political line begets indifference. He who does not keep his own country more closely in view than any other, soon mixes land with sea, and sea with air, and loses sight of every thing, at least, for which he was placed in contact with his fellow men. Let us unite, if possible, with the nearest : let usages and familiarities bind us this being once accomplished, let us confederate for security and peace with all the people round, particularly with people of the same language, laws, and religion. We pour out wine to those about us, wishing the same fellowship and conviviality to others: but to enlarge the circle would disturb and deaden its harmony. We irrigate the ground in our gardens: the public road may require the water equally yet we give it rather to our borders; and first to those that lie against the house! God himself did not fill the world at once with happy creatures: he enlivened one small portion of it with them, and began with single affections, as well as pure and unmixt. We must have an object and an aim, or our strength, if any strength belongs to us, will be useless.

Kotzebue. There is much good sense in these remarks: but I am not at all times at leisure and in readiness to receive instruction. I am old enough to have laid down my own plans of life; and I trust I am by no means deficient in the relations I bear to society.

Sandt.-Lovest thou thy children? Oh! my heart bleeds! But the birds can fly; and the nest requires no warmth from the parent, no cover against the rain and the wind.

Kotzebue. This is wildness: this is agony. Your face is laden with large drops; some of them tears, some not. Be more rational and calm, my dear young man! and less enthusiastic.

Sandt. They who will not let us be rational, make us enthusiastic by force. Do you love your children? I ask you again. If you do, you must love them more than another man's. Only they who are indifferent to all, profess a parity.

Kotzebue Sir! indeed your conversation very much surprises me.

Sandt. I see it does: you stare, and would look proud. Emperors' and kings, and all but maniacs, would lose that faculty with me. I could speedily bring them to a just sense of their nothingness, unless their ears were calked and pitched, although I am no Savonarola. He, too, died sadly!

Kotzebue.-Amid so much confidence of power, and such an assumption of authority, your voice is gentle-almost plaintive.

Sandt. It should be plaintive. Oh, could it be but persuasive!

Kotzebue.-Why take this deep interest in me? I do not merit nor require it. Surely any one would think we had been acquainted with each other for many years. Sandt.-What! should I have asked you such a question as the last, after long knowing you?

Kotzebue (aside)-This resembles insanity. Sandt. The insane have quick ears, sir, and sometimes quick apprehensions.

Kotzebue. I really beg your pardon. Sandt. I ought not then to have heard you, and beg yours. My madness could release many from a worse; from a madness which hurts them grievously; a madness which has been and will be hereditary : mine, again and again I repeat it, would burst asunder the strong swathes that fasten them to pillar and post. Sir! sir! if I entertained not the remains of respect for you, in your domestic state, I should never have held with you this conversation. Germany is Germany: she ought to have nothing political in common with what is not Ger-. many. Her freedom and security now demand that she celebrate the communion of the faithful. Our country is the only one in all the explored regions on earth that never has been conquered. Arabia and Rusria boast it falsely; France falsely; Rome falsely. A fragment off the empire of Darius fell and crushed her: Valentinian was the footstool of Sapor, and Rome was buried in Byzantium. Boys must not learn this, and men will not. Britain, the wealthiest and most powerful of nations, and, after our own, the most literate and humane, received from us colonies and laws. Alas! those laws, which she retains as her fairest heritage, we value not: we surrender them to gangs of robbers, who fortify themselves within walled cities, and enter into leagues against us. When they quarrel, they push us upon one another's sword, and command us to thank God for the victories that enslave us. These are the glories we celebrate; these are the festivals we hold, on the burial-mounds of our ancestors. Blessed are those who lie under them! blessed are also those who remember what they were, and call upon their names in the holiness of love.

Kotzebue.-Moderate the transport that inflames and consumes you. There is no dishonor in a nation being conquered by a stronger.

Sandt. There may be great dishonor in letting it be stronger; great, for instance, in our disunion.

THE YOUNG SIBYL.

BY THE LATE ROBERT CHARLES WELSH, ESQ.

From the Dublin University Magazine.

"This is to be a mortal,

And seek the things beyond mortality."-MANFRED.

