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WJTMIIM IffitAll mwm. TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. Original Fortlie Southern Literary Gazette. THE POET CHATELARD. EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. ***** X. ***** Such was the flame of that enthusiast Bard, Sprung from chivalric sire,—the minstrel Cha telard. xt. He loved, but loved in vain—yet not the less Because in vain ; the fervour of his love, Led him, with passion nothing might repress, Before that Queen of Beauty, who could prove, Herself immovable, who all could move ; Indifferent to the hope herself inspired, And which to kindle still too well she strove; tj.u- whose desire was met when nH <Je-.ned, And scorn’d to leel the warmth of that sad breath she fir’d. XII. And yet, not evermore a thing of scorn, Mocking the conquest made : —alas! her lot, Mourn’d long by those her beauty taught to mourn, Ere yet her fate became a cruel blot, On the fair fame of nations, and a spot, \ blood-spot on the soul of that fierce Queen, That unsex’d woman, that all ties forgot, In the foul venom of the bitter spleen, That wrought the final crime, too fell for speech, I ween. XIII. Vainly have bards essayed in by-gone hours, To sing her charms, Vainly, the Painter’s art, liuth limned her cheek in colours like the flowers, \nd, in the quiv’ring eye defin’d the heart:— They sung, they drew, but only taught a part, Small portion of the beauties in their view, Those excellencies rare that found a mart, l.i her surpassing beauty, were not few, — And dazzling every eye, in vain the artist drew. XIV. The minstrel sung in vain ; and, casting by The lute that spoke not us the theme required, Hi.- song of homage sunk into a sigh, And nil in vain the spirit she inspir’d ; lie had no music lor the Muse who fired, And tears were his sole language ; —she had grown, Too potent in his breast, who thus desired, His skill in the •“ gay science,” and each tone, Spoke in her queenly praise, came from his heart alone! XV. Thus, doubly sovereign, o’er the enamor’d Bard, The gentle Mary, in her court, became ‘l'lie soul and cynosure of Chatelard, Whose blind and fierce devotion nought could tame; She bound him to the stake, and fed the flame. By her most ’witching glances, and a speech. When his ear drank the sound that did not blame, — For that he proved so apt, when love would teaeh, And in his blindness aimed at what ’twere death to reach. xvi. He saw her smile, beheld the glorious play Os lips that looked delight, and eyes that grew To stars, outshining every kindred ray, And dazzling, when they played upon the view, In their sun-centred spheres of softest blue— How should he ’scape from blindness—was he not, Though taught by a true Muse, a mortal too? How could he gaze so far beyond his lot, Nor feel his sight grow dim, his wisdom all forgot ? XVII, He gazed and he was maddened. Deep the spell That bound him, and the Tempter in his soul, That won him on, and onward, till he fell Beyond his own, and far from Hope’s control; Still blindly dreaming—gazing on the goal, That he could never compass—but which yet Mock’d him with vain delusions, till his whole Rash spirit, on that glorious fortune set, Ru.-h’d in the mad career to ruin and regret. XVIII. He threw his tire inside ; —his heart was full Os st.ange delirium ; and his lyre seem’d rude, And its tones vex’d him, for its strains were dull, And chimed not with the fever of his mood, Nor with the rapid coursing of his blood, Which was one wild pulsation—and he made, Wand’ring his way to where a coppice stood, Even in the Palace garden, through each glade, Roving unconscious on, unheeding where ho strayed ! XIX. What were the stars to him, that then shone forth, Even in their softest glory? —what the fiow’rs, That made one rich, gay carpet of the earth, Around him, and half hid the mazy bow’rs, That gave but little grace to those huge tovv’rs ? What was the gentle brealh, upon his sense, Os the delicious evening, in those hours, When, wrapt as in a wizard influence, lie felt not.kuew not aught hut that deep fire intense ? xx. Though smit with love of all things lovely, yet, At that wild moment, in the gathering sky, He knew not that the enamoured stars were met, — Nor heard the fiow’rs shut, the zephyrs sigh ; Visions more dear by far were in his eye, Aii, would they were as genial!