us with a Tale. My own story then, to possess any interest, must be a fib.

Truly given, with its egotism and its barrenness, it would look too like the chalked advertisements on a dead wall. Moreover, Pope has read a lesson to self-importance in the Memoirs of P. P., the Parish Clerk, who was only notable after all amongst his neighbours as a swallower of loaches. Even in such practical whims and oddities I am deficient, for instance, eschewing razors, or bolting clasp-knives, riding on painted ponies, sleeping for weeks, fasting for months, devouring raw tripe, and similar eccentricities, which have entitled sundry knaves, quacks, boobies, and brutes, to a brief biography in the Wonderful Magazine. And, in the absence of these distinctions, I am equally deficient in any spiritual pretensions. I have had none of those experiences which render the lives of saintlings, not yet in their teens, worth their own weight in paper and print, and consequently my personal history, as a Tract, would read as flat as the Pilgrim's Progress without the Giants, the Lions, and the grand single combat with the Devil.

To conclude my life.-" upon my life," is not worth giving, or taking. The principal just suffices for me to live upon; and of course, would afford little interest to any one else. Besides, I have a bad memory; and a personal history would assuredly be but a middling one, of which I have forgotten the beginning and cannot foresee the end. I must, therefore, respectfully decline giving my life to the world-at least till I have done with it--but to soften the refusal, I am willing, instead of a written character of myself, to set down all that I can recall of other authors, and, accordingly, the next number will contain the first instalment of

MY LITERARY REMINISCENCES.

THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.

"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners."-PICTURE OF ISLE OF WIGHT.

ONE close of day-'twas in the bay
Of Naples, bay of glory!

While light was hanging crowns of
gold

On mountains high and hoary,
A gallant bark got under weigh,
And with her sails my story.

For Leghorn she was bound direct,
With wine and oil for cargo,
Her crew of men some nine or ten,
The captain's name was Iago;
A good and gallant bark she was,
La Donna (call'd) del Lago.

Bronzed mariners were her's to view,
With brown cheeks, clear or muddy,
Dark, shining eyes, and coal-black hair,
Meet heads for painter's study;
But 'midst their tan there stood one
man,

Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;

His brow was high, a loftier brow
Ne'er shone in song or sonnet,
His hair a little scant, and when
He doff'd his cap or bonnet,
One saw that Grey had gone beyond
A premiership upon it!

SUMMER.-A WINTER ECLOGUE.

A Back Parlour at Camberwell. greeteth his friend Civis.

Sylvanus is seated at the breakfast-table, and

SYL.-A good morrow to you, friend Civis, and a hearty welcome! -How hath sleep dealt with you through the night?

Civ. Purely indeed, and with rare pastoral dreams. I have dons nothing but walk through pleasant groves, or sit me down under shady boughs, the whole livelong night. A foretaste, my friend, of the rural delights yet to come, in strolling with you, amongst the dainty shades of this your verdant retreat. How have I yearned all through the month of June, to be a Jack'i-the-Green again amidst your leaves here! You know my prospect in town.

SYL.-Aye, truly; I did once spend, or rather misspend a whole week there in the dog-days. You looked out opposite on a scorching brick front of six stories, with a south aspect-studded with I know not how many badges of Assurance from fire, and not without need→→ for the shop windows below seemed all a-blaze with geranium-coloured silks, at that time the mode, and flamme d'enfer. The left-hand shop, next door, was all red, likewise, with regiments of lobsters, in their new uniforms; beyond that, a terrible flaring Red Lion, newly done up with paint. At the next door, a vender of red morocco pocketbooks-my eyes were in a scarlet fever, the whole time of my sojourning.

CIV. A true picture, I confess. We are, indeed, a little strong in the warm tints; but they give the more zest to your suburban verdure. All the way down overnight, I thought only of the two tall elm trees beside your gate, and which have always been to my city optics as refreshing as a pair of green spectacles. Surely of all spots I have seen, Camberwell is the greenest, as the poet says, that ever laid hold of Memory's waist.

SYL.-It hath been greener aforetime. But I pray you sit down and fall to.-Shall I help you to some of this relishing salted fish?

Civ.-By your good leave, Sylvanus, I will first draw up these blinds. My bedroom, you know, looks out only to the road, and I am longing to help my eyes, to a little of what, as a citizen, I may truly call the green fat of nature.

SYL.-Nay, Civis-I pray you let the blinds alone. The rolls are getting cold. This ham is excellently well cured, and the eggs are new-laid. Come, take a seat.

Civ.-I beseech your patience for one moment. There!-the blind is up. What a brave flood of sunshine-and what a glorious blue sky! What a rare dainty day to roam abroad in, dallying with the Dryads! But what do I behold! Oh, my Sylvanus, the Dryads are stripped of their green kirtles-stark naked! The trees are all bare, God help me! as bare as the "otamies in Surgeons' Hall!"