"You went yesterday playing
A child like the rest;
And now you come out,

More than other girls drest.

"You take pleasure in sighs,
In sad music delight;
With the dawning you rise,
Yet sit up half the night.

“When you take up your work,
You look vacant, and stare;
And gaze on your sampler,
Yet miss the stitch there.

"You're in love, people say,

And your actions all show it;

New ways we shall have,

When our mother shall know it.

"Oh! sister Miguela

Your chiding pray spare! That I've troubles you guess, But know not what they are.

"Young Pedro it is,

Old Don Ivor's fair youth;— But he's gone to the wars,

And, Oh! where is his truth?

"I loved him sincerely, Loved all that he said;

But I fear he is fickle,

I fear he has fled.

"He is gone of free choice,
Without summons or call;
And 'tis foolish to love him,
Or like him at all.”

"Nay, pray morn and night
To the Virgin above,
Lest this Pedro return,

And again you should love,”

(Said Miguela in jest,

As she answered poor Jane); "For, when love has been bought At the cost of such pain,

"What hope is there, sister,
Unless the soul part,
That the passion so cherished

Should leave your fond heart?

"As your years still increase,

So increase will your pains;

And this you may learn

From the proverb's old strains;

"That if, when but a child,

Love's dominion you own, None can tell what you'll do,

When you older are grown.”

This dialogue is three hundred years old at the very least. I do not think it would be quite impossible to match it now, with a little change of names and of costume. Perhaps I may have myself altered some of the lines, since I quote from memory, and have not the book to refer to.

It is not the least gratifying tribute to Mr. Ticknor's valuable work that it was recommended for perusal by Mr. Macaulay to the Queen of England.

XVII.

FEMALE POETS.

ADVENTURE AT WILLIAM COBBETT'S.

MISS BLAMIRE-MRS. JAMES GRAY.

THE name of Blamire has always a certain interest for me, in consequence of a circumstance, which, as it took place somewhere about five-and-forty years ago, and has reference to a flirtation of twenty years previous, there cannot now be much harm in relating.

Being with my father and mother on a visit about six miles from Southampton, we were invited by a gentleman of the neighbourhood to meet the wife and daughters of a certain Dr. Blamire. “An old friend of yours and mine," quoth our inviter to my father. "Don't you remember how you used to flirt with the fair lady when you and Babington were at Haslar? Faith, if Blamire had not taken pity on her, it would have gone hard with the poor damsel ! However, he made up to the disconsolate maiden, and she got over it. Nothing like a new love for chasing away an old one. You must dine with us to-morrow. I shall like to see the meeting."

My father did not attempt to deny the matter. Men never do. He laughed, as all that wicked sex do laugh at such sins twenty years after, and pro

fessed that he should be very glad to shake hands with his old acquaintance. So the next day we met.

I was a little curious to see how my own dear mother, my mamma that was, and the stranger lady, my mamma that might have been, would bear themselves on the occasion. At first, my dear mother, an exceedingly lady-like quiet person, had considerably the advantage, being prepared for the rencontre and perfectly calm and composed; whilst Mrs. Blamire, taken, I suspect, by surprise, was a good deal startled and flustered. This state of things, however, did not last. Mrs. Blamire having got over the first shock, comported herself like what she evidently was, a practised woman of the world-would talk to no one but ourselves-and seemed resolved not only to make friends with her successful rival, but to strike up an intimacy. This, by no means, entered into my mother's calculations. As the one advanced the other receded, and, keeping always within the limits of civility, I never heard so much easy chat put aside with so many cool and stately monosyllables in my life.

The most diverting part of this scene, very amusing to a stander-by, was, that my father, the only real culprit, was the only person who throughout maintained the appearance and demeanour of the most unconscious innocence. He complimented Mrs. Blamire on her daughters (two very fine girls),inquired after his old friend, the Doctor, who was attending his patients in a distant town—and laughed and talked over bygone stories with the one lady, just as if he had not jilted her—and played the kind and attentive husband to the other, just as if he had