warded talent; of the unhappy lives, and untimely deaths, of Nature's favourites, is a melancholy fact. Yet,

As sparks fly upwards to the sky,

So man is born to misery.

And as the most affluent, and the most apathetic, cannot be said to be without drawbacks to their felicity; it may, therefore, be presumed that the calamities which have attended some individuals, have acquired an equal share of celebrity, with the efforts of their genius. That history, in bringing forward the lights of their life, has not thrown into obscurity the shades.

Yet, if such be the case, who can tell of the sufferings of the many unfortunate beings, who have passed through the world, without feeling its smiles and caresses, and have hid, in a nameless tomb, the light of their genius.-A light which might have blazed in the hemisphere of immortality, and exalted its possessor beyond the confines of earth. Such a spirit it is kind of Providence to take unto Himself, and translate to a sphere where the coldness and selfishness of the world cannot enter,—where its best feelings, like the flowers of Paradise, will live and bloom in unfading lustre.

B.

STANZAS.

You remember the maid, whose dark brown hair,
And her brow, where the finger of beauty
Had written her name, and had stamp'd it there,
'Till it made adoration a duty.

And have you forgot how we watch'd with delight
Each charm-as a new one was given-
Till she grew in our eyes to a vision of light,
And we thought her a spirit from Heav'n.

And your heart can recall, and mine often
With a sigh and a tear to those hours,

goes

back

When we gazed on her form, as she followed the track
Of the butterfly's wing through the flowers;

When, in her young joy, she would gaze with delight
On its plumage of mingling dyes,

Till she let it go free, and looked after its flight,
To see if it enter'd the skies!

But she wandered away from the home of her youth,

One spring, ere the roses were blown ;

For she fancied the world was a temple of truth,
And she measured all hearts by her own:-

She fed on a vision, and lived on a dream,
And she followed it over the wave;

And she sought-where the moon has a milder gleam—
For a home; and they gave her-a grave!

There was one whom she lov'd, tho' she breath'd it to none,
-For love of her soul was a part,—

And he said he lov'd her-but he left her alone,
With the worm of despair on her heart.

And oh! with what anguish we counted each day,
The roses had died on her cheek;

And hung o'er her form, as it faded away,

And wept o'er the beautiful wreck !

Yet her eye was as mild and as blue to the last,
Though shadows stole over its beam:

And her smiles are remembered-since long they are past,-
Like the smiles we have seen in a dream!

And it may be that fancy deludes with a spell,

But I think, though her tones were as clear,

They were somewhat more soft, and their murmurings fell,
Like a dirge on the listening ear!

And while sorrow threw round her a holier grace,
-Though she always was gentle and kind,-

Yet I thought that the softness that stole o'er her face
Had a softening power on her mind.

But, it might be, her looks and her tones were more dear,
And we valued them more in decay,

As we treasure the last fading flower of the year,
-For we felt she was passing away!—

She never complained-but she lov'd to the last;
And the tear in her beautiful eye,

Often told that her thoughts were gone back to the past,
And the youth who had left her to die.

But mercy came down, and the maid is at rest,
Where the billows wave o'er her at even;

With the turf of a far foreign land on her breast,
Whence the palm-tree points upwards to heaven!

GAIETY.

THERE are two kinds of gaiety. The one arises from want of heart: being touched by no pity, sympathizing with no pain, even of its own causing, it shines and glitters like a frost-bound river in the gleaming

sun.

The other springs from excess of heart-that is, from a heart overflowing with kindliness towards all men and all things; and, suffering under no superadded grief, it is light from the happiness which it causes -from the happiness which it sees. This may be compared to the same river, sparkling and smiling under the sun of summer-and running on to give fertility and increase to all within, and even to many beyond, its reach.

THE LONG VACATION.

My Lord now quits his venerable seat,
The six-clerk on his padlock turns the key,
From bus'ness hurries to his snug retreat,
And leaves Vacation and the town to me.

Now all is hushed, asleep the eye of care,
And Lincoln's Inn a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the porter whistles o'er the square,
Or Pompey barks, or basket-woman scolds.
Save that from yonder pump, and dusty stair,
The moping shoe-black, and the laundry-maid,
Complain of such as from the town repair,
And leave their little quarterage unpaid.

In those dull chambers, where old parchments lie,
And useless drafts, in many a mould'ring heap,
Each for parade to catch the client's eye,
Salkeld and Ventris in oblivion sleep.

ANON.

THE Long Vacation! what a sound to a lawyer's car, and what a blessed relief to a debtor's!-To the one it brings with it a train of anticipated enjoyments,—such as summer excursions, sporting exploits, sea-side rambles, and trips, not only abroad, but into the lighter regions of the Belles Lettres, from whose genial climes he has for seven months previously been exiled. By the debtor it is no less dearly anticipated or warmer welcomed. The gay spendthrift who has been playing at hide and seek since the preceding November, calling down on his unlucky head the curses and imprecations of all the bailiffs and attorneys' clerks who have been endeavouring to get a scent of his cover, now daringly stares the most suspicious looking gentlemen in the face without feeling any extraordinary sensation in the shoulders, and is at home to every single knock that disturbs his reveries; knowing that by the influence of his two friends, John Doe and Richard Roe, he has five months to consider whether he shall pay his debt, or try the effect of the classical air of St George's Fields. In short, from my Lord Chief Justice, to the court sweeper, the Long Vacation realizes a world of brilliant prospects and expectations. My Lord exchanges his ponderous state wig for a neat, though a formal cut caxon; robes for his dressing-gown; and the seat of justice, for his easy chair. His mind is no longer agitated with the controversies of plaintiff and defendant, nor the jargon of barristers, nor the conscientious doubts and conflicting judgments of his learned brothers. Sometimes, indeed, a thought of the approaching assizes will intrude itself; but, anxious to keep up the spirit of the old adage, “Sufficient for the day, &c." he enjoys his otium sine dignitate while he can. Nor is the happy period less welcomed by those pillars of the state, the Attorney and Solicitor General. Exchequer Bills,-Ex-officio informations,-now make room for Inn-keeper's bills, and information derived from Brooke's Gazetteer,

