sensitive fears of my aunt, and by dividing a rheumatism and a sprained ancle between my sympathetic cousins.

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As soon as they were gone I walked out, sauntering involuntarily in the direction of the only house in which I felt I could spend a happy" Christmas. As I approached, a porter brought a large hamper to the door. "A present from the country," thought I; yes, they do dine at home; they must ask me; they know that I am in town." Immediately afterwards a servant issued with a letter; he took the nearest way to my lodgings, and I hurried back by another street to receive the so-much-wished for invitation. I was in a state of delirious delight.

I arrived but there was no letter. I sate down to wait, in a spirit of calmer enjoyment than I had experienced for some days; and in less than half an hour a note was brought to me. At length the desired dispatch had come; it seemed written on the leaf of a lily, with a pen dipped in dew. I opened it, and had nearly fainted with disappointment. It was from a stock-broker, who begins an anecdote of Mr. Rothschild before dinner, and finishes it with the fourth bottle-and who makes his eight children stay up to supper and snap-dragon. In Macadamizing a stray stone in one of his periodical puddings, Lonce lost a tooth, and with it an heiress of some reputation. I wrote a most irritable apology, and dispatched my warmest regards in a whirlwind.

December the twenty-fourth.-I began to count the hours, and uttered many poetical things about the wings of Time. Alack! no letter came ;-yes, I received a note from a distinguished dramatist, requesting the honour, &c. But I was too cunning for this, and practised wisdom for once. I happened to reflect that his pantomime was to make its appearance on the night after, and that his object was to perpetrate the whole programme upon me. Regret that I could not have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Paulo, and the rest of the literati to be then and there assembled, was of course immediately expressed.

My mind became restless and agitated. I felt, amidst all these invitations, cruelly neglected. They served, indeed, but to increase my uneasiness, as they opened prospects of happiness in which I could take no share. They discovered a most tempting dessert, composed of forbidden fruit. I took down Childe Harold," and read myself into a sublime contempt of mankind. I began to perceive that merriment is only malice in disguise, and

that the chief cardinal virtue is misanthropy.

I sate 66 nursing my wrath" till it scorched me; when the arrival of another epistie suddenly charmed me from this state of delicious melancholy and delightful endurance of wrong. I sickened as I surveyed, and trembled as I opened it. It was dated from, but no matter; it was not the letter. In such a frenzy as mine, raging to behold the object of my adoration condescend, not to eat a custard, but to render it invisible -to be invited perhaps to a tart fabricated by her own ethereal fingers; with such possibilities before me, how could I think of joining a "friendly party”— where I should inevitably sit next to a deaf lady, who had been, when a little girl, patted on the head by Wilkes, or my Lord North, she could not recollect which-had taken tea with the author of 66 Junius," but had forgotten his nameand who once asked me "whether Mr. Munden's monument was in Westminster Abbey or St. Pauls?"—I seized a pen, and presented my compliments. I hesitated-for the peril and precariousness of my situation flashed on my mind; but hope had still left me a straw to catch at, and I at length succeeded in resisting this late and terrible temptation.

After the first burst of excitement E sunk into still deeper despondency. My spirit became a prey to auxiety and remorse. I could not eat; dinner was removed with unlifted covers. I went out. The world seemed to have acquired a new face; nothing was to be seen but raisins and rounds of beef. I wandered about like Lear-I had given up all!— I felt myself grated against the world like a nutmeg. It grew dark-I sustained a still gloomier shock. Every chance seemed to have expired, and every body seemed to have a delightful engagement for the next day. I alone was disengaged

I felt like the Last Man! To-morrow appeared to have already commenced its career ; mankind had anticipated the future; "and coming mince-pies cast their shadows before."

In this state of desolation and dismay I called-I could not help it-at the house to which I had so fondly anticipated an invitation and a welcome. My protest must here however be recorded, that though I called in the hope of being asked, it was my fixed determination not to avail myself of so protracted a piece of politeness. No my triumph would have been to have annihilated them with an engagement made in September, payable three months after date. With these feelings I gave an agitated knock→→→→

they were stoning the plums, and did not immediately attend. I rung-how unlike a dinner bell it sounded! A girl at length made her appearance, and, with a mouthful of citron, informed me that the family had gone to spend their Christmas-eve in Portland-place. I rushed down the steps, I hardly knew whither. My first impulse was to go to some wharf and inquire what vessels were starting for America. But it was a cold night I went home and threw myself on my miserable couch. In other words, I went to bed.

I dozed and dreamed away the hours till daybreak. Sometimes I fancied my self seated in a roaring circle, roasting chesnuts at a blazing log; at others, that I had fallen into the Serpentine while skaiting, and that the Humane Society were piling upon me a Pelion, or rather a Vesuvius of blankets. I awoke a little refreshed. Alas! it was the twenty-fifth of the month-it was Christmas-day! Let the reader, if he possess the imagination of Milton, conceive my sensations.

