own peculiar calculation. The collar, I mean of his coat, for that of his shirt had long since retired to the dignity of private life, beneath the complicated folds of his slovenly cravat—I say, the collar of his coat, by long acquaintance with the rim of a hat, venerable on account of its antiquity, had assumed a gloss which was by no means the gloss of novelty; and a dark brown waistcoat was buttoned carelessly around a body that seemed emptier than the head upon which it had depended for support. His pantaloons,

"Weak, but intrepid-sad, but unsubdued," were shrivelled tightly over a brace of spindleshanks, withered, weary, and forlorn, that would have put Daddy Longlegs to the blush. Uncleaned pumps covered every part of his feet but the toes, which came forth to enjoy the fresh summer breezes, shoes and stockings to the contrary notwithstanding. A pair of tattered kid gloves, "neat but not gaudy," fluttered about his hands, so that it would be difficult immediately to discover whether the glove held the hand, or the hand the glove.

But it was not the dress which gained him so many broad stares and oblique glances, for our city annually receives a great increase of literary inhabitants; but the air-the "Je ne sais quoi"-the nameless something-dignity in rags, and self-importance with holes at the elbow. It was the quintessence of drollery which sat upon his thin, smirking lip which was visible on his crooked, coppertinged, and snuff-bedaubed organ of smelling, and existed in the small eyes of piercing gray.

As I love to study human nature in person, and have always believed the world was the best book to read, I formed a determination to become acquainted with him of the laughable aspect, and proceeded to act in conformity thereto. I was striving to hit upon some plausible method of entering into conversation with him, when Fate, being in a singular good humour, took it into her whimsical head to favour my design. As I walked by him, near the end of the pavement, when the multitude were by no means so numerous, and their place was supplied by the warbling birds, the bleating lambs, and all those sounds which constitute the melody of country breezes, with a slight inclination of his pericranium he turned towards me and spoke. "Pray, sir, can you favour me with the hour?"

"It is four o'clock," answered I, "I

believe--but am not sure; walk on with me, and we will inquire of yonder gentleman.”

"You are excessively good," said he, with a smile, which gave much more expression to his face—“ I am afraid I give you an infinite degree of trouble; you are enjoying rural felicity, poetically correct—pray, do not let me interrupt you."

As he spoke the clock struck.

"Fortune favours the deserving," I remarked, as a continuation of the converse so happily commenced.

He spoke with more familiarity— "Upon my honour, sir, you are very complimentary: if everybody thought of me as you do, or at least, if they thought as much of my productions, I flatter myself I should have had a watch for myself."

"I'll warrant me," I replied, "many have the means of ascertaining time better than yourself, who know not how to use it half so well."

"Sir," said he with a bow, "if you will buckle fortune to my back-but you don't flatter me--no, no. My excellent, good friend, you have much more penetration than people in general. Sir, I have been abused-vilely, wretchedly; da—, but I won't swear, I don't follow the fashions so much as to make a fool of myself; but on the honour of a perfect gentleman, I do assure you, sir, I have been very strangely used, and abused, too.”

"I have no doubt, sir," observed I, "but that your biography would be interesting."

My biography-you've hit the mark; I wish I had a biographer-a Dunlap, a Boswell, a Virgil, or a Homer-he should begin his book with the line

- Multum ille et terris, jactatus et alto, Vi superum.'

I have been a very football, sir, for the gods to play with."

"Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ," said I, willing to humour the pedantry which I already began to discover, "but the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong."

"Aha! sir," he exclaimed, with a gentle squeeze of my hand, "I know what you are some kindred spiritone of those kind, high beings who come upon this world like angel visits, few and far between.' I see it, sir, in your eye," continued he, with a gesture that might have spurred even Miss Kemble to new exertions. "I see it in your eye

The old who labour, and the young who rest: Is there a contest? enter but your door, Balked are the courts, and contest is no more; Despairing quacks with curses fled the place; And vile attorneys, now a useless race.""

"Sir!" ejaculated I, not very well pleased with this last slash at my beloved profession

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-" Or, perhaps," continued he, with increasing rapidity of speech, you are a lawyer, my dear sir,—the grand path to political glory-sweet occupation; to put out the strong arm, and save drowning innocence; to hurl the thunderbolt of eloquence against proud and wealthy oppression; to weave a charm of safety around defenceless beauty; and catch clumsy, and otherwise unconquerable power in your mazy net of law-Pray, sir, can you lend me a shilling?"

I handed him the money, and he turned to be off, when I seized him by the arm, and asked him where he was going? He laid one hand upon his receptacle for food, and with the other pointed to a tavern, before which hung the sign "Entertainment for Man and Horse."

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My dinner-my dinner-my dinner!" said he, "I haven't eaten a particle these three weeks; poverty and poetry, sir, go arm and arm, sworn friends and companions, through this vale of tears; one starves the body and the other rarefies the soul-my way has been rough and rugged as the Rockaway turnpike road, and misfortune jerks me along as if life went upon badly made cog-wheels. Will you be so kind as to lend me another shilling? I want a dinner for once in my life-beefsteaks and onions, butter, gravy, and potatoes

'Hæc olim meminisse juvabit.' It will be a grand era in my political

career.

