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" the Naval officer at Haulbowline, for conveyance to Plymouth, some « cordage may be made, in order to ascertain more correctly its strength !! and its fitness for Naval purposes."
A few days ago I received from a quondam College acquaintance, now in London, the letter from which the following is an extract—it needs but little comment-it speaks for itself. “ By the bye, speaking of the black mare, poor
-, of Mag“ dalen, is oft-blew his brains out a few days ago—he road a famous “ black mare at Cambridge, you remember, and a bold horseman he was “ he left us oddly enough at College, and went abroad, and when he
came back, gave us all the go bye, on town—he was always a queer fel“ low, especially after the death of** *_they say that he **_E**, who picks up all sorts of odd things, gave me a paper of verses that was “ found in his desk the day after his death, I dont know what to make of “ them but as you are a poet, I send them to you.—He was a devil of a “ fool to shoot himself, that B-: for he was a fine looking fellow, and “had plenty of money, and half the girls in town were dying in love for “ him.-Dont forget the Greyhound, like a good fellow, and be sure to”
Poor Edward ! your moan was soon made by the companion of your youth-I saw him about a year ago, and an altered man indeed he was, 1 annex the unfinished verses which my sporting correspondent could “ make nothing of;" to me they have told much ; they have one merit at least, they are true to nature; they exhibit a faithful picture of the mind of the unhappy man, and they teach an awful lesson. --Young, talented, and accomplished, as he was, with every advantage of person and of fortune, one would have deemed his course through life, a path strewed with flowers.—What was his fate?-A miserable existence-a fearful end.
I stand upon the brink of life, and look
I would I might forget those passages
I wander-I am wandering from my task.---
Her voice was low, and soft, and musical ;
We parted. The inexorable one
-And then she turned her gentle eyes to mine, And her lips moved, as tho' they syllabled The words they might not ikter, for the voice The sweet low voice I had so loved, was gone,
-And when she saw the effort was in vain, And that it moved me to an agony, She sighed —-as if for me--not for herselfAnd tremulously loosened from her clasp The passive hand she held unconsciously, And looked the sad farewell, she might not speak : A sweet, long look of pity and of love
-And then her features settled, as her spirit Receding slowly from its dwelling place, Addressed itself unto it's earthly flight
What next befel me there, I cannot tell,
-I would that I might taste such sleep again,
For while it lasts, it cancels our existence
When I awakened into dreary life,
How long that unimaginable strife
I pray you, when I pass from out this body,
Letter to the Editor, inclosing the Letters of Amy Grey. DEAR SIR,
I shall feel obliged by your inserting a portion of “The posthumous letters of Amy Grey," in your Magazine. They were written by a dear and valued friend, who during her life-time shrunk from appearing before the world, but in her last illness she complied with my earnest request, that I might be allowed to publish them after her death. I feel deeply anxious, that sentiments so well felt, and so well expressed, as those of my valued friend, should at last meet the public eye, and perhaps influence the public caste. The character and writings of the celebrated individual to whom they relate, have long been themes for illiberality and misconception. If there be any, who allow their rage for condemnation to extend beyond the hallowed precincts of the tomb, without venturing to remind them of the Christian precept, “judge not, that ye be not judged," we may simply ask: is it not the law of England, that every man shall be judged by his peers? The answer is obviously contained in the question : where are Lord Byron's peers ? To him, it is true, the publication of these letters can be of no consequence. No,
for the fetter'd Eagle breaks his chain,
And higher worlds than this are his again.” But doubtless it is of consequence, that the subject should be discussed in the spirit of enlightened impartiality; and the letters of Amy Grey prove how highly the noble Poet was estimated by a person, who possessed not only rare and personal talents, but an eminently pious and virtuous soul. It may likewise be useful to show, that on the minds of the young and innocent, (who are not exposed to injudicious comments) the impression that the works in question have made, and which they are most likely to make, is neither dangerous nor unsalutary.
I have never known a more interesting woman, than Amy Grey. I saw her in the spring-lide of her existence, and I can never forget the novel and attractive style of her appearance, at the early age of sixteen. She was not pretty-she was much more. If an elastic form, if a noble line of feature, if soft dark eyes, “ lovely in their strength;” if the power of intellect, and the spell of gracefulness are allowed to constitue beauty-Amy Grey was beautiful. I saw her in after-life: when care and suffering, had blended premature grey hairs, with her luxuriant raven tresses, when the lustre of her eye was dimmed, yet not extinguished, when her wan, though still lovely eyelids, told a tale of sorrow, which was concealed from the indifferent spectator, by a smile beaming with playfulness and intelligence, and by a glance still bright, with the inspiration of genius. Her manners, gay, graceful, and fascinating to an unusual degree, were to the last, untainted by provincialism; they would have graced the most polished court. I am incompetent to convey a just idea, of the rare and exquisite conversational powers, of this highly-gifted woman,
Whose humour aš gay, as the fire-fly's liglit
Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd,
Never carried a heart-stain away on its blade.