As many journalists have described the most tragic parts of the narrative, I felt the more called upon to present the ludicrous passages that occurred, and thus supply the lights. to the shades of a picture that is destined to occupy a prominent place in the National Gallery. The accuracy of the statements may be implicitly relied upon. The Jubb letters are from real originals, and any gentleman who may be sceptical upon the epistle of Ann Gale, shall be welcome to her hand. I confess I had doubts myself of the genuineness of M. Chabert's account, till it was corroborated by a policeman (N. 75), who assured me that he was severely burnt in both hands by a large hot inkstand that was delivered to him by a gentleman in a great coat. For the rest of the particulars I confidently appeal to the Ode to Mr. Buckingham, with its ex-tracts from the Temperance Report itself, in proof of my anxiety to adduce nothing that cannot be strictly verified. The descriptive reports of the fire, I had from the highest authorities, persons for instance on the steeple of St. Margaret's Church, or in the iron galleries of the Monument and St. Paul's. Besides, I was at the scene myself. Through my not being personally intimate with all the peers, and indeed with many of the commoners, I may have made some confusion as to individuals; such as mistaking Sir John Hobhouse for Lord Althorp, or Mr. Cobbett for Sir Andrew Agnew, or Mr. O'Gorman Mahon for Mr. Pease. I can only say, that all such errors will be cheerfully amended, on application, in a new edition; and that if any nobleman, or gentleman, who was present, feels himself hurt by being out of the fire, a warm place shall be booked for him, in either House, or the Hall, at his own option, or he may go over them all in three heats.

With this liberal promise, I bow and take my leave, sincerely hoping that I have committed no breach of

privilege in publishing such parliamentary proceedings, and that throughout the narrative, there is no call for any cry like "chair, chair! order, order!"

[In the beginning of 1835 my father was involved in heavy pecuniary difficulties by the failure of a firm, and resolved on going abroad to live-in the vain hope of being able to retrench and save. In his passage from England to Rotterdam he was nearly lost in the Lord Melville. This Sonnet was probably written soon after the event; the original MS., written in a hand that betrays signs of weakness, being in my possession. In spite of the forgiveness he extended to his "old love," I fear it is only too certain that from the storm of the 4th of March, 1835, dated the commencement of a long series of illnesses, which could anything have embittered existence to one so cheerful in spirit-would have made his life a suffering, to be endured with a sad resolution and patience, chiefly founded on its probably brief duration.]

SONNET TO OCEAN.

SHALL I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,

Sending my clay below, my soul above,

Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth?
Yet didst thou ne'er restore my fainting health ?—
Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me ?—
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!

COBLENZ, May, 1835.

[The following lines were printed in the "Athenæum" in March, the month in which my father left England. It was afterwards included in "Up the Rhine."]

ΤΟ

COMPOSED AT ROTTERDAM.

I GAZE upon a city,-
A city new and strange,—
Down many a watery vista
My fancy takes a range;
From side to side I saunter,
And wonder where I am;
And can you be in England,

And I at Rotterdam!

Before me lie dark waters
In broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams
Sleep, restless in their sleep;
A sort of vulgar Venice
Reminds me where I am;
Yes, yes, you are in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.

Tall houses with quaint gables,
Where frequent windows shine,
And quays that lead to bridges,
And trees in formal line,
And masts of spicy vessels

From western Surinam,

All tell me you're in England,

But I'm in Rotterdam.

Those sailors, how outlandish
The face and form of each!
They deal in foreign gestures,
And use a foreign speech;
A tongue not learn'd near Isis,
Or studied by the Cam,

Declares that you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.

And now across a market
My doubtful way I trace,
Where stands a solemn statue,
The Genius of the place;

And to the great Erasmus

I offer my salaam ;

Who tells me you're in England

But I'm at Rotterdam.

The coffee-room is open-
I mingle in its crowd,—
The dominos are noisy-
The hookahs raise a cloud;
The flavour, none of Fearon's,
That mingles with my dram,
Reminds me you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.

Then here it goes, a bumper-
The toast it shall be mine,
In schiedam, or in sherry,
Tokay, or hock of Rhine;

March, 1835.

It well deserves the brightest,
Where sunbeam ever swam-
"The Girl I love in England"
I drink at Rotterdam!

[This Sonnet was sent to my mother from Coblenz, whither my father had preceded her in order to select a place of residence, and make arrangements for her arrival, her state of health being very precarious. Like the lines from Rotterdam, and some other lines of the same class in "Up the Rhine," they were addressed to her—as, indeed, are the original copies of all the love poems written by my father, of which I possess the MS.]

SONNET.

THINK, Sweetest, if my lids are not now wet,
The tenderest tears lie ready at the brim,
To see thine own dear eyes-so pale and dim,—
Touching my soul with full and fond regret,
For on thy ease my heart's whole care is set;
Seeing I love thee in no passionate whim,
Whose summer dates but with the rose's trim,
Which one hot June can perish and beget,-
Ah, no! I chose thee for affection's pet,

For unworn love, and constant cherishing-
To smile but to thy smile-or else to fret

When thou art fretted-rather than to sing
Elsewhere. Alas! I ought to soothe and kiss
Thy dear pale cheek while I assure thee this!

VOL. VI.

21