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zenith of either her poetical capabilities or her fame. We will conclude with her own character, faintly sketched by herself.

"For the love-dream that haunts the young poet,

Is coloured too much by her mind

A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.

For she lives but in beauty-her visions
Inspire with their passion her strain;
And the spirit so quick at impression

Was never meant long to retain.”

We must, however, be permitted to amend the last line to make the verse applicable to herself, and entreat that it may be read

thus:

"In her, was meant long to retain."

THE FRIENDLESS MARINER !

DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE "SAILOR POET," ISMAEL FITZADAM.'

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

My home is on the boundless deep,
My friends among the brave,
And brighter laurels none can reap,
Than on the silver wave.

Green earth, thou hast no spell for me,—
No hearth or hearts that glow,
To win me from the blue, blue sea;
Then onward let me go!

Full bravely rides my gallant bark,
And lightly play the sails;
The sea-boy blithe as matin lark,
Sings shrilly to the gales;
The hills are hid in mantle grey,
The stars above me glow,
There is no voice to bid me stay,―
Then onward let me go!

To pace the deck, and gaze above—
(My nightly task) is sweet;
Oh! there dwell spirits full of love,
My spirit longs to meet:

My home is on the boundless wave,

But, oh! 'tis bliss to know

God will take back the soul he gave ;

Then onward let me go!

Ismael Fitzadam, author of "The Harp of the Desert," and "Battle of Algiers," was an able seaman on board a king's frigate. It is ever to be lamented that this "nautical, but genuine child of song," should have pined in want and obscurity, when from the highly poetic character of his beautiful and elegant lays, he might have risen to fame and independence. Had any of the great men, "whose exploits he so gloriously sung," thought it worth their while to interest themselves about this self-educated sailor, and inspired but friendless poet, he might, perhaps, have been living now.

DIARY OF A BLASÉ.1

CHAPTER XVIII.

Spa, June 10th.

HERE we are, and for a time at rest. Rest! no, the wheels of the carriage may rest, even the body for a time may rest, but the mind will not. We carry our restlessness with us wherever we go. Like a steam-engine, the mind works, and works, and works, sometimes, indeed, with less rapidity of motion, but still it goes on, goes on in its ever continued labour; waking or sleeping, no repose; until the body, which is the mechanical part of the engine, is worn out by constant friction, or the steam of the mind is exhausted. And people tell you, and believe that there is rest in the grave. How can that be? The soul is immortal, and cannot exist without consciousness. If not conscious, it does not exist, and if conscious, it must work on, even beyond the grave, and for ever. To assert that there is rest in the grave, is denying the immortality of the soul. And what a contemptible, base slave the body is to the soul! I was going to say, that he could not call his soul his own, but that would be a Catachresis, and I hate and abominate a cat, and every thing which begins with cat. It is singular that they are all unpleasant, or unlucky, or unsafe; for instance

Cat-acombs remind you of death, funerals, and mummies.

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As for a cat itself, I cannot say too much against it; and it is singular, that the other meanings of the single word are equally disagreeable, as to cat the anchor, is a sign of going to sea, and the cat at the gangway is the worst of all.

Five o'clock in the morning, the sun has not yet appeared above the hills, but the mist is rising gradually. The bell of the church in front of my window is tolling-it ceases, and the pealing of the organ, with the chanting of the priests, comes distinct and clear upon my ear, as the notes of the bugle over the still water, from some dashing frigate in the Sound, beating off at sunset. How solemn and how beautiful is this early prayer! The sun is rising, the mists of the night are rolling off, and the voices and music resound at the same time to heaven. The church is full, and many remain outside, un

1 Concluded from p. 286.

covered, and kneeling in humility. But who comes here, thought I, as a man in a shabby coat walked to within a few yards of the church door, and laid down his burthen, consisting of a drum, a fiddle, a roll of canvass, a chair, and a long pole. This is a curious stock in trade, methinks; how in the name of all the saints do you gain your livelihood? This was soon ascertained. A minute before the mass was over he fixed his pole upright in the ground, hung his canvass on it, and unrolled it, displaying a picture divided in six compartments. He then hung his fiddle to his button, took his drum, and putting his chair close to his pole, stood upon it, giving a long, but not loud roll of his drum, which he repeated at intervals, to attract attention. He had taken his station with judgment, and as the people came out of church, he had soon a crowd about him, when he commenced with crossing himself, and then continued to explain the legend which was attached to his pictures on the canvass. I could not hear all, but still I could understand enough to fill up the rest. It was the wonderful cure performed by a certain saint; and as he told the story, he pointed to the different compartments with his fiddle-stick, for he had laid aside his drum as soon as he had collected an audience. Now and then he crossed himself devoutly, and at last told that he had the very prayer, and the very remedy which had been prescribed. He then played his fiddle, singing the prayer in a solemn chaunt; and then he pulled out of his pocket a packet of little books and little boxes. They are only one halfpenny each, and all that is necessary is, that they should touch the figure of the saint on the canvass, to be imbued with the necessary virtue. He sells them rapidly; each time that he puts them to the canvass crossing himself, and insisting that the party who purchases shall do the same. He takes his fiddle again, and sings the history of the saint, pointing with his fiddle-stick to the compartments of the picture as he goes on and now he pulls out more little books and more boxes; and how fast they purchase them! The stock in trade in his own possession is certainly of little value, but he possesses a fruitful mine in the superstition of others. Ah, well! the priests inside the church have set him the example of mixing up religion with quackery.

