The circumstances of Mr. Day's disposition, habits, and destiny were so peculiar, as to justify digression from the principal subject of these pages.

Their author would deem it inexcusable to introduce any thing fabulous; to embellish truth by the slightest colouring of fiction, even by exaggerating singularity, or heightening what is extraordinary;....but when realities are of a nature to interest and to amuse in a collateral branch of the memoir, the reader will not be displeased to turn from its principal personage, distinguished rather by wonderful endowment than by uncommon occurrences, while the picture of his friend's more eventful story passes before their eyes.

Mr. Day's father died during his infancy, and left him an estate of twelve hundred pounds per annum.

Soon after his mother married a gentleman of the name of Philips. The author of this narrative has often heard Mr. Day describe him as one of those common characters, who seek to supply their inherent want of consequence, by a busy, teizing interference in circumstances, with which they have no real concern.

Mrs. Philips, jointured with three hundred pounds a year out of her son's estate, was left his sole guardian, or united with another person in the trust, whom she influenced. Herself, influenced

by such a husband, often rendered uncomfortable the domestic situation of a high-spirited youth of genius. We may well suppose he impatiently brooked the preceptive impertinence, and troublesome authority of a man whom he despised, and who had no claim upon his obedience, though he considered it as a duty to pay some outward respect to the husband of his mother.

She frequently repined at the narrowness of her jointure, and still oftener expressed solicitude lest Mr. Philips, who had no fortune of his own, should lose in the decline of life, by losing her, all comfortable subsistence. It was Mr. Day's first act on coming of age, and into possession of his estate, to augment his mother's jointure to four hundred, and to settle it upon Mr. Philips during his life. This bounty to a man who had needlessly mortified and embittered so many years of his own infancy and youth, evinced a very elevated mind. That mind also had been wounded by the caprice of a young lady, who "claimed the triumph of a lettered heart,” without knowing how to value and retain her prize. Before her fickleness became indisputable, he wrote the following beautiful elegy,

Yet once again in yonder myrtle bowers,

Whence rose-lipp'd zephyrs, hovering shed perfume,

I weave the painted radiance of the flowers,
And press coy Nature in her days of bloom.

Shall she, benignant, to the wondering eyes
Of the lone hermit all her charms unfold?
Or, gemm'd with dew, bid her gay florets rise
grace the rustic master of the fold?

To

Shall these possess her bright, her fragant store,
These snatch the wreath, by plastic Nature wove,
Nor wanton summer yield one garland more
To grace the bosom of the nymph I love!

For she shall come; with her each sister grace,
With her the kindred powers of harmony,
The deep recesses of the grove shall trace,

And hang with flowers each consecrated tree.

Blithe Fancy too shall spread her glittering plumes,
She loves the white cliffs of Britannia's isle,

She loves the spot where infant Genius blooms,
She loves the spot, where peace and freedom smile,

Unless her aid the mimic queen bestow,

In vain fresh garlands the low vales adorn;

In vain with brighter tints the florets glow,

Or dewdrops sparkle on the brow of morn.

Opes not one blossom to the spicy gale,

Throws not one elm its moss-wreath'd branches wide,

Wanders no rill through the luxuriant vale,

Or, glist'ning, rushes down the mountain side,

But thither, with the morning's earliest ray,
Fancy has wing'd her ever-mazy flight,
To hymn wild carols to returning day,

And catch the fairest beams of orient light.

Proud of the theft she mounts her lucid car,

Her car the rainbow's painted arch supplies;
Her swift wing'd steeds unnumber'd loves prepare,
And countless zephyrs waft her through the skies.

There while her bright wheels pause in cloudless air,
She waves the magic sceptre of command,
And all her flattering visions, wild as fair,
Start into life beneath the potent wand.

Here, proudly nodding o'er the vale below,

High rocks of pearl reflect the morning ray, Whence gushing streams of azure nectar flow, And tinge the trickling herbage on their way.

These, cull'd from every mountain, every plain,

Perennial flowers the ambient air perfume,

Far off stern Boreas holds his drear domain,

Nor chains the streams, nor blights the sacred bloom.

Through all the year, in copse and tangled dale,
Lone Philomel her song to Venus pours,
What time pale Evening spreads the dewy veil,
What time the red Morn blushes on the shores.

Illusive visions! O, not here,...not here,

Does Spring eternal hold her placid reign, Already Boreas chills the altering year,

And blasts the purple daughters of the plain.

So fade my promis'd joys !...fair scenes of bliss,
Ideal scenes, too long believ'd in vain,

Plung'd down and swallow'd deep in Time's abyss !...
So veering Chance, and ruthless fates ordain.

Thee, Laura, thee, by fount, or mazy stream,
Or thicket rude, unpress'd by human feet,
I sigh, unheeded, to the moon's pale beam;
Thee, Laura, thee, the echoing hills repeat.

Oh! long of billows wild, and winds the sport,
Seize, seize the safe asylum that remains!
Here Truth, Love, Freedom, Innnocence resort,
And offer long oblivion to thy pains.

When panting, gasping, breathless, on the strand
The shipwreck'd mariner reclines his breast,

Say, shall he scorn the hospitable hand,

That points to safety, liberty, and rest?

But thou, too soon forgetful of past woe,

Again would'st tempt the winds, and treacherous sea;

Ah! shall the raging blast forget to blow,

Shall every wintry storm be hush'd for thee?

Not so! I dread the elemental war,

Too soon, too soon the calm, deceitful, flies;
I hear the blast come whistling from afar,
I see the tempest gathering in the skies.

Yet let the tempest roar !...love scorns all harms,
I plunge amid the storm, resolved to save;
This hour, at least, I clasp thee in my arms,
The next let ruin join us in the grave.