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titude of the count forsook him, and he taker, (says Lord Stanhope) at a moburst into tears; it was with difficulty derate computation, takes one pinch in that he was separated from the body, and ten minutes. Every pinch, the agreebeing at last carried back to his convent, able ceremony of blowing and wiping the he spent the remainder of his days in nose, and other incidentalcircumstances, austerities which hastened his death.

consumes a minute and a half. One minute and a halfout of every ten, allow

ing sixteen hours to a snuff-taking day, Tit Bits.

amounts to two hours and twenty-four minutes out of every natural day, or one

day out of every ten. One day out of SNUFF AND NOSES.

every ten amounts to thirty-six days and My nose is in great indignation.

a half in a year. Hence, if we suppose SHAKESPEARE.

the practice to be persisted in forty years,

two entire years of a snuff-taker's life will AS a friend to Noses of all denomina

be dedicated to tickling his nose, and two tions, I must here enter my solemn pro

more to blowing it.” Taking medicinally, test against a barbarous abuse, to which

or as a simple sternutatory, it may be exthey are too often subjected, by con

cused; but the moment your snuff is not verting them into dust-holes and sootbags, under the fashionable pretext of habit which literally makes you grovel in

to be sneezed at, you are the slave of a taking snuff, an abomination for which

the dust; your suuff-box has seized you Sir Walter Raleigh is responsible, and

as Saint Dunstan did the Devil, and if which ought to have been included in

the red-hot pincers with which he perthe articles of his impeachment. When

formed the feat, could occasionally some “ Sir Plume of amber snuff-box

start

up

from an Ormskirk souff-box, it justly vain," after gently tapping its top might have a salutary effect in checking with a look of diplomatic complacency, this nasty propensity among our real and embraces a modicum of its contents with pseudo fashionables. But I apprehend his finger and thumb, curves round his

that your readers will to think I hand, so as to display the brilliant on

haveled them by the nose quite long enough; his little finger, and commits the high and lest yourself

, Mr. Editor, should susdried pulvilio to the air, so that nothing pect that I am making a handle of the but its impalpable aroma ascends into subject, merely that you may pay through its nose, we may smile at the custom, as

the nose for my communication, I conharmless and not ungraceful foppery; but

clude with a when a filthy, clammy compos is perpetually thrust up the nostrils with a vora SONNET TO MY OWN NOSE. cious pig-like snort, it is a practice as disgusting to the beholders, as I believe O Nose, thou rudder in my face's centre,

Since I must follow thee until I die ;it to be injurious to the offender. The

Since we are bound together by Indenture, nose is the emunctory of the brain, and The Master thou, and the Apprentice 1, when its functions are impended, the O he to your Telemachus a Mentor, whole system of the head becomes de Tho' oft invisible, for ever nigh; ranged. A professed suuff-taker is gene- Guard him from all disgrace and misadven

ture, rally recognizable by his total loss of the

From hostile tweak, or Love's blind massense of smelling-by his snufsliny and

tery. snoring-by his pale sodden complexion- So shalt thou quit the city's stench and and by that defective modulation of the smoke, voice, called talking through the nose, For hawthorn lanes, and copses of young though it is in fact an inability so to talk,

oak,

Scenting the gales of Heaven, that have from the partial or total stoppage of the not yet passage. Not being provided with an

Lost their fresh fragance since the morning ounce of civet, I will not suffer my imagination to wallow in all the revolting

And breath of flowers “ with rosy May

dews wet," concomitants of this dirty trick; but I cannot refrain from an extract, by which

The primrose-cowslip-blue bell-riolet. we may form some idea of the time consumed in its performance. “Every professed, inveterate, and incurable snuff

broke,

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Translations.

What fills with dazzling heams the illu

miu'd air?
What wakes the flames that light the fir-

mament?
FROM BOWRING'S RUSSIAN The lightnings flash ;-there is no thunder
ANTHOLOGY.

there Evening Reflections on the Majesty of God,

And earth and heaven with fiery sheeis

are blent: on seeing the great Northern Lights.

