down be came, with a sort of roll and tumble, contriving to thrust his foot through his fair friend's very handsome and expensive blond trimming. Pickle laughed at this accident, and setting his arms a-kimbo, in attitude defiant, commenced his song, or rather roar. "That's not the tune, Robert," observed his sister, the musician. Answer-"What's that to you; sing it yourself!" "Wonderful!" ejaculated Mr. Gresley, repeating the exclamation as Maria hummed the tune. Astonishing!" mechanically echoed Mr. Osborne, though wherefore, he, poor man, knew not. Robert, however, chose to sing his song his own way; and it was very long and quite unintelligible, except in its deafening burthen: With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinage, Heigho! says Anthony Rowley!" Every body applauded the young gentleman's performance, and every body was very glad when it was over; but Robert was succeeded by a little girl and boy, younger than himself, who stood up to sing a French duet, of which I can only assert that it was a grumbling mutter from beginning to end, much like the low growl of a sulky puppy.

To these displays succeeded the shewing off of some of the young prodigies' crude and untutored attempts at drawing, in order to prove their tastes and genius. Recitations next employed a considerable portion of time; and then Mrs. West, desiring Maria to go to the instrument, and giving a gentle hint that she did not expect a word spoken during her daughter's performance, we sat like mutes for nearly two hours, though, to do the young lady justice, she entertained us with some admirable compositions, performed in admirable style. The enamoured Mr. Gresley was in ecstasies; and "music is the food of love," I will not venture to assert, that, youthful as is Miss Maria West, her fortune is not made; especially as her elderly swain promised to bring his violin, and practise with her :

as

"There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;

Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touched within us, and the heart replies,"

sings the poet; little Maria might not dream of this, but Iknow it!

L. 33. 1.

In this manner the evening wore away, carriages were announced, and, malgré Mrs. West's assurance, that "it was not late," and her husband's "Bless me, 'tis nearly one o'clock! I did mean to challenge you for a rubber, and set the young people at quadrilles !" their guests departed. I also departed with those who brought me, almost expecting to hear "Ladies and Gentlemen, the performances of this evening will be again repeated on ** next, the * * inst. ; when we solicit the continuance of your kind patronage, and return you our sincere thanks for that, and the patience with which you have this evening honoured juvenile talent."

I departed; and on now referring to my journal, wherein I had made notes of Mrs. West's party, as indeed I do of every one to which I have the pleasure of going, I find, amongst them, the following:

Mem.-" Extraordinary children-the most extraordinary bores in the universe: parents, however, more in fault than they are."

SONGS.

BY THOMAS ATKINSON.

BELIEVE NOT THE CROWD.

Believe not the crowd when they say that I love thee,—
Believe not my looks, if they e'er do the same;

It is not that my longings are far placed above thee,
That I'd ne'er have thee think, with a hope on my name!
But it is that I would not thy young heart were blighted,
By loving the loveless-as scathed hath been mine.
O! bestow't where its worth will be fully requited,
And a part of my peace may be yet link'd with thine!
For yours may be still-I can offer no other-
The zeal of a friend, and the heart of a brother.

These Songs are extracted from the second series of The Chamelion, alGlasgow Annual, containing a greater variety, and more talent, than is to be found in most of the London Annuals, although entirely the production of Mr. Atkinson, the well known Bibliopole of the North. There are twelve songs in the volume, set to sweet and appropriate music, which is no trifling additional recommendation to our fair readers.

Oh! not on the tree that is surely decaying,

The rose branch we'd graft, in the gladness of spring; But, though canker may slow on the heart-core be preying, The ivy in safety around it may cling!

That flower is not lov'd which is rashly transplanted,
While yet all its charms are 'twixt budding and bloom';
But that breast is the calmest which once wildly panted,
And purest the bosom where hope hath its tomb!
Then be thine, if thou wilt-I can proffer no other,-
The warmth of a friend, and the love of a brother!

FORGET ME not.

O! Lady! when the rich and gay
Around thee shall with fondness press,-
While pleasure strews with flowers the way,
And every look of thine can bless;
Ah! wilt thou, 'mid that bright career,
One moment muse upon my lot-
Drop, to my memory, one fond tear-
And whisper, I forget thee not?"

