hope that we should be re-united at the end of this horrible war; that you would forgive Regnault for my sake; that you would not separate those whom your promise had united in the face of heaven. Should he die to-day, my father, allpowerful Heaven will, I hope, permit me soon to follow him!" The effort which it cost Gertrude to acknowledge the tenderness she had so long concealed in the innermost recesses of her heart dyed her cheeks with a bright crimson; and her manner was so touching that the anger of De Flavy gradually subsided, and he involuntarily felt some pity for his daughter.

"Regnault is doubtless aware of the project we had formed," he said in a gentler tone.

46

I suppose so," replied Gertrude, whose terror was gradually abating.

And when he declared his love to you-"

"He has never declared his love to me," interrupted Gertrude; "the respect he owes you, the respect he owes me, prevented it."

"How then can you be sure that he loves you?" said William.

Gertrude looked down, and replied, "I hardly know, but I never doubted it."

And here she drew forth the letter the young knight had addressed to his cousins, and held it out to her father.

"Well, well," said De Flavy, refusing to take the paper which he could not read, "the fact is that you love each other; the particulars are quite indifferent to me."

As he uttered those words he rose and took several turns in the room, apparently in deep thought. His knowledge of Gertrude's character convinced him that she would never consent to marry any one but Regnault. He must therefore determine to see her remain single, although he had always hoped to see her the wife of one of the most wealthy and noble knights in France; for, ambitious for himself, he was so likewise for the only being in the world whom he loved. In this respect, Regnault satisfied his wishes better than any other knight. The only son of the eldest Flavy, the estates and the castles he had inherited from his father made him one of the principal lords of Picardy; and although very young, he had nobly won his spurs upon the battle field. Gertrude, if united to her cousin, would always bear the name of her father. Besides, he could not bear the idea of being the cause of the misery of her whose tenderness he so much valued, and her love for Regnault tended to soften his anger towards the young knight.

Resolved to yield, he approached Gertrude, who, pale and agitated, had watched all his movements, while she internally implored Divine protection.

"Come," he said, "dry your tears. This young madpate shall not die; he shall remain in Compeigne, a prisoner on parole, until we conclude peace with the Duke of Burgundy, unless, for your sake, he should hasten the period of his marriage by embracing the royal party. You must persuade him to give you this proof of his love; and that you may succeed in this, I consent to his coming here every day."

Although certain that Regnault would never break the oath which had been dictated to him by a father, Gertrude took care not to say so; and, re-assured as to a life that was so dear to her, she recovered her pride, which she had just sacrificed to her terror; and when she had thanked her father in terms which evinced more respect and fear than tenderness, she entreated him to keep secret from Regnault all that had passed.

66 By St. James," said the proud warrior, "do you think I would be the first to speak in this matter? No, not if Regnault were King Charles VII.”

"And I hope," said Gertrude, with some embarrassment, "that you depend upon my silence."

"Yes," replied De Flavy, smiling, a thing unusual for him, "I know that you must have been amazingly terrified to have confessed that you were in love!"

The happiness which Gertrude, Marie, and Regnault enjoyed for several weeks in each other's society was suddenly interrupted by the following circumstance. Among the prisoners at Compeigne was a veteran with whom William de

Flavy had been intimate in his youth. The Sicur de Bertancourt, as he was called, having seen Marie at church, was much struck with her beauty, and asked for her hand. William de Flavy, without dreaming of consulting her wishes, promised it. In the evening, he presented Bertancourt to his daughters, who recognized in him the ugly old knight who had for several weeks followed and stared at them whenever they went out. The next morning Gertrude learnt from her father that this man was in three days from that time to become the husband of her sister. It was in vain that Gertrude tried to save poor Marie from this fate-in vain that she besought De Flavy to consider her extreme youth, or even to grant her a respite of a few months. He persisted in his determination; and at length, wearied of Gertrude's importunate entreaties, he vented his wrath on Marie, who had heard her doom in silent consternation. When the cruel father had left them, Gertrude tried to console her sister, although she felt it to be an almost hopeless task.

