[Over-leaf, in another hand, and apparently much hurried :] Dear mother old Fuzzyscratch has gone Out of the Room and I write this on the sly I writ the other fourteen Times Before the writing master let it Go and now he has Put all new Capitals in and painted every letter all Over I did'nt make it up as we all writ the Same which was chalked by Mr. Splitnib on the black Board and we copied it except the orphans who did'nt Write holiday letters at All please I want a new Pair of trowsers by when I come home as These are all in strips and no Buttons because the boys have cribbed the moulds out Of them to make teetotums to spin on their slates and I tie them up With string which cuts my shoulders and please all my socks are wore out and Have no tops nor bottoms and Only a band round my ankles and my shoes hav'nt no soles which Lets in water and Young monk took the crown of my hat to make a target and then Borrowed my watch to Turn into a steam-engine which didn't do and now he can't put it Together again because he's lost some wheels which he says Wo'nt hinder its going At all I hav'nt got any money and Owe ninepence So I think I had better borrow some of Wimples Because he is'nt coming back again after the holidays unless you Send me some so no more at Present from your dutiful son Peter doddle. II. POETRY FOR A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM, To be headed by an oriental tinting of an impossible butterfly, with crooked horns and triangular wings, hovering over a blue rose; with some very foreign shells and sea-weed in the distance, like miniature pickled cabbage. On the opposite side, two drawings, in the middle of perforated cards, of the Bridge of Sighs, and the Fishing Temple at Virginia Water: The cloudless ecstasy of pleasure, For my mind's odour has departed, In the dead caverns of my breast. No-I must live, and laugh, and scorn To burst the flimsy web that bound me. III. ADONAIS. An antique-looking paper, possibly intended for No. 636 of the Spectator, if a ninth volume had been published. "Nihil est, juvenes; tolerate labores."-Propert. "I am a young man of good connexions, and I love, and am beloved by, a young lady of surpassing beauty and moral excellence, but we have neither of us much money. Our allowance is sufficient for us each at present, but we wish to know your opinion as to its being adequate if we marry. "Yours very faithfully, "RALPH RASHTOP." Keep single, as you are. It is much better to pine for love than for want of something to eat; and, although the little blind god is all very delightful in his way, he cannot make a beef-steak pudding, or put potatoes under a shoulder of mutton, unless you find the materials. Notwithstanding you imagine you can both live upon nothing at all beyond each other's society, you will be sadly deceived if you try; and, recollect, you may get tired even of that. Do not reckon too much upon the clean hearth and tea-kettle anticipations of marriage; but picture more strongly a dull, wet Sunday in a back parlour, six years hence, when you know each other's faces by heart, and increasing embarrassments are rising around you. There are few young men who fully weigh the giving up of the thousand bachelor pleasures, which must take place if they marry. They expect to lead the life of Leoni and Juliette, at Venice, instead of the steady menage of Madame de Wolmar and her sober spouse, in Switzerland. Possession cloys, and they get peevish and irritable on discovering their mistake. Look about you for ten years more, and then you may write to me again. In the meantime, flirt and chat with every pretty girl you like, but never come to pen and ink; you may be asked your intentions, and unavoidably tumble into an engagement. (To be continued.) ALBERT THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. At close of some victorious day, Than ever met his gaze through life: He sleeps a wild and restless sleep- And thoughts that bid him smile and weep, He smiles-his victor-eagle sits That waves above the slain; The deep-mouthed cannon's staggering roar, On! on a conquered army's groan Quenched is her once-bright sun! And Lodi's crimson field: When earth with slaughter reeled! He pales-where now the dazzling crown? 'Tis thy dread struggle strikes his view, Whole years of stormy conflict roll; Back to its viewless chaos hurled, Whose grasping power had awed the world: Quenched is that eye, whose living gaze Was like the eagle's glance to heaven, That meets undimmed the sun's fierce rays; And monarchs quailed before the blaze, Which to that eye was given: And he (oh, human fate!) whose brow The laurel bound but yesterday, Whose voice moved millions, lieth now A nothing-pulseless, senseless clay ! The storm raged wildly as before, Increasing still the waves' mad roar; The clouds that shut the sun, Bore, on their stormy pinions wild, The death-groan of Ambition's child, The last Napoleon ! R. S. C. MARIA'S DOWER. ONE day, in the year of grace 1550, a fisherman