hoary sinner is described as 'a seeker after the youth which he had lost. If such facts as this essay contains, are to be gleaned with curious solicitude from various sources, and to be published at all, let them assume a shape by which their presence shall be known. But we are decidedly of opinion, that they ought not to be insinuated through vehicles which have, hitherto, been so little suspected of conveying unclean matter, and which are usually left open to the youth of both sexes, from the moment they have learned to read.

To what class of poetry do the verses of Mr. Bernal, M.P., belong?

Swiftly o'er the Brenta bounding,
Soft guitar and lute resounding,
Through the perfumed groves surrounding,
Gaily speeds the gondola.

Youth beguil'd with dreams of pleasure,
Hope with all its buoyant treasure,
Love without reserve or measure,
Lightly freight the gondola.
'O'er the waters still and glowing,
Wanton zephyrs odours throwing,
Woman's sighs more sweets bestowing,
Gently waft the gondola.

When poetry was fast declining in Rome, the senators and men of rank began to court the Muses, and imagined that they succeeded when they lighted upon sweetly sounding words, abounding in liquids, which breathed, as it were, of the most balmy perfume. It is exactly in their style that Mr. Bernal has written. He seems to have composed his lines by means of a literary kaleidoscope, and a rhyming dictionary. Banks of flowers, and fragrant bowers, and sultry hours, evening skies, and vespers pealing, and moonbeams straying, meet us in the remaining verses; but we are sick of so much sweetness, which bears about as much relation to true poetry, as Malmsey does to the Nectar of the Gods.

The author of Frankenstein, not content with frightening people

with her monstrous creations, has here made an attempt at extending her supernatural power, by transforming one living being into another. Indeed, she has gone farther. She does not kill one of her heroes, and lend his person to the other, but she moreover exchanges them reciprocally-the ugly fiend becoming a handsome man, and the handsome man being turned into the foul fiend. The idea is, at least, audacious. A gentleman of good estate falls in love with an heiress; he indulges, however, in all sorts of vices, dissipates his fortune, becomes a gambler, loses the good opinion of his friends, and falls into despair. In this situation he forms acquaintance with the old gentleman, who appears to him in the shape of a deformed dwarf, and offers him a chest full of gold, upon the condition of his lending him his body for three days. The bargain is struck. The souls of each abandon their former habitation; the transformed dwarf seeks the dwelling of the heiress, and pleading repentance, finds so much favour in her eyes, and in those of her friends, that forthwith they are to be married. Fate, however, brings the former lover to her house; he is astounded at what is going to take place, and finding that his rival allowed the three days to pass without recollecting his promise, he kills him in a scuffle, and faints. Upon recovering from his faint, he discovers that "Richard's himself again," that he has resumed his own real shape, and what is more, that he has the benefit of all his rival's eloquence, and straight he is married in church, without any body knowing a syllable of the transformation which had taken place. The imagination which has suggested such a tale as this, is removed so far from the bounds of our world, that criticism upon it would be ridiculous.

The Hon. Henry Liddell begins a panegyric on "Woman's love," with the following precious stanza :

' I mark the shadows dense of even,

Obscure the sinking sun;

While slowly toward the western Heaven,

Night spreads her mantle dun!'

Amidst a heap of such verses as these, it is delightful to meet with lines so full of thought and beauty, as those which Lord John Russell has consecrated to the memory of Dugald Stewart :

To distant worlds, a guide amid the night,
To nearer orbs, the source of life and light;
Each star, resplendent on its radiant throne,
Gilds other systems, and supports its own.
Thus we see Stewart, on his fame reclin'd,
Enlighten all the universe of mind;

To some for wonder, some for joy appear,
Admired when distant, and beloved when near.
'Twas he gave rules to Fancy, grace to Thought,
Taught Virtue's laws, and practised what he taught.'
The Keepsake, p. 42.

The following verses from the pen of the author of "Granby," are not without merit, though it must be admitted that they border so closely on Mr. Bayley's style, as to incur the suspicion of imitation.

No-no-they shall not see me weep,
They shall not hear my moan,
My sorrow shall be buried deep,
And I will grieve alone;
My face shall wear its wonted glee,
Although my heart is sore,
As verdant ivy decks the tree,
While wither'd at its core.

I will not quit this troubled scene,
And shun the eyes of men,
To muse o'er all that I have been,
And ne'er can be again:

A heavier penance shall be mine-
To join the festive crowd,
Nor let them see that I repine,
Nor breathe one sigh aloud.

'No, never will I seem to feel

What none shall ever know;

But reckless laughter shall conceal
The fire that burns below.

In halls of jocund revelry,

The mask of joy I'll bear;

And Pleasure's self shall envy me

The mirth of my despair.'

The Keepsake, p. 65.

A long tragical tale by the O'Hara family possesses the usual striking characteristics of that literary coterie, if indeed it may be so called, and consists in more than one redoubtable personage. We have three or four other pieces in a similar style of melo-dramatic horror. Among these may be reckoned the confessions of a 'Coward,' a theme not very agreeable either to author or reader; the Two Brothers,' and (by Lord Morpeth) A Story of Modern Honour,' very properly, but, we fear, very uselessly, directed against the practice of duelling. The tone of these compositions is in some measure relieved by Lord Nugent's description of Mrs. Allington's Pic Nic,' a Dilletante sort of composition, which occasionally raises a smile at the author on account of the perfect nonchalance which he displays. Now that he has become a Lord of the Treasury, perhaps he may find time to improve the Pic Nic into a novel. It is fraught with an abundance of materials for one of those fictions which are now most in vogue. We cannot help thinking that Lady Blessington has been trying her hand in a similar way, and that her little fragment, under the title of 'Remorse,' has been excerped from a more ample work. It is

written in an easy, yet polished and engaging manner, and the incidents are strikingly managed.