"The Sieur de Bertancourt is neither young nor handsome, I acknowledge," said Gertrude, "but if he has a kind and generous heart,-if he loves you, as we cannot doubt,-you will be happier with him than if immured in the convent with which you are threatened. He will be your protector; and I, Marie, will follow you any where. I will live with you until I marry; and that time may, you know, be far distant.'

Marie listened in silence. Gertrude had at all times so much influence over her that she gradually became more calm, and her tears were beginning to flow more slowly when Regnault entered the room.

At the sight of Marie bathed in tears the young knight was seized with the most lively emotion. He entreated the sisters so affectionately to reveal to him the cause of their affliction, that Gertrude informed him of her father's in

tentions.

While she spoke Regnault stood as if listening to his death-warrant. Lulled into repose by the extreme youth of Marie, and by the indifference her father had always exhibited towards her, he had never dreamed of the possibility of the misfortune which now menaced him. This was to him a stunning blow; he could not bear it calmly, and cursing the silence he had until then preserved, he exclaimed-

"She is to be married! and you can do nothing for her, Gertrude, and you wish her to consent to it! Bid me then die! I, who have loved her since I first knew her! I, who love her to desperation!"

As he spoke Regnault threw himself at Gertrude's feet. The unfortunate girl sank into a chair.

"Obtain a respite from this cruel man," continued Regnault. "I only hope, I only ask for a respite. Peace with the Duke of Burgundy may be concluded in a few days. Alas! I waited for that moment to confess my love to you, to implore your support. When peace is declared, the Lord de Flavy will not prefer an old man without renown to his brother's son. Gertrude, my sister, my only hope is in you; my fate is in your hands!"

Gertrude remained motionless. The mental agony she endured made her feel as if awaking from a dream-alas! the only happy dream of her life! Her thoughts were all confused, and the sound of Regnault's voice pained her. The unhappy girl fixed her eyes upon her sister, whose face beamed with joy; and then turning them upwards, as if reproaching Heaven with having so long allowed her to remain in blindness. At length, signing to Regnault to rise and seat himself, she asked in a faint voice

"How did you succeed in concealing your mutual love from me?"

"I take heaven to witness," said the youthful knight, "that Marie has just heard the confession of my love for the first time."

"And had it not been for this confession," exclaimed Marie, "I should still have believed that I loved Regnault as a brother. I never dreamed that I might one day become his wife. I swear it, Gertrude; I swear it by our poor grandmother, whom we saw expire, and who confided me to your protection."

Heaven itself must have inspired Marie with these words, for they had the power of banishing all resentment from the noble heart of Gertrude, who burst into tears.

sent for Father Joseph, who was not slow in appearing. She had taken the only resolution by which the happiness of the lovers could be ensured. That night Father Joseph must

Marie ran to her sister, and embraced her. "We afflict you, Gertrude," said she; "we have made you angry. Can you think that I ever wished to evade your will, or even your wishes? Have you not right to dispose of the unhappy orphan? One word from you will be sufficient for me. If you were to tell me to give my hand to a man whom I detest, I would obey."

Gertrude gently pressed her sister's hand, but could not speak.

"Speak to me, my sister, speak to me!" cried the poor child in despair. "Tell me that you forgive me, that you still love me! Do you intend to repulse me, to abandon me?” "Never!" answered Gertrude; and overcoming all weakness, she pressed her innocent rival to her broken heart.

66

"Decree my fate likewise," said Regnault, pressing Gertrude's burning hand in his. May Heaven punish me if I do not respect your will, for you are an angel of goodness." "I pray heaven," said Gertrude, whose tears had ceased, to teach me what I must do to ensure your happiness. I must reflect on it. Leave me. Go, Marie," she continued in the softest voice, "go to Madame Marguerite's apartment, and wait for me there."

