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WORDSWORTH. He died on the 1st of December, A. D.

1812.

Six months to six years added, he remained
Upon this sinful earth by sin unstained.

O blessed Lord, whose mercy then removed.
A child whom every eye that looked on loved,
Support us, teach us calmly to resign
What we possessed, and now is wholly thine.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

William Green, the last 23 years of whose life were passed in the neighbourhood, where, by his skill and ndustry as an artist, he produced faithful representa ions of the county, and lasting memorials of its more perishable features.

He was born at Manchester,

And died at Ambleside,

On the 29 Day of April, 1823, in the 63 year of his age, deeply lamented by a numerous family, and universally respected.

HIS AFFLICTED WIDOW
Caused this stone to be erected.

Green was a surprising man, and his sketches of mountain scenes are correctly executed, though I never liked his manner of drawing; and in his colouring there is something glaring and unnatural. But the fame of Green does not rest on his abilities as an artist. As the historian of the English mountains his descriptive talents were of the first order. His entertaining and invaluable "Guide" will be perused by posterity with increased admiration. There is a charm about it which I have not found in any other of the numerous publications of a similar nature.. I have been informed, however, that notwithstanding its excellence its sale was limited, and the author was out of pocket by it.

July 23. Ascended Silvertop or Silverhow, a hill at Grassmere. It is not very high, but from its unevenness it is not easy to reach the summit. The view from it is rather extensive, considering its very moderate height. When I ascended there was a considerable mist, yet I could distinguish Windermere, Rydal lake and church, and the surrounding objects. To day I leave Grassmere; I do it with regret, but with hopes of once more visiting it, and seeing Jonathan Bell again. He is one of the pleasantest fellows I ever met with, and I shall recommend the Grassmere inn to all my friends who may visit the lakes.

July 24. Walked to Keswick. The road from Grassmere is so well described in Mr. Otley's small guide, (which has been of the greatest use to me,) that it would be only a waste of time and paper to particularize its numerous interesting objects. The

road passes by Thulmere, or contracted Lake, (so called from its sudden contraction in the middle, where there is a neat bridge,) through the greatest part of Saint John's Vale, so celebrated by sir Walter Scott's poem, the" Bridal of Triermain." Opposite Wytheburn chapel, (which is the smallest I ever saw,) I entered into conversation with a labouring man, who was well acquainted with the late Charles, Gouche, the gentle pilgrim of nature," who met an untimely death by falling over one of the precipices of Helvellyn. Some time previous to his death he had lodged at the Cherry Tree, near Wytheburn. The man related many anecdotes of him, but none particularly interesting. Mr. Gouche was an enthusiastic admirer of poetry, which he would frequently recite to him and others of his friends.

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Keswick is a neat town. The Greta runs through it; but, alas! its once pure waters have become polluted by the filthy factories now on its banks. Having been obliged to leave Keswick in the afternoon of the day after my arrival, I was unable to see much of it or its neighbourhood. I paid a hasty visit to Derwentwater and the falls of Lowdore. The latter, from the dryness of the season, much disappointed me. I saw the Druid's Temple on the old road to Penrith; it is a circle formed of rough stones. The common people pretend these stones cannot be counted, but I found no difficulty in ascertaining their number to be fortyeight. A barbarian once recommended the owner to blast these stones for walling, but happily for the antiquary his suggestion was not attended to. Green, in his guide, speaking of this spot, alludes to the very erroneous opinion that the druidical was a polytheutic religion.-N. B. Skiddaw has a majestic appearance when viewed from Keswick. Southey's house is at the foot,

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Was ever full. Oh musical conceit]

Of old Idolatry, and youthful time,
Fit emanation of a happy clime,

Where but to live, to move, to breathe, was sweet;
And love indeed came floating on the air,
A winged God, for ever fresh and fair!

SONNET.

It must be so-my infant love must find
In my own breast a cradle and a grave;
Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave,
Or rebel spirit bound within the rind
Of some old [wither'd] oak-or fast enshrin'd
In the cold durance of an echoing cave-
Yet better thus, than cold disdain to brave;
Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind

That decks its temple with unearthly grace, Together must we dwell my dream and IUnknown then live, and unlamented die

Rather than dim the lustre of that face, Or drive the laughing dimple from its place, Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.

SONNET.