"Postilion," cried a feeble, but sweet voice, "turn to your right when you have ascended the hill, and stop, as I intend to walk up the lane."

The postilion obeyed the command, and with more gentleness than is often to be met with in his station, opened the chaise door, and, having first given his hand to her female attendant to alight, assisted a pale and languid, but still eminently beautiful woman, whose trembling limbs seemed scarcely equal to the task of supporting her attenuated frame.

"Be so good as to remain here until I return," said the lady, who, leaning on the arm of her attendant, proceeded through the leafy lane, the branches of whose verdant boundaries were animated by a thousand warbling birds, sending forth their notes of joy. But ill did those gay notes accord with the feelings of her who traced this rural walk, every turn of which recalled bitter remembrances.

'On reaching the gate that opened into the pleasure grounds of Clairville, the stranger was obliged to pause and take breath, in order to regain some degree of composure before she could enter it. There are some objects and incidents which, though comparatively trifling, have a powerful effect on the feelings, and this the unknown experienced when, pressing the secret spring of the gate, which readily yielded to her touch, with a hurried but tottering pace, she entered the grounds. Here, feeling the presence of her attendant a restraint-who, though an Italian, utterly ignorant of English, as also of the early history of her mistress, was yet observant of her visible emotion, and affectionately anxious to soothe it— she desired her to remain at the gate until her return. In vain Francesca urged that the languid frame of her dear lady was unequal to support the exertion of walking, without the assistance of her arm; with a firm but kind manner, her mistress declared her intention of proceeding alone.

'It was ten years since the feet of the wanderer had pressed the velvet turf over which they now slowly bent their course. She was then glowing with youth and health; happy, and dispensing happiness around; but, alas! Love, guilty Love! spread his bandage over her eyes, blinded her to the fatal realities of the abyss into which he was about to plunge her, and, in honied accents, whispered in her infatuated ear a thousand bland promises of bliss to come. How were those promises performed? and what was she now? She returned to this once cherished spot with a mind torn by remorse, and a form bowed down by disease. She returned with the internal conviction that death had laid his icy grasp on her heart, and that a few days, at most, if not a few hours, must terminate her existence. But this conviction, far from giving her pain, was regarded by her as a source of consolation; and this last earthly indulgence-that of viewing the abode of her children-she did not feel herself worthy of enjoying, until conscious that her hours were numbered.

She proceeded through the beautiful grounds, every mazy path and graceful bend of which was familiar to her, as if seen the day before. Many of the improvements suggested by her taste, and still preserved with care, brought back heart-sickening recollections of love and confidence, repaid with deception and ingratitude; and though supported by the con

solations of religion, which led her humbly to hope that her remorse and penitence had been accepted by Him who has promisel mercy to the repentant sinner; yet her heart shrunk within her, as memory presented her with the review of her transgressions, and she almost feared to hope for pardon.

When she had reached a point of the grounds that commanded a prospect of the house, how were her feelings excited by a view of that wellknown, well-remembered scene! Every thing wore the same appearance as when that mansion around her owned her for its mistress; the house had still the same aspect of substantial grandeur and repose, and the level lawn the same velvet texture, and the trees, shrubs, and flowers, the same blooming freshness, as when she daily beheld their beauties. She, she alone was changed. Time was, that those doors would have been opened wide to receive her, and that her presence would have dispensed joy and pleasure to every individual beneath that roof: while now, her very name would excite only painful emotions, and its sound must be there heard no more. Another bore the title she once was proud to bear, supplying the place she had abandoned, and worthily discharging the duties she had left unperformed.

She gazed on the windows of the apartment in which she first became a mother, and all the tide of tenderness that then burst on her heart now came back to her, poisoned with the bitter consciousness of how she had fulfilled a mother's part. Those children, dearer to her than the life-drops that throbbed in her veins, were now beneath that roof, receiving from another that affection and instruction that it should have been her blissful task to have given them, and never, never must she hope to clasp them to her agonized heart.

At this moment she saw the door of the house open, and a lady, leaning on the arm of a gentleman, crossed the lawn; he pressed the hand that reposed on his arm gently between his, and raised it to his lips, while his fair companion placed her other hand on his with all the tender confidence of affection. In this apparently happy couple, the agonized unknown recognized him who she once joyed to call husband, the father of her children, the partner whom she had betrayed and deserted; and her whom he had chosen for her successor, who now bore the name she once answered to, and who was now discharging the duties she had violated. Religion and repentance had in her so conquered the selfishness of human nature, that after the first pang, and it was a bitter one, had passed away, she returned thanks with heartfelt fervour to the Author of all good, that it was permitted her to see him, whose repose she feared she had for ever destroyed, enjoying that happiness he so well merited; and ardent was the prayer she offered up, that a long continuance of it might be his lot, and that his present partner might repay him for all the pain caused by her misconduct.

'She now turned into a shady walk, anxious to regain the support of her attendant's arm, which she felt her exhausted frame required, when the sounds of approaching voices warned her to conceal herself. Scarcely had she retired behind the shade of a luxuriant mass of laurels, when a youthful group drew near, the very sight of whom agitated her almost to fainting, and sent the blood back to her heart with a violence that threatened instant annihilation.