love and woman, the eulogy of martial virtue and renown, and the celebration of their uniform concomitant, open generosity of character, If the bards of Arabia, in point of delicacy and elegance, are not to be estimated at so high a mark as the neighbouring poets of Persia, at least they claim no second place for the qualities of fire and animation.

It was in this state of Arabian manners that Mahomet, the surprising character whose eloquence and force of arms were to exercise so mighty an influence over the minds, habits, and manners of mankind, arose in the East. The detail of his chief enterprises, and the account of their silent and unseen, yet powerful effect on the languages of Persia and Arabia, must be a subject for a future paper.

P. W. R.

SUNDAY IN PARIS.

"Tis morning-the shops are all open-the cries
And week-day sights meet our ears and our eyes,
As the loaded waggons pass us,
With wheels sticking out a yard at least,
And housings grotesque that make every beast
Look like the London Bonassus.

'Tis church-time, and half of the shops are half shut,
Except in the quarters of trade, where they put
At defiance what Louis enacted;
The streets are as full as before-and I guess
The churches are nearly as empty, unless
Some mummery pageant is acted.

When worship becomes a theatical show
Parisians of course most religiously go

To pray for the forwardest places,

Where best they may see a fine puppet for hours
Before a fine altar of tinsel and flowers

Perform pantomimic grimaces.

Some gaze on his shoes and his gloves of white kid,
Or the jewels with which every finger is hid,
Or his flounces of violet satin;

Other eyes on his laces and mitre are kept,
Attentive to all his performance-except

The prayers that he mumbles in Latin.

The senses give thanks-no responses are made,
And when there's a pause in the form and parade
The orchestra strikes up a chorus ;

The women then ask, who is that?-who is this?
While the men slily ogle the singers, and kiss
Their hands to the sweet Signoras.

Is there nothing of fervour?-O yes, you may mark
Some hobbling old crones in a vestibule dark,
Who dab in the holy lotion

Shrivell'd fingers to cross their forehead and breast,
Then kneel at a chapel with candles dress'd,
And kiss it with blind devotion.

They pour from the church—and each fair one begs,
As she crosses the gutter and shews her legs,
To know what is next intended;

For Sunday's devoted to pleasure and shows,
And the toils of the day of rest never close
Till both day and night are ended.

One talks of Versailles-or St. Cloud-or a walk,
And a hundred sharp voices that sing, not talk,
Instantly second each mover;

Some stroll to the Bois de Boulogne; others stray
To the Thuilleries, Luxembourg, Champs Elysées,
The Garden of Plants, or the Louvre.

But the dinner-hour comes-an important event!
What pondering looks on the cartes* are now bent!
And how various-how endless the fare is,
From the suburb Guinguette, to where epicures choose
Fricandeaus, fricassées, consommés, and ragouts,
At Grignion's, Beauvillier's, or Very's.

Some belles in the Thuilleries' walks now appear,
While loungers take seat round about them-to sneer,
To chat-read the papers, or slumber.

In disposing the chairs there are different whims,
But one for the body, and two for the limbs,
Are reckon❜d a moderate number.

The Boulevards next are the grand rendezvous,
Where parties on parties amusement pursue,
A stream of perpetual friskers,

From the pretty Bourgeoise and the trowser'd Commis,
The modern Grisette, and the ancient Marquis,
To the Marshal of France in whiskers.

Crowds sit under trees in defiance of damps;
Th' Italian Boulevard, with its pendulous lamps,

By far is the smartest of any

With bare elbows, slim waists, and fine bonnets dress'd out, Each Parisian beauty may there have a rout

For the price of the chair-a penny.

English women are known by their dresses of white;
The men by superior neatness and height,

They talk of gigs, horses, and ponies;

All look twice as grave as the French-yet their laugh,
When they choose to indulge it, is louder by half,
And they turn in, of course, at Tortoni's.

The theatres open, some thirty or more-
All are fill'd, yet the crowd seems as thick as before,
Regardless of mud, or of weather;

You'd swear it were carnival-time-and in sooth
The town is a fair-every house is a booth

And the people all crazy together.

What braying of gongs-what confusion of tongues!
What a compound of noise from drums, trumpets, and lungs!

* Bills of fare.

Each striving his neighbour's to smother;
Mimes, mountebanks, conjurers, each have their rings,
While monkeys and dancing-dogs-roundabouts-swings-
Are so thick, they encroach on each other.

Here's a dwarf, and a monster, both beautiful sights!
And there is the man without fingers, that writes
With his chest, and his grinders after,

Both done so well, you can't say which is worst ;-
There Judy and Punch with a cat is rehearsed,
Which would move a hermit to laughter.

Every mansion as full as the street appears;
By the mirrors up stairs, and the chandeliers,
You may see quadrilling bodies;
Below some smoke in the Estaminets,
While others take ice, Roman punch, and sorbets,
Or chat to the Bar-maid Goddess.

In all, gaming claims indiscriminate love :
The dice-box and billiard-ball rattle above,
If you pass by a palace or stable.
Below, at the corner of every street,
Parties of shoe-blacks at cards you may meet,

The blacking-box serving as table.

The Palais Royal is a separate fair,

With its pickpockets, gamblers, and nymphs debounaire,
Of character somewhat uncertain:

But as it is late, and these scenes, I suspect,

Won't bear a detail too minute and direct,
For the present we drop the curtain.

H.

STANZAS

On hearing that the late Lady W-r's artificial flowers remained in her hair to the last; the severity of her illness precluding change of dress.