SHE gazes on the stars, her dark hair flung
Back from her brow of marble purity;
Her high, pale features wear a holy calm
Intensely beautiful, like Ocean's wave
Reposing in the light of summer's eve

When scarce a sound doth murmur in the breeze.
There is a magic in her lustrous eye
That eloquently speaks-a nameless spell-
Silent yet breathing volumes, and in words
Of mystery revealing that her soul

Holds with each scene of wide magnificence
A rapt communion, peopling the gloomy waste,
Of Solitude with bright imaginings,

And catching from each mount, and vale, and

stream,

The gorgeous visions of her strange romance,

She gazes on the stars, and o'er her soul
(Like voices from the undiscovered shores)
Rush the fond thoughts that in the grave of time
Had slumbered long-memories of the past—
Forgotten hopes-and dreams of vanished years
The fame of gallant heroes, and their deeds
Recorded in the Poet's martial lay,
And chronicles which tell of empires rent
Asunder and as she gazed, the bright stars
Told their secrets, and ages yet unborn
In dreamy indistinctness shadowed forth
Stole on her ravished sight. Stately cities
That sate majestic in their queenly pride,
Stripp'd of their coronal of towers she saw;
And the halls where mirth and song re-echoed,

Voiceless as the tomb; and the streets that rang

With shouts of triumph, as the victor's car
Passed on, resembling some lone wilderness;
And o'er each ruined arch and colonnade
Wild wreaths of ivy twined: no echo woke
The strange unearthly stillness of the scene-
It seem'd as if Death's angel spread his wings
O'er the devoted city.

She traced upon
The gleaming tablet of the clear blue sky
The destiny of kings: their grandeur gone
Like the rich sunlight from the crimson cloud
Of even; themselves lone exiles, crownless,
And forgotten as though they ne'er had been.
Young Warriors too, who in the noble cause
Of Liberty unsheath'd their glittering blades,
She saw in myriads falling on the plain
Of battle, as leaves before the hollow wind

THE ARISTOCRACIES OF LONDON LIFE.

OF GENTILITY-MONGERING.

From Blackwood's Magazine.

THE heavy swell was recorded in our last for the admiration and instruction of remote ages. When the nineteenth century shall be long out of date, and centuries in general out of their teens, posterity will revert to our delineation of the heavy swell with pleasure undiminished, through the long succession of ages yet to come; the macaroni, the fop, the dandy, will be forgotten, or remembered only in our graphic portraiture of the heavy swell. But the heavy swell is, after all, a harmless nobody. His curse, his besetting sin, his monomania, is vanity tinctured with pride; his weak point can hardly be called a crime, since it affects and injures nobody but himself, if, indeed, it can be said to injure him who glories in his vocation-who is the echo of a sound, the shadow of a shade.

The GENTILITY-MONGERS, on the contrary, are positively noxious to society, as well particular as general. There is a twofold or threefold iniquity in their goings-on; they sin against society, their families, and themselves; the whole business of their lives is a perversion of the text of Scripture, which commandeth us, "in whatever station we are, therewith to be content."

having a house somewhere in Marylebone, The gentility-monger is a family man, or Pancras parish. He is sometimes a man of independent fortune-how acquired, nobody knows; that is his secret, his mystery. He will let no one suppose that he has ever been in trade; because, when a man intends gentility-mongering, it must never be known that he has formerly carried on the tailoring, or the shipping, or the cheesemongering, or the fish-mongering, or any other mongering than the gentility-mongering. His house is very stylishly furnished; that is to say, as unlike the house of a man of fashion as possible-the latter having only things the best of their kind, and for

She gazed on Maidens fair and beautiful,
That in celestial loveliness appeared
Like Hebes of the earth; but on their brows
The seal of Death was set, and those voices
Which as the chiming fall of waters were
Most musical, she knew would soon be hushed
For ever!

But as she read the fatal characters
Emblazoned on the starry scroll of Heaven,
A deeper shade of melancholy passed
O'er her pale features, and a pearly tear

Fell from those large dark eyes, and mournfully
She turned from the sad history.

April, 1834.

extravagant gimcrackery, to impress you with a profound idea of combined wealth and taste, but which, to an educated eye and mind only, conveys a lively idea of ostentation. When you call upon a gentility-monger, a broad-shouldered, coarse, ungentlemanlike footman, in Aurora plushes, ushers you to a drawing room, where, on tables round, and square, and hexagonal, are set forth jars, porcelain, china and delft; shells, spars; stuffed parrots under bell-glasses; corals, minerals, and an infinity of trump

ery, among which albums, great, small and intermediate, must by no means be forgot

ten.

