diality between this royal trio for the future: and though wars may perhaps be kindled between their posterity, some ages hence, the present generation shall never be witnesses of such a calamity again. I expect soon to hear that the Queen of France, who, just before this rupture happened, made the Queen of England a present of a watch, has, in acknowledgment of all these acts of kindness, sent her also a seal wherewith to ratify the treaty. Surely she can do no less."

Here is an exceedingly droll description, written in Cowper's own genuine and exquisitely humorous manner :

"He had stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs, the butcher. Being convicted, he was ordered to be whipt; which operation he underwent at the cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back again. He seemed to shew great fortitude, but it was all an imposition upon the public. The beadle, who performed it, had filled his left hand with red ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the lash of his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but in reality not hurting him at all. This being perceived by Mr. Constable H- —, who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any such management or precaution, to the shoulders of the too merciful executioner. The scene immediately became more interesting. The beadle could by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which provoked the constable to strike harder; and this double flogging continued, till a lass of Silver-end, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under the hands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, and placing herself immediately behind the latter, seized him by his capillary club, and pulling him backwards by the same, slapt his face with a most Amazonian fury. This concatenation of events has taken up more of my paper than I intended it should; but I could not forbear to inform you how the beadle threshed the thief, the constable the beadle, and the lady the constable, and how the thief was the only person concerned who suffered nothing."

We shall conclude our extracts from the first volume, with a charmingly light and lively passage, on the manner in which time escapes from us in these short postdiluvian days:

"It is wonderful how, by means of such real or seeming necessities, my time is stolen away. I have just time to observe that time is short; and, by the time I have made the observation, time is gone. I have wondered in former days at the patience of the antediluvian world; that they could endure a life almost millenary, with so little variety as seems to have fallen to their share. It is probable that they had much fewer employments than we. Their affairs lay in a narrower compass; their libraries were indifferently furnished; philosophical researches were carried on with much less industry and acuteness of penetration, and fiddles, perhaps, were not even invented. How then could seven or eight hundred years of life be supportable? I have asked this question formerly, and been at a loss to resolve it; but I think I can answer it now. I will suppose myself born a thousand years before Noah was born or thought of. I rise with the sun; I worship; I prepare my breakfast; I swallow a bucket of goats'-milk, and a dozen good sizeable cakes. I fasten a new string to my bow; and my youngest boy, a lad of about thirty years of age, having played with my arrows till he has stript off all the feathers, I find myself obliged to repair them. The morning is thus spent in preparing for the chace, and it is become necessary that I should dine. dig up my roots; I wash them; I boil them; I find them not done enough, I boil them again; my wife is angry; we dispute; we settle the point; but in the mean time the fire goes out, and must be kindled again. All this is very amusing. I hunt; I bring home the prey; with the skin of it I mend an old coat, or I make a new one. By this time the day is far spent; I feel myself fatigued, and retire to rest. Thus, what with tilling the ground, and eating the fruit of it, hunting and walking, and running and mending old clothes, and sleeping and rising again, I can suppose an inhabitant of the primæval world so much occupied as to sigh over the shortness of life, and to find, at the end of many centuries, that they had all slipt through his fingers, and were passed away like a shadow. What wonder then that I, who live in a day of so much greater refinement, when there is so much more to be wanted, and wished, and to be enjoyed, should feel myself now and then pinched in point

of opportunity, and at some loss for leisure to fill four sides of a sheet like this? Thus, however, it is; and if the ancient gentlemen to whom I have referred, and their complaints of the disproportion of time to the occasions they had for it, will not serve me as an excuse, I must even plead guilty, and confess that I am often in haste, when I have no good reason for being so."

It seems almost superfluous for us to say, that a work, from which such extracts as these four last can be culled in the space of a few pages, recommends itself to general attention, as a source of the most agreeable amusement.

can

The second volume of these letters is not so light and miscellaneous in its character as the first; but to many readers it will prove even more deeply interesting, on account of its admitting us more fully into the melancholy places of Cowper's mind. Leaving the reader, however, to make this part of the investigation for himself, we only afford space for a slight reference to that portion of the present collection which has now, for the first time, been submitted to the selecting hand of editorship. These are the series of letters addressed to Mrs. King, the wife of Dr. King, Rector of Kimbolton; and we may safely pronounce them to be, generally speaking, and in proportion to their extent, of equal value and interest with any of the writer's that have hitherto been submitted to public notice. It seems that the lady on the appearance of Cowper's poems, had commenced a correspondence with him, on the score of an ancient intimacy with his brother. This led to an interchange of civilities, which ended in a strict and intimate friendship; and the letters now published as part of this work, are a selection from the results of that intimacy. These letters are for the most part of a light, lively, and cheerful description; containing reminiscences of the happy part of the poet's past life, notices of the progress of his works, sketches of the manner in which he spends his time, &c. &c. And all this nearly unmingled with any melancholy or despondence; and the whole written with that delightful ease of manner, and graceful propriety of expression, in which Cowper has never been surpassed. In fact, to those readers who search these volumes for mere amusement, the portion of it to which we are now referring will form its chief attraction; and the rather, that, as we before hinted, it has never passed through any selecting hands. Our limits preclude us from giving any farther extracts; but we refer the general reader to the following letters, as especially proving what we have now stated: the letter at page 117, giving a rapid sketch of the writer's past life; that at page 150, where he draws an imaginary portrait of his correspondent, whom he has not yet seen; the charming one at page 162, where he describes to her his mode of passing his time before he took to writing poetry; and one at page 218, where he describes his manner of writing his translation of Homer, out in the fields, on scraps of her letters. In short, the whole of these letters to Mrs. King are a most valuable addition to Cowper's general correspondence ;-of this new portion of which we now take leave, by sincerely thanking, on more accounts than one, the relative through whose intervention we owe the public appearance of it.

