increasing. Found myself gradually Tontineing it towards top of table. Dreaded Ultima Thule of hostess's elbow. Good places for cutting turkeys; bad for cutting jokes. Wondered why I was always desired to walk up. Met two school-fellows at Pimlico; both fat and red-faced. Used to say at school that they were both of my age; what lies boys tell! 40. Look back ten years. Remember, at thirty, thinking forty a middle-aged man. Must have meant fifty. Fifty certainly the age of wisdom. Determined to be wise in ten years. Wished to learn music and Italian. Tried Logier. 'Twould not do. No defect of capacity, but those things should be learned in childhood. 41. New furnished chambers. Looked in new glass: one chin too much. Looked in other new glass; chin still double. Art of glassmaking on the decline. Sold my horse, and wondered people could find any pleasure in being bumped. What were legs made for? 42. Gout again: that disease certainly attacks young people more than formerly. Caught myself at a rubber of whist, and blushed. Tried my hand at original composition, and found a hankering after epigram and satire. Wondered I could ever write love-sonnets. Imitated Horace's ode "Ne sit ancilla." Did not mean anything serious, though Susan certainly civil and attentive. 43. Bought a hunting-belt. Braced myself up till ready to burst. Intestines not to be trifled with: threw it aside. Young men now-a-days much too small in the waist. Read in Morning Post an advertisement "Pills to prevent Corpulency:" bought a box. Never the slimmer, though much the sicker. 44. Met Fanny Stapleton, now Mrs. Meadows, at Bullock's Museum. Twenty five-years man. ago wanted to marry her. What an escape! Women certainly age much sooner than men. Charles' eldest boy began to think himself a Starched cravat and a cane. What presumption! At his age I was a child. 45. A few wrinkles about the eyes, commonly called crow's feet. Must have caught cold. Began to talk politics, and shirk the drawing-room. Eulogized Garrick, saw nothing in Kean. Talked of Lord North. Wondered at the licentiousness of the modern press. Why can't people be civil, like Junius and John Wilkes, in the good old times? 46. Rather on the decline, but still handsome, and interesting. Growing dislike to the company of young men all of them talk too much or too little. Began to call chambermaids at inns "My dear." Listened to a howl from Capt. Querulous about family expenses, price of bread and butcher's meat. Did not care a jot if bread was a shilling a roll, and butcher's meat fifty pounds a calf. Hugged myself in "single blessedness." 47. Top of head quite bald. Pleaded Lord Grey in justification. Shook it, on reflecting that I was but three years removed from the "Age of Wisdom." Teeth sound, but not so white as heretofore. Something the matter with the dentifrice. Began to be cautious in chronology. Bad thing to remember too far back. Had serious thoughts of not remembering Miss Farren. 48. Quite settled not to remember Miss Farren. Told Laura Willis that Palmer, who died when I was nineteen, certainly did not look forty-eight. 49. Resolved never to marry for any thing but money or rank. 50. Age of wisdom. Married my cook. JAMES SMITH. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.1 [Thomas Davis, born in Ireland, 1814; died 1854. He attached himself to the "Young Ireland" party, and in 1844 contributed much fierce political prose and verse to the Nation newspaper. He, however, also wrote a number of pleasing love-songs, and the The summer sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles- 1 Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play; A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet- From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Mid-summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing- Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed- And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. 'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, A PARABLE. he prevailed with himself to contain himself another day; and at night they came to a house of the best entertainment they had met with yet, the master of it doing everything, not only to accommodate them, but to divert them, and make their stay pleasant. In the morning, as the way they were to go was intricate, he sent a faithful servant, for whom he had the greatest. esteem for his fidelity, to conduct them. Thus they travelled for a while, till, coming to a bridge which crossed a deep and rapid stream, the young traveller, on a sudden, laid violent. hands on the servant, and threw him over into the water and drowned him. Upon this the hermit could contain no longer, but charged his companion with ingratitude, theft, and murder: he enlarged on the heinousness of his crimes in the barbarous requitals he had made. his benefactors, and concluded he was resolved to leave so vile and wicked a companion, return to his cell, and confine himself there for ever, rather than converse with mankind who committed such crimes without remorse of conscience. A certain hermit, not well satisfied with the administration of this world and its affairs, and the divers occurrences of Divine Providence in relation to it, resolved to quit his cell and travel abroad to view the course of things, and make what observations he could, whereby to form a judgment of what disturbed him. He had not gone above half a day's journey before he was overtaken by a young stranger, who