But she saw with a glance what was best to be done.
She started the doctor, and said to the youth,

"Now, Ferdinand Pigswiddy, tell me the truth,

"You're in love, are you not? Well, that blush says you are. "Now, who is the lady? Come, tell your Mamma!"

So the truth
Which the youth

Had so long sought to smother,
Was judged of aright,

And exposed to the light,

By the wisest and best of all doctors-his mother.
O! let me here stop,

Just a maxim to drop:

Fathers! if ever your sons seem to ail,
Lose their appetites, grow very pale,
And take to write poetry-do not fail
To draw their mamma's attention to it-
They're in love, and she'll quickly get 'em thro' it.
Like Ferdinand Pigswiddy's mother, they'll find

A speedy way to relieve the mind.

"Well really," she said, when the murder was out, "What a story to make all this rumpus about;

"I'll very soon cure you-be guided by me,

"And as right as a trivet ere long you shall be.

"What's her name do you say? "Jane Snigglethorpe, Ma!" "And where does she live?" "Why, I'm sure I don't know, "But I don't think it's far,

"Ma, from Temple Bar,

"For I recollect hearing her say to her Pa"As the visitors all were beginning to go

"It's very near five,

“‘Pa, as I am alive,

"And I'm sure that my watch quite correct must be, "For 'twas set by St. Dunstan's at half-past three.""

"But how long ago, dear," said Ferdinand's Ma, "Was the party you speak of?" “ Why, let me remember, "To-day's March the third, "Well, upon my word,

"It seems just like yesterday to mc-but ah!

""Twas the seventh-no, eighth-no, the ninth of December."

"Good heavens!" said she, "why it's three months ago,
"Why she's surely forgot you by this time." "Oh, no!"
Sigh'd the youth-" I will never-no, never, believe

"That so lovely a creature could feign or deceive;
"And she told me most solemnly-yes, she told me,
"That I never forgotten or slighted should be ;
"No, neither in time nor eternity."

"Well, I don't wish to damp you," replied Mrs. P.,
"But such speeches as that are all fiddle-de-dee.

"However, we now,

"If your strength will allow,

"Will seek this Miss What's-her-name out. But, pray how ?" "O! of course, Ma, to you in this matter I bow; "Whatever you do, I've no doubt will be right;' Said he, with flush'd cheek,

"But I'm still rather weak.

"Praps you'll try to find her out for me, to-night?"
"Well I will," was the answer that Pigswiddy got,
"And I'll come back at nine, whether lucky or not."

"Twere vain to relate how the hours that pass'd
Till the lady returned, flew by no means so fast
As Ferdinand wished them-no doubt you can guess it
Dear reader! much better than I can express it.
Suffice it to say they were like Mr. Pope's
Alexandrines-but no! I'am a hater of tropes.

At length she came back. "Have you found her?" he said, "I have:" He fell back in a swoon, on his bed,

And so long he lay still, you'd have sworn he was dead;
But after a while he recovered, and then-

It was just as St. Clement's was striking ten

He asked her the very same question again.

She sighed,

Then she cried,

And at length she replied

In a voice so distraught-though to curb it she triedThat the nurse thought that she-even she-must have died— "I've found her, my love, but I've found her a bride;

"She was married last week to a Mr. M'Clyde."

Once more Mr. Pigswiddy bowed down his head,
Once more Mr. Pigswiddy fell back in bed,

Once more you'd have thought Mr. Pigswiddy dead,
And especially so when this sentence he said-
"Mamma, I shall die!

My last moments are nigh,
"But ere I depart-let me bid you good bye."
And with this remark on his poor pallid lips,
Mr. Pigswiddy suffered a second eclipse.

That last word" eclipse" was'nt quite what I meant,
But the cravings of rhyme made me change my intent;
For "eclipse" read relapse,

That will mend it, perhaps,

But I'm one of those devil-may-care sort of chaps,
Who write down their rhymes just at hazards and haps;
And I never find out till some sharp critic raps,
And says, that I seem

As I'm writing, to dream,

And to pen down my couplets while taking my naps-
That the words of my song,

Are unfitted or wrong

But, where have I got? Muses! help me along!

Now, although Mr. Pigswiddy vow'd he would die,
And kept to that mind for a fortnight, or nigh,

On thinking it over again, and perceiving,

Before him, nought better than what he was leaving,
And seeing, moreover, that though he had fail'd

Where he'd thought that there was'nt a doubt he'd prevail'd,
There were many young ladies as pretty and sprightly
As Jane-though of course he'd not speak of her lightly-
Quite ready and willing his sorrows to cheer,

And his pleasures to share with him, year after year-
He resolv'd he would not to his purpose adhere.
So after a week or two's nursing and tending,
Poor Pigswiddy found himself rapidly mending,
And when he at length, his imprisonment ending,-
Got well, and went out,

And gadded about,

To ball and to theatre, concert and rout,

He quickly got round again,

Soon grew quite sound again,

And his heart-tho' he feared he had lost it-he found again.

*

One morning last week, while perusing The Times-
Having got to the end of the news and the crimes-
I came to the marriages; judge my surprise,
When the following notice saluted my eyes:
"On Monday the fourth, at St. Mary-le-bow,
"Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy, Strand, to Miss So-
-phia Fitzpitcher of Rockingham Row,

"Only daughter of Simon Fitzpitcher, Esquire,
"The head of the house of Fitzpitcher and Fryer."
"Ah! Cupid," said I

"Whilst the arrows you fly,

"Reach all my acquaintances, far and nigh,

66

Why toucheth none me? Oh! answer why;

'Why should I-why must I, a bachelor die?"
And now, Reader dear,

With my lines you would quarrel,
Unless should appear,

In their meaning, a moral.