The lovers obeyed, but not before they had covered with kisses the hands and even the garments of her who had now become to them a guardian angel; and Gertrude could now give vent to her feelings without a witness.

The momentary courage which had sustained her through this cruel scene gave way when she reflected on her fate. That letter, the tender language of Regnault, all that for the past year had rendered life so dear to her, was not for her then. Regnault had done nothing for Gertrude; he had only loved in her the sister of Marie.

"By what fatality," cried Gertrude, "could I have so long deceived myself? Alas! if my grandmother had not spoken! If I had not known that we were once destined to each other, perhaps my eyes would have been opened; perhaps, too, I should have loved him less! But all combined to ruin me. I saw him anxiously awaiting the day when Marie should become his bride, and, insensate that I was, I dreamed that he loved me."

Every one of Gertrude's thoughts was fraught with agony. In one hour all her hopes for the future had been overthrown, and she had been separated from the dearest object of her affections. That love for which she now blushed, could she tear it from her heart? Could she compel herself to forget that Regnault was the husband that her father intended for her-that she had chosen? The bitterness of the tears which coursed each other down her cheeks made her feel but too well that she could never look apon Regnault as a brother, and therefore that she must henceforth be separated from her beloved Marie.

"Yes," exclaimed she, in despair, "I must lose every thing! I must lose all at once! What sin have I committed, that I should be thus unhappy? Why should I be thus separated from all I held so dear-from those I still love so tenderly? But," and here she checked herself, can I wish it should be otherwise? Will their affliction soothe my own? and, unless I see them together at the altar, can I cease to weep for their fate? No! tears and suffering must be for me, but I will not be a witness of the unhappiness of Regnault and Marie without having done all in my power to prevent it. They hope in me, and shall I render them the victims of my misery? shall I condemn them to suffer what I suffer?"

"Good Heaven!" she cried, as she sank on her knees, "forgive my murmuring! I submit to my fate; but, for the sake of the trials I have to endure in this world, grant that I may have the strength and the power to make Marie happy!"

This prayer, pronounced with her whole heart, restored Gertrude's strength; she rose firm and resigned, and instantly

mediately depart for Arras, which was then inhabited by the Duke of Burgundy, and was perhaps the only place where the anger of William de Flavy could not overtake them.

Father Joseph refused to consent to this plan until he had himself attempted to turn De Flavy's purpose; but, finding all reasoning unavailing, he that night gave the nuptial benediction to Reguault and Marie, in the little chapel of the deserted castle of their ancestors. Richard Paulet, the noble-hearted young citizen, was the witness chosen by Gertrude. As he had discovered her secret, it may easily be imagined with what increased admiration he looked on one who thus generously and unostentatiously sacrificed her own happiness to that of her sister.

Immediately after the marriage ceremony had been performed, the youthful couple mounted their horses and set off for Arras. Gertrude remained alone at Vertbois, where William de Flavy arrived the next day, to demand from her an explanation of the disappearance of Marie. Gertrude told him the whole truth; and he, after the first burst of passion had subsided, forgave her for the share she had had in the business, although he inwardly resolved to seize the first opportunity of punishing Regnault for having disdained, or rather for leaving unrequited, the love of his favourite child.

Gertrude hoped to pass the remainder of her life tranquilly, if not happily, at Vertbois; but, unfortunately for her, William de Flavy soon after married a noble lady, who, although young and handsome, was proud, frivolous, and ill-tempered. She conceived a violent dislike to Gertrude, partly on account of her extraordinary beauty, partly be cause she knew how much influence Gertrude possessed over her father.

One day, while De Flavy was absent from the castle, his wife, angry at some remark of Gertrude's, which she supposed to be pointed at herself, had the barbarity to revenge herself upon the unfortunate girl, by telling her what her father had carefully concealed from her. He had murdered Regnault!