The room is papered with some splendacious pattern in blue and gold; a chandelier of imposing gingerbread depends from the richly ornamented ceiling; every variety of ottoman, lounger, settee, is scattered about, so that to get a chair involves the right-ofsearch question; the bell-pulls are painted in Poonah; there is a Brussels carpet of flaming colors, curtains with massive fringes, bad pictures in gorgeous frames; prints, after Ross, of her Majesty and Prince Albert, of course; and mezzotints of the Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert Peel, for whom the gentility-monger has a profound respect, and of whom he talks with a familiarity, showing that it is not his fault, at least, if these exalted personages do not admit him to the honor of their acquaint

ance.

In fact, you see the drawing-room is not intended for sitting down in, and when the lady appears, you are inclined to believe she never sits down; at least the full-blown swell of that satin skirt seems never destined to the compression of a chair. The conversation is as usual, "Have you read the morning paper?" meaning the Court Circular and fashionable intelligence; "do you know whether the Queen is at Windsor or Claremont, and how long her majesty intends to remain ; whether town is fuller than it was, or not so full; when the next Almack's ball takes place; whether you were at the last drawing-room, and which of the fair debutantes you most admire; whether Tamburini is to be denied us next year ?" with many lamentations touching the possible defection, as if the migrations of an opera thrush were of the least consequence to any rational creature-of course you don't say so, but lament Tamburini as if he were your father; "whether it is true that we are to have the two Fannies, Taglioni and Cerito, this season; and what a heaven of delight we shall experience from the united action of these twenty supernatural pettitoes." You needn't express yourself after this fashion, else you will shock miss, who lounges near you in an agony of af fected rapture; you must sigh, shrug your shoulders, twirl your cane, and say "divine-yes-hope it may be so-exquisiteexquisite." This naturally leads you to the last new songs, condescendingly exhibited to you by miss, if you are somebody, (if nobody, miss does not appear;) you are informed that "My heart is like a pickled salmon," is dedicated to the Duchess of Mun

dungus, and thereupon you are favored with sundry passages (out of Debrett,) upon the intermarriages, &c., of that illustrious family; you are asked whether Bishop is the composer of "I saw her in a twinkling," and whether the minor is not fine? Miss tells you she has transposed it from G to C, as suiting her voice better-whereupon mamma acquaints you, that a hundred and twenty guineas for a harp is moderate, she thinks; you think so too, taking that opportunity to admire the harp, saying that you saw one exactly like it at Lord (any Lord that strikes you,) So-and-So's, in St. James's Square. This produces an invitation to dinner; and with many lamentations on English weather, and an eulogium on the climate of Florence, you pay your parting compliments, and take your leave.

At dinner you meet a claret-faced Irish absentee, whose good society is a good dinner, and who is too happy to be asked anywhere that a good dinner is to be had; a young silky clergyman, in black curled whiskers, and a white choker; one of the meaner fry of M. P.'s; a person who calls himself a foreign count; a claimant of a dormant peerage; a baronet of some sort, not above the professional; sundry propriety-faced people in yellow waistcoats, who say little, and whose social position you cannot well make out; half-a-dozen ladies of an uncertain age, dressed in grand style, with turbans of imposing tournure; and a young, diffident, equivocal-looking gent who sits at the bottom of the table, and whom you instinctively make out to be a family doctor, tutor, or nephew, with expectations. No young ladies, unless the young ladies of the family, appear at the dinner parties of these gentility-mongers; because the motive of the entertainment is pride, not pleasure; and therefore prigs and frumps are in keeping, and young women with brains, or power of conversation, would only distract attention from the grand business of life, that is to say, dinner; besides, a seat at table here is an object, where the expense is great, and nobody is asked for his or her own sake, but for an object either of ostentation, interest, or vanity. Hospitality never enters into the composition of a gentilitymonger; he gives a dinner, wine, and a shake of the hand, but does not know what the word welcome means; he says, now and then, to his wife, "My dear, I think we must give a dinner;" a dinner is accordingly determined on, cards issued three weeks in advance, that you may be premeditatedly dull; the dinner is gorgeous to repletion, that conversation may be kept as stagnant