CRUELTY.-This expression does not so much signify the insensibility of a mistress, as the impatience of a lover.

CUPID.—The god of love; born out of the poets' brains, who describe him as a child with wings, a quiver on his shoulder, a bow in one hand, a torch in the other, and a bandage over his eyes. All which emblematically signify, that he is figured like a child, because those who deliver themselves up to his power, part with their reason for the silliness of that age. His bow and arrows denote his power to wound and pierce; the bandage over his eyes, his blindness; the torch, a light he carries for others, and not himself; his wings, his inconstancy.

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This allegorical personage is, however, entirely banished from prose, and is even scarce suffered in the modern Parnassus, in any thing above " address to Mira," at the head of which one may still see a wooden cut of his figure.

CURIOSITY. A desire of knowing whether one's wife or mistress is faithful. It is never a happy one. The author of Don Quixote has therein inserted a novel called "The Curious Impertinent," in confirmation of this assertion. He compares women in it to a glass, which no wise man will dash against the pavement to see whether it will break or not. Have you any doubts of a woman's faith, never seek to satisfy them; the least it will cost you, is the repentance of your curiosity. It is waking the sleeping lion. A woman may resent an unjust suspicion, and resent it by giving it a foundation in fact. Distrust absolves faith.

DANGLERS.-An insipid tribe of triflers, with whom women divert themselves in perfect innocence, when they have nothing better to do. They are in a class beneath monkeys, parrots, and lap-dogs.

DEATH.-This word is ever to be understood metaphorically, and carries no sort of terror with it; it is even so trite, that it now goes for nothing. The death of a lover is so much in course, that it is as inevitable as in nature for if the fair one is kind, he is to die with joy; if otherwise, of grief;-and both with an equal degree of certainty.

DESPAIR-Driving to despair formerly signified reducing a person to the last extremity sending him to hang or drown himself. It has now no such terrible signification.

DIFFICULTIES. They are the zest of a passion that would often flatten, languish, and die without them; they are like hills and tufts of trees interspersed in a country, that interrupt the prospect only to make it the more agreeable.

DYING.-Loss of appetite.

ENCHANTMENT.—ˆ term much used in the white-art magic of love. "An enchanting fair one," &c. This phrase, like that of "charms,” "irresistible attractions," &c. is founded on the grand principle that praise always pleases: and that, however these expressions may at first be distrusted, they are soon received as obliging truths. In general, however, it is a word of much more sound than sense.

FAITHFUL. A faithful lover is a character greatly out of date, and rarely now used, but to adorn some romantic novel, or for a flourish on the stage. He passes for a man of little merit, or one who knows nothing of the world.

FASHION-Governs the world; it regulates the morals, the way of thinking, dressing, eating, writing, entertainments, pleasures, every thing. In love, it exercises a perfect despotism: heroic love is now out of fashion, and constancy an exploded virtue.

FATE, DESTINY, STARS, &c.-Words of great help to young lovers, who catch at every thing to cover or excuse their weakness. Medea is not the last or only one who made use of such words, as a reason for doing a foolish thing. Many have, since her time, taken their "fate" or "stars" to task for the faults of their inclinations. Nothing is so frequent as predestinarians in love.

FAULTS. The person one loves never has any; either the lover does not see them, or is as much reconciled to them as to his own. If they offend him, he is so far from being a true lover, that he is scarcely more than an acquaintance, and less than a friend.

FORTUNE. "A man of fortune." When a wise worldly-minded mother makes use of this expression, in an emphatic tone, to a daughter whom she is going to sacrifice to a sordid consideration of interest and maintenance, it means, that the man is worth nothing but his fortune. It strictly implies, by the rule of never calling a man by an inferior title when he has a higher one, that he is not a man of worth, of honour, of virtue, of fine sense, but merely a man of fortune, a man of chance; one who would not in short have been a man at all, but as made such by fortune. A gambler may also, with great propriety be termed "a man of fortune."

FRIEND. This character from a man to a lady, is often no other than a mask worn by a lover obliged to disguise himself; and who is the more to be feared, for his dissembling his designs, and watching the advantages of a critical moment. The women should admit no friend that may possibly become a lover. They love their danger who do not attend to this advice.

FALSEHOOD. Two thirds at least of lovers' professions and protestations. FLATTERY.-An art much practised by enamoured swains, it being one, which, like the philosopher's stone, professes to change every thing it touches into gold. Thus, with the aid of flattery, a lady's worst defects may be transformed into her greatest beauties.

GIRLS.-Females under twelve years of age. After that period they are (in their own estimation) women; and accordingly devote their time solely to the consideration of love, and the practice of all its fopperies and follies: which they continue to do, until they cease to call themselves young women; that is, when they are half a century old; they then begin to think about religion.