—had they shed A light, as kindly o’er his destiny, The Muse had left his story ail unsaid, Nor pluck’d one lowly (iow'r to grace his bloody bed. Wordsworth's Study. —A great source of health aiul freshness, both of body and mind, was the out-door life led by the venerable poet. “i should like to see your master’s study,” said someone to his cook; “ 1 suppose it is that,” pointing to some book shelves. “ No, sir, that is my master’s library; bis stuy is out of doors.” Wordsworth used to tell this anec dote with much glee. a turn mmmi,, nwo w ujsmtom. tm abk a® otsm. a® w smbm, irmHsaa (Priniiml ifnlrs. V/ For the Southern Litterary Gazette. A SIMPLE STORY. “ What detains vou,” said 1 to my friend, as he stood undecided, though he had excus 1 himself from the familv •/ circle, on the pT-i of having a call to make. “ Well,” he answered, “a visit is due for old acquaintance sake, besides, 1 have been sent for, but it is repugnant to my feelings to renew a friendship broken into by her own acts, or rather by circumstances, for Lucy, (I suppose 1 must now call her Mrs. Herbert,) is hardly to be condemned for the Jack of strength of character, though the want of it, has so materially affected the hap piness of my earliest friend, that the results influence my feelings, and through them my judgment. 1 doubt if the world would condemn her harshly;” and here he paused irresolutely, but looked as if he would like to be en couraged, to tell the reminiscences that caine crowding upon his mind, as the link in the great eiectric chain of mem ory was touched. It required little inducement to draw him into my study, and lead him to disclose this simple and 1 fear too com mon tale, to be interesting. “ it is many years since Lucy enter ed society,” lie commenced, passing immediately to the subject uppermost iu his thoughts, “which welcomed her as heiresses are welcomed, for if even homage is not conceded by the wise to the dormant material, there is a prestige about the luxuries it commands, which influences every one. She was not dif ferent from any of the young compan ions who grew up with her, nor had she any striking beauty in face, form, or character, but the whole was natural and unassuming. She was simple in the expression of her thoughts, and gave herself no undue importance from being the indulged mistress of a large property, these traits were the result of a secluded education, where the in fluence of her wealth if felt, was not brought bofore her observation. “ 1 have drawn you a common-place picture, you may think, and rightly, but a characterless girl, with uo prom inently bad traits, is a dangerous com panion. Induing her with tile qualities of the ideal which every young man | forms in his own mind, and is ready 1 to invest the first pliant material he meets with, he finds nothing in a na ture like this to thwart his fancy, the most ea ual incident confirms the dream, and when romance and reality are thus combined what human power can rea son away the infatuation. “ Lucy’s first admirer washer school / fellow, her boy-beau, endeared to me by every association, by early friend ship, sympathy of tastes, and little sac rifices, which in youth make you but love the more the object for whom they arc made. I looked up to him with the genuine admiration, the quiet, pro saic, but deep and earnest nature feels for that energetic, heart-stirring and vivacious temperament, that does with out fatigue, what it cannot do, says so naturally all that it would like to say, and expresses so gracefully, though like a second self, the unuttered aspirations that seem like exaggeration from a less brilliant spirit. With this impulsive character, it was not strange that he should indue the gentle playfellow of his chiidhood, with the pure and noble traits that clothed the ideal of his ma turer years, her quietude of manner, the lack of all enthusiasm was to him a charm, for it needed but little effort of bis imagination to pass for the ear nestness of a mind in self commu nion, and drawn within to the spring of pure thoughts. “ Such was the character he drew to me, in a letter begging my immediate presence, though not stating the cause of so sudden a summons. Obeying the request, 1 found Frank,” (for you must have guessed whose sad story 1 am relating) “in higher spirits than his ordinary gay moods, I sympathized with him, for he was a preferred lover, accepted unconditionally, and in case of refusal from guardians, the liberty of naming a day for a clandestine mar riage. There was uo hope of conces sion from that quarter; Frank was living upon a mere pittance; he had not even pursued the study of any pro fession, from unsettled views rather than a want of energy, and his own pride shrank from a secret marriage with so young and wealthy a bride, with such utter disproportion of means —so the young couple determined to separate till he could realize something. India offered a fair market for specula tion or industry, and when the mo ment of parting came, the lover adored the unselfishness and delicacy of the self-control, that the man would have shrunk from as want of feeling, for the voyage was dangerous, years of solita ry exile were hid behind the sunny sails of his vessel, the country he was bound to was unsettled, and their chances of ultimately re-uniting but small,harassed by contending emotions, and