his

of the Travelling Companion. The learned brethren of the coif, and those of the other side of the Hall, leave the antique piles of Westminster to the enjoyment of East, and his fifteen legitimate horrors, for their elegant mansions in the West, where the wit of a South, and the eloquence of a North, will take the preference of Selwyn and Coke; where their wigs will remain unpowdered, their bands unstarched, their gowns unruffled, and their bodies in ease and quietness, till the "Morrow of All Souls" sends them "back to busy life again." To the gentlemen under the bar, who as yet hold their fortunes and their fame in expectancy, the "Long Vacation" is no less gratifying. The Templar can now pursue, either his studies without fearing the interruption of his clients, or some fairy dream in the flowery walks of poetry and romance, or perhaps the steps of some embodied dream, who has often cbtruded her form into his mind, when occupied with visions less romantic than Wallis's Guide, or Patterson's Book of Roads.

The numerous flocks of attorneys and solicitors, give up the reality of demurrers and latitats for dreams of Margate and Cheltenham. Even their clerks anticipate dearly an earlier close to their daily avocations, and think with delight how much more pleasantly the hour, previously occupied with some long-winded draft or bill, may now be passed away in the regions of White-Conduit House, or Mr. Wilson's ball-rooom, with some fair and sympathising companion. The spirit of joy even descends lower, not only into the veins of the lowest retainers of the law, but also into those of the very laundresses and court-sweepers. Clerks in offices have now their evenings, left to their own disposal. The bachelor enjoys his glass of brandy and water unmolested by any impertinent clock, that reminds him his services for the day are still unclosed; and the man of family returns a few hours earlier to his wife and children, and jumps with glee upon the top of the stage for his snug box, three miles from town. The laundress gladly salutes the door of the vacant chambers, and sticks on them, "On the - circuit," perhaps a month before it commences. Even the barbers, who contract to keep the professional indispensables in order, and through which it is supposed a counsellor acquires all his character for learning and wisdom, now rejoice at the respite this term for no

term occasions.

Nor is the "Long Vacation" joyfully anticipated, and happily enjoyed by lawyers, and those dependents on the law only; it is a wise, and, I venture to affirm, a necessary regulation at our Universities, to allow an intermission of study at that season of the year, when nature looks most inviting, and the mind is most averse to exercise. The gay collegians will now allow Euclid no other authority, save that of accumulating dust, or Grotius any other privilege than that of lying full-length on their book-shelves, or blocking up a cracked pane in the windows of their study. Some prepare their minds for a visit to their father's hall, and sigh, once more, at some village reminiscence, and wait with anxiety till the first of September enables them to prove, "that a young man gets something more than learning at a University." While others anticipate with equal satisfaction, the change they are about to make, when the monotony of Alma Mater will make room for the gaiety of the Boulevards, when the gloom of

the Bodlean will be forgotten in the intoxicating paths of the Palais Royale.

Even the the sage professors and the grave proctors, though careless both of the pleasures of the field, and the gaieties of the city, are yet welcoming the approach of this Halcyon season. To some it is heaven to know that their intellectual pursuits will no longer be disturbed by some rattled-brain under-graduate; while others slumber over their folios, or drain their long-necked bottles, with the satisfaction of feeling that no profane madcap is nigh to interrupt the tenour of their meditations.

The above classes of society are among those to whom this season of the year has a greater interest; but should the readers of the MAGNET find the LONG VACATION equally attractive, I shall have the gratification of knowing that it ranks among its favourites, a considerable portion of the truly respectable and intelligent members of the Literary World.

B.

DR. RADCLIFFE.

DR. RADCLIFFE, of whimsical memory, when residing in Bloomsbury, had found it necessary to employ a pavior to mend the way before his house, or his back premises. When the job was completed, the man called for his money. The Doctor was from home. He returned early in the morning,—at noon,-in the evening; still the answer was to the same effect: his employer was either abroad visiting his patients, engaged in company, or so immersed in business, that he could not be spoken with.-What was to be done?—The pavior took the resolution one morning, when he had called and received the old answer, that the Doctor was not at home, to wait in the square until he returned. He did so; and fortunately caught him just as he stepped out of his chariot. He presented his bill. The Doctor, as the saying is, "made wry faces,” and seemed to take the prescription with great reluctance. At length, when he had thoroughly examined it, he said, "What an enormous charge is here! You expect to be paid, do you? You have à pretty knack at making bills, Mr. Pavior, and for what? Never was a worse job done: you have spoilt my pavement, and then covered it with earth, to hide your bungling work." "Ah! Doctor, Doctor!" said the pavior, "there have been many worse jobs than this: but if it were as bad as you say, you well know that mine is not the only bungling work that is covered with earth." "Oh, you dog!" returned Radcliffe, “you are a wit, I see, and consequently poor; come into the house, and I'll pay you the money."

A GAY WIDOW.

HER mourning is all make believe,
She's gay as any linnet;

With weepers she has tipp'd her sleeve,

The while she's laughing in it.