shoulders, the wild magnificence of her attire, and the profusion of her disheveled locks, glossy black as the plumage of a raven, gave her the appearance of something more than human; such a Sybil,such an imaginary being so awful, so impressive, that my blood chilled as she approached me, not to ask, but to claim my applause; demanding of me if I had ever seen any actress, that could be compared with her in my own, or any other country. "I was determined," she said "to exert myself for you this night, and if the sensibility of the audience would have suffered me to have concluded the scene, I should have conviuced you I do not boast of my own performances without reason."

SHAKSPEARIAN TREASURE.

A LITERARY treasure, (we rejoice to hear,) which is likely to excite strong interest in the minds of all wellread lovers of the ancient English Drama, and will awaken the hopes and fears of every ambitious and jealous collector of scarce books, has lately been brought to light, and re-printed verbatim by Messrs. Payne and Foss, of PallMall. This exhumated curiosity is a book in small 4to. once possessed by Sir Thomas Hanmer, but not alluded to by him, containing the scarce editions of eleven of Shakspeare's Plays, amongst which is Hamlet. The perusal of the whole of these must highly gratify a qualified reader; but a careful collation of the latter tragedy will bestow a greater reward on the diligence of the critical examiner than any or all of the others can give, it is in fact the principal feature in the volume. The following is the title under which it appears. "The Tragicall Historie of Hamlet, Prince of Denmarke, by William Shakespeare. As it has been diuerse times acted by his Highnesse Seruants in the Cittie of London: as also in the Vniuersities of Cambridge and Oxford, and elsewhere. At London, printed for N.L. and John Trundell, 1603." Of this edition not the slightest mention has ever been made; it is therefore fair to conclude, that to the various

able and laborious commentators of Shakspeare it was utterly unknown, the earliest which has ever obtained notice being that of 1604, of which Mr. Malone gives the title, though it is quite clear that he had no other knowledge of it. Many striking peculiarities in this edition of Hamlet tend strongly to confirm the opinion that no small portion of the ribaldry to be found in the plays of our great dramatic poet, is to be assigned to the actors of his time, who flattered the vulgar taste, and administered to the vicious propensities of their age, by the introduction and constant repetition of many indecent, and not a few stupid jokes, till they came to be considered and then printed as part of the genuine text. Of these, the two or three brief but inoffensive speeches of Hamlet to Ophelia in the Play Scene, Act iii. are not to be found in the copy of 1603, and so far we are borne out in our opinion; for it is not to be supposed that Shakspeare would insert them upon cool reflection, and three years after the success of his piece had been determined; still less likely is it that a piratical printer would reject any thing actually belonging to the play, which was pleasing to the great bulk of those who were to become the purchasers of his publication. The drama as it appears in this print of 1603, is much shorter than in any subsequent edition, partly owing perhaps to the negligence of the copyist, but more probably because the author himself elaborated and augmented it after it had been for some time on the stage. The fact of Hamlet having been performed so early at Cambridge and Oxford is not the least remarkable thing in this curious edition of the tragedy.

GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS

PLAYED a memorable trick on the antiquary Gough. He caused to be rudely engraven on a tomb-stone the drinking-horn of Hardykanute, to indicate his last fatal carouse; for the royal Dane died drunk. To prevent any doubt, the name, in Saxon characters, was sufficiently legible. Steeped in pickle, to hasten a precocious antiquity, it was then consigned to the corner of a broker's shop, where the antiquarian eye of Gough often pored on the venerable odds and ends: it perfectly succeeded on the "Director of the Antiquarian Society!"-He purchased the relict for something handsome, and immediately sat down to a dissertation of a due size for the Archælogia.

THE HEART.

BY MR. D. W. JERROLD.

IN this world, where shall we find justice? A false assumption of goodness, and an undeserved opprobrium, make up nearly all the events of this feverish life. If a man were to exclaim to his mistress that her eyes had pierced his Liver, he would be imagined "untaught, unmannerly,"-if he were to say he loved with all his Liver, he would be no less uncouth; therefore he must give the sweet sufferance and dignity of affection to a meritless and inactive agent, called "the Heart." The Heart, which is as remote from passion as should be a Lord Chancellor; however," the Heart" sounds the best, and receives all valuation; it is imagined the store-house of benevolence, the granary of charity, the superb drawingroom of Cupid himself, and many a man who cannot issue virtuous bulletins from "head-quarters," is allowed to do so from "Heart-quarters." The Heart is represented as universal in goodness! Now, the Liver meets unqualified abuse; all evil works are given to it, with no redeeming excellence; it is the grand depôt of bile and vengeance, whose baleful emissaries conquer us with sickness, and discolour us with jaundice. The Heart may be said to laugh in the face, but the Liver always frowns; every good deed is taken from this agent, nothing left but the bile, which though it certainly possesses, it also has all the amiability which we give to a neuter character. Alas! are there not inany communities, many men in this world, who stand in the same relationship as do the Heart and Liver.

