amidst her weary service, make toil delightful, if not for its own sake, yet for his. Meanwhile, though pinioned to time and place in her duty, like a wren sitting on nine eggs, every one of which must be hatched; yet as even the brooding mother flits occasionally from the nest "to pick a scanty meal," and then returns with double ardour to her task,- —so our indefatigable maiden seizes the hasty opportunity whenever it occurs, if it be but for a moment, to steal out and exchange a word or a look with the youth of her choice, and feel as if there were something in life worth living for to the poorest of its possessors. And so there is. Preliminaries are soon arranged, where being thrice asked at church is all the legal formality required; they are married, and she has a home of her own, such as it is; but she is charmed with being mistress of herself, and heedless of the future. Her husband lives with her a few years, and they are as well off as other folks their children are multiplied, so are their troubles; trade fails; her partner is unfortunate or improvident; his health is broken, and he dies before his time; or he falls into bad company, his morals are debauched, he goes for a soldier, or runs away nobody knows whither; and she is left, in middle age, a widow, or a widowed wife, with a numerous offspring, the oldest of which is hardly fit for apprenticeship. These grow up around her, if they are not dispersed by the overseers, according to her own character, in habits of industry or sloth, subsisting frugally on their honest earnings, or miserably on parish-allowance. One by one, however, they leave her: the sons are scattered abroad; some settle in humble occupations, others are rovers, and enter the army or seek their fortunes at sea; the daughters in their turns engage in domestic service, or in manufactories, from whence, in the course of nature, (as it is in low life,) they are duly married off; and while she is growing old, her immediate successors are transmigrating through the same stages of poverty and trial, to the same consummation of wretchedness as she and her husband passed before them, and through which their descendants are doomed, to follow them. Every year they are further removed, and estranged from her, or have additional burthens and expences of their own to bear. Thus every year she is more deserted; and her helps fail just in proportion as her strength declines, her infirmities increase, and assistance from others be comes indispensable to her well-being. At length, worn down with bodily exertions and long suffering; broken in spirits, and bowed under a weight of years; without a relative beneath her roof, — if she have yet a roof to shelter her, except perhaps a grandchild or two, whose parents are in the grave, and whom she has to nurse and feed, when she herself ought to be nursed and fed like an infant, she lingers out to the latest period of decay in penury and sickness, with just food enough to make her feel unceasingly the yearnings of hunger, and clothing enough to make the lack of more a grievous discomfort. Yet so mysteriously and mercifully mingled is the cup of life, that there is sweetness at the end of the bitterest draught, S 4 and and the very dregs of it are drained with delight by those to whom "the evil days are come, and the years when they say we have no pleasure in them." These few general outlines, with little comparative variation, might be filled up with the features of each particular case in "the short and simple annals” of thousands of poor old women breathing at this day the air of heaven, and loving the warmth of the sun, if they cannot see his beams, so as to form perfect biographical resemblances of all.' 6 Like Montaigne, this Poet' has "a melancholick and pensive way, that withdraws him into himself;" and, accordingly, many of his speculations are little more than delineations of his own sensitive feelings. Were we compelled to characterize him in a few words, we should say that he is a person who thinks with his heart, and whose writings are therefore not always intelligible to others who use merely their heads in that operation. My thoughts,' says he, 'were all feelings: for feeling and thinking are sometimes so indefinitely blended, that they are one, like the warmth and light of the sun.' In this respect he differs from Montaigne, whom in other points he so much resembles. The French essayist was as far removed from a poet as the English author is from a philosopher, but in both of them we find the same fearless and candid disclosure of their thoughts and feelings, down to the merest trifles. Let the reader compare Montaigne's account of the objects which employed his thoughts when he imagined himself near his dissolution, and this Prose-Poet's description of the pleasures which he derived from pebble-hunting at Scarborough. The rambling and discursive style of both writers is well suited to the subject which employs their pens, but is nevertheless occasionally fatiguing to the reader. Misled, perhaps, by the prevailing taste for brilliant writing, the Poet' sometimes becomes too sparkling and antithetical in his prose; and the gaiety of his pages is not altogether natural and unforced. Indeed, according to our judgment, the few graver papers which the volumes contain are decidedly the most pleasing and valuable. We must illustrate our observations by a few passages from the Journal at Scarborough.' This morning, after a night of such delirious dreamings as find their way into a man's head, when he expects to set out on a journey, and fears that he may not be called in time, towards daylight I became so much more awake than asleep as to distinguish, that certain sounds which I had first heard, when I was more asleep than awake, were the chimes of the parish-church of D. announcing the hour of