ladies, who are becoming every day more irritable.) The fête of Saint Cloud caused me to go last Saturday to the house of the flowerwoman in the Feydeau road, who is one of my oldest acquaintances. She was not more than fifteen when I first knew her in the gallery of the theatre of Audinot, where she served her apprenticeship as flowergirl. At that time little Mary was as fresh and blooming as her flowers; but, alas! how many singular changes forty years produce in the human figure! I never visited good Madame Bernard without conversing with her of the past, and sometimes of the present, which she understood, in many respects, much better than myself. One day, while we were conversing, I remarked the particular attention which she paid to the composing of a bouquet according to some directions given in a note, which she consulted almost every moment, and which I presumed was a question of vegetable hieroglyphics. "In our time,' said she to me, 66 we never thought of talking in flowers; a hyacinth, a rose, or a pink, said nothing, or, at least, all said the same thing; but at the present day, every flower is a letter, a thought, or a feeling; and such is the energy of this language, that, by putting that auricula in place of this pied d'Alouette, I should be certain of destroying the person for whom this bouquet is intended. I did not think proper to enter into a learned dissertation with Madame Bernard, upon the origin of this language of flowers; I preferred rather to profit by the willingness which she manifested to instruct me, in questioning her with regard to the different persons who presented themselves successively before her counter. I remarked, at first, three children, uniformly dressed, and conducted by a governess, whose anxiety for them had something of the tenderness of a mother. They came to provide themselves with bouquets for their grandpapa's birth-day, and each one had a little bouquet of pensées and immortelle handed to them. It was in vain the little urchins demanded fairer flowers: the governess told them, that Monsieur the Abbé (who was probably their preceptor) had said they must have no others. I learned from Madame Bernard, that these children were the grandsons of Mr. R- a notary, and that they belonged to one of those families which are more numerous in Paris than people generally suppose, whose manners and virtues are hereditary, and where the patriarchal habits are preserved with great religious respect from one generation to another. A moment after, I saw a very neat and civil femme de chambre arrive, whose grace and gentility, perhaps, I examined with too much complaisance. She wore a bodice dress of striped muslin, with an apron of the finest cambric, of dazzling whiteness. There was much art and coquetry in the arrangement of a lace hat, surmounted by a Madras handkerchief, which composed her coiffure; and even in her pretty white cotton stockings, and the little black prunella slippers which she wore. This lively little soubrette came to make her daily provision of flowers for her mistress's boudoir. I was endeavouring to ascertain the rank of this lady, by listening to a lively description which the soubrette gave Madame Bernard" of this boudoir of mirrors, with its couch of blue levantine, trimmed with black fringe, where the double curtains of muslin and lustring scarcely allowed the daylight to penetrate, and where all was sacrificed for effect;" and had not decided, when the girl, after having filled a large basket with bunches of roses, pinks, and orange flowers, went out, saying to the flower-woman, with a satirical smile, "Monsieur will pay you." Madame Bernard was giving me some details with regard to the soubrette, the lady, and the Monsieur, whose credit seemed to be so well established with her, when we were interrupted by the entrance of a fine young man, of melancholy appearance, who selected a few flowers, and departed, throwing a piece of money upon the counter. "Every day," said the flowerwoman to me, after he had departed, in answer to my question, "this young man comes here to compose a message to his lady love. To-day, for example, his bouquet of narcisses, réséda, and anémones, indicate a violent fit of jealousy, and threaten a rupture with the lady of his love, whose name I will not mention, because I make it a practice never to reveal the names of any persons who are concerned in these intrigues. She will carry her answer to him this evening in her straw hat, in the great walk of the Tuileries, and it is probable she will exculpate herself by a tuft of bluets, unless she resolves to break up a connexion, which does not render either of them happy." To this young man, succeeded one of those veterans of gallantry, of whom Potier offers us now so perfect a copy at the Theatre of Varieties. This old beau retains, at fifty-five, the manners, tastes, and habits, which men scarcely retain till thirty. He employed, or, rather, he wasted his mornings entirely at the toilets of some women, whose commissions he executed, without considering the motives which led them to admit him every evening into their apartments, and to take, by preference, his arm in going to the theatre. Madame Bernard was a gainer, however, by his weaknesses; it was for him that the first violets were plucked, and the scarce opened roses were culled; but she made him pay dearly for these tastes of his eternal youth. Entirely occupied with this sexagenary Lovelace, I had scarcely noticed a middleaged man, of simple and negligent appearance, who had entered and departed without saying a word, after having paid for a bunch of heliotrope, which Madame Bernard handed him, without his asking for it. "Take particular notice of that man," said