Spectacles-who took the Glasses out and when the old Gentleman put them on-finding that he could not see, exclaimed, Marcy me, I've lost my Sight-but thinking the impediment to Vision might be the dirtiness of the Glasses-took them off to wipe themwhen not feeling them, he, still more frightened, cried out, Why what's 6 come now, why I've lost my Feeling too!" " To conclude; he must be shortsighted indeed who does not perceive the many merits of this little production; and of all the Economies ever practised, it will be one of the least profitable not to become possessed of The Economy of the Eyes. MARY CHIDDELL, "THE MAID OF THE INN." -A Good cold collation, backed by Hurst, and their marriage was soon looked forward to. One Sunday afternoon, it was proposed that herself, her lover, and her brother, should take a sail in a boat up to Yarmouth; and (without leave) she took one of the officer's borrowed books, in order to while away the long afternoon of their voyage-a petty liberty, which she perhaps considered herself half entitled to use, being so great a favourite with their guest for her neatness, readiness, industry, and eternal good humour; but it was destined to be her destruction-she never came back. It was fine summer weather, with a very fresh breeze. The lover was to manage the sail; and as I am no proficient in nautical terms, I can only blunderingly relate the disaster according to my conceptions of it. The lover sat with one arm round Mary's waist, and read on the same page of the book with her; he held in the other hand the sheet or rope which regulated the sail, and did not fasten it to its proper place. In assisting to turn over a leaf, he let the rope fly loose-a squall came on at that very instant-the boat upset, and out of the three, the brother only, (from whom these particulars were heard) was saved by regaining the overturned boat, as it floated bottom upwards; and the corse of the hapless young woman was discovered some days after, a great Can it be way off, upon the mud. wondered at, that, as a boy, I erept closer to the old mourner, and heard, with a full heart, the dismal story, which I knew so well before? But, as I have said, it made more than an ordinary appeal to my sympathy; for I thought myself somewhat involved in it by the circumstance of the book. Indeed the volume, young as I was, was a thing not above my comprehension, for it was one of a miscellany, called the Pocket Magazine. I had read in the identical one so lost; and the gap in the set at home did then bring, and has often since brought, that fatal turning of the leaf full upon my imagination. Upon what a brittle thread does our existence hang! The warm pulses of youth, and love, and beauty, of high and undoubting hope, and of passionate but innocent transport, were all stopt without a warning! Here sat two young creatures, this moment in fond belief that their course of life was as fair before them as the sunny path upon the waves, over which their boat was dancing-the next moment, "the rush of water was upon their THOU lonely relic of a name Emblazon'd on the roll of fame In an immortal line: Wert thou the consecrated place souls!" Little bosoms heaved with sighs at the recital, and little eyes swam with tears in that inn-parlour-but the tears of childhood are proverbial for their rapid evaporation; and, with reference to the present circumstance, I might allegorize this pretty stanza which fixes the time of year, in a little poem of my acquaintance "It was the pleasant season yet, Let the shining stones be the smooth cheeks of the child, and the roads the channelled features of the aged-and here were some of us youngsters in the pleasant seasons yet, in which the silver showers of sympathy dry quickly, while the transition refused to take place so easily beneath the wrinkled eyelids of our old guide, which still were wet, and for a time he was not so light-hearted as before. TO NEWTON'S STUDY.* (Some ten feet square thy cabin'd space) Of one almost divine? Was it within thy narrow room Where Newton's wisdom pierced the gloom Or, leaving its cribb'd mansion here, Or round the eternal heavens career'd, The palace owns more glittering things, And not the best that earth can boast- Round a great spirit's throne. Not Pharaoh's massy pyramids, Of vision, time, and tide. Whate'er his name might consecrate, Is safer from the rage of fate Than pyramid or dome, Though one may shrine a monarch's clay, The plagues of ruin'd Rome. The humblest spot where science grew, Its glory on the mind, Yet still, what passengers gone by Of London's million souls but few With reverence and awe. In Italy thou would'st be known- Or as Voltaire's in France : Here the 'Change walls move more than thine Where knavery, traffic, gold combine To lead the sordid dance. Yet do these sober walls to me And tell me of what mighty worth In intellect on this low earth Was Newton's wondrous mind.