landed in front of the palace of St. Mark, crossed that celebrated place, and stopped at the door of a hostelry, over which the emblematic lion of Venice was rudely delineated. He was a tall and powerful man; his embrowned features were full of that force and intelligence so often observed among the inhabitants of that favoured climate, but his eyes had lost their usual lustre, and the boatman's broad forehead was bowed down by painful reflections. Entering the tavern, he perceived, in the darkest corner of the hall, a stranger, who appeared plunged in profound thought. He, too, had those manly and striking features which generally accompany moral energy. His dress was of severe simplicity: a doublet and hose of black velvet covered his powerful limbs; a silken cap, cut out at the temples, and fastened by two bands under the chin, as was the fashion of the day, concealed, in part, his thick and curling hair, some grey locks of which fell carelessly over his neck. "Giannetini," said the gondolier, addressing a stout, ruddy man, who was walking up and down the room, “do you still persist in your refusal ?" "I do," answered the Venetian. "I am too poor to be your son-in-law, I suppose," replied the boatman. "Before thinking of your daughter's happiness, you think of her fortune; and, Ĝiannetini, must I, to influence you, remind you of the gratitude you owe me? Have you forgotten that I saved your life at Lepanto, when Venice armed even her women to defend the republic against the soldiers of Barbarossa? Don't you know that Maria and I were brought up together, and have sworn, ever since we were children, to live always for each other? and that these pledges were renewed, when age gave strength and constancy to our attachment? Do you want to make her and me unhappy? Are you the doge, that you are so ambitious? or a patrician, that you are so ungrateful?" "No, but I am rich, Barberigo." "And I shall be rich, Giannetini. I have strong arms, a bold heart, youth, and faith in God. Fortune may, some day or other, alight on my gondola.' "Castles in the air!" said the innkeeper. "Who knows?" answered the boatman. "Lorenzo de Medicis was a merchant, Francisco Sforza was a drover, why may I not be a general one of these days?" "Because, Barberigo, fortune disappoints a million for every three she favours. At any rate, I will not be father in-law of a man whose whole fortune is a skiff. Maria might better-” "Be a patrician's mistress than a gondolier's wife: she had better slumber in ill-gotten wealth, than live obscure and honest." "True, Maria has taken the eye of the proveditore's nephew. This young nobleman has been to see me, and has offered-" "To marry her?" "No, demonio! Much as the nobles of Venice try to make themselves popular, they don't sell their titles so cheap.' "To buy her, then ?" "Just so." "Wretch and for how much do you sell your daughter's honour ?" "The bargain is not yet closed. I ask 2,000 ducats, and the nobleman offered 1,500; but, as I know the worth and scarcity of my goods, I will not bate a sequin." The stranger, who had listened attentively to the conversation of the two Venetians, rose, and clapping Barberigo on the shoulder, told him: The gondolier went, and returned in an hour with the sum required, with which the secretary of Leo X. had sent a letter, in which he urgently begged the artist to honour him with a visit. The next day, Maria and Barberigo were married in the church of San Stefano. The stranger wished to enjoy the commencement of their happiness, by witnessing the ceremony; and when the boatman, overwhelmed with gratitude, begged of him to tell him his name, he answered, that he was called MICHAEL ANGELO. Twenty years after this little adventure, Antonio Barberigo, by one of those enigmatical changes, the key of which belongs to Providence alone, was general of the Venetian republic. But however intoxicating this unhoped-for elevation was to the boatman, he never forget his illustrious benefactor; and when Buonarotti died at Rome, after the most glorious old age, and most brilliant career that artist ever knew, it was the hand of the boatman that traced, above the Latin epitaph composed by order of the successor of Paul III. for his favourite, those two grateful lines which time has respected, and which may yet be read on the monument of this great man. "Boatman! Maria shall be thy wife." "Never," said the host. "Why, you Jew! not if this man brings you 2,000 pistoles as a wedding present ?" "Oh! in that case, Barberigo should be my son-in-law, and I would sign the con- As for the sketch mentioned in this tract cheerfully; but consider, signore, that story, it was brought from Italy in the this poor lad owns nothing but the four knapsack of one of Napoleon's corporals planks of his boat; and unless he should-New York Mirror. be lucky enough to find the doge's ring-" "Without looking to such a chance as that, you shall finger the money before long." "But where am I to get it, signore ?" stammered the astonished boatman. "Not out of my pocket, my good fellow," replied the stranger, "because I am just now as poor as a lazzaroni. There is so much suffering to relieve from Florence to Venice, that I could not find a single paul in it. But be of good cheer: my poverty is sister to wealth, and my art fills my purse as often as charity empties it." So saying, the stranger opened a portfolio, took from it a parchment, which he spread on the table, and, in a few minutes, sketched a hand, with such surprising perfection, that the boatman, ignorant as he was in matters of art, could not repress a cry of astonishment. "Here!" said the unknown artist, handing his hasty sketch to the fisherman, "take this parchment to Cardinal Pietro Bembo, whom you will find at the palace of St. Mark, and tell him, that a painter, who wants money, wishes to sell it at 2,000 pistoles." "Two thousand pistoles !" cried the innkeeper, wondering. "This man is a fool -he must be dumb, or crazy. I would not give a sequin for it." "WHO IS YOUR FRIEND?" "Who is your Friend" is an every-day question, probably never better answered than in the following forcible and eloquent rebuke, by a modern writer: "Concerning the man you call your friend-tell me, will he weep with you in the hour of distress? Will he faithfully reprove you to your face, for actions which others are ridiculing or censuring you behind your back? Will he dare to stand forth in your defence, when detraction is secretly aiming its deadly weapons at your reputation? Will he acknowledge you with the same cordiality, and behave to you with the same friendly attention, in the company of your superiors in rank and fortune, as when the claims of pride or vanity do not interfere with those of friendship? If misfortune and losses should oblige you to retire into a walk of life, in which you cannot appear Iwith the same distinction, or entertain your friends with the same liberality as formerly, will he still think himself happy in your society, and, instead of gradually withdrawing himself from an unprofitable connexion, take pleasure in professing himself your friend, and cheerfully assist you to support the burden of your afflictions? When sickness shall call you to retire from the gay and busy scenes of the world, will he follow you into your gloomy retreat, listen with attention to your tale of symptoms,' and minister the balm of consolation to your fainting spirits? And, lastly, when death shall burst asunder every earthly tie, will he shed a tear upon your grave, and lodge the dear remembrance of your mutual friendship in his heart, as a treasure never to be resigned? The man who will not do all this, may be your companion-your flatterer-your seducer-but, depend upon it, he is not your friend." [This is an admirable piece of home philosophy for hundreds who are skulking through society beneath the mask of-friendship, forsooth!] ROMAN ESSENCE OF ANCHOVIES. THE ancient Romans made use of a sauce celebrated under the name of garum, which is thought, by some writers, to have been prepared from the anchovy. We have made some investigations on this subject, and are led to conclude that this sauce was prepared from the intestines, &c. of fish but, by no means of any one species. According to Pliny, it was originally prepared from the shrimp called garum. Subsequently, the sauce was made by macerating the intestines of fish in salt and water, until they became slightly putrescent, to which vinegar and parsley, chopped fine, or pounded, were added. As the anchovy was caught in such abundance in the Mediterranean, this fish was, doubtless, sometimes used for the preparation of the luxurious garum. Martial speaks of it as from the scombrus, or mackerel. How well it deserved the epithet, fastosum, applied to it, may be gathered from the statement of Pliny, in which he says, that "two gallons of this garum sold for some thousands of secterces.". Abridged from the Encyclopædia Americana. [It may, therefore, be inferred, that Asinius Celer ate his mullet, (for which he gave sixty-five pounds,) with anchovybutter, as in our day; and that the Corso had its Burgess, like our Strand.] ANTIQUE ESCRIBAN. IN one of the apartments of the Polytechnic Institution is deposited a curious piece of antique furniture, which, at this full season, is attracting many visitors. It is the Escriban, or Secretaire, of Marguerite de Parma, Gouvernante of the Spanish Possessions in the Low Countries, in 1559. It was one of the many articles of vertu with which Napoleon had vice enough to enrich the city of Paris, it having been taken from Brussels by his order. At the restoration of the Bourbons, the Escriban was very properly returned; but, before it was unpacked, a fire broke out in the Musée Royal, at Brussels, when the ameublement was removed as lumber. A lucky broker purchased it for a trifling sum, and sold it for an immense profit. It became the property of the present owner, after having belonged to two