she," he is unique, not only as a painter, for which his talents are very distinguished,-but as a husband. Nearly eleven years ago he lost a wife whom he adored; and since that time he has never failed, the sixth day of every month, (the day of the death of his wife,) to carry to her tomb a bouquet of the flowers which she most loved." I needed to be convinced of this fact, which Madame Bernard had assured me of; for I can more easily believe in the excess of grief, than in its duration. I have seen men die of grief in fifteen days, but I have seen very few weep for the same object ten years after its loss. I was preparing to quit Madame Bernard, when a young author arrived; he came to order bouquets for two actresses who were to perform that evening in a new play of his. By his air of assurance, and the difficulty he had in finding anything sufficiently fine for these ladies, I saw plainly that he was very content with himself, and that he had a very good opinion of his work. The flower-woman, who knew him, asked him, in jest, if it was necessary for her to prepare the bouquets which the boys of the theatre are in the habit of offering to the authors the morning after the success of their play: he modestly replied, that he could not answer that question, but that his play was as likely to fail, at the first representation, as the Misanthrope. The journals of the next morning apprised me that the chefd'œuvre of this modest author had truly shared the fate of that of Molière; but it is to be feared that he will not rise so victoriously from his downfall. LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS OF THE VICINITY OF TEMPLE-BAR. DATING our reminiscences from Careystreet, Lincoln's Inn, our thoughts naturally enough direct us to one of its outlets that leads into Shire-lane, (and let us hope, however altered and improved, it will ever retain this name;) for here, at the upper end, resided Isaac Bickerstaff, the Tatler. The old public-house, then the sign of the Trumpet, is still standing, (now the Duke's Head,) where Bickerstaff met his club; from his own house are dated many of his papers; and here he, of course, received many interesting visitors. In Shire-lane is said to have originated the famous Kit-Kat Club, which consisted of "thirty-nine distinguished noblemen and gentlemen, zealously attached to the Protestant succession of the house of Hanover;" and is supposed to have derived its name from Christopher Katt, a pastry-cook, who kept the house where they dined, and who excelled in making mutton-pies, which always formed a part of their bill of fare; these pies, on account of their excellence, were called KitKats. Jacob Tonson was its secretary. "You have heard of the Kit-Kat-Club," says Pope to Spencer. Sir Richard Steele, Addison, Congreve, Garth, Vanbrugh, Manwaring, Stepney, and Walpole, belonged to it. From the size of the portraits of the members of this society, (three-quarters length,) the word Kit-Kat came to be applied to pictures. Passing through Temple-bar, we soon arrive at Essex-street, where Dr. Johnson formed one of his minor clubs, for the purpose, it is said, of collecting a mixture of inferior intellects to be at ease with. This club was held at the Essex Head, then kept by a servant of Mr. Thrale, and certainly made no pretension to expense. The doctor inviting Sir Joshua Reynolds to join it, says: we meet twice a-week, and he who misses forfeits twopence.' Sir Joshua, it appears, declined being a member; but Dr. Brocklesby, Horsley, Danes Barrington, and Windham, joined it. 66 In Devereux-court, adjoining, (now much improved by Messrs. Twining,) is the Grecian coffee-house. The old Grecian was the house from which Steele proposed to date his learned articles in the Tatler. Crossing the street again, and entering Chancery-lane, at the south-west corner stood the house of the famous old angler, Isaak Walton. His house was the second from Fleet-street, where he ap pears to have lived many years; carrying on the business of a linen-draper, about the year 1624. At the opposite corner, Abraham Cowley, the poet, was born. Chancery-lane is the greatest "legal" thoroughfare in London, and "the most ancient of any to the west," having been built in the reign of Henry III. Here must have been seen, at one time or another, all our great and eloquent lawyers, from Fortesque and Littleton, to Coke, Ellesmere, and Erskine. In Chancery-lane, was born the celebrated Lord Strafford, who was sent to the block by the party he had deserted. Of the Temple much might be said. Raleigh was of the Temple; so were the learned Selden, who died in Whitefriars; Lord Clarendon, Beaumont, Wycherley, Congreve, Rowe, Fielding, Burke, and Cowper. Goldsmith was not of the Temple, but he had chambers in it; died there, and was buried in the Temple church. We may here mention that Goldsmith wrote his Vicar of Wakefield, in Wineoffice-court. Dr. Johnson himself lived for some time in the Temple. His abodes near Fleet-street were numerous, and as follow: first, in Boswell-court; then in Fetter-lane; then in Gough-square; in Johnson's-court; and, finally, and for the longest period, in Bolt-court, where he died. Between the Temple-gates and Templebar, but nearer to the latter, was the famous Devil Tavern, where Ben Jonson held his club. Messrs. Child, the bankers, bought it in 1787, and the present houses were built on its site. This tavern seems to have been in good repute. Dean Swift, in one of his letters to Stella, says: "I dined to-day with Dr. Garth and Mr. Addison, at the Devil Tavern, near TemH. ple-bar, and Garth treated." SPRING. MODEST, Meek, and tender, Robed in chastened splendour, And a crown of green; Very love, and siniling Grief, of tears