-N.Monthly. * Still to be seen on the roof of his house in St. Martin's-street, nearly in the same state as he left it. I (Lon. Mag.) OLD LETTERS. KNOW of nothing more calculated to bring back the nearly-faded dreams of youth-the almost obliterated scenes and passions of our boyhood -and to recall the brightest and best associations of those days— When the young blood ran riot in the veins, - and pale and ghastly images of death are hovering round me. I see him, whom I loved, and prized, and honoured, shrunk into poor and wasting ashes. I mark a stranger closing his powerless lids a stranger following him to the grave and I cannot trust myself again to open his last letter. It was written to the yellow fever in the West Indies, but a short time before he fell a victim and told me, in the affecting language of Moore, that Far beyond the western sea Was one whose heart remember'd me. themselves, but as a token of esteem for him to whom they were addressed, and as a true transcript of my feelings at the time they were composed. I make no apology for inserting them here. Those who have never loved, nor lost a friend, will be backward in perusing them-those who have, will recur to their own feelings and not withhold their sympathy. STANZAS. nothing that more easily conjures up the alternate joys and sorrows of maturer years the fluctuating visions that have floated before the restless imagination in times gone by, and the breathing forms and inanimate objects that wound themselves around our On hearing of his death, I wrote hearts, and became almost necessary to some stanzas which I have preserved our existence, than the perusal of old-not out of any pride in the verses letters. They are the memorials of attachment-the records of affection the speaking-trumpets through which those whom we esteem hail us from afar. They seem hallowed by the brother's grasp, the sister's kiss, the father's blessing, and the mother's love. When we look on them, the friends whom dreary seas and distant leagues divide from us are again in our presence. We see their cordial looks, and hear their gladdening voices once more. The paper has a tongue in every character it contains-a language in its very silentness. They speak to the souls of men like a voice from the grave, and are the links of that chain which connects with the hearts and sympathies of the living an evergreen remembrance of the dead. I have one at this moment before me, which, although time has in a degree softened the regret that I felt at the loss of him who penned it, I dare scarcely look upon it. It calls back too forcibly to my remembrance its noble-minded autbor-the treasured friend of my earliest and happiest days, the sharer of my puerile but innocent joys. I think of him as he then was the free-the spirited-the gay-the welcome guest in every circle where kind feeling had its weight, or frankness and honesty n fluence; and, in an instant, comes the thought of what he now is ; 1. Farewell! Farewell! for thee arise, The bitter thoughts that pass not o'er; 2. And thou hast died where strangers' feet Has not been destined for thy friend : 3. He was not near, in that dark bour When reason fled her ruin'd shrine, And mingle his faint sighs with thine: 4. He was not near, when thou wert borne And seek thy cold and cheerless bed, And breathe a blessing for the dead. 5. Destroying death! thou hast one link That bound me in this world's frail chain ; And now I stand on life's rough brink, Like one whose heart is cleft in twain ; Save that at times a thought will steal To tell me that it still can feel. 6. Oh! what delights,-what pleasant hours, 7. Long wilt thou be the cherish'd theme In crowded halls and lonely ways; 8. Theirs is the grief that cannot die, Uncancell'd from the book of life. But there are other letters whose perusal makes us feel as if receding from the winter of the present to the spring-time of the past. These are from friends whom we have long known, and whose society we still enjoy. There is a charm in contrasting the sentiments of their youth with those of a riper age or rather, in tracing the course of their ideas and following them up to their full developement; for it is seldom that the feelings we entertain in the early part of our lives entirely change-they merely expand, as the grown tree proceeds from the shoot, or the flower from the bud. We love to turn from the formalities and cold politeness of the world to the "Dear Tom," or "Dear Dick," at the head of such letters. There is something touching about it ;-something that awakens a friendly warmth in the heart. It is shaking the hand by proxy-a vicarious" good morrow."I have a whole packet of such letters from my friend Ġand there is scarcely a dash or a comma in them that is not characteristic of the man. Every word bears the impress of freedom-the true currente calamo stamp. He is the most convivial of letter-writers-the heartiest of epistlers. Then there is N who always seems to bear in mind that it is "better to be brief than tedious," for it must indeed be an important subject that would elicit from him more than three lines, nor has his rib a wit more of the cacoethes scribendi about her.* But there are letters differing in character from all that I have yet mentioned-fragments saved from the wreck of early love-reliques of spirit-buoying hopes-remembrancers of joy.They perchance remind us that that love has set in tears-that those hopes were cruelly blighted-that our joy is fled forever. When we look on them we seem to feel that -No time Can ransom us from sorrow. We fancy ourselves the adopted of misery--Care's long inheritors. The bloom has gone off from our lives. For my own part, I have but one written token of her whom I loved in my youth. It is one of consolation, and yet of sorrow, for I received it on the evening after we had parted forever.