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1818.] Anecdote of Professor John.-Fouche. Doctor Garth. 231 returning from collecting, and had only All eyes were fixed on him, yet his 130 franks about him, of which he was features remained unchanged. The robbed, as well as of his watch, and reading began; still he remained unring. The charge of the gun was ram- moved, though at many allusions the med down with a written paper. This scrutinizing eyes of the hearers were had been carefully taken up, and carried turned upon him. When at last the away with the body. The writing was minister of Charles I. defending his still legible. On this piece of paper master, exclaims, “ Le jugement d'un there were expressions which are used Roi n'est qu'un assassinat," the company in glass manufactories, and a date of were going to express their approbation near fifteen years back. Upon this single aloud, but they were prevented by the indication, the Judge went to the owner presence of the minister. This did not of the glass manufactory at Bilguy, ex- escape him, and seemed to embarrass. amined his books, and succeeded in find- him for a moment. When the reading ing an article relative to the delivery of was finished, every one went away, some glass, of which the paper in question except Fouche. After some general was the bill of parcels. "The suspicion remarks upon the plan, and the chaimmediately fell on the son-in-law of this racters of the piece, he added, “ in individual : the latter had been out of respect to that verse, I utterly dethe country for ten years. Order was spise it." given to arrest the person suspected. Raynouard did not answer, but When the officers came to him, he was Fouche walked up and down with long on his knees, praying. In his fright, he strides, and said, " the political part of confessed the deed on the spot, and even your tragedy is very weak; you stand shewed where the watch and ring were, upon the tower of Notre Dame, instead which were indeed found under the of penetrating into the interior. In thatch of his house.

politics every thing has a different point Anecdote.

of view. Circumstances-you do not The following anecdote of Professor Raynouard interrupted him by re.

know the effect of circumstances." John, in Berlin, whose system for making youth perfect in gymnastic ex

peating the verse ; " le jugement d'un ercises, has given rise to endless dis

roi n'est qu'un assassinat," and Fouche

left the room. putes in Germany, is highly characteristic. When the French were in Anecdote of Doctor Garth. Berlin, John went with his scholars to Doctor Garth, who was a great fre. exercise on the heath out of the city. quenter of the Wit's Coffee-house (the On his return he took it into his head, Cocoa Tree, in St. James's-street,) was to ask a boy who loitered under the sittingthe reone morning conversing with Brandenburg Gate, “ What used to two persons of rank, when Rowe, the stand at this gate ?” “The

Victory !" poet, (who was seldom very attentive “What is become of her?" "The French to his dress and appearance, but still have carried her to France !" "What do insufferably vain of being noticed by you think of it?" " Nothing at all!” persons of consequence,) entered, and Upon this, John gave him a hearty box placing himself in a box nearly opposite on the ear, with the serious admonition, to that in which the Doctor sat, looked “ She was there, and may be fetched constantly round, with a view of catching back again, if every one help!" The his eye ; but not succeeding, he desired school never forgot it, though the citi- the waiter to ask him for his snuff-box, zens of Berlin, thought the Professor which he knew to be a valuable one, mad, because he required that a boy set with diamonds, and the present of should think something at seeing the some foreign prince ; this he returned, gate without the Victory, while and asked for so repeatedly, that Garth, thousands passed through it every day who knew him well, perceived the drift, without thinking any thing.

and accordingly took from his pocket a

pencil, and wrote on the lid the two Anecdole of Fouche.

Greek characters o P(phi rho,) which so The well known poet Raynouard once mortified the poet that he quitted the read his tragedy of Charles I. to a large room.- - Literary Gazette. company, in which Foache was present.

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From hearing you of fondness speak?

Propriety now shrinks, in
There was a time I need not name,

For I'm engaged to wed next week Since it will ne'er forgotten be,

The charming Mr. Jinks. When all our feelings were the same,

4. As still my soul hath been to thee :

That girl on t'other side the table And from that hour when first thy tongue Kicks me as hard as she is able: Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,

Miss, this behaviour's really shocking, Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, See! how you've dirted all my stocking! Unknown, and thus unfelt by thine;

5. None, none hath sunk so deep as this, She's pretty, Sir! The truth to tell,

To think how soon that love hath flown; Before I never met her: Transient as every faithless kiss,

She certainly is mighty well, But transient in thy breast alone.

But—I'm a great deal better! And yet my heart some solace knew,

6. When late I heard thy lips declane I'm really overpowered with heat, In accents once imagined true,

And feel so qualmish-keep your seat, Remembrance of the days that were. For I shall quickly be at ease.

Lend me your hat, Sir, if you please! Yes, my adored !-yet most unkind!

7. Though thou wilt never love again, To me 'tis doubly sweet to find

I lovely !-Oh Sir! dear Sir, hush! Remembrance of that love remain.

Speak lower, or you'll make me blush.

You think I rouge, but be it known, Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,

This charming colour's all my own. Nor longer shall my soul repine;

Whate'er thou art, or e'er shalt be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine!

Compared to Love, oh! what is wealth?
Love is -! really, Sir, your health !