beguiling, Morning, noon, and night; Tripping through the valley, Threading glen and glade, Where the sunbeams dally, Through the leafing shade; Melody outpouring, Toning every wind; Balmy South imploring Such art thou, sweet maiden, Sunshine on thy head; With bud and blossom laden, Yet fleetness in thy tread. J. E. THE CHATTERTON MONUMENT. THE following details were not received from Bristol in time for publication with the Engraving in the Literary World, No. 58. The monument is not yet completed. It has been erected by subscription; the total cost, including printing, advertise ments, and the presentation of a lithograph to each subscriber, £140; of which sum only £100 have yet been collected: cost of the monument £110. It is placed at the north-west angle of the churchyard, between the tower and the north porch. It is pentagonal in the plan, and raised upon three graduated steps: from the base upwards, it is divided into three compartments; the lower one containing the inscriptions, with buttresses at the angles, which rise to the head of the next division; the space between them being occupied by a deep niche. In the centre niche is an open scroll, inscribed, (in old English characters,) "The Poems of Rowlie." The canopies of these niches, and the terminations of the buttresses, are richly covered with flowers and grotesque animals, &c. The third compartment is formed of five small pillars, with ogee-arched heads, and carved spandrels; with a centre pillar for the support of the statue: these are surmounted by a deep cornice, with heads of flowers at the angles, and a pedestal cap. The statue of Chatterton crowns the monument; from his left hand falls a long scroll, inscribed, (in old English letters,) Ella, a Tragedie." 66 Inscriptions on the lower Panels. I. TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. Reader! judge not. If thou art a Christian, believe that he shall be judged by a superior Power : to that Power alone is he now answerable. II. Know all; know infidels, unapt to know, III. Stated to be from the pen of the Rev. J. Eagles. A poor and friendless boy was he to whom To that without, of darkness and of sin; IV. A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. Born in this parish, Nov. 20, 1752. Died in London, Aug. 24, 1770. Æt. 18. V. Admitted into Colston's School, Aug. 3, 1760. "Keep innocency, and take heed unto the thing that is right, for that shall bring a man peace at the last."-Psalms. It is a brave and merry world, When youth and health are ours; And gaily down life's glittering stream, It is a rough and stormy world, When Time has stamp'd us men, And dark clouds gather round our path, But high in heart we brave their wrath, It is a cold and chilly world, When creeping age steals on, And the heart's hoard of cherish'd hopes But 'neath the churchyard's little mounds And, when we feel that earth is past, THE LATE SIR RICHARD PHILLIPS. (Continued from page 59.) MR. GARDINER continues to relate, in gossiping manner, that, soon after Phillips was released, "a fire broke out at his neighbour Billings', which communicated to the combustible material with which his house was filled, and soon burned it to the ground; and, in addition to his printing-offices, a collection of books and papers was sacrificed. The permanent library and the pamphlet-room were under the same roof, and all were devoured by the flames. After this event, Phillips removed to London, and commenced the Monthly Magazine-the first work, and the most eminent of its kind. This brought him in contact with the literati of London, and eventually he became one of the greatest publishers of the day. When Bonaparte threatened to invade us with his flotilla at Boulogne, Phillips proposed to Addington, the prime minister, to carry boat-loads of rock and stone, and sink them in the harbour of that port; and, on its being doubted whether he could find materials enough, his reply was-'I would take, my lords, St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, and sink them both, but that I would block the flotilla up.' Strange to tell, this Quixotic scheme, for a time, was entertained, and nearly put into execution." Of Sir Richard's own recollections of his residence at Leicester, he has left us the following vivid picture in parallel with his visit to that town in the summer of 1828, after an interval of three-and-thirty years: "How different was the near prospect from the turnpike-gate, to that which my memory recorded! So late as 1797, there was not more than one house, if one, between the gate and the body of the town; but this half-mile, and all in sight, was covered with neat structures, or villas, embosomed in tasteful foliage. The road, too, was in a state of activity, such as seldom prevails in county towns. Paper money had evidently been operating. I soon beheld new collateral streets, and speedily masses of new houses, altogether equal to the old town of 1790. Leicester, since the creation of the great northern_turnpikeroad, had, to the eye of the traveller, stood, as it were, on one side, the high-road passing through its eastern skirts; but building speculations have now placed a fourth of the whole town on the eastern side, which in recent memory consisted of lanes and fields. Everything thus wore a different aspect, and, at the same time, looked as busy, respectable, and solid, as though the erections had stood for a century. No one seemed, in this new creation, to conceive that I was speculating upon him, his house, and his concerns, as mushrooms which had grown since yesterday. All was changed. There either were houses where there were none, or the old houses of the age of the Stuarts or Tudors were transformed into elegant modern structures. I who in that town had guided so many, felt myself obliged to inquire for a suitable inn! "Thirty-three years ago I was domesticated in Leicester, intimately known to its anxious and bustling population, and engaged with the intense feelings and ingenuous aspirations of youth in stirring up a spirit of improvement in arts, commerce, and literature. * Yet, after I had, in twenty-four hours, adjusted the focus of my intellectual vision to the localities, and to my own associations, the intervening period seemed to vanish; and the days of 1789, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, and 95, arose before me, as though they had been but a week of years in the last week of the current period. "How great, however, had been the changes! How solemnly had time mocked the vanities of human existence! I paced the well-remembered forms of the streets, but I was in a strange place! I knew no one, and no one seemed to recollect me! The active middle-aged, who were moving to and fro, were as new to me as I to them! The effect was appalling; and so new, that it was difficult to accommodate it to my feelings. "Soon after, I was taught a lesson; for on meeting some tottering and wrinkled persons, I traced in them the outline of my former contemporaries. I now found that my acquaintance was limited to the sexagenarians and the septuagenarians, and reduced to the small number who had attained that age. The shops and houses were as much changed as the people. Not more than one in fifty was in the same line, or exhibited the same firms. On entering some of them to inquire for once-valued friends, I was answered, with an ominous shake of the head, by successors, the children or grandchildren of the former occupants; in other cases, the parties seemed almost forgotten; and in some, where the business was changed, entire neighbourhoods denied that once flourishing persons had ever lived on the spot. My mistakes and confusion, owing to the rapid succession of generations, were often embarrassing; for, in a few instances, I found myself in contact with the great-grandchildren of persons with whom I had been acquainted, but who at that time had passed the meridian of life. "It would be trifling to notice circumstances which depend merely on arithmetic; but the most obvious truths do not present themselves with due force without a practical experiment, and on this subject I had the opportunity of feeling an experiment which cannot occur to many. It would also be superfluous to state, how often and how keenly my sensibility suffered from the unexpected extinction of some, and the total change of all! Young men changed into old ones; dissipated youths, into grave fathers of families; children, into middle-aged men and women; and once fascinating beauties, into antiquated maidens, sober matrons, or still expecting, or mourning widows! The alterations of condition were still more impressive: many of the rich and proud, were become poor and humble; and those who, in 1790, moved in hopeless obscurity, were now lording it among their neigh. bours! It pleased me, in another sense, to meet few old friends with new faces, and if I live another thirty-three years, I shall not forget the hospitalities of Leicester. 66 Externally, the town had undergone great changes. Its dimensions for many ages had remained the same; but the manufacturing mania had drawn together so large a population, and the banking and financial system had conferred such ready facility on the raising of capital, that new streets and improved houses presented themselves everywhere. Taste and elegance challenged the approbation of my eye; but as I could not learn that the happiness and comfort of the people were alike increased, I could not help regarding them, in strict local association, as silk stockings covering gouty limbs. I used to see great respectability, and the solid reward of industry, in the ancient establishments of the mercantile hosiers ; and I hope it is no prejudice arising from love of antiquity, which leads me to regret, that the race now appears to be nearly extinguished." Of the Leicester Herald, Sir Richard relates the following anecdote, too amusing to be omitted: "While I was at Nottingham, I fell in with a plain elderly man, an ancient reader of the Leicester Herald, a paper which I published, for some years, in the halcyon days of my youth. Its reputation secured me many a hearty shake by the hand, accompanied by the watery eye of warm feeling, as I passed through the Midland Counties. I abandoned it, in 1795, for the Monthly Magazine, and exchanged Leicester for London. This ancient reader, hearing that I was in Nottingham, came to me with a certain paper in his hand, to call me to account for the wearisome hours which an article in it had cost him and his friends. I looked at it, and saw it headed DUTCH MAIL, and it professed to be a column of original Dutch, which this honest man had been labouring to translate, for he said he had not met with any other specimen of Dutch. The sight of it brought the following circumstances to my recollection On the evening before one of our publications, my men and a boy were frolicking in the printingoffice, and they overturned two or three columns of the paper. The chief point was to get ready, in some way, for the Nottingham and Derby coaches, which, at four in the morning, required 400 or 500 papers. After every exertion, we were short nearly a column, but there stood in the gallies, a tempting column of pie. Now, unlettered reader, mark-pie is a jumble of odd letters, gathered from the floor, &c. of a printing-office, but set on end, in any manner, to be distributed, at leisure, in their proper places. Some letters are topsy-turvy, often ten or twelve |