quantum. It could not be less than thirty thousand pounds; Bonus the broker had hinted as much to the old slopseller in the bow-window of Batson's, while they were eying "the learned in the law" in the act of crossing Cornhill to receive his dividends. Hence may be derived the annual turtle and turbot swallowed by "my uncle the Sergeant" in Savagegardens: hence Mrs. Culpepper's high approbation of the preacher at the Temple Church and hence her horse-laugh at the Sergeant's annually repeated jest about "Brother Van and brother Bear.' As far as appearances went, Plutus was certainly nearing point Culpepper: Nicholas Nethersole, Esq. Sergeant-at-law, was pretty regularly occupied in the Court of Common Pleas from ten to four. A hasty dinner swallowed at five at the Grecian, enabled him to return to Chambers at half-past six, where pleas, rejoinders, demurrers, cases, and consultations occupied him till ten. All this (not to mention the arrangement with the bar-maid at Nando's) seemed to ensure a walk through this vale of tears in a state of single blessedness. "I have no doubt he will cut up well," said Culpepper to his consort. "I have my eye upon a charming villa in the Clapham Road: when your uncle the Sergeant is tucked under a daisy quilt, we'll ruralize it's a sweet spot: not a stone's throw from the Swan at Stockwell!" Such were the Alnascar anticipations of Mr. Jonathan Culpepper. But, alas! as Doctor Johnson said some forty years ago, and even then the observation was far from new, "What are the hopes of man!" Legacy-hunting, like hunting of another sort, is apt to prostrate its pursuers, and they who wait for dead men's shoes, now and then walk to the churchyard barefooted. Mr. Sergeant Nethersole grew fat and kicked: he took a house in Tavistock-square, and he launched an olive-coloured chariot with iron-grey horses. There is, as I am confidently told, an office in Holborn where good matches are duly registered and assorted. Straightway under the letter N appears the following entry, "Nethersole, Nicholas, Sergeant-at-law, Tavistock-square, Bachelor, age 59. Income 3500l. Equipage, olive-green chariot and iron-grey horses.Temper, talents, morals,-blank!" That numerous herd of old maidens and widows that feeds upon the lean pastures of Guildford-street, Queen-square, and Alfred-place, Tottenham-court-road, was instantly in motion. Here was a jewel of the first water and magnitude to be set in the crown of Hymen, and the crowd of candidates was commensurate. The Sergeant was at no loss for an evening rubber at whist, and the ratifia cakes which came in with the Madeira at half-past ten, introduced certain jokes about matrimony, evidently intended as earnests of future golden rings.

The poet Gay makes his two heroines in the Beggar's Opera, thus chant in duett:

A curse attends that woman's love
Who always would be pleasing!

And in all cases where the parties are under thirty, Polly and Lucy are unquestionably right. No young woman can retain her lovers long if she uses them well. She who would have her adorer as faithful as a dog, must treat him like one. But when middle-aged ladies have exreeded forty, and middle-aged gentlemen have travelled beyond fifty, the case assumes a different complexion. The softer sex is then al

lowed, and indeed necessitated to throw off a little of that cruelty which is so deucedly killing at eighteen. What says the Spanish poet?

Cease then, fair one, cease to shun me,

Here let all our difference cease;
Half that rigour had undone me,
All that rigour gives me peace.

Accordingly it may be observed that women make their advances as Time makes his. At twenty, when the swain approaches to pay his devoirs, they exclaim with an air of languid indifference, "Who is he?" At thirty, with a prudent look towards the ways and means, the question is "What is he?" At forty, much anxiety manifests itself to make the Hymeneal selection, and the query changes itself into "Which is he?" But at the ultima Thule of fifty, the ravenous expectant prepares to spring upon any prey, and exclaims "Where is he?" Be that as it may, the numerous candidates for a seat in Sergeant Nethersole's olive-green chariot gradually grew tired of the pursuit, and took wing to prey upon some newer benedic. Two only kept the field, Frances Jennings, spinster, and Amelia Jackson, widow; both of whom hovered on the verge of forty. "It appears to me," said Miss Jennings to a particular friend in Bedford-place," that Mrs. Jackson does not conduct herself with propriety: she is never out of Mr. Nethersole's house, and jangles that old harpsichord of his with her "Love among the roses," till one's head actually turns giddy."—" I will mention it to you in confidence," said Mrs. Jackson on the very same day to another particular friend at the Bazaar in Soho-square, "I don't at all approve of Miss Jennings's goings on in Tavistock-square: she actually takes her work there: I caught her in the act of screwing her pincushion to the edge of Sergeant Nethersole's mahogany table-what right has she to net him purses?" The contest of work-table versus harpsichord now grew warm: betting even: Miss Jennings threw in a crimson purse and the odds were in her favour the widow Jackson sang, "By heaven and earth I love thee," and the crimson purse kicked the beam. The spinster now hemmed half a dozen muslin cravats, marked N. N. surmounted with a couple of red hearts: this was a tremendous body blow; but the widow, nothing daunted, drew from under the harpsichord a number of the Irish Melodies and started off at score with "Fly not yet, 'tis now the hour." This settled the battle at the end of the first stanza; and I am glad it did, for really the widow was growing downright indecent.