THE HAUNTED CHAMBER, A BALLAD.

"Memini, nec unquam obliviscar, illius noctis."-CICERO.

I SLEPT one night, (how could I sleep?)
Within a chamber lone and drear,
Where ghosts might well their vigils keep,
And ghostly people quake and fear.

My bed was tall; and, dim with age,
Its yellowish curtains circled round;
The counterpane was wrought, I'd 'gage,
By hands long moulder'd in the ground.
Three carved oak-chairs, of ponderous weight,
Relieved the wainscot's dismal length;
A moonbeam, through the window's grate,
Shone sickly o'er their limbs of strength.
The dust of years lay damp and thick
On all that met my musing eye:
My lamp was low; its drooping wick
Sustain'd a flame that soon must die.

The mantelpiece, antique and broken,

In stain'd and chilling marble stood;
And near the hearth-stone glared a token-
Oh, God! it is the hue of blood!

Above, in colour's radiance, hung

A mother and her infant child:

I look'd-her face was bright and young-
And, as I look'd, methought she smiled.

Her dark and lightning eyes confess'd
The fulness of maternal joy,

While pillowing on her snow-white breast
The soft cheek of her blooming boy.

And lo, her consort!--Curtain'd o'er
By half a century's dusty veil-
Suspended 'twixt the gothic door

And princely couch-a chief in mail!

How fine the expression! all the fire
That ever lit the Italian eye

Burns in those orbs-distinct from ire-
Just like the lightnings of the sky.

His cheeks are colourless-yet warm-
As tinged in Oriental clime:

His brow is mark'd; perchance the storm
Of passion mark'd it-'twas not Time.

Perhaps, thought I, in days of old,
This warrior and his lady bright,
In this dim chamber loved to hold
Sweet converse-rested here at night.
Perchance those lips, whereon I gaze,

Full oft were to each other prest,-
While that dear babe's angelic face
Lay like a rose, on the white breast!

Now they are nothing :—what their fate?
Does no romantic legend tell?

They were most lovely-were they great?
Where did that child of beauty dwell?

Thus, lost in reverie, I stood

Riveted there,—until a blast,

Which shook the window-frames, subdued
The spells that o'er my soul were cast!

I started back-'twas still as death.
I eyed the tapestry o'er and o'er;
I listen'd, and I held my breath-
But all was silent as before.

The legend-tales of fear, that threw
Enchantment o'er that haunted room,
Rose to my mind, in dread review,
Like sheeted spectres from the tomb.

I raised the expiring lamp on high,
And dizzily scann'd the portrait old.
Out went the light!-and inwardly

Sank my crush'd heart! 'Twas bitter cold.

I heard the wainscot near me creak-
I saw the elm's huge branches wave
Black through the casement-and a shriek
Rang in my ears as from the grave!

What could it be?-I knew no more
Than you who are my story reading!
Perhaps it was some grating door-
Perhaps some peacock-serenading.

I stripp'd i' the dark, and went to bed,
And my o'erwearied eyelids closed,
And, though I'd goblins in my head,
Soon in the arms of sleep reposed.
Whether, while Somnus held me bound,
The ghosts and goblins frisk'd in play
About the apartment, round and round
My bed, is what I cannot say.

Spectres might join their pale hands o'er
My slumbering head, for what I know,
And with their ghostly optics pore

Upon my face:-(I hope not, though.)

The lovely lady might step out

From her rich frame, and kiss my faceTaking me for her spouse, no doubt, As I lay sleeping in his place.

"Tis all surmise. But on that head I'll own, if any ghost, for fun, Presumed to glide about my bed,

I hope 'twas she-that rose-lipp'd one.

PROSPECTUS

OF THE

UNITED STATES LITERARY GAZETTE.

We have determined to publish a new periodical work; and as many are now published in this country, and many more have been attempted and abandoned, we shall endeavour to state at some length, our purposes in commencing another.

We are perfectly aware how difficult it must be to overcome the indifference, works like that we propose, encounter at their outset. We do, however, expect success, because we are confident of our ability to make a Literary Gazette, which shall be highly useful to the reading public of this country, and to all who are interested in matters relative to literature, either in the way of business or amusement. We have long seen and felt the want of such a work; we hope to supply an existing demand; to offer to a large portion of this community, a gratification suited to their tastes and not now provided for them.

We shall endeavour to give to the United States Literary Gazette, a strictly national character. If we do not fail in executing our intentions, it will communicate a distinct and accurate impression of the literary and intellectual condition and progress of this country. A large propor