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at me, which greatly incommoded my personal feeling, the wretch shut the door of this cottage in my very teeth; and, though I have seen him since, he may now be concealed within. I shall search the whole place; and, if I discover him, the crows may feed on his vile

carcass."

Pimental, on hearing these terrible words, made some successful advances in ascending the chimney, and, luckily, finding an iron bar across it, he held tight there, with his toe resting on the point of a cottage grate, in almost as pleasant a position as a soldier condemned to be picketed. The Marquis stepped to the centre door, found it fast, and said, "The wretched person is concealed here."

Sophia, within, not at the moment recognising the voice of Le Colombier, grasped the hand of Emilie with an emotion of perfect agony.

Le Blond came to the portal, and exclaimed, “Marquis, I must appeal to your gallantry. I have already told you there was a lady in the case."

"That assurance, Monsieur le Blond, shall prevent me forcing the door."

At this moment Justine had returned, and was in loud altercation with Gaston du Plessis. The door of the cottage was open, and Gaston rushed into the entry. Sophia rapidly opened the portal of the inner chamber, seized Le Blond by the arm, and actually pulled him in, to the utter surprise of the Marquis. Du Plessis and Justine entered the anteroom together; he vociferating, she remonstrating. Du Plessis flew to the inner door, and commenced an attack on it. Sophia appeared, but closing the door after her, mildly said, “Gaston, are you mad?"

"Driven to insanity by your duplicity, Sophia-nay, attempt not to save your minion by concealment."

"Cruel, cruel!" exclaimed Sophia.

When the Marquis de la Tour le Colombier gravely stepped forward, and, drawing again his Toledo rapier, rather pompously said, "Dry your tears, Mademoiselle Sophia Perpignan. Condescend to appoint me your sentinel here. No human being shall force me from my post." And here he threw himself into an elegant attitude of defence. "In the cause of afflicted beauty I will hold it a pleasing task to sacrifice my life."

Here there was another bustle outside the empty cottage, (which, by-the-bye, was now filling with visitors). Mademoiselle Sophia had been missing everywhere. Perpignan was sought, and put his clothes on again, much against his inclination; and, as lights had latterly been seen in the cottage, some of the masqueraders ventured forth to seek the young lady. When they entered, the marquis stood vigilantly before the door of the inner apartment. Sophia whispered to Le Colombier.

"Ah, Marquis, for the Holy Virgin's sake tell me, have you procured the pardon?"

"Charming Sophia!" replied Le Colombier, with a benignant smile, "I have sought you the whole evening personally to deliver it into your fair hand. My friend, Le Père la Chaise, had sufficient influence over the mind of Madame de Maintenon, and she, with all her scruples, overcame the scruples of the Grand Monarque in favour of your pretty heretic, and there is the interesting document."

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Joy! happiness! everlasting happiness!" hysterically exclaimed Sophia, "she is saved!" and she went to the door, and said, "Come forth, Le Blond! Come forth, Emilie!-ah! come forth, and remove the dreadful suspicions of Gaston du Plessis. Le Blond appeared now, leading a care-worn, but beautiful personage, who trembled on his arm, and he addressed himself to his friend Gaston, "Monsieur du Plessis, permit me to introduce my wife to you.” "Wife?" said the astounded Du Plessis.

"Yes," replied Le Blond. "I have been compelled to keep the secret of our dear Sophia. I am no longer her affianced, and resign all claim to her, having been the husband of this fair lady for many months."

Gaston was confused; he glanced at his beloved Sophia, and said, "What a jealous fool I have been! can you pardon me, my love?" "There is my hand, Gaston," and Sophia smiled sweetly on him. After poor Emilie had been congratulated on her escape from persecution, Le Colombier said,

"Since happiness is thus restored, it does not become me to stand. sword in hand."

The Marquis was here sheathing the Toledo rapier close to the chimney. "I will not again permit an incident to ruffle my naturally serene temper." Unluckily, at the moment he uttered this several bricks fell down with a clatter, and Pimental slipped after them, who tumbled, with his hands and face blackened with the soot, against the striped domino of the Marquis.

"Fire and fury! exclaimed Le Colombier. "Will you never desist?" and, forth came the interminable rapier, when Sophia interposed, and said,

"Ah! Marquis, pardon poor unlucky Monsieur Pimental. Let me henceforth make you inseparable friends."