came up to him, and joined company with him, who soon insinuated himself into the hermit's affections, that he thought himself happy in having so soon met with so agreeable a companion. As their journey lay the same way, they agreed to eat and lodge always at one house, wheresoever they came: they travelled some few days before the hermit took notice of anything that occurred worthy his observation: but at length he could not but be concerned to see, that at a house where they were very kindly and generously entertained, his fellow-traveller, with whom in this time he had contracted an endearing friendship, at his departure stole a gold cup, and took it away with him. The hermit was astonished that his friend, whom he thought a devout Christian, should be guilty of theft and ingratitude, where he had received such particular obligations: he was, however, resolved to see what his behaviour would be at other places before he inquired into it. At night they came to a house of as ill accommo-reality, nothing could be more just and equit dation as the other was good, and where the owner was a man of so morose and inhospitable a temper, that they were a long time denied admittance, and, when received, were treated with the utmost surliness and brutality. Yet such was the different carriage of the young traveller to the morose host, that in the morning he rewarded his inhumanity with his gold cup, which he left behind him in one of the windows. The hermit was not less surprised at this sight than the former, and could not fathom the mystery of so unequal a procedure: yet he still took no notice either of one action or the other. The next night they by agreement returned to the house from whence the cup was taken. They were treated as courteously as before, but the return for it was more shocking and astonishing; for, at their leaving the place, the hermit saw his companion privately strangle a little child as it lay in the cradle, the only child of the family, and in whom all the temporal happiness of both father and mother were centred. Notwithstanding this last action, But now behold as strange a sight of another kind! the young man, smiling at the honest zeal of the hermit, putting off his mortal disguise, appeared to him in the form and lustre of an angel of God, telling him he was sent to ease his mind of the perplexity and doubts he had so long laboured under, as to the Divine Providence.-What you have seen, said he, seems astonishing and unaccountable; but, in able; which, for want of your right understand- to the parents, and no real hurt to the child, who is now in happiness in heaven. This gentleman and his wife had hitherto lived in great reputation for their piety, justice, sobriety, and other Christian virtues: but, above all, their charity was eminent; divers of their sick and indigent neighbours owing their subsistence, next under God, to their munificence; but since the birth of this child, their minds have degenerated into a love of this world; they were no longer charitable, but their whole thoughts have been employed how to enrich themselves and leave a great fortune to this infant and its posterity. Hence I took this momentary life from the body of the child, that the souls of the parents might live for ever: and I appeal to you if this was not the greatest act of kindness and friendship to them. -There remains one action more to defend, my destroying the servant of a gentleman, who had used me so extraordinary civil, and who professed a great esteem for his fidelity: but this was the most faithful instance of gratitude I could show to one who used me so kindly; for this servant was in fact a rogue, and had entered into a conspiracy to rob and kill his master. Now know, that Divine Providence is just, and the ways of God are not as your ways, nor his thoughts as your thoughts; for as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are his ways higher than your ways, and his thoughts than your thoughts. At these words he vanished, leaving the good man to meditate on what had passed, and the reasons given for it; who hereupon, transported with joy and amazement, lifted up his hands and eyes to heaven, and gave glory to God, who had delivered him from his anxiety about the ways of Divine Providence: satisfied as to the wisdom of God's dealings, and those unseen reasons for them which surpass all human conception, he returned with cheerfulness to his cell, and spent the residue of his life in piety and peace. DR. H. MORE.1 THE BOON OF MEMORY. I go! I go!-And must mine image fade Must my life part from each familiar place, 1 "Divine Dialogues, containing sundry Disquisitions and Instructions concerning the Attributes and Providence of God: by Henry More, D.D. London, 1668." 8vo. Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget All the sweet counsel, the communion high, A boon, a talisman, O Memory! give To shrine my name in hearts where I would live For evermore! Bid the wind speak of me, where I have dwelt, Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, A thought restore! In the rich rose whose bloom I loved so well, And let the sunset's melancholy glow, And Memory answer'd me-"Wild wish and vain! The place they held in bosoms all their own, Hast thou such power, O Love?-And Love replied, "It is not mine!