But

About this time Love, tired of his aromatic station "among the roses," of all places in the world began to take up his abode among the dusty Law Books in the library of Mr. Sergeant Nethersole's chambers. Certain amatory worthies had long slept on the top shelf, affrighted at the black coifs and white wigs of the legal authors who kept "watch and ward" below, in all the dignity of octavo, quarto, and folio. now, encouraged thereto by the aforesaid Sergeant, they crept from their upper gallery and mixed themselves with the decorous company in the pit and boxes. One Ovidius Naso, with his Art of Love in his pocket, presumed to shoulder Mr. Espinasse at Nisi Prius: Tibullus got astride of Mr. Justice Blackstone: Propertius lolled indolently against Bacon's Abridgment, and "the industrious Giles Jacob" could not keep his two quartos together from the assurance of one Waller,

who had taken post between them. In short, the Sergeant was in love! Still, however, I am of opinion, that "youth and an excellent constitution," as the novelists have it, would have enabled the patient to struggle with the disease, if it had not been for the incident which I am about to relate.

The home circuit had now commenced, and Sergeant Nethersole had quitted London for Maidstone. Miss Jennings relied with confidence upon the occurrence of nothing particular till the assizes were over, and in that assurance had departed to spend a fortnight with a married sister at Kingston-upon-Thames. Poor innocent! she little knew what a widow is equal to. No sooner had the Sergeant departed in his olivegreen chariot, drawn by a couple of post-horses, than the widow Jackson, aided by Alice Green, packed her portmanteau, sent for a hackney-coach, and bade the driver adjourn to the Golden-cross, Charingcross. There was one vacant seat in the Maidstone coach: the widow occupied it at twelve at noon, and between five and six o'clock in the afternoon was quietly despatching a roasted fowl at the Star-inn, with one eye fixed upon the egg-sauce, and the other upon the Assize Hall opposite. The pretext for this step was double: the first count alleged that her beloved brother lived at Town Malling, a mere step off, and the second averred an eager desire to hear the Sergeant plead. On the evening which followed that of the widow's arrival, the Sergeant happened not to have any consultation to attend; and, what is more remarkable, happened to be above the affectation of pretending that he had. He proposed a walk into the country: the lady consented: they moralised a few minutes upon the hic jacets in the church-yard, and thence strolled into the adjoining fields where certain labourers had piled the wooden props of the plant that feeds, or ought to feed, the brewer's vat, in conical (quære, comical) shapes, not unlike the spire of the New Church in Langham place. The rain now began to fall: one of these sloping recipients stood invitingly open to shelter them from the storm: "Speluncam Dido dux et Trojanus." Ah! those pyramidal hop-poles! The widow's brother from Town Malling was serving upon the Grand Jury: his sister's reputation was dear to him as his own "he 'd call him brother, or he 'd call him out," and Nicholas Nethersole and Amelia Jackson were joined together in holy matrimony.

The widow Jackson, now Mrs. Nethersole, was a prudent woman, and wished, as the phrase is, to have every body's good word. It was her advice that her husband should write to his niece Mrs. Culpepper to acquaint her with what had happened. She had in fact drawn up a letter for his signature, in which she tendered several satisfactory apologies for the step, namely, that we are commanded to increase and multiply that it is not good for man to be alone: but chiefly that he had met with a woman possessed of every qualification to make the marriage state happy. "Why no, my dear," answered the Sergeant, "with submission to you, (a phrase prophetic of the fact) it has been my rule through life, whenever I had done a wrong or a foolish deed (here the lady frowned) never to own it never to suffer judgment to go by default, and thus remain in mercy,' but boldly to plead a justification. I have a manuscript note of a case in point in which I was concerned. In my youth I mixed largely in the fashionable world, and regularly frequented

the Hackney assemblies, carrying my pumps in my pocket. Jack Peters (he is now at Bombay) and myself, went thither, as usual, on a moonshining Monday and slept at the Mermaid. The Hackney stage on the following morning was returned non est inventus, without giving us notice of set off: the Clapton coach was therefore engaged to hold our bodies in safe custody, and them safely deposit at the Flower-pot in Bishopsgate-street. Hardly had we sued out our first cup of Souchong, when the Clapton coach stopped at the door. Here was a demurrer! Jack was for striking out the breakfast and joining issue with the two other inside passengers. But I said no; finish the muffins take an order for half an hour's time: and then plead a justification! We did so, and then gave the coachman notice of set off, entering the vehicle with a hey-damme sort of aspect, plainly denoting to the two impatient insiders that if there was any impertinence in their Bill we would strike it out without a reference to the Master. The scheme took, and before we reached Saint Leonard's, Shoreditch, egad! they were as supple as a couple of candidates for the India direction. Now that case, my dear, must govern this. Don't say a civil word to the Culpeppers about our marriage: if you do, there will be no end to their remonstrances: leave them to find it out in the Morning Chronicle."

