"It is too soon yet to talk to him about my marrying; in fact, the proposal must, if possible, come from him. Could not you manage that?" "Yes, I will if I can; but, as you say, wait awhile. Here is their address-you must call to-morrow, if you can; and do you think you can dine with me on Thursday?"

"Yes, if the general continues improving; if not I will send you word."

The next day I complained of a head-ache, and said, that I would walk out until dinner-time. I hastened to the address given me by Mr. Masterton, and found that Mr. Cophagus and his wife were out, but Susannah remained at home. After our first questions, I inquired of her how she liked London.

"I am almost afraid to say, Japhet, at least to you; you would only laugh at me."

"Not so, Susannah; I never laugh when I know people are sincere."

"It appears, then, to me to be a vanity fair."

"That there is more vanity in London than in any other city, I grant," replied I; "but recollect, that there are more people and more wealth. I do not think that there is more in proportion than in other towns in England, and if there is more vanity, Susannah, recollect also that there is more industry, more talent, and I should hope a greater proportion of good and honest people among its multitudes; there is also, unfortunately, more misery and more crime."

"I believe you are right, Japhet. Are you aware that Mr. Cophagus has put off his plain attire?"

"If it grieves you, Susannah, it grieves me also; but I presume he finds it necessary not to be so remarkable."

"For him I could find some excuse; but what will you say, Japhet, when I tell you that my own sister, born and bred up to our tenets, hath also much deviated from the dress of the females of our sect? "In what hath she made an alteration?”

"She has a bonnet of plaited straw with ribbons."

"Of what colour are the ribbons?"

"Your bonnet, Susannah, is of grey silk; I do not see that there is vanity in descending to straw, which is a more homely commodity. But what reason has she given ?"

"That her husband wills it, as he does not like to walk out with her in her Quaker's dress."

"Is it not her duty to obey her husband, even as I obey my father, Susannah ?-but I am not ashamed to walk out with you in your dress; so if you have no objection, let me show you a part of this great city."

Susannah consented: we had often walked together in the town of Reading: she was evidently pleased at what I said. I soon escorted her to Oxford Street, from thence down Bond Street and all the most frequented parts of the metropolis. The dress naturally drew upon her the casual glance of the passengers, but her extreme beauty turned the glance to an ardent gaze, and long before we had finished our intended walk, Susannah requested that I would go home. She

was not only annoyed but almost alarmed at the constant and reiterated scrutiny which she underwent, ascribing it to her dress and not to her lovely person. As soon as we returned I sat down with her. "So I understand that Mr. Cophagus intends to reside altogether in London."

"I have not heard so; I understood that it was business which called him hither for a few weeks. I trust not, for I shall be unhappy here."

"May I ask why?"

"The people are rude-it is not agreeable to walk out."

"Recollect, my dear Susannah, that those of your sect are not so plentiful in London as elsewhere, and if you wear a dress so different from other people, you must expect that curiosity will be excited. You cannot blame them-it is you who make yourself conspicuous, almost saying to the people by your garment, Come, and look at me.' I have been reflecting upon what Mr. Masterton said to you at Reading, and I do not know whether he was not right in calling it a garb of pride instead of a garb of humility."

6

"If I thought so, Japhet, even I would throw it off," replied Susannah.

"It certainly is not pleasant that every one should think that you walk out on purpose to be stared at, yet such is the ill-natured construction of the world, and they will never believe otherwise. It is possible, I should think, to dress with equal simplicity and neatness, to avoid gay colours, and yet to dress so as not to excite observation." "I hardly know what to say; but that you all appear against me, and that sometimes I feel that I am too presumptuous in thus judging for myself."

"I am not against you, Susannah; I know you will do what you think is right, and I shall respect you for that, even if I disagree with you; but I must say, that if my wife were to dress in such a way as to attract the public gaze, I should feel too jealous to approve of it. I do not, therefore, blame Mr. Cophagus for inducing his pretty wife to make some alteration in her attire, neither do I blame but I commend her for obeying the wishes of her husband. Her beauty is his, and not common property."

Susannah did not reply; she appeared very thoughtful. "You disagree with me, Susannah," said I, after a pause, sorry for it."

"I am

"I cannot say that I do, Japhet; I have learnt a lesson this day, and in future I must think more humbly of myself, and be more ruled by the opinions and judgments of others."

Mr. and Mrs. Cophagus then came in. Cophagus had resumed his coat and waistcoat, but not his pantaloons or Hessians: his wife, who had a very good taste in dress, would not allow him. She was in her grey silk gown, but wore a large handsome shawl, which covered all but the skirts; on her head she had a Leghorn bonnet, and certainly looked very pretty. As usual, she was all good-humour and smiles. I told them that we had been walking out, and that Susannah had been much annoyed by the staring of the people.

"You wrong me much, brother Cophagus," replied Susannah, "it pained me exceedingly."

"All very well to say so-know better-sly puss-will wear dress -people say, pretty Quaker-and so on."

Susannah hastily left the room after this attack, and I told them what had passed.

"Mrs. Cophagus," said I, "order a bonnet and shawl like yours for her without telling her, and perhaps you will persuade her to put it on."