There was something so exquisitely whimsical in the fellow's demeanour, that I determined to spend the afternoon in his company. I never shall forget the look and squeeze which he bestowed upon me when I proposed that we should adjourn to the inn, and dine together at my expense. He seized hold of my hand, and drew himself up erect in all the enthusiasm of poetic madness

"Sir," said he, informing me that he could not speak, with a rapidity of pronunciation, which reminded me of a horse running away" Sir, Mr. a-a-amy dear, dear friend-my tongue falters -I can't speak--I'm dumb-gratitude the cataract of my oratorical powers is has shut up the sluices of my heart; and dried up-pro tem. But it will come directly-Stop till I get in the house'Arma virumque cano ;'

that is to say, I'll tell you my history; but just at this moment," continued he, smacking his lips, and his little eyes dilating with the eager anticipation of epicurean delights, yet to come-" just at this crisis,

Oh! guide me from this horrid scene, These high-arched walks, and alleys green :' then, with a slight pause and smile,

'Let's run the race-he be the winner, Who gets there first, and eats his dinner.'"

As he spoke, he pulled me forcibly by the arm, and I found myself in a neat, clean room, with the hungry poet fastened close to my side. The conversation which occurred between us, and the history of his literary vicissitudes, must be the subject of the next chapter.

THE HUNGARIAN GIRL.

BY DERWENT CONWAY.

A year and four months after I had parted from Constance, I again arrived from the height above the town I saw at Seid. Ah! how my heart beat, when the line of hills that mark the course of the Danube, and rise above the cottage of Constance. When I had last been

there, it was the sweet season of autumn long continuance of rains had inundated -now it was the depth of winter, and a a great part of the country, and rendered the roads almost impassable. Although my patience, as may easily be imagined, made me leave Seid early next morning, the state of the country was such, that it was nearly three in the afternoon when I reached the heights that look down upon the river. Had the cottage of Constance been visible, I should have seen nothing else; but a turn in the bank screened it from the view, and I paused an instant to look around me. When the mind is in a state of great agitation, it seizes with avidity any pretext that may give it a moment's repose; and I lingered for a few minutes gazing upon the grandeur of the river. It was rolling below me, red and mighty, covering all its lower banks, sweeping the

bases of the opposite hills, and bearing on its bosom wrecks of its ravages and power. I remembered how near to it was Constance's cottage, and I put spurs to my horse; in a moment I saw it beneath me, and the next I was at the garden gate.

How my heart palpitated! I dismounted from my horse, opened the gate, and led him through. It struck me that there wanted something of that air of neatness and arrangement which I had remarked formerly, and I trembled lest it was the hand of Constance that was wanting. As I shut the garden gate, and led my horse along the little path that leads to the door, my feelings became insupportable. I felt as I could fly forward, and yet my limbs almost sunk beneath me; my whole frame trembled, and in the open air I gasped for breath. I was within a few paces of the door, and my agitation increased; there seemed an air of negligence around; I saw grass growing betwixt the stone steps, and two gray ravens were hopping near me, as if unaccustomed to the sight of man, the destroyer: for a moment I thought they might be tame, and the property of Constance; and as an experiment, I threw a small pebble at them, but they croaked and flew across the river. The noise I had made in so solitary a place, shutting the gate, and walking with my horse on the pebbles, I thought should have attracted some one to the window; but all seemed silent. I wanted courage to proceed, and leant upon my horse's neck for support. In a few moments my energies returned: I walked resolutely up to the door and knocked. No one answered; I heard no sound within, and my heart died within me: I determined to look in at one of the windows; and I walked round to the window of the room where we had supped, and which looks down upon the river. Never shall I forget that moment of anguish ;-the room was unfurnished; two or three remnants of broken chairs remained, and fragments of glass from the paneless windows strewed the floor. I let go the bridle of my horse, and sunk upon the ground. My hopes then were all crushed ;—the hopes I had lived upon. Constance was gone; probably her mother was dead, and she married. Heaven then had answered my prayer for her happiness: but she was lost to me. "Ah, Constance!" I exclaimed, "where hast thou found a heart that can love like mine?-but it has ever been thus." When I had some