agitated, though perhaps not aware of it, by the serenity of Lucv; Frank impetuously and wrongly urged her to plight her faith in presence of myself, as witness, in a neighbouring church, near the part ing tryst. She may have been eleva ted by contact with a nobler nature, or perhaps awed by the strength of a pas sion too deep for her feeble conception, for her answer displayed a character, which led me to believe I had placed too low an estimate upon it.” “ No,” she said with dignity and force, which joined to her natural sym plicit v of manner made her words more impressive, “I will not cast so un worthy a doubt upon myself, nor seek to bind your will, when your love may have passed away ; you are secure in my affection, neither change, nor lapse of time, nor solicitation, nor force, could it be used, would alienate a heart that has so freely rendered all: its first impulses were yours, and so shall be its last pulsations.” “YY hat lovercould distrust such words, and the woman became a part of his life, his thought while awake, his dream in sleep, purified by absence and soli tude, for he left her soon after these vows had been interchanged. “It she felt grief, it was unspoken, and left no traces upon (lie smooth cheek, nor rutiled the placid temper, the deli cate bloom neither paled nor deepened as tidings came or failed. “Intercourse was then uncertain, but letters came by every opportunity, and Lucy lived quietly ; she had never cared for fashion nor display, but in spite of the impressive parting, and my own hopes, I doubted the strength of feeling necessary to the continuance of a love which would be compelled to have time and absence to secure its ful filment; —six years of the allotted eight had passed, and many changes had taken place, among others, the intro duction of an addition to our family party, in the shape of rather a showy city lawyer. Confident in himself,and his powers of pleasing or captivating, to a degree that almost made him a butt, he soon professed admiration of the heiress, though he did not pretend to admire the woman, and with little preface offered his devotions in due form. “In our simple society, the solemn pledge between Lucy and Frank had thrown a veil of sacredness over her, that despite her wealth, none had at tempted to lift or put aside. I was then, from my friendship for Frank, treated by her as a brother, and when in a jesting manner she communicated the proposal, I was painfully impressed that natural delicacy should not have made her shrink from vows, which the last time they had reached her ear, had been profered by the absent, in such truth and faith, that the repetition by another should have alarmed her pride and humbled her self-respect. Such was not the case, and the want of dig nity and decision, in her refusal, might have encouraged the repetition of the proposal even in a less confident man. It was made, over and over again, and at last accepted. “She had never appreciated Frank’s character, his enthusiastic devotion had pleased her vanity; his quick impul sive ways had roused her dormant feel ings, and the ardour of his love had drawn like the sun from the rose water, a few drops of pure strength and sweet ness to the surface, and then there was nothing left from the distillation, but the scentless and tasteless liquid be neath. “As you may suppose the link which bound Lucy and myself was broken, but the subsevent events are familiar. Lucy, from the moment of her engage ment seemed anxious to take the final step, and fix her fate beyond recall; it wanted but six months of the time ap pointed for Frank’s return, and con science which had slumbered as the pe riod was distant, seemed to awake to its approach ; the day had been decid ed upon, and the wedding garments prepared, when the bride expectant re ceived a letter in a well known hand, its contents were never known, but from the increased hurry of preparation, it might be supposed to tell ofa speedy return, but this was conjecture. The announcement of the wedding day did not cause as much scandal as regret, among our simple circle, and a general feeling of awe, at the breaking of such solemn pledges made to one, whom ab sence and constancy had hallowed in the memory of friends, seemed to per vade the town, mixed with dislike to the supplanter, who scarcely kept up the semblance of devotion; so great was the popular disapproval that a minister who was applied to, refused to perform his sacred office, and his ex ample was followed by others, how ever, the services ofa new pastor were secured. “A few evenings before Christmas, all her early friends and associates were assembled to witness her marriage, CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, DEC. 21 1850. gravely and silently for a shell, seemed on all, but the, thoughtless groom, the gaiety of the scene, and the self pos session of Lucy, were