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Enough enough; and may these thoughts arising in the writer's mind from the possession of a new coat, which circumstance caused him to think not only of new coats, but of old ones, and of coats neither old or new and not of coats merely, but of men, may these thoughts, so inspired, answer the purpose for which they have been set down on paper, and which is not a silly wish to instruct mankind, no, no! but an honest desire to pay a deserving tradesman, whose confidence supplied the garment in question.

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(FRASER'S MAGAZINE. )

HARRY VERE.

A PAGE FROM A SPINSTER'S DIARY,

By Mrs ABDY.

Thirty springs have exactly elapsed since the year,
When I met, at a party, the young Harry Vere;
He had dark beaming eyes, and profuse ebon hair,
A soft silver voice, and a Romeo-like air;
In the dance none were ever so graceful and light,
And he sang the most difficult second at sight;
He wrote plaintive odes to a blush and a tear-
Oh! the soul of warm feeling was young Harry Vere.

As a horseman, what crowds to his prowess gave heed,
When he put to its mettle his cream-coloured steed!
He skated-the eyes that his attitudes saw,
By their lustre might almost the Serpentine thaw;
He read all the new novels, he rowed a light bark,
Cut paper, made riddles, and shot at a mark;
The men at his talents thought proper to sneer,
But the women all doted on young Harry Vere.

He walked with me, sang with me, asked me to dance, And breathed to me words of delightful romance ;

But we parted, new scenes and associates to seek,

And I never beheld him till yesterday week.

How my heart beat with tumult-I thought of past hours, And rejoiced that I wore my new chaplet of flowers:

I was single, he still was unwed-it was clear

I might yet be the chosen of young Harry Vere.

At length he arrived-oh! conceive, if you can,
My feelings at seeing a fat, heavy man,

With spectacles placed on a ruby-tinged nose,
Gray hair, clumsy slippers, and old-fashioned clothes.
His voice had grown coarse, and his manner grown rough,
And he took half an ounce, I am certain, of snuff;-
What a pantomime change, at once comic and drear,
In the pride of the ball-room, the gay Harry Vere!

He actually seemed quite impatient to dine

He spoke of the bee's-wing while eyeing his wine-
Talked of pheasants and grouse, of green peas and sea-kale,
Of Birch's mock-turtle, and Hodgson's pale ale-

Prosed on turnpikes, and corn-country squires and their dames-
Had not read the last novel of Bulwer or James-

Thought that consols were high, and provisions were dearOh! what themes for the graceful, refined Harry Vere!

My case widely differs;-the years that have past
Not a shade on my mind or my person have cast;
In fact, I was once a mere miss, I confess,
Untutored in manners, unfashioned in dress;
Now my air and appointments the critic must please,
I have caught the true tone of conventional ease;
And my striking improvement, I very much fear,
To the peace may be fatal of young Harry Vere.

Oh! horror-a neighbour has dropped in to tea,
And poured in my ear Harry's comments on me;
What, can this, he exclaimed, as I quitted the room,
Be the girl full of artlessness, beauty, and bloom,
Who set my susceptible heart in a flame-

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Can this worn, haggard spinster indeed be the same?
In her sharp fretful features no traces survive
Of the charms that distinguished the fair Lucy Clive.

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At her bare meagre shoulders humanity sighs,

The crow's-foot has wrought a sad work round her eyes,

False curls flow her garland of roses beneath;

And her dentist, I guess, furnished two of her teeth;

Her jewels and blonde no attraction possess,

Like her bright coral necklace, and white flowing dress;

And her forced feeble giggle but ill can revive

The light-hearted laughter of gay Lucy Clive.

The arrows of satire she bitterly hurls
At the head of all pretty and popular girls,
And slanders pours forth, as if never to cease,

From those lips that once breathed but affection and peace;
Yet for Pam she reveals passion fervent and true,
And she casts tender looks at her winnings at Loo;
What changes the malice of Time can contrive!
What a wreck he has made of the sweet Lucy Clive!«

Well, my tears I have dried-my past days I review-
And I feel Harry's charge is well-founded and true;
Henceforth I will aim not at juvenile looks,
But change cards and scandal for quiet and books;
Age still may be honoured if prudently spent,
Though I own it appears a surprising event;
That I learn this hard lesson, as wise as severe,
From the flirt of my girl-hood, the gay Harry Vere.

(METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE.)

DR CLAESSEN

ON THE COLD WATER CURE.

Wahres und Falsches in der sogenannten Wasserheilkunde. Von Dr H. CLAESSEN. -Köln, 1840. 12mo PP. 127.

The Truth and Falsehood of the so-called Cold Water Cure. By Dr H. CLAESSEN - Cologne, 1840.

The medicine of all barbarous nations is simple: a few well-known herbs, a few animal preparations, make up mostly their whole materia medica. Superstitious observances fill up the place of medical treatment, and in the cure of almost all diseases, fire and water, whose effects are so striking as to impress the most ignorant, play a prominent part. Our own ancestors and the northern nations in general ascribed peculiar virtues to water. Standing on the river's bank they worshipped; they divined with the smooth stones of the stream, and maidens sat all night at a spring, waking the well. Petrarch tells us how, in accordance with an old custom, the banks of the Rhine at Cologne were covered on St. John's even at sunset, praeclaro et ingenti mulierum agmine; . who with many ceremonies, and muttering a charm, bathed their arms and hands in the stream. Water dipped from

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