On hearing the notes of a Flute re-echoed I'm sorry that so bad your chance is,
by the strings of a Harp.

For I’m engaged the twelve next dances ! When from the flute's melodious voice

10. Distils the liquid note,

Not a drop more, this wine's too heady, Amid the harp-strings as it strays, I've drunk twelve glasses, Sir, already. Running a wild voluptuous maze

To hob and nob with you I've no objection, Doubting it seems to float;

I prefer sherry, Sir, to your affection. And when at last some kindred key

11. Calls forth its powers of sympathy, It seems with trembling pleasure to rejoice.

Do make my heart for ever easy!

Pray tell me, do my features please ye? So when we launch forth on life's sea

12. Of woe and malison,

Pert minx! she puts me in a flame! Long time in vain we rove to find

Oh how these hands could maul her! The associate and congenial mind

Do look how Mr. What's his name That strikes in unison;

Flirts with Miss What d'ye call her.. And when, at last, the friend we meet Whose bosom owns the self-same heat,

13. With joy we hail the port where we would

Pray Sir take care ! be.


He's drunk I swear
That fellow's always guzzling.

That's very fine,

He spills the wine,
BY THE LATE M. G. LEWIS, ESQ. And spoils my bran new muslin.

14. This is not proper! Take another, What shall I do? I've left, I find, Or else I vow I'll tell your mother.

My pocket handkerchief behind! That man looking at you, not that one, his Yet, now I think of it, one way brother

The comfort of my nose secures,He's blind of one eye--and squints with the Do me the favour, Sir, I pray, other.

To let me have a blow on yours! 2.

15. How ill-Miss Gig was drest last night! Each hair was plastered bolt upright; Think not I mean those airs for graces ; Her cap at least a week she'd wore,

My soul such affectation scorns, And pinned her gown the back before. But my tight shoes, Sir, pinch my corns.


Original and Select Poetry.


[The following terses, which are now print- A surgeon barber wore,

ed for the first time, were written a few And doubtless, too, these stirrups prized, years ago by the late Dr. Ferriar, of By fell magician's skill disguised, Manchester, and addressed to C. White, The recreant artist bore. esq. F.R.S. on his supposing a pair of To vulgar eyes, the golden gleam antique stirrups, in his possession, to have

Shew'd but a poor brass bason's beam! belonged to Charles the First.]

The gen'rous steed, an ass! O White! for gold still fondly yearning,

On thine and Quixote's noble soul Who turn’st, with thy accustomed learning, Sublimed from common thought's controul To gold these stirrups brazen;

The juggle could not pass. To thee, great marvels I reveal,

O haste, pursue the fav’ring fates !
And fired with sympathetic zeal.

Perhaps that precious helm awaits
Their high descent emblazon.

Thee in some barber's shed!

Be every shaver's shelves reviewed, Unhappy Charles, who lost his power

'Till thy discovering genius shrewd, By councils weak, in evil hour,

Shall fix it on thy head!
Ne'er prest their ample basis;
Mambrino was their rightful lord,

Or in thy great Museum shewn
Whom high heroic tales record

With negro skulls and Mammoth's bone, As old as Albucasis.

Be hung th' authentic beaver !

That thy collection may outshine His gorgeous helm 'ere won in fight, Whate'er the world has deemed most fine, By famed La Mancha’s wand'ring knight, Of Hunter, Sloane, or Lever.


Makes the dread privilege of birth. (From the German of Breuner.)

Passion's wild flame was past, but he The wind was wild, the sea was dark, Who pined before her burning eye, The lightning flash'd above ;—the bark The numbered beatings of whose heart That anchored in the rocky bay,

Told, on that summit they must partBath'd its top pennon in the spray;

He was life, soul, and world to her: Hollow and gloomy as the grave

Beside him, what had she to fear? Rollid to the shore the mighty wave, Life had for her nor calm nor storm Then gathering wild, with thundering sweep, While she stood gazing on that form, Flash'd its white foam-sheat up the steep : And clasped his hand, tho' lost and lone,The sight was terror-but behind

His dying hand, but all her own; Shouts of pursuit were on the wind; She knelt beside him, on her knee Trumpet, and yell, and clash of shield, She raised his wan cheek silently : Told where the human hunters wheeld,

She spoke not, sighed not; to his breast, Through the last valley's forest glen. Her own, scarce living now, was prest, Where, Bertha, was thy courage then ? And felt, if where the senses reel, She cheer'd her warrior, tho' his side O'er wrought-o'er flooded—we can feel Still with the gushing blood was dyed, The thoughts, that when they cease to be, Up the rude mountain-path her hand Leave life one vacant misery. Sustained his arm, and dragged his brand, She kissed his chilling lip, and bore Nor shrank, nor sighed; and when his The look, that told her all was o'er.

tread Paused on the promontory's head,

The echoes of pursuit again She smiled, altho' her lip was pale

Rolled on-she gazed upon the main; As the torn silver of his mail.