five. After giddily listening to them till my brain grew tolerably steady, I lay still a few minutes longer to muster courage for the strange adventure of rising at so untimely an hour for for the sluggard. There was no alternative but to make the effort or be left behind. I roused myself thoroughly, and did not repent the exertion, for just as the Town-hall clock struck six, "smack went the whip; round went the wheels;" and away we rattled in the Union coach for R. There was a special pleasure in finding myself snug within the little moving room, between its two chattering windows, because some of my fellow-travellers were not so fortunate as to keep the places which they had got on the outside. Two youths, one of whom had the care of the guns, and the other of the dogs with which they were setting out on a shooting expedition into Lincolnshire, were separated by an awkward accident. The guns did not go off, but the dogs did; and suddenly bolting out of the basket behind, they ran homeward up the last street as we left the town. The coach was stopt several minutes, while the lad who was their keeper followed the chace, whistling, and calling, and panting after them in vain. Whether he caught the game or not, is beyond my shrewdness to conjecture, for we saw no more of him; his companion with the artillery proceeded with us, and he may live to come another day.' I had a companion, an elderly gentleman, with me in the inside; and before the end of this stage I had learned that we were to be partners to Scarborough: his name I never found out; but as he happened to know mine, that was sufficient for all the purposes of occasional conversation by the way: he was just such company as I like in such a case; he neither bored me with his eternal talk, nor expected me to entertain him with mine, straining to be heard against the grinding of wheels, the ringing of harness, and the clattering of hoofs: but I must run back some dozen lines to bring up the sense, which is often left behind when I am running away with words. I beg their pardon, I mean when words are running away with me, as they are at this moment, even while I am complaining of their legerdemain ;- I must therefore break through, at a right angle, from this labyrinth of digression: the fog was so dense when we landed at R. that, without a quibble, it bade fair to be a foul day. 'Just as I stept upon the pavement before the sign of the Ram, a gentleman, with locks which Time had blanched, and a countenance which he had furrowed without spoiling; -- nay, some faces and ringlets are mightily improved by the touches and colouring of that hand which finally obliterates every things; - this gentleman, so mellowed by years, looked earnestly in my face, and grasping my arm with the cordial violence of good nature, insisted, in spite of my stammering excuses, that I should go and breakfast with him and his lady, being old acquaintance, - till the coach, which was not expected for an hour, came in from the north. I went, and was kindly welcomed by Mrs. *****, whom I am afraid I hurried beyond her convenience, to suit my haste. That, however, was her good man's business, and no doubt for his sake, if not for mine, she was glad for once to be put out of her way. I had long known him as an ingenious painter, but was surprised to find that he had latterly turned his hand to modelling. He showed to say, showed me several creditable specimens of his proficiency, particularly busts of Dr. C. and Mr. Southey. At parting, he asked a favour of me, (as he termed it,) which I felt little ambition to grant, though the request implied a compliment far above my merits. It was, that he might be allowed to make a model from my head. What sort of a head must his own be, for such a thought to come into it? He would not be said nay, and when I pleaded that mine was not a skull for an exhibition, he was pleased "It is enough for me that it is Mr. * * * * *'s." This of course put me to silence. However, as it was not convenient to leave the original in his hands, expecting that I might possibly have occasion for such a thing as a head before my journey's end, I carried it away on my shoulders, promising him the reversion of it when I could better spare it. N. B. Whatever I may permit Mr. * * * * * to do with the outside of my head, he shall make no model of the inside, I'll promise him; one peep into that little Bedlam would satisfy any of my friends, that their ignorance of me is sometimes very much to their advantage, as well as to mine; in what manner, it becomes not me to say. But my journal will be as long as the Universal History at this rate; I must be brief henceforward; indeed, on recollection of the memorabilia of this day, I find that the most interesting events occurred in the morning; so I may finish the notices of it in the log-book style, with the simple record of matters of fact.' Had we not heard the common report that Mr. Montis the author of this work, the following very pleasgomery sing verses, from the conclusion of the second volume, would have induced us to guess their parentage: A Lucid Interval. Oh! light is pleasant to the eye, And health comes rustling on the gale, Clouds are careering through the sky, Whose shadows mock them down the dale; Nature as fresh and fragrant seems As I have met her in my dreams. In gloom and loneliness of mind, To every form of beauty blind; Tracks to a point the eagle's flight. ; Range Range the O Earth! in maiden innocence, Too early fled thy golden time; O Earth! Earth! Earth! for man's offence, Yet what a world of bliss was left! • The thorn, harsh emblem of the curse, • And Death himself, with all the woes Friendship is sweet, Love sweeter still; One generous hope, one chastening ill? Far as eternity can go: Thy love to win, thy wrath to flee, O God! Thyself mine helper be.' ART. |