the works of Lady M. W. Montague, Pope, and Churchill ; Middleton's Geography, the Gentleman's Magazine, Sir John Sinclair on Longevity; several plays, with portraits in character; Account of Elizabeth Canning; Memoirs of George Ann Bellamy, Poetical Amusements at Bath-Easton, Blair's Works, Elegant Extracts; Junius, as originally published, a few pamphlets on the American War, and Lord George Gordon, &c., and one on the French Revolution. In his sittingrooms are some engravings from Hogarth and Sir Joshua, an engraved portrait of the Marquis of Granby, ditto of M. le Comte de Grasse surrendering to Admiral Rodney, a humourous piece after Penny, and a portrait of himself, painted by Sir Joshua. His wife's portrait is in his chamber, looking upon his bed. She is a little girl, stepping forward with a smile and a pointed toe, as if going to dance. He lost her when he was sixty. The old gentleman is an early riser, because he intends to live at least twenty years longer. He continues to take tea for breakfast, in spite of what is said against its nervous effects; having been satisfied on that point some years ago by Dr. Johnson's criticism of Hanway, and a great liking for tea previously. His china cups and saucers have been broken since his wife's death, all but one, which is religiously kept for his use. He passes his morning in walking or riding, looking in at auctions, looking after his India bonds, or some such money securities, furthering some subscription set on foot by his excellent friend Sir John, or cheapening a new old print for his portfolio. He also hears of the newspapers, not caring to see them till after his dinner at the coffee-house. He may also cheapen a fish or so; the fishmonger soliciting his doubting eye as he passes, with a profound bow of recognition. He eats a pear before dinner. His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to him at the accustomed hour, in the old accustomed way, and by the accustomed waiter. If William did not bring it, the fish would be sure to be stale, and the flesh new. He eats no tart; or, if he ventures on a little, takes cheese with it. You might as soon attempt to persuade him out of his senses, as that cheese is not good for digestion. He takes port; and if he has drank more than usual, and in a more private place, may be induced by some respectful inquiries respecting the old style " of music, to sing a song composed by Mr. Oswald, or Mr. Lampe, such as " Chloe, by that borrowed kiss," or "Come, gentle god of soft repose;" or his wife's favourite ballad, beginning "At Upton on the Hill there lived a happy pair." Of course, no such exploit can take place in the coffee-room; but he will canvass the theory of that matter there with you, or discuss the weather, or the markets, or the theatres, or the merits of My Lord North," or "My Lord Rockingham;" for he rarely says, simply, lord; it is generally My lord," trippingly and genteelly off the tongue. If alone after dinner, his great delight is the newspaper; which he prepares to read by wiping his spectacles, carefully adjusting them on his eyes, and drawing the candle close to him, so as to stand sideways betwixt his ocular dim and the small type. He then holds the paper at arms' length, and, dropping his eyelids half down and his mouth half open, takes cognizance of the day's information. If he leaves off, it is only when the door is opened by a new comer, or when he suspects somebody is over-anxious to get the paper out of his hand. On these occasions, he gives an important hem! or so, and resumes. In the evening, our old gentleman is fond of going to the theatres, or of having a game of cards. If he enjoy the latter at his own house or lodgings, he likes to play with some friends whom he has known for many years; but an elderly stranger may be introduced, if quiet and scientific; and the privilege is extended to younger men of letters; who, if ill players, are good losers. Not that he is a miser; but to win money at cards is like proving a victory by getting the bag. gage; and, to win of a younger man, is a substitute for his not being able to beat him at rackets. He breaks up early, whether at home or abroad. At the theatre, he likes a front row in the pit. He comes early, if he can do so without getting into a squeeze, and sits patiently waiting for the drawing up of the curtain, with his hands placidly lying one over the other, on the top of his stick. He generously admires some of the best performers, but thinks them far inferior to Garrick, Woodward, and Chive. During splendid scenes, he is anxious that the little boy should see. He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but likes it still less than he did years back, and cannot bear it in comparison with Ranelagh. He thinks every thing looks poor, flaring, and jaded. Ah!" says he, with a sort of triumphant sigh, 'Ranelagh was a noble place! Such taste-such elegance-such beauty! There was the Duchess —, the finest woman in England, sir; and Mrs. a mighty fine creature; and Lady Susan what's her name, that had that unfortunate affair with Sir Charles. sir, they came swimming by you like swans. of A L 66 The old gentleman is very particular in having his slippers ready for him at the fire, when he comes home. He is also extremely choice in his snuff, and delights to get a fresh boxfull in Tavistock-street, in his way to the theatre. His box is a curiosity, from India. He calls favourite young ladies by their Christian names, however slightly acquainted with them; and has a privilege also of saluting all brides, mothers, and, indeed, every species of ladies on the least holyday occasion. If the husband, for instance, has met with a piece of luck, he instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses the wife on the cheek. The wife then says, My niece, sir, from the country;" and he kisses the niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, says My cousin Harriet, sir ;" and he kisses the cousin. He never recollects such weather, except during the great frost, or when he rode down with Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket. He grows young again in his little grandchildren, especially the one which he thinks most like himself; which is the handsomest. Yet he likes best, perhaps, the one most resembling his wife; and will sit with him on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for perhaps half an hour together. He plays most tricks with the former, and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who was the father of Zebedee's children. If his grandsons are at school, he often goes to see them; and makes them blush by telling the master or the upper scholars, that they are fine boys, and of a precocious genius. He is much struck when an old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too fast; and that poor Bob was a sad dog in his youth; " a very sad dog, sir,-mightily set upon a short life and a merry one." When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole evenings, and say little or nothing; but informs you, that "there is a Mrs. Jones (the housekeeper,)-She'll talk." THE CAPTIVE'S FLOWER. BY J. A. SHEA. How many a weeping year hath pass'd its pinions o'er this bower, Since first you felt this nursing hand, my own companion flower! Since first thy fragrant beauty blush'd beneath the gushing tear, Pour'd forth in memory of one more beautiful and dear. But he dwells in the sunny land, beyond that starry sea, And, if immortals earthward turn, he gazes now on me,Beholds the broken heart that once beat high at pleasure's call, And these wild drops from sorrow deep and burning fountains fall. How oft I've mourn'd, my partner-flower, thy beauty, pass'd away! For 'tis thy sympathy hath kept my spirit from decay; Yes, many a time thy virgin face hath faded from the day, But forth again it blossom'd, like man's spirit from the clay; But the bright flowers of bliss that deck'd this wasted bosom, when The winter of the heart came on, will never smile again. Bright flowers come forth from darkness, as morning springs from light, And clouds with wombs of thunder will weep themselves to light; But this torn heart will weep, and mourn, and bleed, but ne'er again Can feel the bloom it felt before the bliss it fell from then. |