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are yielded to the blooming Minerva of our own times; the meritorious Elizabeth Smith, whose epistolary fragments, if they add nothing to our stock of information, are refreshing to the sensibilities, and interest the best and purest affections of our nature. To these simple effusions there is, however, one drawback in the substitution of blanks and initials for proper names ;-a barbarous affectation admitted also in the correspondence of the excellent Elizabeth Hamilton, and in every collection that has been published under the suspicious superintendence of relatives. In spite of this defect we are irresistibly attracted to this little volume and its biographical elucidations. Elizabeth Smith was not merely an accomplished linguist, she drew with the spirit of an artist, and was not unacquainted with mathematical science. Nor is it merely by this rare combination of accomplishments that she extorts admiration; her magnanimous resignation, her unaffected piety inspire reverential sentiments; there is even something in local associations to endear her to remembrance. Participating with her family in the misfortunes by which she saw her prospects blighted in the bud of life, she gladly retired from the world to live in a picturesque, a beautiful district of our island, where the peasantry possess habits of simplicity and retain feelings of independence, unknown to any other portion of the British people. Amid those smiling lakes and majestic mountains, Elizabeth Smith attached herself with youthful enthusiasm to the visions of perfectibility which floated on her mind. The lowroofed cottage at Coniston, in which during so many years she remained with her family in contented seclusion, is become a classic spot to rambling tourists; the little fairy boat, which with nymph-like grace she so often navigated under the romantic cliffs, is now a sacred relic. The thyme-covered mountain, poetically and familiarly denominated the Old Man, whi had been her favourite haunt, is cherished for her sake. And it is pleasing so to recall the image of a lovely woman in the spring of youth, withdrawing without regret from the world she was formed to embellish, and the brilliant pleasures of which she deemed well exchanged for the smiles of home, the pursuits of study, and the contemplation of nature. Hitherto the humble habitation in which her family then lived has been permitted to remain unspoiled by fantastic improvement, and its plainness is well calculated to inspire in the young enthusiasm, and in the aged respect. And let her whose heart beats high with the consciousness that attends the possession of beauty, talent, and sensibility, in crossing the humble threshold, breathe devout aspiration for prudence to resist the allurements of pleasure, for firmness to repress the excitement of feeling, and for magnanimity to endure the stings of disappointment.


A new Song by the Civic Visitants.
Here's fine Mrs. Hoggins from Aldgate,

Miss Dobson and Deputy Dump,
Mr. Spriggins has left Norton-Falgate,

And so has Sir Christopher Crump:
From Shoreditch, Whitechapel and Wapping,

Miss Potts, Mr. Grub, Mrs. Keats,
In the waters of Brighton are popping,
Or killing their time in its streets.

And it's O! what will become of us ?

Dear! the Vapours and Blue-
Devils will seize upon some of us

If we have nothing to do.
This here, ma'am, is Sally, my daughter,

Whose shoulder has taken a start,
And they tell me, a dip in salt water

Will soon make it straight as a dart :-
Mr. Banter assured Mrs. Muinps,

(But he's always a playing his fun,)
That the camel that bathes with two humps,
Very often comes out with but one.

And it's O! &c.
And here is my little boy Jacky,

Whose godfather gave me a hint,
That by salt-water baths in a crack he

Would cure his unfortunate squint.
Mr. Yellowly's looking but poorly,

It isn't the jaundice, I hope;
Would you recommend bathing? O surely,
And let him take-plenty of soap.

And it's O! &c.
Your children torment you to jog 'em

On donkeys that stand in a row,
But the more you belabour and Alog 'em,

The more the cross creatures won't go :
T'other day, ma'am, I thump'd and I cried,

And my darling roar'd louder than me,
But the beast wouldn't budge till the tide
Had bedraggled me up to the knee!

And it's 0! &c.
At Ireland's I just took a twirl in

The swing, and walk'd into the Maze,
And, lauk ! in that arm-chair of Merlin

I tumbled all manner of ways.
T'other night Mr. Briggs and his nevy

To Tupper's and Walker's would go,
But I never beheld such a levee,
So monstrously vulgar and low!