The Marquis winced and replied, "For your sake, mademoiselle, I forgive this person his freaks and follies; but, as to ever becoming inseparable, excuse me; I have had more than enough of him.”

We will now finally sheath the TOLEDO RAPIER, and convey our whole party, laughing at the events of the evening, and seat them down agreeably at the supper-table of Madame Perpignan, to discuss the merits of the white soups, the dindons aux truffles, the roasted quails, the ices and pine-apples, and other delicacies of the season too numerous to detail.

FAREWELL SONNET.

Ou think me not solicitous in death
Beyond the life I lose in losing thee-
There is no flattery in my latest breath,

I leave a world where thou wert all to me!
I go far hence, to undiscover'd clime-
It may be that my spirit shall expire-

(Eternity can tear the page of Time,)

But while Time lasts this suit I would require,
And write it in his troubled volume :-left

Is this fair leaf-inscribed it is to thee

By one of every other joy bereft,

(Shipwreckt at last upon a summer sea,)

"May all the blessings Fancy can design,

Or Love, more strong than Fancy, sweet! be thine!

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J. AUGUSTINE WADE,

598

LINES ON A SPOT WHERE IT IS INTENDED TO BUILD A CHURCH.

On this sequester'd peaceful glade,

Where nodding wild flowers deck the green,

Where groves expand into a shade,

And chequer'd twilights dance between,
Where the coy ring-dove builds her nest,
And coos her tender mate to rest.

Here pious vows and hands shall raise,
'Midst crystal streamlets murmuring,
An altar to th' Almighty's praise,

And ope of life the living spring;
And where the roaming cattle low,
The organ's swelling notes shall blow.
Here, where the blackbird and the thrush,
And moonlight-loving nightingale,
Pour from each thicket, brake, and bush,
At morn and eve their plaintive tale,
Matin and vesper hymns shall rise
In mingled chorus to the skies.

Here, where the sheep with tinkling chime,
Browse, scatter'd o'er the tufted heath,
The church-bell's toll shall mark the time

When sinners shall be saved from death,
Through their great Shepherd's ceaseless prayer,
Waiting his flock with patience there.
Here, where the sun's departing gleam
Illumes each cottage, cliff, and tower,
Its light shall mark with slanting beam,

When winds are hush'd at evening hour,
Where some loved pastor's bones shall rest,
And gild the stone upon his breast.
Here shall the wearied pilgrim come,
And lay his load of sorrow down,
And, bending o'er his father's tomb,

Shall pray for him a heavenly crown,
Whose simple faith shall wing its way
Through darkness to the realms of day.
Here, gathering o'er the winding plain,
In decent garb, and modest mien,
Each village hind and rustic swain

Shall on the Sabbath-day be seen,
Seeking for sin, and care, and grief,
Grace, absolution, and relief.
Religion here shall hold her sway,
Upon the actions, and the mind,
And, though her sternness be away,
Her mild persuasion still shall bind
The fiercer passions, and repress
The rising germs of wickedness.

Then, wafting upwards through the skies,
Bright, unembodied, pure and free,

A full and perfect sacrifice,

Souls chastened for eternity,

She shall present them at heaven's throne,
And God accept them for his own.

W. B.

PROSPECTUS

OF AN INTENDED COURSE OF LECTURES ON THE

PHILOSOPHY OF HUMBUG.

BY PROFESSOR WOLFGANG VON BIBUNDTÜCKER.

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VARIOUS are the roads to immortality; but, however various, they admit of this classification, - the legitimate and the illegitimate; the former being applied to those cases where a man works out his own claim, and the latter, where it is worked out for him by others, or by accidental circumstances. Sophroniscus would have never been heard of had he not accidentally begotten a son, Socrates; but Socrates wanted no accidental circumstance for his fame, except, perhaps, the trifling one of being born. However repugnant to my feelings illegitimacy may be, still, better that than nothing at all. Firmly impressed with this conviction, I hasten to achieve my immortality by communicating to the world the labours of my deceased friend, Professor Wolfgang von Bibundtücker, who, after a life of folio-study, came over to England, made himself imperfectly acquainted with the language, and made every arrangement for the completion of the grand object of his life, the delivery of a "Course of Lectures on the Philosophy of Humbug." He chose England as the most fitting scene. Professor Bibundtücker had a most cosmopolitan spirit, and, justly considering himself a denizen of the universe, intended to have spoken to the world at large through the medium of the "enlightened and liberal British public." But, alas! for the fate of Genius! Professor Wolfgang von Bibundtücker, like the horse of the experimentalist, who died just as he had been taught to live without food, as soon as he had completed every arrangement for making his fortune and his fame, died of starvation in a remote corner of the universe known as St. Giles-in-theFields! Many a time has the Professor laid down his meerschaum, and shaking his head with a Burleigh significance, said, “Ah! my dear sir, philosophy is a great thing, but want is a greater. Philosophy triumphs over the Past and the Future; but the Present-the Present, my dear sir, triumphs over it." It proved so, unfortunately for him.