well calculated to dispel the fears of guests, who seemed to anticipate some startling incident to punish her perfidy. The ceremony commenced, had been nearly comple ted, when in that thrilling pause which follows the solemn injunction, to speak if there is aught against the marriage, or forever afterward hold their peace, no one had noticed the silent figure ad ded to the scene, who now, with out stretched arms, essayed in vain to speak, till with a mighty effort, the voice of that travel-worn and woe-strick 1 - en man, fell distinctly upon every ear in the stillness around.” “ Lucy, Lucy, hope deferred hath made thy heart sick, even unto me, months have been years, and the strong man hath bowed to suspense, 1 do not hold you to your pledge, but give me time, one day, Lucy, put off this un holy marriage, and if early love does not spring bright again from its dying embers, I will give you up—see how 1 have toiled only for you, Lucy, alas, alas!” “She said not a word, but his agony j had moved even her cold heart, the I groom, was also mute; and in awe struck silence, the pastor closed his | book, and softly withdrew, followed by the guests, none paused to greet . their old playmate and friend, but pass ed with eyes averted from his silent i suffering, one more considerate, carried j offthe bewildered groom.and the injured ; man was left with the idol of his own j creation. “He needed not for her sake, to have exerted such a mighty power, to calm the tempest that drove his blood throb bing back to the heart, and still the ; torrent of words that might even have stirred her cold nature, for she would not have felt the extent of their power, nor responded to their truth, but it was to spare her, that he spoke even in that hour of trial, so calmly and gently.” “ Lucy, let me speak with you, I will not distress you, can l say a few words? They may be the last that will ever pass between us. You do not answer. If you wish me to cease, a I word, a look, will be all that is neces sary. I thought to have come back a wealthier man, Lucy, for I have toiled j for life and happiness, only to be be stowed by you. Am I poorer now, than when we parted ? 1 do not re proach you if your love lias passed to another ; for eight years is a long tmd sad ordeal for the love of one so un worthy as myself, but test your feel ings before you marry this man, see if old associations, Lucy, long plighted love, and unwearied devotion may not; strike against the hidden chords of your heart, wakening its deepest vibrations, nay, do not answer me now. I would not take advantage of transient im pulses ; that pity for my desolation may have aroused, probe your inmost feelings, calmly and dispassionately and decide between us ; you are agita ted, and 1 will not detain you, but if possible —spare me suspense.” “He left her thus, suppressing all vio lence of manner, the struggle within showing itself in the whitened face, and heard in the hollow and husky voice. “I was with Frank that sad night, and did not leave him until Lucy’s an swer came the next day ; it was a com mon place and cold rejection ; softened by no regret, no self-accusation ; she had injured him too severely not to feel resentful to the innocent cause of her treachery. “She had propriety in lieu of feeling, and was not married till three months after these events; the romance in which she played so prominent a part appeared to have left no impression. Her fate has been sad ,for her showy and weak, though hardly worthless husband, has squandered her property, and taken her away from early associa tions, curiosity, pity and her own de sire for an interview impelled me to see her to-night, as she passes through on her way to the far west.” “Frank remained my only and dear est friend till his death, whether he was the bowed and broken man I met on his return, or the sudden shock of the wedding scene upon his excitable temperament, produced the work of years, I never have had a chance of find ing out, but when 1 call tu mind his joyous spirit and great vitality, I can not think that a few years, spent in in dustrious occupation, with a bright fu ture and happy reward in view, could have altered either appearance in char acter ; we lived together from that time, he was absent and quiet, no bit terness, but yet no interest in life ; strange to say the idol of h : s own cre ation was not shattered, and fancy still invested with bright hues the cold stone, for he spoke of Lucy with pity, deplored the severity of the ordeal he had caused her to pass through, and his consequent disappointment.