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wardrobe from the bed's-head, opened it, and found the key of the strong box, from which he took all the gold he could find, but not the jewels. He next locked the wardrobe, and replaced the key behind the pillow, took his hat from under the bed, and left the napkin in it. Having taken the key of the chamber out of the chair, he went down, and finding the street-door only on the single lock, he opened it, and escaped, and left it ajar.

Thus was the veil removed from this deed of darkness, and all the circumstances which condemned Le Brun, were accounted for consistently with his innocence.



The following verses of the unfortunate poet, Chatterton, were presented to us by a friend, who transcribed them from an autogragh copy in a volume of the novels of Mrs. Heywood, in the possession of the Earl oi Limerick. They are remarkable only as an unpublished production of their unfortunate author, having no great merit to recommend them.

Let Sappho's name be heard no more,

Or Dido's fate by bards be sung,
When on the billow-beaten shore,

The echo of Mneas rung.


Love, the great ruler of the breast,

Proud and impatient to control,
In every novel stands confest,

Waking to nature's scenes the soul.


Heywood, thy genius was divine;

The softer passions owned thy sway,
Thy easy prose, thy flowing line,

Accomplishments supreme display.


Pope! son of envy and of fame,

Penned the invidious line in vain;
To blast thy literary name,

Exceeds the power of human strain.


Ye gay, ye sensible, ye fair,

To what her genius wrote attend;
You'll find engaging morals there

To help the lover and the friend.


The fotfowing article is extracted from Mr. Murray's new journal, 'The Representative,' and purports to be from the pen of Lord Byron. It is curious, and worthy of preservation in some journal of a less perishable nature than a newspaper:—

When I belonged to the Drury-lane committee, and was one of the stage-committee of management, the number of plays upon the shelves was about five hundred. Conceiving that amongst these there must be some of merit, in person and by proxy, I caused an examination. I do not think that of those which I saw, there was one which could be conscientiously tolerated. There never were such things as most of them. Maturii was very kindly recommended to me by Walter Scott, to whom I had recourse; firstly, in the hope that he would do something for us himselfi and secondly, in my despair, that he would point out to us anv young or old writer of promise. Maturin sent his Bertram, and a letter without his address; so that at first I could give him no answer. When I at last hit upon his residence, I sent him a favourable answer, and something more substantial. His play succeeded, but I was at that time absent from England. I tried Coleridge, too, but he had nothing feasible in hand at the time. Air. Sotheby obligingly offered all his tragedies; and I pledged myself; and, notwithstanding many squabbles with my committee brethren, did get Iran accepted, read, and the parts distributed. But lo! in the very heart of the matter, upon some tepidnesa on the part of Kean, or warmth on that of the author, Sotheby withdrew his play. Sir J. B. Burgess did also present four tragedies and a farce, and I handed them to the green-room and stage-committee; but they would not do. Then the scenes I had to go through! The authors and the authoresses—the milliners and the wild Irishmen—the people from Brighton, from Blackwall, from Cheltenham, from Dublin, from Dundee,— who came upon me!—to all of whom it was proper to give a civil answer, and a hearing and a reading. Mrs. Glover's father, an Irish dancing-master, of sixty years of age, called upon me to play Archer, dressed in silk stockings, on a frosty morning, to snow his legs (which were certainly good and Irish for his age; and had been still Better.) Miss Emma Somebody, with a play, entitled, The Bandit of Bohemia, or some such title or production; Mr. O'Higgins—then resident at Richmond— with an Irish tragedy, in which the protagonist was chained by the leg to a pillar during the chief part of the performance. He was a wild man, of savage appearance, and the difficulty of not laughing at him was only to be got over by reflecting on the probable consequences of such a cachinnation. As I am really a civil and polite person, and do hate giving pain when it can be avoided, I sent them up to Douglas Kinnaird, who is a man of business, and sufficiently ready with a negative, and left them to settle with him; and as at the beginning of next year I went abroad, I have since been little aware of the progress of the theatre. Players are said to be an impracticable people. They are so; but I managed to steer clear of any disputes with them, and excepting one debate with the elder Byrne about Miss Smith's pas de—something, (I forget the technicals,) I do not remember any little litigation of my own. I used to protect Miss Smith, because she was ake Lady Jane Harley in the face; and likenesses go a great way with me, indeed. In general, I left such things to my more bustling colleagues, who used to reprove me seriously for not being able to take such things inTiand, without buffooning with the histrionians, and throwing things into confusion by treating light matters with levity. Then the committee—then the sub-committee—we were but few, and never agreed. There was Peter Moore, who contradicted Kinnaird; and Kinnaird, who contradicted every body. There were two managers, Rae and Dibdin, and our secretary, Ward—and yet we were all very zealous, and in earnest to do good, and so forth. Hobhouse furnished us with prologues to our revived old English plays, but was not pleased with us for complimenting him as the 'Upton' of our theatre; (Mr. Upton is, or was, the poet who writes the songs for Astley's,) and almost gave up prologuizing in consequence.