Death is often a contretems it was so with the professor. He is gathered to the region where his progenitors awaited him; the living and rising generation suffer by his loss. The Professor was just the man to lecture on so important a subject. Earnest was he, and eloquent; subtle, yet profound; and, when warmed, not even Lord Brougham could have competed with him for invective. But he is gone from us, and all that remains of his life-devotedness is the Prospectus of his Lectures, and some few stray notes found amongst his pipelights! When my friend first announced to me his intention, I was more inclined to laugh than to enter into his views, but he checked all levity with a profound glance of his single eye, and then in a grave, but earnest manner, slowly unfolded his views.

"Humbug, sir," said he, "is the most universal of passions. It is the element by which we are supported in this breathing world. He that is most filled with it rises to the top, while the less fortunate sink to the bottom. Love, sir, was called by the Grecian sages - (a profound nation the Greeks, and great Humbugs!)-the first of the gods,

-meaning thereby to exclude Humbug from the highest rank. But they were wrong, sir, they were wrong. Humbug is more elemental than Love; for is not Love full of Humbug? I would ask of you, sir, is it not?

33

"Without doubt," I replied.

--

"Of course it is, sir, of course it is. Once, sir, when I was a young man, with a great deal of philosophy, and great ignorance,-for I had little of that highest wisdom, Humbug,-I used to suppose that philosophy was the greatest thing in life; I used to suppose so, sir." "And is it not?" I inquired, hurt at my ideas being thus outraged, " is it not?"

Professor Wolfgang von Bibundtücker smoked away furiously without uttering a syllable. I sat "breathless like a nun," expecting his reply.

"You think it is," he at last replied. "You are young, sir, and will grow older, when you will learn, sir, that it is not. You will learn, sir, that so far from philosophy being the greatest thing in life, the greatest part of philosophy is Humbug, sir, -is Humbug." And he continued smoking with increasing vehemence.

"Then, Professor, why do you lecture on the Philosophy of Humbug?" I asked.

"Sir, I show my art in so doing-there is Humbug in the very amusement. The prevailing Humbug of the day amongst the millstone-visioned everythingarians, is philosophy; nothing goes down but philosophy. Teems not the press with it? Issue not works daily bearing the fine titles of Philosophy of Gardening, Philosophy of Health, Philosophy of Happiness, Philosophy of Travel, Philosophy of Fiction, Philosophy of Hair-cutting, &c.? Surely the scientific barber, deeply versed in all erudition and logical acumen of the curl-oblique, the curl-ringlet, or the curl-sausage, or the metaphysics of wig and whisker, is entitled to the name of copos, and his art philosophy? May not the great pupils of the still greater Cocker call their labours in the addition and subtraction of figures the Philosophy of Arithmetic? The age of dull and plodding common sense' has passed away,— and what a grand successor has sprung up! How the mind expands with delight and wonderment, as it reflects on that refinement of intellect now pervading all classes! Have not women an intense craving for the name of Sophia? We have now sucking philosophers and lisping logicians, matter and motion in the cradle,space and time (wasted) in the school-room,-women theologians, and atheism at 'sweet sevenHas not the Society' published an analysis of Bacon's Novum Organon, whereby the intellectual chimney-sweep (whom we may in organomic phraseology term one of the idola species, or idols of the den') will be enabled to philosophise and sweep chimneys on that grand method,' and the tailor to cabbage cloth by induction? This, sir, is the age of philosophy, consequently of Humbug; therefore, to give my lectures a title suited to the public taste, I call them the Philosophy of Humbug.' O si sic omnia!"

teen.'

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Such were the nature of his confidential outpourings on this subject. On me they made a deep impression; and nothing can exceed my regret at his not living to publicly enlighten us on this subject. The Prospectus, which I have still in my possession, written with his own dirty fingers, I here subjoin for the satisfaction of the world.

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