Ger

This was the last blow for poor Gertrude. She instantly left the castle of her ancestors, in order to take refuge in a convent, until she could go to her sister. Richard Paulet, to whom she confided her secret, offered to accompany her. They set out, but were soon overtaken by a knight, whom the wife of De Flavy, mean and cowardly as she was cruel, sent to entreat Gertrude to forgive her, to return to Vertbois, and to conceal from William, whose resentment she dreaded, what had taken place. A quarrel arose between this knight and the young citizen; they fought, and Richard fell. trude was hurried back to the castle. She was seized with a violent nervous fever; and when her father returned, he found her delirious. She remained for some days in this state; but as soon as some symptoms of amendment appeared, her mother-in-law, who was in constant apprehension lest Gertrude should on her recovery disclose all to her father, and that he would punish her for her indiscretion and barbarity, determined to leave the castle with the knight we have already mentioned. On the following morning the lady was missing, and William de Flavy was found dead in his bed, covered with wounds. It was never ascertained whether his wife was accessory to this assassination.

Gertrude slowly recovered. Marie, with an infant son, returned to Vertbois, and there we will take leave of them.

LOCK'S FIELDS.

(The following picture of this wretched London suburb is from the 5th part of Godfrey Malvern. In literal and graphic force and picturesqueness, it has rarely been paralleled.-Ed. L. S. J.)

"IN the grave,' says Chaucer, 'there is no company; and were one part of London buried full fathom five,' it

would never be missed by the other; for in such spots as we are about to describe, there is no company,'-the wealthy and the titled great come not there, misery has only misery for companionship. Any one walking from the Elephant and Castle, down the New Kent-road, would be struck by the goodly appearance of the houses, the neatness of the gardens on the left-hand side, and the picturesque effect of the fountuin with its little sheet of water, and its bending Triton, who throughout the sunny summer-day blows the arched silver' through his crooked horn. Let him, however, strike down one of those streets opposite to where the fountain plays, and thread his way for half a mile or so from the right-hand side of the road, and he will find himself in the locality of Lock'sFIELDS. Here spreads out a huge morass of misery, a vast space of low damp land, intersected with noisome ditches and unhealthy patches of garden ground, broadening over what is still called Walworth-common; and hemmed in on the one hand by the long line of Walworth road beyond the turnpike, and on the other, deep and far across, the Old Kent, or Greenwich road. Here stretch scores of streets, which at night are utterly dark, and in one of these dark streets the cabman halted; for not a lamp burns in this dismal district, although within it sleep nightly thousands of our fellowcreatures. Oh, what a lesson would the true statistics of this almost unknown district furnish forth for our modern wiseacres! But there is now a police station, formed near the centre of this swamp-one step taken to produce either a brutal, or a blessed improvement.

There

In the windows of almost every other inhabited house you see a bill, announcing ‘Unfurnished Apartments to Let;' in almost every street numbers of houses shut up, and huge padlocks on the doors, which tell that the late wretched inhabitants have been rendered still more wretched, their few goods sold, and themselves either driven to the parish, or, with their bed of straw, housed in some new and wretched habitation. Houses there are, which have never had a coat of paint on them for years, and many of these must once have been respectable-looking places. But now the broken windows are repaired with paper; or, where the inhabitants are too indolent even to do this, huge, unsightly, and filthy garments are thrust into the broken panes, and left there until summer comes, and the cool air is then welcome. stand sheds, in which the now useless dog-carts are placed, unless the owner is still compelled to wheel out the hearthstone himself, or drag his load of cats'-meat' along the streets by his own strength. There dwell your dog and bird fanciers, living in little huts, among dogs and fowls, rabbits, birds, and guinea-pigs; and surrounded with children, who all day long play in the dirt before the doors, and yet look as healthy and fresh in their filth as potatoes just turned out of the mould. And these little bare footed uncombed children, take their baskets (often patched with cloth, when the bottom is gone) and buy the fat dirty slices of pork and bacon which lie in the neighbouring shops, marked threepence or fourpence a-pound, and sopping their potatoes in the fat, lick their fingers and thrive, learning to swear almost as soon as they can talk. Here and there you see a cook-shop, and in the window about noon smoke great suet puddings with lumps of fat as large as walnuts in them; and great black flat tins filled with baked potatoes, and swimming in the grease of pork which has been cooked, because it would keep no longer; while at the windows the little dirty children stand looking hunger' at the savoury viands, and flattening their little noses against the panes. A penny to purchase a piece of pudding, or a few of the brown-baked and greasy potatoes, and they are happy, and can play with light and merry hearts, until hunger or sleep again visits them. Others contrive to keep a poor horse, high of bone and low of flesh, one bought at the 'knacker's,' and cruelly saved from death; and this is yoked to a cart, the cart itself tumbling to pieces, and when not in use, the owner is ever mending it, driving in a nail here and there, then going his daily round, and crying Dust O!' Before his door stands a mountain of ashes; this his wife riddles for the cinders, the dog meanwhile feeding from the filthy heap. During his absence his children turn it over, and pick out the bones and rags, and all are thrown into