Nay ; shrink not hence, thou, with the dark fixed eye
And horrent locks up-streaming;—neither let
The breath repass thy bloodless lip, nor yet
Thy worn weeds rustle when the winds pass by:
Moved be nor tongue for speech, nor foot for fligh t,
Beneath the dark shade of these abbey-walls;—
Nor let the dark grass or sere ivy stir,
Nor float the night-owl in the moonshine white:—
Hush! Hark ! the melancholy voice that calls
From the far stillness of the sepulchre.

The tone fell faint and feebly,—like the sound
Of far-off sea-nymph murmuring in her shell—
Then died away ;—anon the passing bell
Rang its deep thunder thrilling all the ground;
And as the long vibration slow decayed,
Again that piteous tone rose sadly clear,—

* Come forth!' it cried,' O, darker than the shade

'That shrouds thee, traitor! in its darkness here—
'Come forth !—Not palmer's mantle, holy guise,
'Nor flight o'er sea, nor stay in foreign land,
'Shall hide thee now, nor care beneath the earth ;—

* For I will haunt thee, till the agonies

'Of life be past.' And aye, her pearl-white hand

Rose beckoning, as she cried—' Come forth! Come forth!'

He came not—looked not—spoke not;—for on him

The deadly torpor of despair came down:

"When lo! emerging beautifully dim,

A wasted form through which the moon-beam shone,

Came gliding onward: pale she was, and cold,

Her locks were faded, but her soft, bright eye

Still looked the spirit of unearthly mould,

And straight she beckoned as she passed him by.—

As when the slant-beam sheds a silver veil

O'er the clear lake, the dark-green weeds that clothe

Its pebby bed, half-seen, half-vanish'd, lie—

So indistinct and shadowy, through her pale,

Transparent semblance, peered the ivy-growth

What time the phantom hastened to the sky.

'Tis done! the faint weeds through the ivy stir,—
The owl is floating in the moon-shine white,
And Silence listening from the sepulchre!—
But when the grey East glowed with rosy light,
And early monks devout their beads were telling,
And matin-hymns along that aisle were swelling,
The Palmer came not with his rosary!
The hour of prayer gone by,—beneath the porch—
Lo! stretched aghast, a livid corse was lying,
With white, wan cheek, and wild, distorted eye;—
And all around the reverend abbey-church
Sat beadsmen pale, and holy fathers sighing.



The Rabbi Meir was a Jewish Philosopher of some repute in the city where he resided; public esteem rewarded him for the severity of his morals and, he might be said to be in the full enjoyment of all that can render life happy. Though equally a stranger to poverty and to wealth, he possessed treasures of which the most powerful monarch might have envied him. A wife, who, 'like a jewel had hung about his neck for twenty years, and never lost her lustre, loved him with that fervency with which angels love good men.' Their union had been blessed with two sons, who were twins.

The Rabbi and his wife, in gratitude for this double mark of heaven's favour, instilled into the minds of their children those principles which lead to the formation of virtuous habits, and ultimately, make the possessors of them ornaments of society. The parents met with their reward in the obedience and good conduct of their offspring. The young men were both intended for the priesthood; and such had been their application to learning, that their minds had reached maturity before their persons had lost the appearance of boyhood.