Few lov'd the youthful bard, for he was one
Whose face, tho' with intelligence it beam'd,
Was ever sad; if with a smile it gleam'd
It was but momentary, like the sun

Darting one bright ray thro' the thunder cloud-
He lov'd the secret vale, and not the crowd
And hum of populous cities-some would say
There was a secret labouring in his breast,
That made him cheerless and disturb'd his rest;
Whose influence sad he could not drive away.
What caused the young bard's woe was never known,
Yet, once, a wanderer deem'd an hapless flame
Consum'd his life away, for one, whose name
He heard him breathe, upon the mountains lone !

SONG.

She is not fair to outward view,

As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew,

Until she smil'd on me.

O then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye-
Her very frowns are fairer far,
Than smiles of other maidens are.]

SONG.

I have lived, and I have loved,
Have lived, and loved in vain ;
Some joy, and many woes, have proved,
Which may not be again.
My heart is old-my eye is sere-
Joy wins no smile, and grief no tear.

I would hope, if hope I could,
Tho' sure to be deceived;
There's sweetness in a thought of good,

If 'tis not quite believed→→→

But fancy ne'er repeats the strain That memory once reproves, for vain.

Here endeth my journal.

T. Q. M.

GENDERS.-JAMES HARRIS.

A good translation of Xenophon's Cyro pædia is much wanted. That by Ashley is vilely done; though Mr. Harris has pronounced a high eulogium on it in his Philological Inquiries.

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Mr. Harris was an excellent Greek scholar, but beyond that he does not seem to have great merit as a writer. In his Hermes," speaking of the grammatical genders, he says, they are founded on a reasoning which discovers, even in things without sex, a distant analogy to that great distinction, which, according to Milton, ani mates the world." To this he adds, in a note, "Linnæus has traced the distinction of sexes through the vegetable world, and made it the basis of his botanic method." Should not one be induced to think from this, that Linnæus classed some plants as male, and others as female, from their form and cha racter? when, in fact, they are classed according to the number and form of those parts on which the fructification of the plants actually depends. What becomes of this supposed analogy in the German language, where the sun is feminine, and the moon masculine?

Lowth, in his grammar, mentions the poetical advantage our language derives from making all inanimate things neuter, by the power it gives of personification by the mere change of gender.*

For the Table Book.
WHAT IS LIFE?

What is life? 'tis like the ocean,
In its placid hours of rest,
Sleeping calmly-no emotion
Rising in its tranquil breast.
But too soon the heavenly sky
Is obscured by nature's hand,
And the whirlwind passing by
Leaves a wreck upon the strand.

Pye.

DOCTOR LETTSOM.

To the Editor.

Sir,--Few inherited better qualities or were more eccentric than the late Dr. Lettsom. While he associated with literary, men, communicated with literary works, and wrote and published his medical experience, he gave gratuitous aid to the needy, and apportioned his leisure to useful and practical purposes.

In a work, called Moods and Tenses," lately published, I find anecdotes of the doctor, which I had sent to a literary pub lication, reprinted without acknowledg ment, and extracted since into other works. In addition to the printed anecdotes of so amiable a man, I trust, sir, you will not be unwilling further to illustrate his character by an anecdote or two, until now untold. The first is of a Lady and her Servant. The doctor was once called in to attend a sick lady and her maid-servant. On entering the passage, he was asked by the nurse into the lady's chamber. "Very well," said he mildly, "but is there not a servant ill also." "Yes, sir," was the reply. "Then let me prescribe for her first," he rejoined, as her services will be first wanted." His request was complied with; and as he predicted so it proved, - by the second visit the servant was convalescent. "I generally find this the case," observed the doctor, good-humouredly, to his friend; "Servants want physic only, but their mistresses require more skill than physic. This is owing to the difference between scrubbing the stairs and scrubbing the teeth."

The second anecdote refers to books. Whenever a friend borrowed a book from the doctor's library, he rarely lent it but with this stipulation, that the supposed value of the book should be deposited, with the name of the borrower, and the title of the volume with date, in the vacant place till the book was restored. 66 Though attended with some pains, I find this a good plan," said the doctor; 66 many of my sets would otherwise be imperfect. I feel pleasure in lending my books, (many I give away,) but I like to see my library, like practice, as regularly conducted as possi

le."

my

The third anecdote relates to the cure of ching. The doctor had a favourite serFant, who manifested the frailty of taking hat which did not belong to him. John ad abstracted a loaf of sugar from the tore closet, and sold it to a person that

• Literary Chronicle, 1819, p. 392.

kept a shop. Shortly afterwards, on the carriage passing the shop, the doctor desired John to go in and order a loaf of lump sugar, and to pay for it, which was accordingly done; but when they returned home, John suspecting his master's motive, his knees, implored forgiveness, and was made a full confession of the crime, fell on pardoned on his solemn promise of future honesty.

The fourth anecdote is worthy of the doctor having been called to a poor consideration of medical practitioners. The 66 lone much, that he shed tears. Her person and woman," pitied her desolate situation so room were squalid; her language and deportment indicated that she had seen better days; he took a slip of paper out of his pocket, and wrote with his pencil the following very rare prescription to the overseers of the parish in which she resided:

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"PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE."

ΤΟ

EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES, WRITTEN
OBLIGE A YOUNG FRIEND, WHO SUGGEST-
ED THE TOPIC.

The PAST, which once was present, then did seem,
As doth this present, but " a sick man's dream."
Now, the remembrance of that past appears,
Through the dim distance of receding years,
A lovely vision of fair forms:-and yet,
How different it was! Fool! to regret
What had no being! Time, that faithful tutor,
Were I but teachable, might show the FUTURE
As the PRESENT is; and yet I paint it
Teeming with joy; and my hope doth saint it,
With haloes round the fond imagination.
And so through life I pass-without a station
Whence I can see the present, a reality
To be enjoy'd-living on ideality.
August 25, 1827.

For the Table Book.

For the Table Book.

PENNY A LOT.

A SCHOOLBOY's fruitless RAMBLE THROU
Town.

The morning is warm, and the weather is fine,
'Tis too late for school, and too early to dine;
Through the streets as I go for refreshment, or not,
All the dainties to sell are, a-Penny a Lot!

Fine pears, by their cheeks, are inviting to taste,
With their tails curling round, like bashaws in
east;

Red apples in heaps, on a wicker-work spot,-
How d'ye sell them?-These-here, are, a-Penny
Lot!

But your plums-are they cheap? By their Orles
hues

They belong to the Indigo Warehouse,-the Blues;
And your gages, so green!-are they fresh from th

cot?

From the Garden this morning, sir,-Penny a Lot!

Barcelonas in small wooden measures are piled;
How attractive they look to the one-copper child,
With his treasure to spend! 'But what there have y
got?

Acid Drops! cries a Jew Boy, a-Penny a Lot!
Nice slices of cocoa-nut, white as the snow,
Brazil-nuts and almond-nuts all in a row;

Napoleon's-ribs,-brandy-balls for the sot,

And sweet cakes-what are these? Sir, a-Penny -
Lot.

TOMMY MITCHESON, OF DURHAM. The above is a well-known character in Durham, called "the philosopher:" and were his literary attainments to be measured by the books he peruses, they would far exceed those of any gentleman in the place. Tommy reads every thing that he can borrow-legal, medical, theological, historical-true narrative, or romance, it matters little to him;-but Tommy has no' recollection. On arriving at the last page of a work he is just as wise as before he commenced. A friend of mine once lent him Gibbon's "Decline and Fall;" and when Tommy returned the last volume, asked him how he liked it. "It is a nice Seaweeds, shells, and ornaments, fit for a Grot, work."-" Well, how did you like that part about the boxing match between Crib and Molineux ?"- "Oh," said he, "it was the nicest part in the whole book!" Poor Tommy! I can say this of thee; I have lent thee many a book, and have always had them returned clean and unsoiled! I cannot say this of some of my book borrowers. T. Q. M.

Groundsel, chickweed, canes, posies, beads, cresses, and

A MAN-LIKING BIRD.

"I have read of a bird," says Dr. Fuller, in his Worthies of England, “which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man, who coming to the water to drink, and finding there, by reflection, that he had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth itself."

grapes,

Currants sodden'd with rains, raisins press'd in their shapes;

Are all sold at the rate of, a-Penny a Lot!

What chance has the Far-thing to burn a hole through?
What chance has the Half-penny, though it were new!
Unbless'd with a purchase, though thirsty and hot,
All the order of sale is, a-Penny a Lot.

FISH.

P.

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This sheet is dedicated to the five days' printed by Mr. Nichols. It was a party of

ravels, in 1732, of him

That drew th' essential form of grace,

That saw the manners in the face,

and four of his friends.

"Some few copies of the Tour," says Horace Walpole, "were

VOL. II.-37.

pleasure down the river into Kent, undertaken by Mr. Hogarth, Mr. Scott, and three of their friends, in which they intended to have more humour than they accomplished, as is commonly the case in such meditated attempts. The Tour was described in verse

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