-Pour out thy soul's full tide Of hope and trust, Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain"Tis but to write with the heart's fiery rain Wild words on dust!" Song! is the gift with thee? I ask a lay, From the still breast; And Song made answer: "It is hot in me, A place of lonely brightness I can give ; A changeless one, when thou with Love wouldst live This is not mine!" Death, Death, wilt thou the restless wish fulfil? What if forgotten?-All thy soul would crave, Then did my soul in lone faint sadness die, As from all nature's voices one reply, But one, was given: "Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone, To give thee back the spirit of thine ownSeek it in heaven!" MRS. HEMANS. ON THE WANT OF MONEY. It is hard to be without money. To get on without it is like travelling in a foreign country without a passport-you are stopped, suspected, and made ridiculous at every turn, besides being subjected to the most serious inconveniences. The want of money I here allude to is not altogether that which arises from absolute poverty-for where there is a downright absence of the common necessaries of life, this must be remedied by incessant hard labour, and the least we can receive in return is a supply of our daily wants-but that uncertain, casual, precarious mode of existence, in which the temptation to spend remains after the means are exhausted, the want of money joined with the hope and the possibility of getting it, the intermediate state of difficulty and suspense between the last guinea or shilling and the next that we may have the good luck to encounter. This gap, this unwelcome interval constantly recurring, however shabbily got over, is really full of many anxieties, misgivings, mortifications, meannesses, and deplorable embarrassments of every description. I may attempt (this essay is not a fanciful speculation) to enlarge upon a few of them. It is hard to go without one's dinner through sheer distress, but harder still to go without one's breakfast. Upon the strength of that first and aboriginal meal one may muster courage to face the difficulties before one, and to dare the worst: but to be roused out of one's warm bed, and perhaps a profound oblivion of care, with golden dreams (for poverty does not prevent golden dreams), and told there is nothing for breakfast, is cold comfort for which one's half-strung nerves are not prepared, and throws a damp upon the prospects of the day. It is a bad beginning. A man without a breakfast is a poor creature, unfit to go in search of one, to meet the frown of the world, or to borrow a shilling of a friend. He may beg at the corner of a street-nothing is too mean for the tone of his feelings-robbing on the highway is out of the question, as requiring too much courage, and some opinion of a man's self. It is, indeed, as old Fuller, or some worthy of that age, expresses it, "the heaviest stone which melancholy can throw at a man," to learn, the first thing after he rises in the morning, or even to be dunned with it in bed, that there is no loaf, tea, or butter in the house, and that the baker, the grocer, and butterman have refused to give any farther credit. This is taking one sadly at a disadvantage. It is striking at one's spirit and resolution in their very source-the stomachit is attacking one on the side of hunger and mortification at once; it is casting one into the very mire of humility and Slough of Despond. The worst is, to know what face to put upon the matter, what excuse to make to the servants, what answer to send to the tradespeople; whether to laugh it off, or be grave, or angry, or indifferent; in short, to know how to parry off an evil which you cannot help. What a luxury, what a God-send in such a dilemma, to find a half-crown which had slipped through a hole in the lining of your waistcoat, a crumpled bank-note in your breeches pocket, or a guinea clinking in the bottom of your trunk, which had been thoughtlessly left there out of a former heap! Vain hope! Unfounded illusion! The experienced in such matters know better, and laugh in their sleeves at so improbable a suggestion. Not a corner, not a cranny, not a pocket, not a drawer has been left unrummaged, or has not been subjected over and over again to more than the strictness of a custom-house scrutiny. Not the slighest rustle of a piece of bank-paper, not the gentlest pressure of a piece of hard metal, but would have given notice of its hiding-place with electrical rapidity, long before, in such circumstances. All the variety of pecuniary resources, which form a legal tender on the current coin of the realm, are assuredly drained, exhausted to the last farthing, before this time. But is there nothing in the house that one can turn to account? Is there not an old family watch, or piece of plate, or a ring, or some worthless trinket, that one could part with? nothing belonging to one's self or a friend, that one could raise the wind upon, till something better turns up? At this moment an old-clothes man passes, and his deep, harsh tones sound like an intended insult on one's distress, and banish the thought of applying for his assistance, as one's eye glanced furtively at an old hat or a greatcoat, hung up behind a closet-door. ating contemplations! Miserable uncertainty! One hesitates, and the opportunity is gone by; for without one's breakfast one has not the resolution to do anything! The late Mr. Sheridan was often reduced to this unpleasant predicament. Possibly he had little appetite for breakfast himself; but the servants complained bitterly on this head, and said that Mrs. Sheridan was sometimes kept waiting for Humili |