separate heaps, and then sold. So they live in dirt, drunkenness and misery.

Then comes a shop, where they sell cats'-meat, coals, cowheels, coke, wood, and tripe. And ever and auon a load of coal comes in, and black clouds of dust arise as they are emptied in the shop, settling on the cow heels and the tripe, and the pillars of pudding; yet these they eat all up; and, as one of them once remarked in our hearing, the dust does instead of pepper.' From morning to night the pot-boys are ever carrying out beer; from early morn to dewy eve,' it is beer,' still beer!'-breakfast and tea cannot be made without beer. Even the little children who can but just walk, and are sent to fetch it in their own jugs, stop at every turning to taste of this 'beer;' and as they grow up they learn to despise tea, and milk, and all such feminine et-ceteras, and grow brown and broad on beer, until gin comes and 'strikes flat the thick rotundity!'

Yet trade is carried on even here:-they make those blue boxes, such as hatters give away, when their customers purchase a four-and-ninepenny.' They bottom chairs with cane, such chairs as, when complete and coloured to resemble rose-wood, sell for twelve shillings the half-dozen. They cut and bind up wood, and it takes them a day to sell what they have done up the day before, at three bundles a penny. Sometimes you see a poor mechanic carrying home the skeleton of a sofa on his head, or part of a French bed-stead; then return with a small portion of wood, of which to make others the following week. He works for the 'trade,' the shops that ticket low, and sell still lower; and make such chairs and bedsteads, that if Dandie Dinmont threw himself into them in his rough riding coat, as he did in the prisonscene in Guy Mannering,' he would leave nothing but a wreck behind.' Here all streets are without water, saving what they get from shallow wells;-for what company would lay down pipes in such a neighbourhood? The children are seen with rusty cans, and battered tin-kettles, going from house to house to beg water-no marvel they soon become so fond of beer. If a fire breaks out here, even the landlord is glad, for he gets rid of a bad tenant and a bad house at the same time, and there is still the ground to let.-They need no fire-engines who have nothing worth saving. Many of the wooden sheds, and tumble-down houses, a strong man might throw over into the ditches, which seem to stand sluggishly as if yawning for the ruins. Beside many of the ditches grow stunted elder-bushes; they are hung with broken saucepans, rags, and filth, which the inhabitants were too weak or too lazy to throw into the ditches. There live your men who sell cheap flounders and soles in the morning, and on an afternoon ery shrimps, water-cresses, and periwinkles. There walk home your women of a night, who sit at street-ends in the day, with little piles of withered apples, oranges, and cocoanut shells before them, and are begrimed through roasting chestnuts. Here is stowed away the tall theatre in which Punch and Judy exhibit in our streets, the deep drum, and the shrill pipes; the big caravan, the poor horse that draws it, and the dwarf or giant it contains, have here their home. The manly-voiced woman, who cries Walk in, only one penny!' and the velvet-coated man who shows the last murder in his peep show, here sit side by side, and drink their beer, smoke their pipes, swear and fight,-then sleep in peace. Here a board announces that messages are delivered, and errands run.' But every one there is his own messenger, and goes his own errand; and if a postman appears in the neighbourhood, or a double knock is heard at any of the doors, every head is seen projecting outside all the way down the street. They walk into each other's houses without ceremony, while they are friends-and when they have quarrelled, never speak, except to blow each other up,' for weeks after; unless sickness or sorrow comes; then the past is forgotten; for they are still true to one another when misery bares her arm. 'Heaven tempers the wind to the shorn lamb!' and here thousands are born, live, and die, and in some instances find more real sympathy and kindness in the last struggle, than others who end their days in the high estate' of the cold formal world. Poor, and ragged, and ill housed as they too often are, they are not altogether miserable. They help each