The moral or meaning I have, then, in view,

May be useful, I fancy, to many of you;

'Tis to timid young bachelors, modest and meek

-If such things there be-which admits of dispute-
That the moral referred to's intended to speak;
Such persons, and such persons only, 'twill suit.

If ever then you, ye meek bachelors, fall
In love with a lady you meet at a ball-
Believe not her words, or her blushes, or sighs,

Or the beautiful things that she says with her eyes.
For such like sweet graces,

Performed at such places,

Are made for the time, just the same as her face is.
And though she may vow you shall ne'er be forgot,
Till eternity's ended-still, heed her not;

For eternity means, at such moments, no more
Than the time till the party you meet at is o'er.

Or if you still think that she means what she says-
And you fondly imagine you've gained her affection,
Be sure, ere you part on your different ways,
To your several homes, that you learn her direction.
And if for her hand you determine to bid,

(Observe this particular point, while you may so,)
Don't suffer, as Ferdinand Pigswiddy did,

Three months to elapse, ere you seek her to say so.

JOHN LACHRYMOSO SMITH.

WOMAN.

I plucked a young rose that was smilingly growing,
In beauty and fragrance surpassing the rest,
And placed it, in deep-blushing colours all glowing,

To breathe its rich perfume and smile on my breast.
It looked gay for a while, but its bright hues were tender,
And soon it appeared to be withered and dead;
Yet, though it had lost its original splendour,

Its fragrance, still grateful, regaled me instead.
Thus woman, fair woman, in loveliness blooming,
Is placed on the bosom of man to repose;
But Time's passing fingers her beauty consuming,
She fades to the eye like the withering rose.

Yet though the fair skin may have lost that complexion
The eyes used to gaze so enchanted upon,

The sweets of the mind are a source of affection,
And breathe forth delight when all beauty is gone.

L. L. D.

ON THE LOSS OF FRIENDS.

I know there is a world where angels dwell,
Where blessed spirits rest, their “warfare o'er,"
And sorrow, sin, and death, are known no more.
Faith is not silenced by the passing bell,

Her music haunts the lone heart's dreariest cell.
I know they are not lost, but "gone before,"-
That I may tread with them the heavenly shore,
And share a bliss too great for tongue to tell!
And yet the "flesh is weak"-the tear will rise,
The heart will bleed, when loved ones pass away;
We reach the "Palace" by the "Bridge of Sighs,"
And pass through blackest night to endless day.
Conqueror of Death, forgive! did not a tear
Flow from thine eyes o'er friendship's honored bier?

DELTA.

19

NOTES ON LANGUAGE.

"Polonius-What do you read, my lord?

Hamlet-Words, words, words."-HAMLET.

It has often been most truly remarked, that the language of a nation is an exact counterpart of its genius and character. A sort of national phrenology might unerringly discover to the skilful all the chief peculiarities of a people by a mere examination of their syntax and prosody: or, conversely, a knowledge of the national temper and habits might be enough to determine nicely the great characteristics of the language, just as we might suppose that an accomplished craniologist could by the sight of a skull describe the character of the mind by which it was tenanted, or from a description of the mind infer the proper form and figure of the corresponding skull-piece. Be this as it may, such a science would have as much philosophy on its side as craniology has, and could as clearly be proved by the inductive process. Take whatever language we may, we shall find it, as it were, the very countenance of the nation which speaks through it; it shall bear all the marks of their habits and passions, all the traces of their mental strength or mental weakness. I know not a better example of this wonderful conformity than that which the ancient Athenians afford us. How vividly did they betray, in the very phrase they spoke, all their own mind and character, their perfect elasticity of thought and temper, their insatiable longing after change, their exquisite sense of beauty, their courtliness and refinement. Their neighbours of Sparta meanwhile, those men of "sterner stuff," uttered a language rough and rigid as themselves, and as little fitted for the elegances of fashion and civility. The first thing which an observer of the Athenian character remarks is its perpetual variation. The same peculiarity is equally conspicuous in the language. It could vary with every want or whim, could be terse or copious, harsh or smooth, plain or adorned-everything but uniform."Nil fuit unquam, Sic impar sibi." Change was the darling idea of the Athenians; change is the prominent feature of their dialect. In the writings which they have left behind, we see them wantonly disport themselves in a luxurious variety of expressions, breaking at will every law of construction out of very love of license, and boldly setting at defiance all strict method and regularity. Yet with this apparent negligence they joined consummate accuracy. In the general, each sentence seemed free and irregular; in the detail, it was most fastidiously chastened and refined. What a world of meaning, and elegance, and energy, is conveyed by their crowd of particles, with all their untold combinations and varieties. What facilities are here for the national love of enigma and innuendo. What a field for the display of attic taste and attic wit. Even their moods and tenses tell us something of their character. The existence of a past tense in the

The lovers of the fine arts may regret that the disciples of Gall and Lavater do not for once coalesce, and present mankind with a series of busts of distinguished Romans, executed after the admirable descriptions of Sallust and Tacitus.