Then seem'd the mountain's haughty steep

Too humble for her desperate leap; All there was still—the shouts had past,

Then seem'd the broad and bursting wave Sunk in the rushings of the blast;

Too calm, too shallow, for her grave. Below, the vapour's dark grey screen,

She turned her to the dead :-his brow. Shut out from view the long ravine;

Once more she gave her kiss of woe; Then,swept the circle of the hill,

She gave his cheek one bitter tear, Like billows round an ocean isle.

The last she had for passion here The ray the parting sunbeam ffung,

Then to the steep away, away! In white, cold radiance on them hung ;

To the whirlwind's roar and the dash of the They stood upon that lonely brow,


Like spirits loosed from human woe;
And pausing, ere they spread the plume,
Above that waste of storm and gloom.

To linger there was death, but there I knew a heart—its texture such
Was that which masters death, Despair- As seldom on this earth is found,
And even Despair's high master, Love. A heart, on which the slightest touch
Her heart was, like her form, above

Would make a deep and lasting wound.
The storms, the stormier thoughts that Alas! that heart, tho truly good,

Has blanch'd its wounds in tears of blood; New Monthly Mag No. 57.

Vol. X.

2 H

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Select Poetry.

[Oct, 1. But still in upright deeds appearing, With her due Hymn to the Virgin, I have No other comfort would it borrow;

turn'd Repeated shocks far fail'd in searing, Even from the glory of her eye, to weep,

Or binding up the Heart of Sorrow! With sudden keenness of delight. Those It knew no pride, but pride of soul 1-2

tears, A pride which even Angels love;

On earth I weep no more-She's in the It knew no law-own'd no controul,

But claim'd affiance with the dove.
Yet bled it freely from each smart

Of Hatred's bow, and Slander's dart;
Tho' giant Pride, in strength appearing, Cecidit velut prati

Mark'd the tear through many a furrow, Ultimi flos prætereunte postquam
Still-oh! still-devoid of fearing

Tactus aratro est! Boldly beat that Heart of Sorrow.

CATULLUS, Car. II. It beat :-Affliction long had worn

Fair was thy thread of life, thou gente maid, Those tender strings which health impart, But quickly by the envious sisters shorn, And many a brutal hand had torn

E'en as the rosebad from its stem The reeking ruins of that heart.

Is cropp'd-to bloom no more! And must the sting of haggard care, And like that flow'ret too, which tho it fadě, Without sveet Hope, still fester there?

Preserves a vestige of its former worth ;Would it were still, or void of feeling !

Is fragrant in decay,
Grief drew the bow its peace to sever, And odorous in death :
Inflicting wounds past ever healing :
It twang'd-and then it trembled ever.

So, tho' on earth thy form no more can

wear, It beat--for ev'ry silken vein

The wonted semblance of its winning grace, Rent, whene'er the arrow flew;

Yet shall thy virtues live,
Ils finest chords respons'd the strain

And Time's rude hand defy.
Which Discord set, and Malice drew :
For then its strings were loosen'd all,

Vanish'd are now thy flattering dreams of As wither'd leaves in autumn fall.


Alike insensible to joy or pain ; But Hope still whisperd-woe forgetting

A wakeless sleep thou sleep'st The Sun of Joy may rise to-morrow," Its cheering beams tho' now they're

Thy bed—the cold damp grave! setting,

Still we may envy thee that peaceful rest, Will yet light up that Heart of Sorrow. Since ne'er again by human ills assaila,

Shall thy too yielding soul

In fruitless sorrow pinie.

A. A. W. She had a form; but I might talk till night, Young as the sun is now upon our watch, Ere I had told its beauties it was slight,

STANZAS. E'en as yon willow, and like its soft stem, The soul that was shrouded in sorrow's dark Fell into thousand motions, and all lovely. night But for her cheek-look on those streaks of A peace-promising beam woke to gladnées

and light; Tinting the white clouds o'er us, now and And the lute that so long, lorn, and tune then

less had hung, A flush of deeper crimson lighting up Once more with the wild notes of harmony Their wreathes, like wind kissed lilies :

rung: Now and then a long, rich, ebon tinge,

Ah! why did that beam only shine to beguile, Floating between them-There I think I see

Ah! why did it teach the fond mourner to Still, though she's in her grave, the cheek I

smile? lov'd, With the dark tress that veil'd it. When I Why, faithlessly grant him a seeming te

prieve, Beneath her eye, I felt its splendour on me

Then, leave him in sadness still deeper to Like a bright spel.—'Tis not the diamond's



grieve? ray,

The light is gone by-and the music is o'er, Nor vesper star-light, nor aught beautiful And the feelings so lovely—are lovely po In that ascending sun, or in this world, Can bring me back its image ;- 'twas a soul That soul once again its dark vigils is keeping, That has to portraiture on earth; a beam And the lute 'neath the cold chain of silence As we have heard of Angels, where no lips

is sleeping!

A. A. W Are wanted to give utterance to the thoughts Her eye was radiant thought. Yet when her ERRATA-In'out last Number, in the Sopvoice

net to ****" line 6, for gift read debt Spoke to me, or, at ev’ning o'er her lute,

and in the « Sopnet written at the Chateau Breath'd some old melody, or clos’d the day

de Clarers," line 13, for each read much,


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