they comply with my wishes in making the head an index of the heart. Look at the young man to the right. His locks are composed into a studied negligence by the labour of two hours; they are glossy with all the invention of Delcroix, fragrant with a melange of rose, jasmin, and jonquil. You need not proceed to the inspection of his neckcloth or his waist, in order to be convinced that such a being is an Exquisite.

"The lady next to him is a languissante. You might, with no great effort of ingenuity, divine it from the state of her head. Its curls hang over the ivory surface of her neck in a sort of artful listlessness, which is admirably adapted to her torpid style of beauty, and her yet more torpid style of mind. The other lady, in the front row, is her sister. She has more fashion than beauty, more vivacity than fashion, and more malice than either. With such qualifications the course of conquest she was to pursue was obvious. She studies singularity, dresses her hair à la Grecque, and sets up for a Spirituelle. The success of these light troops is frequently more brilliant than that of the Regulars. The fop with whom she is coquetting is a young author striving to be known. His character is written legibly on his forehead. The spruceness with which every hair is bound down in its proper station, and the stiff pertness with which the top knot is forced up, as if disdainful of the compression of the hat, plainly show that he is, at least in his own estimation, a favourite of Apollo.

"There is a gentleman in the next box, of whom it was once remarked that his countenance bore some resemblance to that of Lord Byron. Since this luckless expression the poor man has studied much to make himself ridiculous by imitating his Lordship in his eccentricity, since to copy his genius is out of the question. Without looking at the eye, which takes great pains to be "fixed in vacancy," or the lip, which endeavours to quiver with an expression of moroseness, you may tell, from the wild and foreign costume of his tresses, that Lord Fanny is a would-be Furioso.

"It is needless to multiply examples. You will see them at every glance which you throw around you. Aurelia shows her reigning passion for rule or misrule by the circlet of gold with which her head is encompassed; and her husband, by the lank and dejected condition of his scanty forelock, gives room for a conjecture that the principal feature of his character is submission. Old Golding, the usurer, shows his aversion for extravagance by the paucity of his visits to the barber; and his young bride, Chloe, takes care to evince a contrary taste by the diamonds which are so bountifully scattered amidst her profusion of dark ringlets. Anna, by the unvaried sameness of her head-dress, gives you a warning of the unvaried sameness of her disposition; and Matilda, by the diversity of modes which her forehead assumes, gives you

to understand that her temper and character are diversified as often. It is not surprising that this should be the case. Look to the stage, from which, indeed, our attention has been too long withdrawn. Would you not smile if Juliet were to soliloquize in Mrs. Hardcastle's tete, or the Royal Dane to moralize in the peruke of Sir Peter Teazle?"

Here the stranger paused, and we shortly became interested to such a degree in the sorrows of Belvidera, that we know not what further remarks he communicated, nor at what time he ceased to be our companion. As the curtain fell we looked round, and he was no longer by our side.

F. G.

LINES

ON LEAVING LLANDOGO, ▲ VILLAGE ON the banks OF THE WYE.

SWEET spot! I leave thee with an aching heart,
As down the stream my boat glides smoothly on;
With thee, as if I were a swain, I part,

And thou the maiden that I doated on.

I ne'er shall view yon woody glen again;
That lowly church, calm promiser of rest;
Yon white cots, free from Riches and from Pain,
Fantastic gems upon the mountain's breast.

Fast, fast, thou'rt fading from my longing sight;
The next bold turn, and thou art gone for aye,—
A dream's bright remnant on a summer night—
The faint remembrance of a love gone by.

Farewell! and if Fate's distant unknown page
Doom me to wreck on Passion's angry sea,

I'll leave Philosophy to reasoning age,

And charm the tempest with a thought on thee.

The Coliseum.

Is this thine ancient glory, stately Queen?

Well does it speak what once thou should'st have been:
Do these the relics of thy giant reign

Serve but to tell those glories were in vain ?
If tottering columns, nodding arches, show
The thousand years, that bring an empire low.
Time was-imperial Rome, thy Flavian line
With bold conception rear'd the vast design;
Colossal arches upon arches laid,

And the wide orb in awful height display'd.
The fluted shaft, the ornamented zone,
The studied frieze, the gaily-gilded stone,
The polish'd marble, swell'd the pride of state,
Sublimely fair, and regularly great.