And it's O! &c.
On the Downs you are like an old jacket,

Hung up in the sunshine to dry;
In the town you are all in a racket,

With donkey-cart, whiskey, and fly.


We have seen the Chain Pier, Devil's Dyke;

The Chalybeate Spring, Rottingdean,
And the Royal Pagoda, how like
Those bedaub'd on a tea-board or screen!

And it's O! &c.
We have pored on the sea till we're weary,

And lounged up and down on the shore
Till we find all its gaiety dreary,

And taking our pleasure a bore.
There's nothing so charming as Brighton,

We cry as we're scampering down,
But we look with still greater delight on
The day that we go back to town.

For it's O! what will become of us,

Dear! the Vapours and Blue-
Devils will seize upon sone of us


If we have nothing to do.'

Non est vivere sed valere vita.

To be worth much is to live. “There is no living in London," quoth I, buttoning up the pockets of my pantaloons, in which the smoothness of a “soldier's thigh” was disturbed by few folds save those of the tailor's manufacture. “There's no living out of London," replied my wife as she placed the fourth card of invitation for the current evening on the chimney-piece.As is very often the case in disputes (matrimonial or non-matrimonial) both parties were right in their own sense ; for if London is the place to get money's worth for money, there is no place in the world where it is more impossible to enjoy life without a due intimacy with Plutus. London is, indeed, the paradise of the rich, in which respect it far exceeds Paris (with all its despotism): but then, as it is the purgatory of hackney coach-horses, so it is the hell of a poor man, with its eternal excitements to expense and its everlasting drains upon the purse. Entering the great city from Westminster bridge, and leaving it by the Regent's Park, you pass through a line of streets the opulence of which is disfigured by no note of abject and squalid misery: entering it through Tooley-street, you might imagine it a vast lazar house. How different are the aspects of “ Life in London,” presented under these various points of view! On the one hand, pleasure in all its endless varieties, ease, comfort, order, propriety; on the other, close, filthy, foggy tenements, excluding light and air, and a dense population of dirty and unhealthy wretches, bespeaking a state of existence many degrees below the most abject penury of a country cottage, from which the beauty and the healthfulness of nature cannot be excluded. Yet for all this there is scarcely a workman who has drawn his first breath within the sound of Bow-bell, who does not pride himself upon being “ born a native of London," and look down with infinite pity and contempt upon the stray country put, who, as be passes along the street is not like Brigetina Bother’em, above turning his eyes upon the shoe

* In “ Modern Philosophers.”

buckles and tea-urns, in the shop-windows. It is in vain that languor and disease prey on his being, that rheumatism gnaws, or palsy. withers his limbs, or that coming age beckons him on to his destined hospital or workhouse : still he looks upon the hale countenance and sturdy sinews of the man of fields with indifference, and cries to the peasant as Pan to Jupiter

He's a fool if he thinks

He's half as happy as I. Not only the rich, but those who are tormented with the desire to be rich, flock up to London; and unquestionably there are modes of exercising industry and of practising economy unknown to the village, or the inhabitant of a country town. The truth however is, that all such advantages notwithstanding, the labour of existence in the metropolis is beyond comparison more severe than in smaller communities. The struggle to grapple with fortune, and to extort the wretched meal which is grasped at by hundreds of competitors, is so arduous among those who are placed in immediate dependence upon their labour for subsistence, as to render living in London any thing but life. The small London tradesman, in particular, feels this pressure more even than those immediately below him. The exterior of this class in society may in some instances be imposing ; they may perhaps occupy handsome houses ; but then all the better apartments are let to lodgers, whose weekly payments just serve to stop the mouths of the landlord and the tax-gatherer.