Mrs. Cophagus thought the idea excellent, and promised to procure them. Susannah not making her re-appearance, I took leave and arrived at the hotel in good time for dinner.

"Japhet," said the general to me as we were at table, “you have mentioned Lord Windermear very often, have you called upon him lately?"

"No, sir, it is now two years and more since I have seen him. When I was summoned to town to meet you, I was too much agitated to think of any thing else, and since that I have had too much pleasure in your company."

66

Say rather, my good boy, that you have nursed me so carefully that you have neglected your friends and your health. Take my carriage to-morrow, and call upon him, and, after that, you had better drive about a little, for you have been looking pale these last few days. I hope to get out myself in a short time, and then we will have plenty of amusement together in setting up our establishment."

(To be continued.)

THE CHAMBER OF DEATH!

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

OH! the stillness and the gloom
Of the chamber of the dead!
Where the flowers that gaily bloom,
And the light by tapers shed,
Mock the faded form of clay,
And the darkness of those eyes,
Whence the soul hath past away,
As a vapour, to the skies.

Oh! the sadness and the chill

Of the living, as they wend

To the chamber, shrining still
The relics of a friend;

When with noiseless step, as though

The dead were but asleep,

To the solemn bed they go,

O'er the senseless one to weep.

Oh! the paleness of the cheek,

In its shroud of deadly white, And the moveless lips, that speak With a holy prophet's might; And the hands so still and cold, With a decent grace array'd, Whose sponsal gloves enfold

The bride that death has made.

Oh! the glitter and the gloom
Of the coffin, as it stands
In the closely-curtained room;
'Till the priest in holy bands
Shall usher it the way,

And, with blessed words of grace,
Embalm the shrouded clay

For its narrow dwelling-place.

Oh! the pang to loving friends!
When the bearers of the dead
To that darkened room ascend,
Whence th' immortal spirit fled!
As they hear the solemn sound
Of the heavy feet above,
How freshly bleeds the wound
In the pierc'd heart of love!

Oh! the pageantry of woe!

When the hearse with nodding plumes,

And the mantled mourners go

On their pathway to the tombs:

When the snowy 'kerchief drowns
The sobbings of despair,

And the holy church-bell sounds

From the Sabbath-house of prayer.

Oh! the grief of friends that meet,
When the burial rite is past,
Full fondly to repeat,

While their tears are dropping fast,

The virtues of the dead,

And rehearse the dying scene ;-
Such things, and such, she said,
Then pause-and weep between.

Oh! the wildness of regret
For the loved one past away,
When the golden sun has set
Of that ever-living day;
And the first night closes o'er
The friend within the tomb,
Whose voice shall sound no more
'Till nature's day of doom.

MR. WILKINSON'S TOPOGRAPHY OF THEBES.

Topography of Thebes, and General View of Egypt; being a Short Account of the Principal Objects worthy of Notice in the Valley of the Nile to the Second Cataract, &c. &c. With Remarks on the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Egyptians. By I. G. WILKINSON, Esq. John Murray, Albemarle Street.

EGYPT, the mother of nations! the incomprehensible! she of whose origin none can tell! the primal streams from whence have flowed extinct states, and kingdoms, and vast monarchies ! Her genius still wanders by the banks of her eternal Nile, decrepit, wrinkled, and full of countless days-her memory gone, and unconscious of her pristine greatness. Yet, in her ruin, how majestic! Her pyramids still point to the skies-her ruins still frown in imperishable grandeur -her immeasurable catacombs, containing within their recesses myriads of lettered scrolls, pregnant with awful histories, records of past glory, and stupendous guilt, scrolls that coming ages shall be unable to reduce to dust, and yet but half explored. Egypt still retains within her time-worn bosom the sybil leaves of the ancient wisdom; but they are dropping one by one, unread and unexplored, and we look on helplessly and see them crumble into destruction, and their awful secrets pass away before our eyes unsolved. As yet, we have had no Daniel to read the writing on her wall. Like an ancient priestess, the fire of whose mind has been quenched by the cold flowings of countless years, she offers us a lesson that she has herself long been unable to read.

And who shall instruct us? Turn we to the haughty and all-conquering Roman, with his compact and energetic language, and demand of him the key, for he conquered her dominions and rifled her palaces. He, himself now passed away, was to Egypt but as him of yesterday, and, in the prime of his manhood, looked upon the ancient one with the same wondering awe as do the latest and youngest sons of humanity. Let us penetrate still farther back into the mists of antiquity, and ask the wily and elegant Greek some tidings of these eternal ruins. He saw them when in the glory of their perfection, but of their origin knew nothing; for to the virile Egyptian he was but a young barbarian, who came a despised mendicant to the shores of the Nile to pick up something good from the superfluity of the knowledge that sate there enthroned in mystery. Old Homer prated something darkly of the wondrous city of a hundred gates.

And the still more ancient Hebrew, what knows he of her? Why nought but of the heaviness of her bondage. He was a slave in her field, and a scorn to her proud and enlightened sons. Before he felt the iron of her rule, when he kept his flocks, a shepherd and a humble husbandman, Egypt resided in her sublime palaces, her commerce extended, her people refined, her agriculture almost perfect,