The wiuter night now gleams with brighter, Now day conceals her face, and darkuess

lovelier ray, fills

Than ever yet adorn'u the çoiden sunnmer's The field, the forest, with the shades of

day.
night;
The gloomy clouds are gathering round is there some vast, some hidden magazice,
the hills,

Where the gross darkness flames of fire
Veiling the last ray of the lingering light. supplies ?
The abyss of heaven appears--the stars are Some phosphorus fabric, which the mour-
kindliny round;

tains screen,
Who, who can count those slars, who that Whose clouds of light above those mout-
abyss can sound!

tains rise ?

Where the winds rattle loud around the Just as a sand 'whelmed in the infinite sea,

foaming sea, A ray the frozen ice-berg sends to bea And lift the waves to heaven in thundering ven;

revelry? A feather in the fierce flame's majesty; A mote, by midnight's maddened whirl Thou kpowest not ! 'ris doubt, 'tis dark cess

wind driven, Am I 'midst this parade: an atom, less Even here on earth our thoughts bethan uought,

[tbought.

nighted stray, Lost and 'o'erpower'd by the gigantic And all is mystery through this worldly

ball. And we are told by wisdoni's knowing ones, Who then can reach or read yon milky That there are multitudes of worlds like

way? this;

Creation's beights and depths are all unThat yon unnumber'd lamps are glowing known--uptrol; suns,

Who then shall say how vast, bow great And each a link amidst creation is :

creation's GOD. There dwells the Godhead too-there shines

his wisdom's essenceHis everlasting strength-bis all-supporting presence.

Trifles. Where are thy secret laws, 0 Nature,

where? Thy north-lights dazzle in the wintry

LINES INTENDED FOR A WATCH CASE, How dost thou light from ice thy torches

Onwards for ever moving, there?

These faithful hands are proving, There has thy sun some sacred, secret

How quick the hours steal by;

This monitory, pulse-like beating, throne ?

Is constantly methinks repeating, See in yon frozen seas what glories have

Swift, swift, the moments fly: their birth;

Reader be ready, or, perchance, before Thence night leads forth the day to illu These hands have made one revolution more, minate the earth.

Life's spring is soapp'd, -you die! Come then, philosopher! whose privileged

eye Reads nature's hidden pages and decrees :

On reading some Lines to Mr. BARTLEY,"

on his Astranomical Lecture, by Come now, and tell us wbeuce, and where,

JOHN TAYLOR, Esq. and why,

What Orator on Orreries soars higher Earth's icy regions glow with lights like

Than GEORGE BARTLEY, who excuse a these,

pun) That fill our souls with awe :-profound With bold Promethean powers can drama inquirer, say,

down fire, For thou dost count the stars and trace the Extracted from a TAYLOR in the Sun.

planets' way.

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THE TICKLER MAGAZINE.

105
Long may that Star of Bards to merit guide SHAKESPEAR, our friend!
us,

Thy looks on us hend,
And prove to George a lucky Georgium See our love is as pure as thy glory;
Sidus,

This day of thy birth,
Surrey Side,

Joy shall dwell on the earth,
APRIL 19.

T.O.M.D. And our souls do homage before thee.

We will dwell on thy page,
ECCE ITERUM.

That's for every age,

Thou immortal and guiding spirit;
Matthews at Home ! and quite at home,

For all that's most kind,
no doubt,
Since public approbation found him out.

Social, wise, or refiu'd,

From thee we proudly iuberit.
T.0, M. D,

Never while truth,

And the sweetness of youth,

And friendship and freedom"? hear 15,
IRISH EXTEMPORE,

Shall thy nature divine
WRITTEN ON A DRURY-LANE PLAY BILL.

Cease aromod us to shine,
Sure Wilson makes ELLISTON'S Almanack Or thy words of life to cbeer 15.

gay,
Since each night she performs is a red-letter
T.O. M. D.

TO JESSY.

Lord Byron.

There is a mystic thread of lise,
TO PERRAULT.

So dearly wreathed with inine alone,
PERRAULT, I hear, proclaims it every where,

That destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever buth or none.
Lowe my life to his quack Uncle's care;
To shew how well he can invent a lie,

There is a form on which these eyes
There needs no proof--for all his patients die.