intermediate possessors; and the price now asked for it is 2,500 guineas. It is about seven feet in height, and the table is five feet deep: to detail its enrichments would occupy a page; it is elaborately inlaid with buhl, filagree silver, &c.; and richly set with agate, jasper, onyx, carnelian, &c. IMPROVED LAMPS. SIR JOHN F. HERSCHEL has, for some years, employed the following simple, easy, and unexpensive mode of greatly increasing the quantity of light yielded by a common Argand burner. It consists in merely elevating the glass chimney so much above the usual level at which it stands in the burners in ordinary use, that its lower edge shall clear the upper edge of the circular wick, by a space equal to about a fourth part of the exterior diameter of the wick itself. This may be done to any lamp of the kind, at a cost of about sixpence, by merely adapting to the frame which supports the chimney, four pretty stiff steel wires, but in such a manner as to form four long upright hooks, in which the lower end of the chimney rests; or, still better, if the lamp be so originally constructed as to sustain the chimney at the required elevation without much addition, by thin laminæ of brass or iron, having their planes directed to the axis of the wick. The proper elevation is best determined by trial; and, as the limits within which it is confined are very narrow, it would be best secured by a screw motion applied to the socket on which the lamina above mentioned are fixed; by which they and the chimney may be elevated or depressed at pleasure, without at the same time raising or lowering the wick. Approximately, it may be done in an instant, and the experiment is not a little striking and instructive. Take a common Argand lamp, and alternately raise and depress the chimney vertically from the level where it usually rests, to about as far above the wick, with a moderately quick but a steady motion. It will be immediately perceived that a vast difference in the amount of light subsists in the different positions of the chimney, and, that a very marked and sudden maximum occurs at or near the elevation designated in the commencement; so marked, indeed, as almost to have the effect of a flash, if the motion be quick, or a sudden blaze, as if the wickscrew had been raised a turn. The flame contracts somewhat in diameter, lengthens, ceases to give off smoke, and attains a oil. dazzling intensity. With this great increase of light, there is certainly not a corresponding increased consumption of This improvement has been communicated, by Sir John F. Herschel, to the Philosophical Magazine; whence it has been quoted in the Athenæum. It is certainly a valuable suggestion; and, it is surprising that the glass chimney has not hitherto been placed above the level of the wick in the Argand burner, seeing that this plan has been adopted in the majority of lamps invented since the Argand. In the Liverpool lamp, introduced nearly twentyfive years since, for burning seal oil, the chimney was placed similarly to Sir John F. Herschel's improvement; as well as in the lamps manufactured for burning cocoa-nut oil, naphtha, &c. Many of the French lamps, in which filtered vegetable oils are consumed, are constructed as above; as are also several "reading lamps common in our shops. As we are on the subject of lamps, we may state that Mr. Parker's new lamp, in which the oil is heated by the flame to the temperature of from 200 to 250 degrees, before arriving at the wick, is a perfect improvement. The light emitted by this lamp, when supplied with the viscid and very cheap southern whale oil, surpasses, in purity and whiteness, the light of the best mechanical lamp, though it be fed with the best vegetable or even sperm oil. This superiority is, in part, due to the form of the chimney, and to the oil being maintained uniformly at the level of the bottom of the flame; but it must also be ascribed, in a certain measure, to the temperature and fluency of the oil, by which it enters more readily into complete combustion than cold and viscid oil could possibly do. The preparatory heating, Dr. Ure considers to act on the same principle, here, as it does in the smelting of iron by the hot blast. Rape-seed oil, for example, is so viscid, as to burn with difficulty in lamps of the ordinary construction; but in the hot oil lamp, by Parker, it affords a very vivid light. Five or six years since, we remember seeing, in the shop of Mr. Dunn, the respectable lamp manufacturer, in Wych-street, Strand, an Argand lamp, in which the oil reservoir nearly surrounded the uppermost part of the glass chimney, and the oil thus became considerably heated before consumption by the wick. We questioned Mr. Dunn as to his object in this singular construction, which he did not consider advantageous: the lamp had been made for his own use, and its peculiarity was a hobby. It then occurred to ourselves, that the oil, being heated, and its fluidity thus increased, would burn with improved |