I swallowed an atom of dry toast-nothing could calm the fever of my soul. I stirred the fire and read Zimmerman alternately. Even reason-the last remedy one has recourse to in such cases -came at length to my relief; I argued myself into a philosophic fit. But, unluckily, just as the Lethean tide within ine was at its height, my landlady broke in upon my lethargy, and chased away by a single word all the little sprites and pleasures that were acting as my physicians, and prescribing balm for my wounds. She paid me the usual compliments, and then-"Do you dine at home to-day, Sir?" abruptly inquired she. Here was a question. No Spanish inquisitor ever inflicted such complete dismay in so short a sentence. Had she given me a Sphynx to expound, a Gordian tangle to untwist; had she set me a 'esson in algebra, or asked me the way Brobdignag; had she desired me to Sew her the North Pole, or the meaning a melodrama;-any or all of these I Lght have accomplished. But to reque me to define my dinner-to inquire into latitude to compel me to fathom that a of appetite which I now felt rushin through my frame-to ask me to divinto futurity, and become the prophet of pies and preserves!-My heart di within me at the impossibility of a repl

She had peated the question before I could cect my senses around me. Then, for first time, it occurred to me that, in event of my having no engagement road, my landlady meant

to invite me ! "There will at least be the two daughters," I whispered to myself; "and after all, Lucy Matthews is a charming girl, and touches the harp divinely. She has a very small pretty hand, I recollect; only her fingers are so punctured by the needle-and I rather think she bites her nails. No, I will not even now give up my hope. It was yesterday but a straw-to-day it is but the thistledown; but I will cling to it to the last moment. There are still four hours left; they will not dine till six. One desperate struggle, and the peril is past, let me not be seduced by this last golden apple, and I may yet win my race. The struggle was made "I should not dine at-home." This was the only phrase left me; for I could not say that "I should dine out."Alas! that an event should be at the same time so doubtful and so desirable. I only begged that if any letter arrived it might be brought to me immediately.

The last plank, the last splinter, had now given way beneath me. I was floating about with no hope but the chance of something almost impossible. They had "left me alone," not with my glory, but with an appetite that resembled an avalanche seeking whom it might devour. I had passed one dinnerless day, and the half of another; yet the promised land was as far from sight as ever. I recounted the chances 1 had missed. The dinners I might have enjoyed, passed in a dioramic view before my eyes. Mr. Phiggins and his six clerks the Clapham beef-eaters—the charms of Upper Brook-street-my pretty cousins, and the pantomime-writer-the stock-broker, whose stories one forgets, and the elderly lady who forgets her stories-they all marched by me, a procession of apparitions. Even my landlady's invitation, though unborn, was not forgotten in summing up my sacrifices. And for what?

Four o'clock. Hope was perfectly ridiculous. I had been walking upon the hair-bridge over a gulf, and could not get into Elysium after all. I had been catching moonbeams, and running after notes of music. Despair was my only convenient refuge; no chance remained, unless something should drop from the clouds. In this last particular I was not disappointed; for on looking up I perceived a heavy shower of snow. Yet I was obliged to venture forth; for being supposed to dine out, I could not of course remain at home. Where to go I knew not; I was like my first father "the world was all before me." I flung my cloak around me, and hur

ried forth with the feelings of a bandit longing for a stiletto. Ät the foot of the stairs, I staggered against two or three smiling rascals, priding themselves upon their punctuality. They had just arrived to make the tour of Turkey. How I hated them!-As I rushed by the parlour, a single glance disclosed to me a blazing fire, with Lucy and several lovely creatures in a semicircle. Fancy, too, gave me a glimpse of a sprig of misletoe I vanished from the house, like a spectre at day-break.

How long I wandered about is doubtful. At last I happened to look through a kitchen window, with an area in front, and saw a villain with a fork in his hand, throwing himself back in his chair choked with ecstacy. Another was feasting with a graver air; he seemed to be swallowing a bit of Paradise, and criticising its flavour. This was too much for mortality-my appetite fastened upon me like an alligator. I darted from the spot; and only a few yards farther discerned a house, with rather an elegant exterior, and with some ham in the window that looked perfectly sublime. There was no time for consideration to hesitate was to perish. I entered; it was indeed "a banquet-hall deserted." The very waiters had gone home to their friends. There, however, 1 found a fire; and there-to sum up all my folly and felicity in a single wordI DINED! Old Monthly.

BYRON'S LAST REST.

[We have been much pleased with an article under the above title, in the New Monthly Magazine, and in the hope that it will be equally gratifying to our readers, we are induced to present them with a portion of it. Anything relating to one whose fame will never die, cannot but be interesting to our friends, and we think that no apology will be necessary for our introducing it here. Without going so far as to say that Lord Byron was a man 66 more sinned against than sinning," we may venture to affirm that his youthful levity and eccentricities did not merit the harsh and illiberal treament which he so often experienced; yet it is to be feared that the mortal hatred he bore to cant and hypocrisy, led him into an opposite extreme. But we are not about to attempt to try the merits of the departed bard: they are too well known to need a word from us, or indeed, from the most talented pens. The subjoined will show that even those of other nations have already performed pilgrimage to his earthly resting place, a spot destined to become as sacred

and as much sought as the far-famed tomb of Becket.]