other, although they talk about it afterwards They have their bright and dark sides-their whims and ways, bad passions, and kind feelings, just like the high and wealthy, the great and the titled. But poverty and crime dwell here! Oh God! what have we not witnessed amid these scenes! -Blear-eyed drunkenness, prowling theft, and red-handed murder!--for here shrieks and cries for help are too common to be regarded. Here they turn in their wretched beds, and say, 'It is only so and so, quarrelling with his woman;' and, stupified with the fumes of turpentined gin,' are soon again asleep. Beauty dwells here; but not such as God made. Women live here-too many, alas!--faded and fallen!—the majesty gone, the virtue worn and wasted, the goodness, and kindness, and gentleness of their nature lost, battered, hardened, and now cruel and selfish. No Adam to lead them forth when they fell, they left the garden of their Eden alone; those who shared in their guilt, had long deserted them. They had no bosom left to lean and weep upon. Drink dried up their tears, and burut up their hearts; their sighs were lost amid the loud swearing of their companions. No law protected them, and they soon hated all laws; none loved them, and now they have no love left.

Here they drag out their existence from day to day; but no one comes to ask how?--they live, die, and are buried; and their names are never known! The virtuous and the vicious are swept away together; those who were honest and industrious, and those who lived by the most disreputable means, sleep side by side in the same churchyard: how they lived, or died, no one cares to inquire. And this is in London!-in England!-in our own time! aye!-even now whilst we are writing, and now whilst thou art reading this very page."

Varieties.

Prison Discipline.-During the last year, five persons appear to have been removed from the Penitentiary, at Mill. bank, to Bethlehem Hospital. This is a melancholy instance of solitary imprisonment tending to insanity! The officers of the Pentonville Prison, we perceive, are appointed, so that the system will shortly be in operation. By the courtesy of Major Jebb, (one of the Commissioners,) we inspected this "Model" prison last spring, and hereafter we may describe the structure to our readers. There seems to have been considerable misrepresentation as to the system to be adopted in the Pentonville Prison: it will not be solitary, but separate confinement; the prisoners are to be kept at work, each in his cell, and to be visited by an officer every hour.

The Adulteration of Tea is practised to a considerable extent by the following means. Persons are employed to collect the refuse of the teapot, or tea-leaves, from which the flavour has been entirely drawn; this collection being principally made in hospitals, debtors' prisons, and other establishments wherein numbers of persons are housed. These leaves are washed in a weak solution of gun Senegal in water; they are then pressed, and dried in tins over a charcoal fire, when the factitious tea is perfected, and ready for sale to teadealers, at 18. or 28. per lb.: it is, of course, almost flavourless, and is therefore not sold by itself, but is mixed with genuine, and frequently high-priced, teas. We have seen a sample of this manufactured stuff, and its resemblance to genuine black tea is so close, as even to have made us sceptical of the virtue of our teapot. The poet truly sings:

"Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise."