Spa is beautifully situated, between abrupt hills covered with verdure ; the walks cut in these hills are very beautiful, and much pains have been taken to render the place agreeable--no wonder, when we recollect how many crowned heads have visited the place; but the sun of Spa has set, probably never to rise again, for whatever may be the property of its waters, it requires that a watering-place should be fashionable. There are many causes for its desertion. One is, the effects of the Belgian revolution. During the time that Belgium was attached to the Netherlands, the king, and the prince and the princess of Orange, came here almost every year, bringing with them, of course, a great number of the nobility; but now the nobility have deserted the court, and when Leopold came here, no one followed. He was disgusted, and remained but a few days. The Prussians used also to resort very much to Spa, but the king of Prussia finding that so many young men were ruined at the gaming-tables, and so much distress occasioned by it, with a most fatherly despotism, has refused all the

officers permission to visit Spa, and has forbidden the medical men to recommend the waters. The Russians also flocked in great numbers to Spa, but the emperor, although very indifferent about their losing their money, is very particular about his subjects gaining revolutionary opinions, and Spa being in a revolutionary country, has been condemned; they may just as well ask to go to Siberia, for that would probably be their route; and lastly, there is one more cause which this last two seasons has had a powerful effect, neither more nor less than a certain book, called the "Bubbles of Brunnen." I say for the last two seasons, for its influence will not extend to a third, as hundreds and hundreds who have gone there with the intention of passing this season, have already returned in disgust. A word upon this.

When Sir George Head published his "Bubbles," he set people almost as mad as they were during the great "Bubble Mania," and like all the mining and other associations, they have proved but bubbles at last. It is said that one hundred and thirty-five thousand passports were taken out last year to go up the Rhine, by people who wished to see the pigs go through their daily manœuvres, to an unearthly solo on the horn, and to witness the decapitation of the Seltzer-water bottles, who were condemned as traitors. Now, so large an influx of people to these German watering-places could have but one effect, that of a glorious harvest to the innkeepers, and those who had lodgings to let, with a proportionate tax upon curiosity. The prices,.at these places, have now become so enormous, that three florins have been asked for a single bed, and every thing else has risen in the same proportion. The re-action has now begun to take place, and every day, and every hour, we have carriages returning through Liege, and other towns, from these watering-places, the occupants holding up their hands, quite forgetting the pigs and bottles, and only exclaiming against extortion, and every thing German. They have paid too dear for their whistle, as Franklin used to say; the bubble has burst, and they look with regret at their empty purses. And yet, all that Head said in his amusing book was true. He rambled through a verdant and unfrequented lane, and described what he felt as he stopped to pick blackberries. An immense multitude have followed him, the green lane has been beaten down into a high road, and, as for blackberries, they are only to be procured at the price of peaches in May.

And now let us reflect whether the bubble will not also burst with the Germans. Formerly they were contented with moderate profits, and received their visitors with humility and thankfulness. Now, that they have suddenly made large profits, they have become independent and unceremonious, and, like most people, because they have reaped a golden harvest for two years, they anticipate that this will continue. The value of property at these places has risen, speculations have been entered into on a large scale, provisions and the necessaries of life have become dear; new houses are building against time, and the proprietors smoke their pipes with becoming gravity, calculating upon their future gains. But the company will fall off more and more each succeeding year, although the speculations will continue, for people always find a good reason for a bad season, and anticipate a Dec. 1835.-VOL. XIV.-NO. LVI.

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better one the next. At last, they will find that they are again deserted, and property will sink in value to nothing; the reaction will have fully taken place, prices will fall even lower than they were at first; honesty and civility will be re-assumed, although, probably, the principal will have been lost. Thus will the bubble burst with them, as it has already with deserted Spa. Sir George Head little thought when he was correcting the press that so much mischief might be created by writing a book too well. However, as commissioner of the new Poor Law Bill, Sir George has a greater bubble than ever to employ him, and like all Whig measures, it will prove so.

But when all idle people shall have visited all the bubbling fountains of Germany, where are they to go next? There are some very nice springs in Iceland not yet patronised; but although the springs there are hot, the Springs, vernally speaking, are cold. I can inform them where they will find out something new, and as the steam-boats which are to run to America will have to take their coals in them, I advise them to proceed by boiling to the boiling springs at St. Michael's, one of the western isles, and which are better worth seeing than all the springs that Germany can produce. I will act as guide de voyage.

Take your berth on board one of those American steamers, and after a run of one thousand two hundred miles, you will arrive at the island, that is, if you are not blown up before. When you land, you will find yourself in one of the dirtiest towns in the world, and will put up at one of the worst hotels; however, you will have to pay just as dear as if lodged at the Clarendon, and fed at the Rocher de Cancale. The town contains many inhabitants, but more pigs. German pigs are not to be compared to them. You must then hire donkeys and ascend to the mountains, and after a hot ride, you will arrive at a small valley in the centre of the mountains, which was once the crater of a volcano, but is now used by nature as a kettle, in which she keeps hot water perpetually boiling for those who may require it. There you will behold the waters bubbling and boiling in all directions, throwing up huge white columns of smoke, brought out in strong relief by the darker sides of the mountains which rear their heads around you. The ground you tread upon trembles as you walk; you feel that it is only a thin crust, and that in a moment you may sink into the vast caldron below, and have a hot bath without paying for it. Continue along the valley, and you will find lakes of still, deadly-cold water, with hot springs at their verge, throwing the smoke over their surface, while they pour in their boiling water as if they would fain raise the temperature, depositing sulphur in cakes and crystals in their course. And in another spot there is a dark, unfathomable hole, called the Devil's Mouth: you approach it, and you hear low moanings and rumblings, as if nature had the stomach ache; and then you will have a sudden explosion, and a noise like thunder, and a shower of mud will be thrown out to a distance of several yards. Wait again, you will again hear the moans and rumblings, and in about three minutes the explosion and the discharge will again take place, and thus has this eternal diarrhoea continued ever since the memory or tradition of man.

Yet, upon this apparently insecure and dangerous spot have been

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