The Rabbi made it a part of his duty every Sabbath to teach, gratuitously, those persons who were unable to pay for instruction. He was engaged in this benevolent office when one of the greatest calamities that can befal a parent visited his family. His sons both died suddenly within one hour.

The conduct of the mother, upon this melancholy occasion, deserves to be recorded as a signal instance of religious resignation. To enable herself to prepare the mind of her husband for the painful intelligence, she repressed her own grief, and welcomed his return home with her accustomed smile. After the usual salutations, the Rabbi inquired for his sons. His wife, in answer, said, 'They are not far off!' She placed supper before him,—he eat. Wine being brought, he praised the Lord to the going out of the Sabbath, (a custom among the Jews), and drank. He now repeated his inquiries respecting his children. 'Where are they?' said he, ' that they may drink of the wine which I have blessed?' * You shall see them pre sently,' rejoined their mother; 'meantime, Rabbi, will you answer me one question?' 'Speak, my only love!' replied her husband. 'Well then,' said she, ' some time ago, I had two costly jewels given to me to take care of;—those who entrusted me with them now want them again ;—should I give them up?' 'Thou shouldst not ask such a question,' replied the Rabbi. 'Wouldst thou keep that which was only given to thee in trust.' 'Oh, no!' she answered, ' but I thought it best to inform thee before I returned them.' She then communicated to him the event which had happened, and led him to the chamber where the remains of his children lay. 'Ah! my sons!' exclaimed the father, ' and my teachers, for much have I learned from you.' The mother now gave vent to the agony other soul:—she turned away her head and wept. At length, grasping the hand of her husband, she exclaimed, ' Rabbi, hast thou not taught me, that we should not be reluctant to return that which was only given to us in trust? See, the Lord has given:—the Lord has taken away:—blessed be the name of the Lord!' 'Blessed be the name of the Lord!' exclaimed the Rabbi. 'Well has it been observed,* he continued, 'that he who has found a virtuous and affectionate wife possesses a treasure above all price.'



Ringlets bright, Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light; Eyes, in whose glistening Luighter lay, , No faint remembrance of dall decay 1 Stops, that flow over the cowslip's head. As if for a banquet all earth were spread; A voice, that rang through the sapphire sky.

And had not a sound of mortality! Mils Hemaks.

Yes, I know thee, sunny child,
And thy witcheries bright and wild;
Inmate meet for fairy bower!
Fitting mate for bird and flower1
And a fairer theme than they,
Or for picture, or for lay.
Radiant vision !—gazing here
On that brow and bosom clear,
This thy portrait's truthful trace
Of the evanescent grace,
Ever around childhood flitting
Bright, and frail, and intermitting,
As the sun-light on the rill,
As the shadows on the hill—
I would give the minstrel's dower
To possess the painter's power!

Say—could loveliest language speak
That soft dimple on thy check?
Words, express the laughing spell
That a single glance can tell?
Words, portray the living grace
Smiles can scatter o'er a face?
Words, a lip and brow define
Loving, beautiful, as thine?
No, Expression's weak and chill;
Painter, triumph in thy skill;
I may vague description give,
Thou, can'st make description live!

Radiant vision! though my eye

Fondly can thy charms descry,

Yet my heart hath deeper thought,

Sorrow even by beauty wrought!

Yes, those eyes will fade with tears,

Those sweet smiles be quenched by fears;

Soon will sorrow make its nest

Where that gentle bird is prcst;

Time bring on his brother Care—

Shadows dim that forehead fair;

And those ringlets' glossy play,

Change to melancholy grey!

Thou wilt trust the bright sky o'er thee,

Till deceived like all before thee;—

Be with Life's enjoyments blest,

But to find they give not rest!

—Bright one, bright one, even so—

Must thou learn of human woe,

Even so, experience gain,

Truth and wisdom so attain!

Breathing Portrait, now farewell!
Thine, has been no idle spell;
Many a holy lesson lies
Hidden in an infant's eyes;
Lessons that the proud may spurn,
But the wise in heart will learn :—
Breathing Portrait—fare thee well—
Thine, has been no idle spell I

M. J. J.

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