Whate'er my fate-where'er I range,—
Whatever charms I chance to see,
My love can never turn or change,-
Each heart-throb still will be for thee!
If few and brief the hours we've met,

Yet on their fleeted joys I doat ;-
I ask but from thee memory's debt-
Forget me not!-Forget me not!

In after time, when cloudless peace,
Bland as thy brow, shall o'er thee shine;
When joy itself to thrill may cease,
As will this sad but soul-felt line;
Yet when the thoughts of byepast years,
May whisper still-" Whate'er his lot,-

The tribute pay of smiles or tears;
But, oh! forget-forget him not!"

OH! WAKING OR WINKING.

Oh! waking or winking-in bed or at board,
Why am I still thinking of thee, Mary Forde?
For its not that thou'rt pretty-though that I admit;
And its not that thou'rt witty,-a plague on thy wit

It puzzles me often the riddle to solve,

How then you could soften my stony resolve,
Henceforth to keep Cupid and women at bay,
Until, to all seeming, secure from their sway!

But, I think, I have hit it-the truth at the last;
Though you'll never admit it, I'll swear, if you're ask'd.
You love me-I know it-and that is enough;
Nay, what's more, too-show it-deny't not in huff!

Dearest lassie, believe me, though boldy I woo,
That my heart must deceive me- before it will you;
And but to be loved is worth millions of charms;

That

you do so I've proved, so come, come to my arms!

CAPTURE OF THE VENETIAN BRIDES.

According to an ancient custom, the nuptials of the nobles and principal citizens of Venice were always celebrated on the same day of the year. The eve of the Purification was consecrated to this public festival, and the state annually increased the general joy of the occasion by endowing twelve maidens with marriage portions. In the morning, gondolas elegantly ornamented assembled from all quarters of the city at the episcopal church of Olivolo. The affianced pairs disembarked amidst the sound of music; their relations and friends, in their most splendid habiliaments, swelled their retinue; the rich presents made to the brides, their jewels and ornaments, were proudly borne for display; and the body of the people, unarmed, and thoughtless of danger, followed the glad procession. The Istrian pirates, acquainted with the existence of this annual festival, had the boldness to

prepare an ambush for the nuptual train in the city itself. They secretly arrived over night at an uninhabited islet, near the church of Olivolo, and lay hidden behind it with their barks until the procession had entered the church, when, darting from their concealment, they rushed into the sacred edifice through all its doors, tore the shrieking brides from the arms of their defenceless lovers, possessed themselves of the jewels which had been displayed in the festal pomp, and immediately put to sea with their fair captives and booty. But a deadly revenge overtook them. The doge, Pietro Caniando III. had been present at the ceremony; he shared in the fury and indignation of the affianced youths, they flew to arms, and, throwing themselves under his conduct into their vessels, came up with the spoilers in the lagunes of Carlo. A frightful massacre ensused; not a life among the pirates was spared; and the victors returned in triumph with their brides to the church of Olivolo. A procession of the maidens of Venice revived for many centuries the recollection of this deliverance on the eve of the Purification. But the doge was not satisfied with the punishment which he had inflicted on the Istriots. He entered vigorously upon the resolution of clearing the Adriatic of all the pirates who infested it he conquered part of Dalmatia; and he transmitted to his successors with the ducal crown, the duty of consummating his design.

IS LOVE IDEAL?

In the dreadful French Revolution, when human blood flowed in one vast sea, at the beck of madness and ambition; in that horrible tomb of living victims, the Bastile, was found, when the storm had ceased, and repentant humanity retraced its steps, the body of a young man, incarcerated in one of the lowest cells, where one feeble ray of light came but to mock the prisoner with the day. In the prime of youth he had expired. The rough keepers, whose feelings, by constant scenes of desolating horror, were frozen hard, started intently as they viewed the corse; it was no longer the dull, brutal apathy, when barbarity becomes a business; the hasty stride was checked into a trembling, and the stout arm fell nerveless: