In the country, I had been accustomed to do good to the poor: there are charities here too;—we have joined in a subscription for a crazy poetess, and a raffle for the support of a sharper, who passes under the title of a German count. Unfortunately, to balance these various expenses, this place, which happens to be a great resort of smugglers, affords daily opportunities of making bargains. We drink spoiled teas, under the idea of their being cheap; and the little room we have is made less by the reception of cargoes of India taffetas, shawl-muslins, and real chintzes. All my authority here would be exerted in vain; for the buying of a bargain is a temptation which it is not in the nature of any woman to resist.

I am in hopes, however, the business may receive some check from an incident which happened a little time since: an acquaintance of ours had his carriage seized by the custom-house officers, on account of a piece of silk which one of his female cousins, without his knowledge, had stowed in it; and it was only released by its being proved, that what she had bought with so much satisfaction as contraband, was in reality the home-bred manufacture of Spitalfields.

In this manner has the season passed away. I spend a great deal of money, and make no figure; I am in the country, and see nothing of country simplicity or country occupations; I am in an obscure village, and yet cannot stir out without more observers than if I were walking in St. James's Park; I am cooped up in less room than my own dog-kennel, while my spacious halls are injured by standing empty; and I am paying for tasteless, unripe fruit, while my own choice wall-fruit is rotting by bushels under the trees.

In recompense for all this, we have the satisfaction of knowing that we occupy the very rooms which my lord had just quitted; of picking up anecdotes, true or false, of people in high life; and of seizing the ridicule of every character that passes by us in the moving show-glass of the place, a pastime which often affords us a good deal of mirth; but which, I confess, I can never join in without reflecting that what is our amusement is theirs likewise.

As to the great ostensible object of our excursion,-health, -I am afraid we cannot boast of much improvement. We have had a wet and cold summer and these houses, which

are either old tenements vamped up, or new ones slightly run up for the accommodation of bathers during the season, have more contrivances for letting in the cooling breezes than for keeping them out,—a circumstance which I should presume sagacious physicians do not always attend to, when they order patients from their own warm, compact, substantial houses, to take the air in country lodgings; of which the best apartments, during the winter, have only been inhabited by the rats, and where the poverty of the landlord prevents him from laying out more in repairs, than will serve to give them a showy and attractive appearance.

Be that as it may ;-the rooms we at present inhabit are so pervious to the breeze, that, in spite of all the ingenious expedients of listing doors, pasting paper on the inside of cupboards, laying sand-bags, puttying crevices, and condemning closet-doors, it has given me a severe touch of my old rheumatism; and all my family are in one way or other affected with it: my eldest daughter, too, has got cold with her bathing, though the sea-water never gives any body cold!

In answer to these complaints, I am told by the good company here, that I have staid too long in the same air, and that now I ought to take a trip to the continent, and spend the winter at Nice, which would complete the business. I am entirely of their opinion, that it would complete the business.

LESSON LIV.

The Tear of Penitence; an Extract from "Paradise and the Peri."-T. MOORE.

Now, upon Syria's land of roses,
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ;

Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,

While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one, who looked from upper air
O'er all the enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,—
More golden where the sun-light falls;
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls
Of ruined shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons settling on the rocks,
With their rich, restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm west, as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
The unclouded skies of Peristan!
And, then, the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherds' ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine,

Banqueting through the flowery vales; And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods so full of nightingales!

*

But nought can charm the luckless Peri;
Her soul is sad, her wings are weary-
Joyless she sees the Sun look down
On that great temple, once his own,
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,
Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie concealed,
Beneath those chambers of the sun,
Some amulet of gems, annealed
In upper fires, some tablet sealed
With the great name of Solomon,

*The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

Which, spelled by her illumined eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean, lies the boon,

The charm, that can restore, so soon,
An erring spirit to the skies!

Cheered by this hope, she bends her thither;
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of even,
In the rich west, begun to wither;
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel flies,
That fluttered round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems;
And near the boy, who, tired with play,
Now, nestling mid the roses, lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and, on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount,
Impatient, fling him down to drink.

Then swift his haggard brow he turned
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burned
Upon a brow more fierce than that,—
Sullenly fierce a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruined maid, the shrine profaned,
Oaths broken, and the threshold stained
With blood of guests! there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil, now, that man of crime-
As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit-looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burned all night,
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of day-light sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth;
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,

And seeking for its home again!

Oh! 'twas a sight-that heaven-that child

A scene, which might have well beguiled

Even haughty Eblis of a sigh

For glories lost, and peace gone by.

And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there-while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace?
"There was a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones, "thou blessed child,