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"In the Annals of England let some," he said,

shine,

But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!
Even now future Keepsakes seem brightly to rise,
Through the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,-
All letter'd and press'd, and of large-paper size!"
How unlike that Magan, who my genius would
smother,

And how we, true geniuses, find out each other!

This, and much more he said, with that fine frenzied

glance

One so rarely now sees, as we slid through the

dance;

Till between us 'twas finally fixed that, next year,

In this exquisite task I my pen should engage; And, at parting, he stoop'd down and lisped in my ear These mystical words, which I could but just hear, "Terms for rhyme,—if it's prime,―ten and six

pence per page."

Think, Kitty my dear, if I heard his words right, What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains ;

If for nothing to write is itself a delight,

Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains!

Having dropp'd the dear fellow a curtesy profound,
Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;
And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I've
found

That he's quite a new species of lit'rary man; One, whose task is,-to what will not fashion accustom us?

To edite live authors, as if they were posthumous.
For instance, the plan, to be sure, is the oddest !-
If any young he or she author feels modest
In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher
Lends promptly a hand to the int'resting blusher;
Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light
Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight,
And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.

My Aunt says, though scarce on such points one can credit her,

He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor. Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented;

And, quick as the change of all things and all

names is,

Who knows but, as authors, like girls, are presented, We, girls, may be edited soon at St. James's?

I must now close my letter-there's Aunt, in full

screech,

Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.
God forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say,
Το
go and sit still to be preach'd at, to-day.
And, besides 'twill be all against dancing, no doubt,
Which my poor Aunt abhors, with such hatred de-

vout,

That, so far from presenting young nymphs with a

head,

For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said,

She'd wish their own heads in the platter, instead.

There, again—coming, Ma'am !—I'll write more, if I

can,

Before the post goes

Your affectionate Fan.

Four o'clock.

Such a sermon !—though not about dancing, my dear ; 'Twas only on th' end of the world being near.

Eighteen Hundred and Forty's the year that some

state

As the time for that accident,-some Forty Eight :*
And I own, of the two, I'd prefer much the latter,.
As then I shall be an old maid, and 'twon't matter.
Once more, love, good bye,-I've to make a new cap;
But am now so dead tired with this horrid mishap
Of the end of the world, that I must take a nap.

* With regard to the exact time of this event, there appears to be a difference only of about two or three years among the respective calculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit, et Avocat, merely doubts whether it is to be in 1846, or 1847. "A cette époque," he says, "les fidèles peuvent espérer de voir s'effectuer la purification du Sanctuaire."

LETTER IV.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV.
RICHARD

HE comes from Erin's speechful shore,

Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er

With hot effusions,-hot and weak ; Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums, He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms

To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,*
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserv'd for realms of bliss,

Being much too good to sell in this.

"Our anxious desire is to be found on the side of the Lord."-Record Newspaper.

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