—But you seem tired,” said he, break ing off his narration suddenly, either from indifference or because the simple tale had affected me. 1 failed to answer,perhaps he thought his remark was true, for his feelings had been to deeply agitated to let him mark the flight of time, what he had intended for a sketch had lengthened to a narration, and glancing at the clock, he ilently put my night candle into m y hand, while his own still trembled from the sudden renewal of the past. TELLULAH. (T'Jif itonj (E'cllrr. reminiscences. Rv v sveucu pnvaiciAN. THE NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 1 he most troublesome patient which a medical man can possibly have is a nervous, fidgity, hypochondrical gen tleman, and were it not that such pa tients were rather profitable, the mem bers of the medical profession would raise a great outcry upon the subject, and nerves and nervousness would be 1 rated bores instead of being attended to with great gravity, and prescribed for with great regularity, the “ordina ry medicine ’ given consisting usually j ot bread pills rolled in magnesia, and ! effervescing draughts ad libitum , tic cording to the strength of the patient’s credulity and purse. I am a retired physician now, so 1 can afford to be a little candid now and then. Nearly twenty years ago, there lived in Bloomsbury Square one of my best patients, by nameMr. Augustus Brown. Mr. Brown was a gentleman of com petent independence, and of a literary and virtuoso turn of mind. At about forty years ot age he began to study medicine a little, and to take care of his health a great deal, lie bought medical books, prowled about the wards I of hospitals, and made himself as un- j happy as any uncomfortable, middle aged, single gentleman could wish to be. I learned these particulars of him from e friend who recommended him to me. When I was first called to attend him, not knowing that his diseases were all imaginary, I was quite taken in for about a quarter of an hour or so. I found him lying on his back on the ; sofa; the room was darkened, and lie was groaning in an extremity of an guisli. 1 turned to his housekeeper, who had marshalled me in, and said— ‘What is the matter with Mr. Brown?” j He heard me and called me out, ‘ YV hat is the matter —the mutter ? Oh! oh! oh!’ J advaneo.: towaiJ him, and said, — 4 I am soi y to find you so indis posed, sir.’ ‘Oh! oh! oh! was his only an swer. ‘Perhaps,’ 1 continued, ‘ you will j have the kindness to describe your ; symptoms.’ After a few preparatory groans, he commenced, ‘ l—oh ! oh] oh! you’ll scarcely believe it, but look at my leg, down by my ankle, I mean. Oh ! oh ! oh !—horrible, horrible.’ 1 cast my eyes down at his ancle, and to my surprise, saw that it was tied ’ fast by a silk handkerchief to the leg of J the sofa. ‘What is this for?’ I said. ‘You may well ask, —oh ! oh !’ ‘YY hatever may be the matter with your ankle I shall undo this most un surgical and very improper bandage.’ ‘Wretch !’ he cried, ‘would you de stroy me ?’ ‘Destroy you ?’ ‘Yes. What dependence have I, if I am not tied : what hold upon the : world have 1 ?’ ‘What do you mean?’ said I. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Well.’ ‘I am too light? ‘Too light?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Pray, sir, explain yourself.’ ‘You know why a balloon goes up ?’ ‘Yes, surely.’ ‘Why ?’ ‘Because it is lighter than an equal bulk of air.’ Wery good.’ ‘Well, but, sir, how does that 1 ‘Apply to me, you would say, Doc tor?’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘This way. lam lighter than an equal bulk of air ; and if I wasnot tied down, whiff’ 1 should go up, up, up ! Oh, it’s dreadful! —oh! oh! ah!’ He always put in the ah! as if he had been suddenly seized with some dreadful pain, and it really had a most comical effect. 1 now saw through the case in a mo ment, and I said, ‘Are you sure you are not mistaken?’ ‘Mistaken?’ he cried. ‘Yes.’ ‘You ought to know better. A friend ot mine told me you were a very clever man.’ ‘What! suppose, now,’ 1 said, ‘you were to allow me to undo this hand kerchief.’ ‘Up I should go !’ he roared ; ‘and if the window was open, out I should sail.’ ‘lndeed,’ I said. A es,’ he continued, ‘I have a very slight hold upon the earth. For some days 1 found myself getting lighter, un til at last you see I am forced to tie myself down, —oh ! oh ! ah !’ ‘Suppose I hold your collar,’ said I, ‘while the handkerchief is taken off.’ ‘I don’t mind,’ he replied, ‘just to con vince you.’ I therefore held his collar with one hand, and unbound the handkerchief with the other. ‘There, you see,’ he said, “look at my leg,’ and he poked his leg up as high as he could. ‘But you could put it down,’ said I. ‘No, no.’ ‘Oh ! yes, you could. There, you see, I’ve let go your collar.’ ‘But I’m holding on, you perceieve and it’s no little exertion. I begin to think you don’t understand my case.’ ‘Oh, yes, I do,’ said I; ‘you must j have a course o i preponderating pills.’ ‘YY hat ?’ he cried, suddenly dropping his leg. ; ‘Preponderating pills !’ ‘1 never heard of them.’ ‘Very likely.’ ‘But, my dear sir,’ he exclaimed bolt ing upright. ‘Dear me, Mr. Brown,’ I said, ‘you are better.’ ‘No, 1 ain’t—oh! oh ! ah !’ ‘Well, I can remedy your disease.’ ‘You can ?’ ‘Yes, by the preponderating pills.’ ‘lliey will increase my density, I suppose, by contracting the—the ab sorbents, and so on.’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘Astonishing ! My dear sir, you are the only medical man that ever under stood my case; and last year when 1 was gradually vitrifying ’ ‘Gradually what ?’ ‘Turning into a kind of porcelain— ’ ‘Oh!’ ‘Well, I went to Abcrnethy, and what do you think he did ? —the* fool!’ I shook my head. ‘YY hy, he told me to squat down like a Chinese, and try and have some old colours burnt into me, so that by the time I was finished, 1 should be a re spectable mandarin for an old China closet.’ ‘lndeed.’ ‘Yes; and when I remonstrated he actually turned me out!—oh ! oh! ah!’ I flattered myself that I had made a great hit at Mr. Augustus Brown’s case, by my mention of the preponderating pills, and I was only astonished at the amount of his credulity upon the sub ject. 1 sent him some extremely mild pills, composed ofa common harmless drug, and waited the result with some degree of patience and a considerable degree of expectation. In a few days a message came to me to go to Mr. Brown immediately, for that he feared he was sinking fast. ‘Sinking fast ?’ said I. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘ls so weak ?’ ‘Weak, sir?’ ‘Yes ; you say he is sinking.’ f Oh, it’s cos he’s too heavy!’ ‘Too what?’ ‘Ridiculous !’ ‘Master says, sir, as he’s got so heavy he’s obliged to be on the ground floor.’ ‘lell him I’ll be with him imme diately.’ The boy, who had come from Mr. j Brown’s departed, and I felt myself! thoroughly posed by this second ex traordinary fancy of Mr. Augustus Brown. Ou muen,’ tnougnt 1, “for my ex treme cleverness in inventing the pre ponderating pills.’ I, however, lost no time in going to my most eccentric patient. I found him in the kitchen, lying on his back, in the middle of the floor, and groan ing, as usual. ‘Oh ; —ah !’ he cried, when he saw me, “you are come. Oh, —oh, —ah !” ‘Yes,’ I said, with difficulty repress ing a smile ; ‘ Dam sorry to hear you are not quite well, Mr. Brown.’ ‘Quite well! Oh, —oh, —ah!’ ‘What is the matter now, sir?’ ‘Oh, doctor, these preponderating pills, Oh, —oh, —ah !’ ‘What of them, sir?’ ‘They are too powerful. Much too strong sir.—awfully strong.’ ‘Too strong?’ ‘Yes, doctor; they have driven me to the other extreme.’ ‘lndeed.’ Wes. You know how dreadfully light I was ; you had, you recollect, to hold me from shooting out of the win dow.’ ‘Hem I’said I. ‘Well, do you know,’ he continued, ‘l’m now altogether as dreadfully dense and heavy. You see I’m forced to be on a ground floor, or else I should go through the boards. Oh, —oh, —ah!’ ‘You must leave off the pills,’ said I. ‘Ah, that’s all very well,doctor; but you see the mischief is done. Here’s a weight.’ So saying up went his leg, and down again with a heavy dab. ‘What do you think of my case now?’ he said. ‘Here is a dreadful situation to be placed in. Heavier than lead, — horrible, horrible! If I once begin,from my extreme heaviness, to break through the crust of the earth, where shall 1 stop?’ Oh! oh! ah!’ ‘ ‘lt’s rather a serious case,’ said I ; ‘but there are remedies.’ ‘Remedies! you bring me new life. ‘Yes. You must take some anti-pon derous draught, and be careful of your diet. ‘My diet ?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘\Y r hat must I eat ?’ ‘Mutton, principally.’ ‘Very good. Oh, doctor, you are a clever practitioner. I find you under stand my case. You are the only med ical man who ever took a sensible view of mv terrible constitution. Oh, —oh, —ah!’ ****** ‘Now,’ thought I, as I made up a draught of distilled water with some vegetable colouring matter, for Mr. Augustus Brown ; now 1 think I have managed this troublesome patient pret ty well.’ Alas! how vain are humananticipa ! tions. Just three nights after, I was rung up in the middle of my first sleep, so violently, that I thought for a moment that the house must be on fire. I popped my head out of the window, and asked, ‘Who’s there ?’ ‘Me,’ was the reply, a very usual j one by the way, under such eircum | stances. ‘Who’s me?’ said 1, with a laudable contempt, at the moment for grammar. ‘Please, sir, Mr. Brown’s boy.’ ‘Oh! Mr. Augustus Brown?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘ Well, what’s the matter?’ THIRD VOLUME—NO. 31 WHOLE NO 134. ‘Oh ! please, sir, master very un common bad.’ ‘lndeed ?’ ‘Yes sir.’ ‘ls he light or heavy this time ?’ ‘That’s gone off", sir!’ ‘What,’ cried I, ‘some new freak ?’ ‘Please sir, yes.’ ‘What is it ?’ ‘Master, sir, says as how you must come directly, cos he’s going to be mer rymopussed.’ ‘Eh!’ ‘Mcrrymopussed , please, sir.’ ‘Merry—what ?’ ‘That’s what he called it, sir.’ ‘Just try and explain yourself, will you, my boy ?’ ‘Why, sir, I thinks as he means he’s a going to be turned into something else.’ ‘Oh! metamorphosed.’ ‘Something like that, sir, or some oth er wild animal.’ “Tell your master, I’ll be with him soon.” The boy departed, and with great vexation, which even the prospect of my fee could not subdue, 1 put on my clothes, and sallied out to see Mr. Brown’s metamorphoses. ‘What can have put such a thing in to 1 head?’ said Ito myself; ‘at least my medicine is innocent thistime.” YVhen I arrived at Bloomsbury Square, I found the whole house in con fusion, and I was shown into the draw ing room, where sat Mr. Brown in a night gown and slippers. ‘Good night, Mr. Brown,’ said I. He replied by a wave of his hand toward a seat. I sat down and said, ‘Well,sir,you are looking very well.’ lie shook his head. ‘Doctor, oh, —oh, —ah !’ ‘Well, sir!’ ‘You have done it at last ?’ ‘Done what.’ ‘Me. si r, me —Augustus Brown, Esq.’ ‘As how, sir ?’ ‘What directions did you give when you were last here ?’ ‘What directions?’ ‘Yes now don’t cavil.’ ‘Certeinly not. I told you to take the pills I would send to you.’ ‘Well sir? and what else sir?’ ‘I told you to attend to your diet.’ ‘But what did you tell me to eat ?’ ‘Mutton.’ ‘Ah!’ ‘Yes, mutton ?’ ‘ W T ell, doctor, 1 have eaten mutton. I have taken mutton for breakfast, mut ton for luncheon, mutton for dinner, mutton for tea, and d—njt, sir, I took mutton for supper.’ I could not, for my life, suppress a smile, and it put Mr. Brown quite in a rage. ‘you laugh, do VOU? ‘Nay, my good sir ’ ‘Don’t good sir,me —you laughed sir.’ ‘Very well.’ ‘Oh! its very well is it? Well, doctor what do you suppose has been the result of all this mutton, eh, sir? 1 wait your answer.’ ‘A great demand tor sheep,’ said I, smiling. ‘Don’nt smile,’ he cried. ‘Well, then, seriously speaking, Mr. Brown, 1 don’t apprehend any particu lar result.’ •You don’t?’ ‘I don’t. ’ ‘Then I do.’ ‘So I presume. But may I ask what, j Mr. Brown ?’ ‘You may.’ ‘Well what sir ?’ ‘Ala—a—a—a.’ ‘What ?’ ‘Ma—a—a ?’ ‘Are you mad or joking ?’ ‘Neither, doctor; but I’ve eaten so much mutton, that you see, as a natu ral result., I am in process of becoming a sheep.’ ‘Air. Brown,’ said I. ‘Ala—a—a—a,’ he replied. ‘Sir!’ ‘Ala—a—a—a.’ ‘Let me tell you, once for all—, ‘Ala—a—a—a.’ ‘You are the unhappy victim ’ ‘1 know it. Ala—a—a.’ ‘Of self delusion.’ ‘Eh ?’ ‘Self delusion, I repeat, Air. Brown.’ ‘YV'hat, sir.’ ‘You are a nervous hypochondriac, sir.’ ‘I am no such thing, sir.’ ‘You are, Air. Brown. Your com plaints are all delusion—the creatures of your own fancy.’ ‘Yon don’t understand my case, sir.’ ‘Perfectly, I do.’ ‘You are a fool!’ I smiled—‘an idiot, sir. Delusion, indeed ! Ala—a—a—a oh —oh—ah !’ 1 laughed outright. ‘Leave my house, ignoramus,’ he roared. ‘With pleasure,’ said I,taking my hat. Thus ended my first connexion with Air. Augustus Brown, the nervous gen tleman whom, however, l attended for years after that. Tact and Talent.—Talent is some thing, but tact is everything. Talent is serious, sober, grave, and respectable —tact is all that, and more too. It is not another sense, but it is the life of all five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch. It is the inter preter of all riddles—the surmounter of all difficulties. It is useful in all places and at all times, it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his way into the world. Talent is power; tact is skill. Talent is weight; tact is mo mentum. Talent knows what to do; tact knows how to do it. Talent makes a man respectable; tact makes a man respected. Talent is wealth; tact is ready money. For all the practical purposes of life, tact carries it against talent ten to one. Washington Allston, the day before his death, speaking of Coler idge, said: “ He was the greatest man l ever knew, and one of the best—a thousand times more sinned against than sinning.” ftlisrcllnnif. THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. AN INCIDENT IN IRISH LIFE. “ Hallo, waiter!” “ Corning, sir.” “ Hits my horse been fed ?” “ He has just had his oats, sir.” ‘•Did you see that his near hind shoe was secured, as I desired V‘ “All’s right, sir; the smith is only this moment gone.” “ Well, my good fellow, have him 1 saddled and brought round in about i half an hour; meantime you may amuse yourself by making outmy bill.” The servitor vanished, and the gen tleman was left alone to his medita tions and a pint of port. He was evi dently an old and exne.rie.noad t.ravel i ler, well appointed in all respects for I the road ; he was a stout-built, well-fed Englishman, exhibiting that thoughtful and practical expression of countenance wl ich so much characterises the man of business. He had already travelled twenty Irish miles, and nearly the same number vet intervened between where •/ he then was, and the