Have fondly gaz'd with such delight;
By day that Form their joy supplies,

And dreams restore it through the night.
On the very general use of Gus, which was

originally introduced into England, by There is a voice whose tones inspire
Mr. WINDSOR.

Such soften'd feelings in my breast,
ETON to WINDSOR now must yield,

I would not bear a seraph choir,

Unless that voice could join the rest.
Nor think the act a degradation;
For though she lights the classic field,

There is a face whose blushes tell
WINDSOR illumines all the nation.

Affection's tale upon the cheek ;
W.R.V.

But pallid at our fund farewell,
Proclaim'd more love than words could

speak.
Cerses.

There is a lip which mine has press’d,

But none have ever press'd before;
It vow'd to make me sweetly bless'd,

That none but mine should press it more.
ON THE BIRTH DAY OF
SHAKESPEAR, MAY 5tn, 1564.

There is a bosom all my own,
Let us rejoice,

Has pillow'd oft my aching head;

A mouth that smiles on me alone;
With gratitude's voice,
And throw off the clouds of sadness,

An eye whose tears with mine are shed.
For the spirit we love,

There are two hearts, whose movements
Looks down from above

thrill
Onthe world, which be filled with gladness. In unison so closely sweet,
As a wreath of the vine

That pulse to pulse, responsive still,
Shall bis mem'ry entwine

They both must heave, or cease to beat,
Round the hearts of his fond admirers; There are two souls, whose equal flow
And the spell of his name,

In shining streams so gently run,
Like the Genius of Fame,
To noble deeds shall inspire us.

That when they part, they part-ah! no,

They cannot part whose souls are one!

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THE FLOWERS.

Thou seem'st, beneath thy huge high leaf

of green, By Theophilus Swift, Esq.

An Eremite beneath his mountain's These violets to my fair I bring,

brow. The purple progeny of Spring; Nor thou, dear girl, the gift refuse,

White bud! thou'rt emblem of a lovelier Love's earliest tribute to the Muse.

thing; Whate'er has beauty, worth, or power,

The broken Spirit, that its anguish bears Or grace, or lustre, is a flower :

To silent shades and there sits, offering
Wit is a flower; and Bards prepare

To Heaven the holy fragrance of it's
The flowers of fancy for the fair.
In flower of youth the loves appear,
And lovelier blooins when thou art near,
The flower of health. The dancing hours
Earth's joyful bosom dress with flowers,

THE AZURE BELL.
And beauty's flow'ry fetters bind,

Howwhite,sweet love,is the hawthoru busb! In sweet captivity, the mind.

And bright is the Azure Bell! With flowers the Graces Venus deck,

And fragrant the breeze And these adorn a fairer neck;

As it sigbs o'er the leas; That neck, whose Paradise to range,

And the song of the thrush A flower I'd prove, and bless the change:

Trills sweet from the trees,
One little hour I'd live, then die,

As we rove through coppice and dell.
A violet in that heav'n to lie.
Of violets kisses first were made,

Thou art fair, sweet love, as the hawtburn
And Venus swore they ne'er should fade;

is white; Sbe swore, and by the oath she swore,

And thy voice is a musical spell ! The spell improv'd and charm’d the

And fragrant thy breath

As the bloom on the heath; Purpling it rose, the fairest flower

And thy eye so bright That ever grac'd the poet's bower;

In its silken sheath,
To Laura's lips in haste it flew,

Is as blue as the Azure Bell.
And, blooming there, delights in you.
Stillas you charm, some flower we trace, We must part, sweet love, at this bawthorn
Some blossom of the mind or face.

tree, When graceful Laura leads the dance,

But I swear by yon Azure Bell, We cry, the flower of elegance !

