Perhaps their most evident merit is assiduity : but newspapers, like pins, pass through several hands before they are completed. Dr. Johnson in speaking of newspapers, says “ To these compositions is required neither genius or knowledge, neither industry nor sprightJiness, but contempt of shame and indifference to truth, are absolutely necessary.” He then talks of their increase in the time of war, and concludes by affirming that a peace will equally leave the warrior and the newspaper writer destitute of employment; and I know not whether more is to be dreaded from streets filled with soldiers accustomed to plunder, or from garrets filled with scribblers accustomed to lie.” The late Mr. Perry, of the Morning Chronicle, was the polar star of the Newspaper press, and by his indefatigable industry and its attepdaut success, he rose to great importance.

Mr. Perry too became a man of letters, and by lucky hits, amassed considerable wealth; but his impaired health marred its enjoyment. Dr. Johnson's opinion is rather too morose; for notwithstanding the corruption and tergiversation of newspaper writing, there are men to be found whose political consistancy ranks them among the most useful and exemplary members of society.


NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried hiin darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin confined his breast,

Not in sheet or in sbroud we wound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.
Few and sbort were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of ihe dead;

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we bollowed bis parrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, Fhead,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his

And we-far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

Aud o'er bis cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,

Jo the grave where a Briton laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock told the hour of retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory. Numerous authors have claimed the above beautiful verses ; among the most forward has been the Rev. Mr. R. H. yet it is geuerally supposed they came from the pen of the deceased Byron.

BYRON. STRANGE and singular, when we reflect upon it, has been the destiny of a man of such splendid talents and acquirements. Born to an ample fortune, and moving in the highest sphere of existence, a bapless and ill-fated marriage blasted at once his happiness and peace. An ornament to letters and his country, he became an involuntary exile-cut off from domestic comforts and endearments, and seperated, alas; far and for ever, from the child of his affections and his hopes! Is it to be won. dered, then, that flung upon the world in early youth, with all the means of gratification within his power, he should sometimes have been betrtycd into regretted excesses, and that so situated and so circumstanced ip after years, he should sometimes in dissipation have grasped at visionary happiness? hunted too, as he was, even in bis most distant retreats, by the foulest calumny and slander ,embittering his solitary existence even to the very grave!-How truly prophetic of himself are the following lines, so full of pathos and expression, from the 4th Canto of his Childe Harold :

Have I not-
Hear me my mother earth! bebold it Heaven!
Have I not had to restle with my lot?
Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?
Have I not had my brain sear’d, my heart riven,
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away?
But I have lived, and have not lived in vain :
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquering pain ;
But there is that within me which shall fire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire;
Something unearthly, which they deem not of,
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre,

Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.

DR. JENNER Sent the following Epigram, accompanied with a couple of Ducks to a Patient. “I've dispatch'd my dear madam, this scrap of a letter:

To say that Miss- is very much better:
A regular doctor no longer she lacks,
And therefore I've sent her a couple of quacks.”

SONG. They may rail at this this life--from the hour I began it

I've found it a life full of kindness and bliss, And until they can shew me some happier planet,

More social and bright, I'll content me with this. As long as the world has such eloquent eyes,

As before me this moment enraptur'd I see, They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. lo Mercury's star, where each minute can bring them

New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,

They've none, even there, more enamour'd than I, And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,

And that eye its divine inspiration sball be, They may talk as they will of their Edens above, · But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour,

At twilight so often we've roam'd through the dew, There are maideas, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender, - And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you, But though they were even more bright than the green

Of that isle they inhabit in heav'ns blue sea. As I never these fair young celestials have seen,

Why-tbis earth is the planet for you, love, and me. As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,

Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,

Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could spare. Oh! think what a world we should have of it here,

If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,

And leave earth to such spirits as you, love,--and me.

CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS. THE kind-hearted and highly gifted ELIA in his "Praise of Chimney-Sweepers," says "I like to meet a sweep understand me-not a grown sweeper-old chimney sweepers are by no means attractive, but one of thos tender novices, blooming through their first nigritude the maternal washings not quite effaced from the cheek such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier

with their little professional notes sounding like the peep peep of a young sparrow; or liker to the matin lark should I pronounce them in their ærial ascents not seldom anticipating the sun rise? I have a kindly yearning toward these dim specks-poor blots-innocent blacknesses. I reverence these young Africans of our own growtb ; these almost clergy imps, who sport their cloth without assumption; and from their little pulpits (the tops of chimneys) in the nipping air of a December morning, preach a les. son of patience to mankind. When a child, what a mysterious pleasure it was to witness their operation ! To see a chit no bigger than one's self enter, one knew not by what process, into what seemed the fauces Averni, to pursue him in imagination as he went sounding on through so many dark stiAing caverns, horrid shades! To shudder with the idea that "now, surely he must be Jost for ever !" To revive at hearing his feeble shout of discovered day-light! and then (0, fullness of delight!) running out of doors, to come just in time to see the sable phenomenon emerge in safety, the brandished wea. pon of his art victorious like some Aag waved over a conquered citadel! I seem to remember having been told, that a bad sweep was once left in a stack with his brush to indicate which way the wind blew. It was an awful spectacle certainly; not much unlike the old stage-direc. tion of Macbeth,' where the apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.” Reader, if thou meetest one of these small gentry in thy rambles, it is good to give him a penny. It is better to give him twopence. If it be stormy weather, and to the proper trou. bles of his hard occupation, a pair of kibed heels (no unusual accompaniment) be superadded, the demand on thy humanity will surely rise to a tester.”

IT has long been my opinion, (said Horace Walpole,) that the Out-pensioners of Bedlam are so numerous, that the shortest and cheapest way would be to confine in Moorfields the few that remain in their senses, who would then be safe, and let the rest go out at large.

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