village at which he purposed to put up for the night. — He had not been long in Ireland ; and the tales he had read and heard repeat ed (often grossly exaggerated) of pikes sixteen feet, long, of boughings, burn ings, and other aboriginal amusements, had not conveyed an over-favourable impression regarding the country he had undertaken to journey through. — Evening was fast closing in; and when from the window, he looked on the wide black bog through which his road lay —presenting, as it did, after a heavy day’s wet in November, a dismal con trast to the level surface of the English “turnpike road,” —and then turned al ternately to the pleasant turf fire which glowed upon the hearth, and to the fine old wine that sparkled seductively in his glass, he sighed at the thought of resigning the comforts which these con ferred, for the cheerless misery w hich that presented. He was not a man, however, to be easily depressed ; so fin ishing his port, and ordering a few more sods to the fire, he mixed, by way of a finisher, a fiery tumbler, strorgly impregnated with the “spirit of the mountain.” He then turned his huge ‘.‘Petersham,” so as to acquire more of the genial influence of the blazing turf, and proceeded to examine his arms. These consisted of a case of pistols splendidly mounted, f ather springed, and detonating. Having per fectly satisfied himself that no tricks had been played with their charges, he placed them carefully in the two breast pockets of his great coat, situated in side the limner cr ac ’ r *--■* tU ~‘“ ahke from damp and prying observa tion. With such companions, he thought himself capable of facing Col lier or Captain Rock, should either ven ture to oppose him. The waiter now entered, and announced that his horse was ready ; so, settling his bill, he rose, and tying a silk handkerchief round his throat, and pulling on his large “fearnought,” mounted his horse —a fine strong animal, who answered his rider’s caress by a spirited neighing; then, placing in his mouth a lighted cigar, and slipping a douceur into the ready hand of the officious hostler, who, in rather a mysterious tone, wished him a “ safe journey,” the traveller rode off. The night was becoming pitchy dark, and the rain, driven full in his teeth by a biting gust, was falling fast; but his horse, which possessed great strength and action, having been well refreshed, bore him gallantly ; and, after an hour’s good going, he calculated upon having distanced the inn eight or nine miles. As he advanced, however, the road be came more hilly, broke’ and difficult, and was in some places so narrow,that he was in danger of being swamped in the deep drains which ran parallel on each side, and he was, therefore, obliged to dismount and lead his horse by the | bridle. Having proceeded a little furth i er on, he came to where four roads j crossed ; and seeing a light in a miser ! able hovel, w hich was situated in a small field, a little from the way-side, he secured his horse to a tree, and ad vanced towards it, in order to ascertain his way correctly. His path, though short, like some passages in music, he ; found very difficult to get through.— : lie had sunk knee-deep in the mire,and i on attempting to cross a trench, fell into a poo] of green and stagnant wa | ter, scrambling out of which,he straight way found himself in the company of a portly animal, “epicuri de grege por | cum,” who, with her infant progeny, i had been enjoying a profound repose. The noise occasioned by his unceremo nious entrte seemed to cause great I alarm in the hovel; the rushlight w hich had gleamed from the four-paned win dow (three of straw and one of glass) ’ was instantly extinguished, and a loud and boisterous chorus became hushed in silence. Having made good his en trance, he found himself in a small earth floored room, furnished with a deal ta ble, flanked by low forms of the same 1 material ; at the head of the table sat | three men, dressed in dark freize coats, j all busily employed in inflicting sum : mary justice upon a coarse cheese of ! home manufacture, and oaten bread, ! while occasionally they made acquaint -1 ance with a large black bottle, whose | contents appeared somewhat more ca liforic than “ blessed water from the spring.” At the lower end of the ta bh sat the mistress of the establish ment, and four ragged half-starved chil dren, engaged at their vesper-time meal, composed of that root which Malthus vituperates and Sadler praises. Our friend having procured the ne cessary information, requested the as sistance of one of the youngsters to guide him through the difficulties of the way. \\ hile he was speaking, he ob served that one of the freize-coated personages, a pale, thin, determined looking man, was eyeing him most serutinizingly. Accompanied by the j boy, the traveller took his departure — j previously, however, requesting the