And now-the mouldering fabric stands alone,
Frail monument of beauties past and gone,
While in those rents the waste of years hath made,

The mantling ivy spreads its verdant shade,
And glimmering fire-flies through the gloomy night
From their small caverns cast their feeble light.
Yet here th' admiring eye in awe-struck gaze
The circling gall'ries far aloft surveys,
Where crowding nations above nations rose,
And gaz'd on death in horrible repose:
The spacious area here, where captives bled,
And hireling fencers hung the listless head,
Dropping with gory dew: alas! too late

They bow'd before the arbiters of

Tate,

When their damp bosoms, in death's brief delay,
Heav'd the last sigh that heralds life away.
And here, in after-days, 'mid sparkling eyes,
Fair waving hands, and combat-cheering cries,
High-vaunting youth, on victory intent,

Prick'd on their steeds to tilt and tournament:

Here, raging bulls in dying anguish roar'd,
Or the pale limbs of lifeless champions gor'd;
While Roman beauty round th' arena stood,
Unaw'd by death, unshuddering at blood.

But now no more such scenes their glory shed,
All, all have vanish'd with the mighty dead:
Distracted Rome those rifled beauties tore
With worse than Gothic rage or Vandal war,
On sculptur'd forms her civil fury pour'd,
Forms, that e'en Gods admir'd, and men ador'd:
And still, as vultures tear their putrid prey,
Had ruin'd ruins with barbaric sway:
But now Religion spreads her veil around,
And guards unseen the consecrated ground;
Her priestly trains in silence leads along,
With pomp of pageantry and holy song;
And northern wanderers lift their sorrowing eyes,
Where the proud wreck of prostrate grandeur lies,
With pensive worship o'er each fragment bend,
And mourn the age of greatness at an end.

Degenerate Rome-thy years of pow'r and pride Long since have sped, thy wreath of empire died: Thy graceful capitals, and fanes sublime, Have felt the silent stroke of reckless Time. These records of thy splendor must decay, And e'en their wrecks in ruin fall away, For all thine old renown has vanish'd far, Th' Augustan glory, and the Julian star; The mighty masters of the world have fled, And slaves defac'd the halls where Cæsar bled.

G. M.

BIOGRAPHY OF A BOY'S ROOM.

"Permutat dominos et cedit in altera jura."-HORACE.

THE transitory nature of human affairs, the uncertainty of prosperity and the fickleness of Fortune have, as might be expected, frequently attracted the notice of mankind. They have successively afforded matter of contemplation to the Philosopher and the Poet, the Orator and the Divine, until it is almost impossible to say any thing new upon the melancholy topic. How powerfully are these considerations forced upon us, when, after a lapse of years, we return to the scenes of our early days, and pass with a mixture of joy and pain over spots which have always haunted our recollection. With what a melancholy pleasure do we reflect upon the alterations which have taken place, the changes which Time has produced, in our most favourite scenes. We look with delight for the trees, the cottages, the rivulet, which are, as it were, the monuments of our boyhood. Have the trees been lopped, the cottages pulled down, the rivulet turned into another and a more pleasing direction? We turn from such improvements with aversion! However the face of the country has been beautified, or its advantages increased, we look with no favourable eye upon the Great Man of the village, who, in every novelty that he has introduced, has obliterated some long-remembered attraction-has disturbed some fond and cherished idea.

What would be the ideas of an Etonian of 1699, were he allowed to revisit, for one day, the scene of his early enjoyments? How great would be his disappointment, when, upon his inquiring after the pursuits, the studies, the amusements of his own times, he would hear that they had suffered the same change with the place in which they formerly flourished; that the scene and its occupations had suffered a total change; and that there was little in the Eton of modern years, which could remind him of the Eton of his own! We will suppose him going to visit the apartment which, in earlier and happier times, he inhabited. We will picture to ourselves the astonishment he would betray in every look, when he perceived the total subversion of all his arrangements, and the introduction of decorations so different from those which he formerly admired. With what wonder he would view the present Lord of the Castle; and with what curiosity would he reflect the numerous successors who had by turns occupied it, and had each destroyed some favourite relic of antiquity, each replaced it by some less becoming ornament of modern date!

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