"This is a very awkward affair, Mrs. Culpepper," said that lady's husband, with the Morning Chronicle in his hand. "Awkward?” • echoed Mrs. Culpepper, "it's abominable: a nasty fellow; he ought to be ashamed of himself! And as for his wife she is no better than she should be!"-" That may be," said the husband, "but we must give them a dinner notwithstanding."-"Dinner or no dinner," said the wife, "I'll not laugh any more at that stupid old story of his about brother Van and brother Bear."- ." Then I will," resumed the husband, "for there may possibly be no issue of the marriage." Miss Jennings, the outwitted spinster, tired two pair of borsés in telling all her friends from Southampton-street, Bloomsbury, to, Cornwall-terrace in the Regent's-park, how shamefully Mrs. Jackson had behaved. She then drove to the Register-office abovementioned, to transfer her affections to one Mr. Samuel Smithers, another old bachelor barrister, an inseparable crony of Nethersole's, who, she opined, must now marry from lack of knowing what to do with himself. Alas! she was a day too late he had that very morning married the vacant bar-maid at Nando's.

When the honey-moon of Mr. Sergeant Nethersole was on the wane,
-My sprite

Popp'd through the key-hole, swift as light,

of his chambers, in order to take a survey of his library. All was once more as it should be. Ovid had quitted Mr. Espinasse, Tibullus and Mr. Justice Blackstone were two, Propertius and Lord Bacon did not speak, and, as for Giles Jacob, Waller desired none of his company. The amatory poets were refitted to their upper-shelf, the honey-moon was over, and love no longer nestled in the Law Books.

THE MOOR'S PROPHECY.

THE Spaniard in Cordova forms his array,
And the Moor from his country sends weeping away,
And thousands are wailing the glory gone by
Of the Caliph's bright city, that gem of the sky,
Abandon'd to fade and decay.

The purple hills round that seem'd woven of air,
The heaven of glory that ever reign'd there,
The cool Guadalquivir that ran by the wall,
The dreams of past empire more cutting than all
To hearts that must live on despair!
The memory of Genius there nursed and uprear'd,
The temples of Art that its greatness declared,
The mosque of Abdalzamin, sacred to prayer,
Where sire and descendant, the potent and fair,

Had for ages to worship repair'd!

Those palaces rich where the cool verdure curl'd
Over fountains of marble, the pride of the world,
Where earth's paradise was, and the home of the bless'd,
Though more happy, was not in more loveliness dress'd,
Where joy was for ever unfurl'd!

Where a thousand remembrances rush'd on the heart
Of enjoyments gone by, never wholly to part,
As each spot newly trod, met the footstep again,
And call'd back those shadows of hopes and of men
That linger round life to the last!

'Twas near Cordova thus, on the morn of the day
That the Spaniard had enter'd in conqueror's array,
As its citizens exiled pass'd out at the gate,
That a Moor with stern brow on an eminence sate,
And a soul full of grief and dismay.

He saw in deep anguish the long train go by,-
On the city of brightness he gazed with a sigh;
And the Sun of the Caliphs went down into night,
And the day of their empire closed on his sight
For the reign of eternity.

He saw and prophetic his accents broke forth:-
"Thou city now cursed by the hordes of the north,
Though the Zambra no more shall resound in thy street,
Nor the Imaum to worship thy faithful sons greet

As he wont from the day of his birth;

"Yet thy fame shall survive for the conqueror's shame,
When his power and empire are only a dream,
When the bigot and priest shall for ages divide
The realm that now mocks in its fulness of pride

The Moor and his glorious name.

"Accursed shall it be, and, when reason shall school
Other crowns in the semblance of wisdom to rule,
Thine shall be to the nations a by-word and scorn,
Proud and base in its impotence, faithless, forlorn,
A jest on the lip of the fool.

"Then the Moor shall have vengeance while o'er the blue sea, In his burning domain, he still shall be free

He still shall be free! and no Gaul on his neck

Shall trample-proud Spain! but his country's last wreck,

Though desolate, mock over thee!"

I.