SONNET

ON A YOUTH WHO DIED OF EXCESSIVE FRUIT-PIE.

CURRANTS have check'd tbe current of my blood,
And berries brought me to be buried here;
Pears have par'd off my body's hardihood,

Aud plums and plumbers spare not one so spare.
Fain would I fein my fall; so fair a fare

Lessens not hate, yet 'tis a lesson good:

Gilt will not long hide guilt; such thin-wash'd ware
Wears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued.
Grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse,
That lies not as it lies upon my clay,

But, in a gentle strain of unstrained verse,
Prays all to pity a poor patty's prey-

Rehearses I was fruitful to my hearse,

Tells that my days are told, and soon I'm toll'd away.

A FASHIONABLE DAY IN LONDON. IN the morning all is calm-not a mouse stirring before ten o'clock, when the shops begin to open. Milk-women with their pails, perfectly neat, suspended at the two extremities of a yoke, carefully shaped to fit the shoulders, and surrounded with small tin measures of cream, ring at every door with reiterated pulls, to hasten the servants, who come, half-asleep, to receive a measure as big as an egg, being the allowance of a family-for it is necessary to explain, that milk is not here food or drink, but a tincture; an elixir exhibited in drops, five or six at most, in a cup of tea, morning and evening. It would be difficult to say, what taste or what quality those drops may impart, but so it is, and nobody thinks of questioning the propriety of the custom. Not a single carriage is seen passing. The first considerable stir the drum and military music of the guards, marching from the barracks to Hyde Park, having at their head three or four negro giants,striking high,gracefully, and strong, the surrounding cymbal. About three o'clock the fashionable world give some signs of life, issuing forth to visits, or rather to leave cards at the doors of friends never seen but in crowds or assemblies-go to the shops-see sights-or lounge in Bond-street, an ugly inconvenient street, the attractions of which are difficult to understand. At five or six they return home to dress for dinner. From six to eight the noise of wheels increase-it is the dinner hour. A multitude of carriages, with two eyes of flame staring in the dark before each of them, shake the pavement and the very houses, following and crossing each other at full speed; stopping suddenly, a footman jumps down, runs to the door, and lifts up the heavy knocker-gives a great knock, then several small ones in quick succession-then, with all his might, flourishing as on a drum, with an art, and an air, and a delicacy of touch, which denote the quality, the rank, and the fortune of his master.

For two hours, or nearly, there is a pause; at ten, a redoublement comes on. This is the great crisis of dress, of noise, and of rapidity-a universal hubbub; a sort of uniform grinding and shaking, like that experienced in a great mill with fifty pair of stones; and if I was not afraid of appearing to exaggerate, I should say, that it came upon the ear like the fall of Niagara, heard at two miles distance. This crisis continues undiminished till twelve or one o'clock, then less and less during the rest of the night-till, at the approach of day, a single carriage is heard now and then at a great distance.

Great assemblies are called routs or parties; but the people who give them, in their invitations, only say, that they will be at home such a day, and this some weeks beforehand. The house in which this takes place is frequently stripped from top to bottom-beds, drawers, and all but ornamental furniture, are carried out of sight, to make room for a crowd of well-dressed people, received at the door of the principal apartment by the mistress of the house, standing, who smiles at every new comer with a look of acquaintance. Nobody sits; there is no conversation, no cards, no music; only elbowing, turning, and winding from room to room; then, at the end of an hour, escaping to the hall-door to wait for the carriage, spending more time upon the threshold among footmen than you have done above stairs with their masters. From this rout you drive to another, where, after waiting your turn to arrive at the door, perhaps half an hour, the street being full of carriages, you alight, begin the same round, and end in the same manner.

A SPECIMEN OF THE SUBLIME. ON the coast of South America, a dreadful sub-marine convulsion raised a tremendous wave, which rushed to the shore, and bursting over a populous town, swept it and the inhabitants, who were buried in sleep, into the ocean. A sentinel stationed above the town witnessed the horrid scene; the crash and roar woke his commander, who, hurrying to him, eagerly enquired the cause. The trembling sentinel replied, "I saw the sea rush in;— I heard the cry of miserere ;-it again rolled back,—and I heard no more."