what recovered from the intensity of my pain, I walked round her former dwelling. It was nearly dusk, and dreary was the scene; the river flowed swiftly by, dark and turbulent. I could no more see the spot where I had once stood with Constance, for the water covered one half of the orchard. The rain had ceased, but the sky was heavy and gloomy, and seemingly but resting from its work; the night was gathering in. I led my horse into a small out-house, and then returned to the cottage; the door yielded to my touch, and I entered it. I had never been but in one of the rooms, but I went through them all; there were only four. Here I thought was Constance's room; a broken picture-frame yet hung upon the wall; and I knew Constance could paint. I opened the window, and stood gazing upon the swollen river, until it was hardly visible, and then returned to the parlour. I determined that I would pass the night in the cottage. I spread my saddle-cloth upon the floor, flung myself upon it, and gave up my thoughts to Constance and misery. And was this the end of my hopes and dreams? I was in the room we had supped in; there stood the table, and there sat Constance. Since I had parted from her, I had nurtured her image in my innermost soul,-not only as a dear recollection, but as a star of hope, that I trusted might cheer the rest of my days. I had travelled in wild and distant lands, but Constance had ever been my companion; -I had lain down in solitary places, and communed with Constance ;-in my waking and my sleeping hours, her fair countenance and angelic form had ever been present to me; I had listened to the melody of her voice; I had walked by her side, and felt the pressure of her hand, and the softness of her cheek; but it was all past,-and for ever. times my thoughts were wrested from Constance, by the rushing sound of the river, and the noise of the rain, which now poured a deluge. I was certain the stream was approaching nearer, but I felt indifferent though it should sweep me away. At length my eyes closed in slumber,—I sat at supper with Constance and her mother, and I thought we had met, never more to part. The good mother joined our hands, and blessed us; and I was drawing Constance gently towards me, when the scene changed. I was in the midst of the roaring river, -I buffeted it with one arm, and held Constance with the other. "Fear not, my

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love," I said; "we shall reach the bank:" but she answered, "Never." Again the scene changed, and I felt myself running swiftly, almost flying, over wide plains, by moonlight, holding Constance by the hand; and we stopped among the catacombs of Constantinople, and I was alone, and searched everywhere for Constance, but I could nowhere find her. In every direction streams opposed my progress, and at last I sat down in the midst of a marsh, and tried to sleep, but the cold would not let me. I awoke, and at first thought my dream was true, for I was lying amidst water. It was the dawn, and I immediately perceived that the Danube had risen as high as the cottage. I instantly went to the door, and found it surrounded with water; the rain fell in torrents, and it was just light enough to discover the way to the house where I had left my horse. I vaulted upon him, and galloped from this scene of desolation and wretchedness. For many months after this I continued my wanderings; but never did the remembrance of this night of disappointment and bitterness leave me. "Where is Constance?" was the question I constantly asked myself. All my desire was to discover her. I looked in the face of every one I met. In cities, I mingled with the throng of the gay, and with the crowds of the wretched; and everywhere I scrutinized like an inquisitor. Sometimes I thought I saw before me a form like that of Constance, and then I would run swiftly forward, but stop ere I reached it; for I always discovered that it wanted something of the perfection of the form I sought. At times, too, a face would arrest me; but that illusion was still more fleeting. Once, in the street of a Mahomedan city, a veiled female approached: there was something in the form and gait that powerfully reminded me of Constance; and as she passed, I thought I discovered through her veil some resemblance in her features. She addressed a few words to one of her attendants; and though she spoke in an eastern tongue, I fancied the voice was that of Constance. I rushed forward a few paces, but reason came to my aid, before my temerity had endangered my life. It could not be Constance. This woman was a Mahometan, and spoke a different language from Constance; but the incident had so disordered me, that I was obliged to sit down upon the steps of a mosque, and it was some hours before I could recover myself. On an

other occasion, I was on board a bark, which sailed swiftly with a side wind, in one of the Grecian bays. Another bark approached, sailing as swiftly. As it came near, I perceived upon the deck a form which seemed to realize that of Constance. A man stood beside her, in soldier's uniform, and it was the uniform of Austria. The face, too! it was surely the face of Constance. I stretched out my arms, and cried "Constance!" but the wind, and the rustling of the sails, drowned my voice. The vessel rushed by, and I was left to conviction and misery. Some months after that circumstance, I found myself at Vienna; and standing one day on the quay, I saw a boat on the eve of departure for Belgrade. A momentary impulse, one of those which belong to destiny, impelled me to go on board, and in a few minutes I was approaching the former dwelling of Constance. About noon of the sixth day, I discovered the heights, whose shapes were, alas, too distinctly engraven on my memory; and towards evening, I saw reposing beneath them that cottage which awakened within me so many mingled recollections of happiness and pain. The association which reminds us of past happiness is more painful than that which recalls subsequent misery; and the appearance of nature reminded me but too forcibly of the first day I had beheld these scenes; for autumn was again yellow on the fields; the river, gentle and transparent, kept its channel; and the evening, soft and serene, was like that on which I had said farewell to Constance. Our boat was floating close to that side of the river where the cottage was situated; and, as it approached, I started to see a female standing in the orchard. She approached the bank. I gazed intently upon her; a fearful agitation seized me, my breath came quick, my eyes were ready to start from their places-it was Constance's form-it was her face. "It is Constance! It is Constance!" I cried, and sprung from the boat, and the next moment I had pressed her in my arms.

Tell me, ye who can anatomize the human feelings, what were mine at that moment? Joy had in an instant succeeded to misery. A moment before, and life was worthless; now it was inexpressibly dear. Light had flowed in upon a soul of darkness and despair, like the sun when it bursts from an eclipse upon a drooping world. I told Constance my story. "We have never left the cottage," said she.

Have