By the swift-footed hours, Does fashion's wreath her brow adorn;

No more to be ours, We know the flower of taste is born :

By the trill of yon thrush
As the soft hyacinth is seen,

Amid foliage and flow'rs,
The flower of breeding marks her mien. To love thee for ever-farewell!
Yon lily, symbol of her youth,
Blooms near her heart, the flower of

truth:
And well these violet buds express

REAL SORROWS.
Her beauty's spring of tenderness.
But not the brightest flowers of spring, He best can paint them, who has felt them
Whose odours charge the zephyr's wing, most ?
Not all the vernal sweets that blow,
The violet's grace, the lily's snow,

'Tis not the loud, obstreperous grief, Like thee in lustre can compare,

That rudely clamours for relief; Or breathe so fresh, or bloom so fair;

'Tis not the querulous lainent, For in thy bosom dwells a flower, In which impatience seeks a vent; Not time shall taint, nor death devour;

'Tis not the soft pathetic style, A flower that no rude season fears,

That aims our pity to beguile,
And virtue is the name it bears.

Which can to 'Truth's keen eye impart
The REAL SORROWs of the heart.
No! 'tis the tear, in secret shed

Upon the starving orphau's head;
THE LILLY OF THE VALLEY. The sigh, that will not be represt,

Breath'd on the faithful partner's breast! White bud, that in meek beauty so dost The bursting beart, the imploring eye, lean

To heaven uprais'd jo agony, Thy cloister'd cheek,as pale as moonlight With starts of desultory prayer, snow;

While hope is quenching in despair ;

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THE TICKLER MAGAZINE.

107 The throbbing forehead's burning pain, Perchance, subdued by length of years, While frenzy's fiend usurps the brain. He lingers to rejoice, These are the traits no art can borrow, As on the murm'ring breeze he hears Of genuine suffering and sorrow!

A sound wbich still his bosom cheers

It is thy hymning voice.

THE FORSAKEN HEART. My heart is like a lovely lyre,

Whose melody hath died away ; The flame of a neglected fire,

Burning away.

He sees the fount thy grotto lave,

A moment ere be dies;
He sees thee in thy fairy cave,
To him thy hand of beauty wave,

Ere his Spirit seeks the skies.

And thou art like the careless fingers,

Which tore those tuneless strings away; The gale which, as the last spark lingers,

Wastes it away.

And this is all man e'er shall see,

Of thy all-hallowed haunt;
His only joy is tracing thee,
Thro' various paths where'er ye flee,
Warbling thy guileful chaunt.

H. D. B.

The world, the senseless world remembers,

The music which hath passed away: Its tears have steeped the cold, cold embers;

But thou art gay.

HAPPINESS.

Oh! Happiness, thou airy sprite,

Thou spirit of the wind,
Swift passeth thou on pinions bright,
A faded vision of delight,

Leaving no trace behind.

A mortal scarcely hears thee sing,

Wben hov'ring o'er his head;
He scarcely tastes the joys ye bring,
He cannot see thy noiseless wing,

'Till far away ye've fled.
A sparkle on the scenes long past,

Brilliant ye smiling threw,
And from your glowing tresses cast,
Ere high ye mounted on the blast,

A beam of orient hue.

BY THE LATE Mrs. ROBINSON, THE beautiful poem which was published in the Annual Register, and entitled, by Mrs. Robinson, « Lines to him who will understand them," evidently seems to have been composed at no very distant period from the date of her separation from the Prince.* As these lines breathe a pensive spirit of tenderness, affection, and regrei, we shall offer no apology to our readers for presenting them with an extract from them in this place :-“Thou art no more my bosom friend; Here must the sweet delusion end, That charın'd my senses many a year, Thro' smiling summers, winters drear.--0, Friendship! am I doom'd to find, Thou art a phantom of the mind ? A glitt'ring shade, an empty name, An air-born vision's vap'rish flame? And yet, the dear deceit so long Has wak'd to joy my matiu soug, Has bid my tears forget to flow, Chas'd every pain, sooth'd every woe ; That truth, unwelcome to my ear, Swells the deep sigh, recals the tear; Gives to the sense the keenest smart, Checks the warm pulses of the heart, Darkens my fate, and steals away Each gleam of joy through life's sad day. Britain, farewell! t I quit thy shoreMy vative country charms no more. No guide to mark the toilsowe road, No destiu'd clime, no tix'd abode;

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