— If the reader will listen to the "story of my love," he will not feel surprised that the sight of this letter should even now fill me with emotions which I cannot and would not control. It was on a beautiful July evening that I wandered from the small but romantic village of R in the south of France. I turned from the high road, and struck into a retired and sheltered path. As I strolled onwards, the *I have more than once suspected them to be the hero and the heroine of an anecdote, which I remember somewhere to have read, of a gentleman who by mere chance strolled into a coffee-house, where he met with a captain of his acquaintance, on the point of sailing for New York, and from whom he received an invitation to accompany him. This he accepted-taking care however to inform his wife of it, which he did in these terms: last faint streak of twilight disappear ed, and the shadows from the trees threw an air of gloom over the face of the scene, which gave it double interest in my eyes. After roaming for some time, I at length reached the extremity of the path, and beheld-not a bower, nor temple, with shrine of flowers, to which the winds pay homage-not the cot of humble industry, with its woodbined front, and cheerful hearth, and smiling faces, which my busy imagination had pictured, but a solitary mound of earth, strewed with a few sweet flowers. At one end, was the fragment of a simple cross, and at the other a wild rose-tree, bearing neither flower, nor blossom, nor bud, nor leaf. It was, as I afterwards heard, the grave of a young soldier, who had borne bravely and honourably the dangers and the toils of many battles-but the faithlessness of the maiden he loved subdued the spirit that never bowed before. He died broken-hearted, and left none to weep for him, save an aged mother, whose palsied hands had gathered the scattered flowers that I saw on his grave. They were the first-the last -she ever placed there, for she died whilst strewing them. The rose-tree was supposed by the peasantry of the place to have been secretly planted by the maiden who deserted him, as it never bloomed, although many flowers near it were in all the pride of freshness and beauty. How could the roses bloom upon his grave, when planted by her hand who had blighted the rose of hope in his heart-that heart which proved how well it loved by dying when she smote it? On a sudden the moon, that fair and noiseless spirit who baunts the sky at night, rose in her beauty. The winds gave a last sigh to the flowers, and died upon them. The birds had gone to their rests-the grasshopper Chirped one good-night carol more. and all was silent-silent as the grave near which I stood. I seated myself beside the broken cross, and gazed with mingled sensations on the scene around me and the moon which silvered it, when the voice of the nightingale and another still sweeter, roused me 43 ATHENEUM VOL. 1. 2d series. from my reverie. Henriette stood before me, without my having heard— The music of her footsteps on my spirit. Henriette had the kindest heart and Her voice stole o'er the mind like the finest eyes of any girl I ever knew. a spirit of Hope. The most simple word became music when she uttered it ; 'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken. and a smile ever lingered round her lip, as if enamoured of its ruby haunt. She was, indeed, a joyous-hearted creature, and seldom sighed-or if she did, it was for my sorrows, and not her own. We wandered homeward; I scarcely felt her arm within my own, except at times when the shadow from some lofty tree or passing cloud alarmed her, and then she drew nearer to my side.Once, indeed, her lips came so close to mine that I could not choose but press them. A kiss was not thought so great an offence in France as in England-thus she was not very angry: but I remarked that she did not shrink from the shadows as before. We reached her father's residence, which was situated at the extremity of the village of R—, and I could not help noticing that Henriette appeared paler than usual, and that her hand trembled as she took the glass of Burgundy, which I presented to her. We had hitherto lived as brother and sister, guilelessly and happily together; but the kiss of that night had betrayed the state of my heart. She grew not less kind, but less familiar towards me: and I cannot say that it grieved me, for in my situation it was a sin to love her. I was a poor boy, and had neither father nor mother, nor a single relative to whom I could confide my puny cares. I had been left almost alone in the world, and the world seemed unkind to me but, no! no! there were some few hearts that loved me the better for my misfortunes; and strove to soothe my wounded spirit with sweet words, and smiles, and hopes of happier days. I inherited a small but sufficient patrimony from my father, who appointed Mr. C, a merchant, then residing in London, my guardian. He was a |