The above adulteration is almost as reprehensible as even the vending of prepared hawthorn leaves as genuine tea.

Stage Baggage.--A correspondent of the Boston Post relates the following as an evidence of the obliging disposition of the Yankee drivers :-" As Mr. J, the driver, was proceeding from Boston, not long since, a woman called him to take a bedstead on the top, without uncording it! He told her he would oblige her the next time he came along, but he could not then, as he had engaged to take on a wind-mill a little ways ahead; and as he had a large cradle on the top at the time, he was afraid he should not have room. Proceed

ing a little farther, he was requested by a woman to wait till
she had finished her washing and ironing. He told her he
often had to wait for the women to do their ironing, but he
could not stand washing and ironing both!"
Heraldry.

Where'er a hatchment we discern,
(A truth before ne'er started,)
The motto makes us surely learn
The sex of the departed.

If 'tis the husband sleeps, he deems
Death's day a "felix dies,"
Of unaccustom'd quiet dreams,

And cries-In cœlo Quies.
But if the wife, she from the tomb
Wounds, Parthian like, "post tergum,"
Hints to her spouse his future doom,

And threatening cries-Resurgam! The Attorney.-Smedley Jones was lately an articled clerk to an attorney-I beg his pardon, a solicitor-in Furnival's Inn, Holborn; but recently out of his time, and therefore qualified to kill game on his own account. He wears black half-gaiters, and is a member of the Philonomic Society; exhibits much wisdom, little whisker, and no shirt collar; simpers; makes a gentle bow at the close of every sentence, with his chin touching his left collar-bone; criticises the new law courts; wears lead-coloured gloves; affects a beaver with a broad brim; nods at the close of every sentence, when the Court of Exchequer pronounces a judgment, by way of encouraging the three puisne barons; and carries his pantaloons to his tailor's in a blue bag that they may pass for briefs. There is a lame clerk in the Three per Cent. Consol Office at the Bank, with whom Smedley Jones appears to be on terms of considerable intimacy. I rather suspect that the motive of this conjunction is, that the latter may obtain private information with respect to certain funded property appertaining to certain widows and maideus, his attention to whom rises and falls accordingly. It is an unquestionable fact, that whenever a young man rises, like Smedley Jones, upon his toes in walking; waltzes with every thick-ankled girl that would otherwise be a wall-flower for the whole evening; looks benevolently downwards upon his own cheeks, sings a second at church, and boasts of belonging to no club; he may, to a certainty, be set down as one who means to let fly an arrow at Plutus through the Temple of Hymen.-Smith. A Visit to the United States of America. Can you ride in a cart when the weather is foggy? Can you get, every night, not quite tipsy, but groggy? If wet, at the fire of an inn can you flit

Round and round, to get dry, like a goose on a spit?
In telling a tale can you ponder and prose?

Can you spit through your teeth? Can you talk through your nose?

Can you sit out the second-hand tragical fury Of emigrant players, discarded from Drury? Can you place Poet Barlow above Poet Pope? Can you wash at an inn, withont towel or soap? Can you shut either eye to political knavery? Can you make your white liberty mix with black slavery? Can you spit on the carpet and smoke a cigar? If not, my dear Jeremy, stay where you are. Broadstairs is a capital station for falling in love. I strongly advise all matrons with growing-up daughters, to go thither in preference to Margate or Ramsgate. The double pier and steam vessels in the former place, and the view of the Downs from the latter, occupy the mind too much; there is no room for the tender passion. But at Broadstairs, after a young man and maiden have eaten their morning prawns, and taken their morning yawns, they have nothing to do but to fall in love till eleven o'clock at night. There is no raffle at the libraries, and the Tract Society meetings only occur once a month -Comic Miscellanies.

London: Published for the Proprietors, by W. BRITTAIN, Puternoster Row. Edinburgh: JouN MENZIES. Glasgow: D. BRYCE.

Printed by J. Rider, 14, Bartholomew Close, London.