OH! take those roses from her hair,
That such a cruel brightness wear;
Their frightful beauty shocks us now,
While pain contracts her pallid brow.

Had they been cull'd from Nature's breast,
In all their dewy sweetness drest;

Like her-we should have seen them fade,
Like her-wan, drooping, and decay'd.

But these the glaring gifts of art,
No touch of sympathy impart,
Wearing one fix'd-triumphant glow,
In mockery of our bitter woe!

HEROINES are generally no great favourites with the sex whose deeds they emulate; men are not fond of female competitors either in bodily or mental strength, and she who reads Latin or leaps a fivebarred gate is warned off by lordly man as an unlicensed and unqualified poacher upon his manors. Woe to the Amazon and the bluestocking! each is too likely to incur the same dreadful denunciation which Cardinal Mazarin launched against Mademoiselle de Montpensier when she mounted the ramparts of the Bastille; of each it may most probably be said: "elle a tué son mari." For my own part, I differ on these subjects from the generality of mankind: if ever I marry, it shall be a woman who can break a horse or has been up in a balloon; and all my daughters shall hunt and learn mathematics in order to strengthen their nerves. Feminine tremours and palpitations may sound interesting enough to the uninitiated, but alas! they convey no pleasing ideas to him who has a mother, four sisters, three aunts, and six cousins, all the most preposterous and clamorous cowards in existence. God bless them all! I love them sincerely, perceive and appreciate their numerous good qualities, would do any thing on earth to serve and oblige them; but I wish they would not ask me to walk with them about London. Country rambles are bad enough, we are sure to meet mad bulls disguised like milch-cows, or ruffians in carters' frocks, to hear a hornet's hum in every breeze, and see adders coiled in every hedge; but London expeditions are a thousand times worse. Unfortunately, my mother and aunts are so complimentary as to prefer my arm to any other support; and, when lovers and danglers are not at command, the younger ladies frequently request my escort. I find myself unequal to refusal or demur; but, after one of these bewildering excursions, I return home very kindly disposed towards the heroines of history and romance, and often indulge myself in fond imaginations as to the quiet comfortable walks I should have with a Marfisa on one arm, and a Britomart on the other. No startings and screamings, no dashing half-distracted into a shop at the glimpse of a distant ox, no scampering full speed over a crossing because a hackney-coach is at thirty yards distance. I feel assured that the Senora Padilla would have made no objection to walking past the two cavaliers at the horse-guards, nor would Aldrude, Countess of Bertinoro, have crossed the road to avoid a Newfoundland dog. Perhaps to some persons there may be nothing very alluring in the idea of a lady, who, like Camilla, medias inter cædes exultat," or like the tiger-nursed Clorinda :—

"Chi veste l'armi, e se d' uscirne agogna,

Vassene, e non la tien tema o vergogna"

but I confess I should very much prefer them to Erminia, "timida e smarrita," of whom I have, unfortunately, too many specimens in my own family.

Why should not English ladies be embodied into regiments like the King of Dahomey's three thousand wives, taught to stand fire, and cured of all nervous affections for life by the sight of a field of battle? But, if this were objected to, surely female seminaries might be established for the express purpose of teaching courage, where the pupils should be arranged in classes, and urged to emulation by example and reward. No uncommon bravery, no masculine hardihood should be required, but all should be taught to walk quietly by a led horse, to see a mouse run across a room without screaming, and not to be afraid of cock-chaffers, or father-long-legs; and prizes should be given to those who could touch an unloaded gun without trembling, and see a spider on their gown without fainting away. They might be carefully instructed in many other useful particulars, and their writingcopies might run as follows, "Do not suppose all dogs are mad in the summer," or "Shrieking does not diminish danger," or "Avoid rousing your family when the wind moves your shutters." In two or three years great progress might be made in bravery, and there would be time enough afterwards for the acquirement of less useful accomplishments. Oh that such a system were adopted! Then, and only then might we hope to find an Englishwoman capable of imitating the French lady celebrated by M. de la Lande, who scrambled up the inclined ladder at the top of St. Peter's, mounted the ball, and leaned upon the cross, "" avec une souplesse et une grace inconcevable." I confess myself a little sceptical as to the extraordinary grace of such an action; but I should admire it as the symptom of a stout heart, as a tacit renunciation of the nervous tremours, “ thrilling shrieks and shrieking cries," for which the generality of the sex are distinguished, -as an earnest of peaceful walks, days without hypothetical horrors, and nights undisturbed by imaginary housebreakers.

Any one would suppose that my mother had detected me in a plot for her destruction, and that whenever I walked out with her she expected me to take the first favourable opportunity of getting her run over. She believes none of my assurances, listens to none of my arguments, and looks seriously provoked if I venture to tell her that she is in no danger. I must be blind if I do not perceive that every gighorse is "skittish," and I am accused of obstinacy if I refuse to bear testimony to her numerous "hair-breadth escapes." Then there are such long refuges in shops while a line of drays is passing, such wearying pauses, such turning of the head from side to side, such wild, calculating glances up and down the street, so many faint attempts and precipitate returns ere the desperate resolution is taken to dash over a crossing. I am foolish enough to feel half-ashamed of myself when I see the suppressed sneer or broad grin of the passengers, while my runaway companion stops to regain her breath and collect her scattered spirits; and I should often persuade her to hide her disorder in a hackney-coach, were it not that my eldest sister, who is very frequently on my other arm, is so dreadfully frightened in a carriage that it would be only an exchange of terrors. Poor Charlotte! she has made up her mind to a broken neck, and reads every accident of the kind recorded in the papers, as if it were the