But if the poor tradesman's lot in the metropolis is hard to bear, that of the struggling professional man is scarcely less oppressive. The necessity for making an appearance in the hope of making money, and the obligation of dissipating those sums in equipage and show, which taste and good feeling would consecrate to the comfort of the domestic hearth, are bitter aggravations of the ordinary ills of poverty. Pride and vanity also find frequent sources of mortification in the contrast arising from the close juxtaposition of professional men to the really opulent, with whom their education and habits of life intimately connect them; and their self-love is perpetually wounded by the ostentation of upstart nouveaux riches their contemporaries, who in the more money-getting branches of industry have thriven, precisely because they have wanted the higher order of intellect on which professional men found their hopes of success. “Let him draw a bill in Greek or in Latin, and see if it will be honoured,” says an old hunks in one of our farces; and the thought illustrates the habitual sentiments of the mere plodding money-makers for those talents, which, not possessing themselves, they are not able to appreciate in others. Even when success begins to repay his exertions, the life of the professional man and his family is no object of envy. If the practising barrister be traced from his early attendance at Westminster Hall till dinner, and again at his chambers from seven in the evening till bed-time, it is scarcely possible to conceive an existence of more uninterrupted and harassing toil

. The practising physician in like manner knows no repose from his labour, and the hours which others devote to rest, are not with him exempt from the calls of duty. With the women also the matter is not mended; for hours employed in active occupations, are at least freed from the curse of ennui; and the business of making money is more invigorating and refreshing than the.

unamiable soul-narrowing processes of saving it. To the professional man marriage, if not a necessity, is at least a convenience; and he too frequently lays the foundation of a large family long before he has laid the foundation of a large fortune. The wives of young practitioners are therefore of necessity condemned to practices of economy, and to a close attention to domestic duties, which are incompatible with much intellectual and imaginative indulgence. Shut up within four walls, with no better prospect than the opposite side of a gloomy street, the females in this walk of life pass their time in a solitude, occupied chiefly with the needle, and rarely broken save by the conversation of cooks and nursery maids. They read little, and often think less. In the very hours of social converse, the men avoid their society; and linger over the bottle to shorten the interval of insipidity, which occurs between dinner and bed-time. The females, thus left to themselves, are rarely conversational; their ideas roll in a small circle, and they are essentially bad company. Years roll on in the practice of duties eminently respectable, and of virtues truly praiseworthy, but in habits closely allied to torpor and totally divested of that excitement which is supposed to make the charm of a metropolitan existence of a “Life in London." In the exact opposite scale, but equally removed from real enjoyment, is the life of a class of beings not quite so respectable or so useful ; who, possessed of an easy fortune, are yet tormented with the itch of living in what they conceive to be good company; and who inflict upon themselves all the ills of poverty and dependence, in order to cultivaie those who are above themselves in the hierarchy of fashion. The thorough-going representative of this class will enter into a deeper diplomacy to entrap a Baronet, or a nabob, into her visiting list, than would go to recognizing the independence of South America; and she will be more miserable, if, in balancing, her account at the end of the season, she has not crept on a step in great life, than if her whole family were laid up with the scarlet fever. A rheumatic hypochondriac watches not with a more trembling anxiety the variations of the barometer than this sensitive being follows (at a respectful distance) the changes of the bon ton. All hir efforts go to be at the proper place in the proper time, and to be seen in those rendezvous of resort, which though open to all, are sometimes frequented by people of fashion. The fashionable movements in the corners of the London papers, are to her the law and the gospel. Her dinner parties are so arranged, not as that agreeable persons, and such as mutually understand each other, shall meet, but so as that certain persons, seeing others of their own description at her table, may infer that she is indeed one of themselves, and fairly entitled to partake in all the privileges of the coterie. The fear of being left out in any party forces her to accept of every invitation ; and the nightly drudgery of working her passage from assembly to assembly is barder work than that of a coal-porter. Like the hind wheel of a chariot, however rapid her movements, or great the dust she raises, she must, always lag in the race; and though she ruin her fortunes, her health, and her peace of mind in the effort, she will never win her way into the exclusive assemblies of an aristocracy, all whose energies are exerted to keep themselves safe from the approaches of intruders, and to maintain the quiet order of the gods undisturbed by the “ fumum, opes, strepitusque" of commercial prosperity.

Another class of metropolitan strugglers, who “let I cannot wait

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