"The grave of a poet naturally suggests every classical idea. At the tomb of Virgil; that of the Paraclete lovers; the cemetery of Pére La Chaise, with its tasteful decorations; the Moraviati burying-grounds, those quiet horticultural dwelling places of faded mortality, we conjure up every fanciful description we have ever read or imagined in which man has sought to immortalize the memory of the illustrious great. Vain fleeting records though they be, yet how soothing, how refreshing to the eye of survivors, is the dim memorial which reminds us of their claims upon our recollection!

"Lord Byron has been so often identified with the wild offspring of his vagrant fancy, that he seems to stand in lonely majesty, detached from earthly sympathies; yet, if we take the testimony of his own confession, how fondly did he cling to them!

"His last wishes were gratified; his ashes repose with kindred dust in the ancient family vault; yet it appeared to me, in gazing upon a scene so little in harmony with our impressions, as if the poet was lost in the peer, and the citizen of the world annihilated by the cold forms of aristocratical pride. The loftiest images, the noblest conceptions of genius, the most beautiful gifts of nature, are profusely scattered around the remembrance of Byron-how are these soaring imaginations realized? Alas! for the high-wrought enthusiast, in whose prolific brain, cypress groves and laurelled bowers spring up in rich abundance-Hucknall Torkard is the most un-romantic spot on the face of the globe.

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Only conceive, gentle reader, a long, straggling, manufacturing village, branching off into dirty lanes and miserable-looking courts, in the midst.c which stands the church-a sanctuar, the clumsy proportions and interior ecorations of which bear strong mark of the barbarous hand of vulgar taste.

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Here, amidst the jarring and issonant sounds of the stocking-frame,mingling with the coarse voices of the sicklylooking weavers bawling out the homely strains of the conventicle, or he shrill pipes of the noisy urchins tumhing over the grave stones,-rests the rortal part of him, who was not alone the poet of his age and country, but he bard of many countries, and of fture generations! Our first inquiry, a entering the village, was for the paris clerk, whose residence was pointed at to us at the

the present may not be unacceptable to the admirer of novelties; and although a year and a half has elapsed since I visited Hucknall church, presume, from the small number of signatures attached to this slender memorial during the course of four years, that few, if any, additions of importance have been made in this latter interval. Considering the fame of the deceased, they were of trivial import, and chiefly the offerings of stranger hands, stamping the impress of truth on that ancient proverb- A prophet has no honour in his own country.' "Extracts from the Album kept in the Church of Hucknall Torkard, Notts. "To the immortal and illustrious fame of Lord Byron, the first poet of the age in which he lived, these tributes, weak and unworthy of him, but in themselves sincere, are inscribed, with the deepest reverence. July, 1825.'

"At this period, no monument-not even so simple a slab as records the death of the humblest villager, had been erected, to mark the spot in which all that is mortal of the greatest man of our day reposes and he has been buried more than twelve months!'

"JOHN BOWRING, 1825.'

"So should it be !-let o'er this grave
No monumental banners wave!
Let no word speak, no trophy tell
Aught that may break the charming spell,
By which, as on this sacred ground
He kneels, the pilgrim's heart is bound !
A still, resistless influence,

Unseen, but felt, binds up the sense,
While every whisper seems to breathe
Of the mighty dead who rests beneath;
And though the master-hand is cold,
And though the lyre it once controll'd,
Rests mute in death-yet from the gloom,
Which dwells around this holy tomb,
Silence breathes out more eloquent
Than epitaph or monument !
One laurel-wreath-the poet's crown,
Is here, by hand unworthy thrown;
One tear, that so much worth should die,
Fills, as I kneel, my sorrowing eye!
This, the simple offering,

(Poor, but earnest,) which I bring.

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The hand that twined it, soon be laid

In cold obstruction-but the fame

Of him, who tear and wreath shall claim
From most remote posterity,

While Britain lives, shall never die -
T. B.'

"The Count Pietro Gamba, January 31st, 1825.'

"The Duke of Sussex visited Lord Byron's tomb,- Lieut.-Col. Wildman, -Lieut. Charles L'Allemande, October, 1824.'

"The Count de Blankersen, Chamberlain to the King of Prussia, Septem

ber 1825.'

"William Fletcher visited his everto-be-lamented Lord and master's tomb,

on a like errand, the perusal of those beautiful lines in the 'Giaour' on Death, beginning,

'He who hath bent him o'er the dead,' &c.

" September 25th, 1826.-Thomas Sleap, of the Middle Temple, London, visited the tomb of Lord Byron, the greatest poet of the day, and was induced to do so for the great respect he felt for his memory-he being, in the opinion of the writer, an example for all men, worthy of the name, to follow, in his efforts to release from the bonds of slavery (of the most debasing kind) his fellow creatures.'