GROVE.-A lonely grove, "Time out of mind," the resort of lovers; at least, of those who have sense enough to conceal their folly from the observation of the world.

HATRED. Frequently succeeds violent and romantic love, as a very sultry summer is often followed by an exceedingly severe winter.

HYPOCRISY.-The whole system of making love," including of course men's vows, speeches, starts, &c.; and women's blushes, fainting-fits, hysterics, and so forth.

HEART. The mansion fitted up in the earlier part of human existence for the occupation of Cupid, who, while he resides there, generally entertains as his principal guests, Hope, Jealousy, and Fear; and when he departs, leaves the premises rather "the worse for wear."

IGNIS-FATUUS. An expectation of meeting with either constancy or purity in either men or women; and to pursue which, will inevitably lead to immersion in the bogs of disappointment.

INSANE. In love.

INTELLECT. A quality quite superfluous in a lover.

KING. A king is like a beautiful woman who, in the opinion of her lover, "can do no wrong," except it be to slight or reject him.

KISSING. A practice rendered specially agreeable by custom; for what else could persuade human beings that it is a source of gratification to press their lips against the lips, hands, &c. of others? In the course of time, this form will probably be changed; and our descendants may derive as much pleasure from pulling each other's ears or noses, as we do from the agreeable mummery at present the fashion.

LIAR.-One who protests that his regard for his mistress exceeds that which he feels for himself.

(To be continued.)

SONG OF THE SYREN.

I KNOW thee-I know thee-thou fair-hair'd boy!
Thou art come to the land of light and joy-

To the home of each fair and lovely thing,

Where the bright flowers blow, and the sweet birds sing!
Where the founts are clear as the skies above,

And the soft wind speaks like whisper'd love!
Where the violet breathes on the dawn-lit air

Of a spring that never dies;

And the asphodel shines as marble fair,

And the stars, like woman's eyes!

Where the sun-rise is bright as the sun-set is calm,
And the silent midnight from her couch of balm
Heareth nought but the far stream's ceaseless hum—
To this home of delight have thy footsteps come.

I know thee-I know thee-thou fair-hair'd boy!
Thou art made for this land of light and joy :
The shrill wild wind and the lashing sea,
And the foundering skiff-oh! it must not be-
Too bright are the treasured beams that lie
Hid in the depths of thy soft dark eye;
Too fair is thy cheek, and the soul too warm
That speaks through thy parted lips,——
That lives in and looks from thy graceful form;
And the spirit of calm that sleeps

On the pearly white of thy wreathed brow-
Too lovely are these,-and too beautiful thou,
To brave the chill gale, and the salt sea-foam:
No, no ;-thou art made for this island-home.

I love thee-I love thee-thou fair-hair'd boy!
And have waited thee long in this home of joy;
I have lean'd on the bare rock day by day,
From the purple-plumed dawn until gloaming gray;
And have wept when the far-seen sail grew dim,
Fading away from the water's rim:

Ah me! I could tell of the sleepless night;

Of the still deserted bower,

And the sea-ward gaze in the pale moonlight,

From yon lone and lighted tower !--

But enough-thou art come; and my task shall be

To gather the honey-bee's gold for thee,

With sweets from the mountain and sweets from the well,

And others I could, but I may not tell.

I love thee-I love thee-thou fair-hair'd boy!

My home shall be thine in this land of joy

I knew thou wert worn; and thy couch have made

Of violet-wreaths 'neath the musk-rose shade,

Where the citron's scent, and the sound of the spring
Are borne on the faint wind's fitful wing.

And oh! far other delights than these :

Heaven's music to lull thee to rest,

When thy form shall be lapp'd on a maiden's knees,
And thy head on her warm white breast;

Bright glances to meet, soft kisses to close

Thine eyes, when a moment they break their repose;
With none to disturb, and nought to alloy,
This home shall be thine, thou fair-hair'd boy!

MAGNET, VOL. IV. PART XXIV.

Р

C.D.M.

THE VEILED BRIDE.

By the Author of the " Dance of the Dead."*

THE deed was done-Louis XVI. was no more! A veil of secret horror and awe had spread over all France; nay, over the whole of Europe. Tyranny had assumed the colour of Liberty, whose divine rays, smiling and roseate as the dawn of a May-day morning, had vanished and left in its place the bloody scarlet of the Jacobins. At length Robespierre fell, and a new order of things arose. With a fearful heart had I watched the course of events; ten years had I been absent from my country, and with joy, therefore, did I embrace the mission, however dangerous, with which the court of honoured me.-I set out for Paris; I passed the Rhine; my way led through the village of Montremy. I had already learnt that my venerable friend, (its minister) who had been intrusted with my education, when I passed my happy youth in the charming valleys of the province,--but who, for the last twenty years, had fulfilled the duties of a servant of God in this place,— had escaped the horrors of the reign of terror; and that he still lived, beloved and respected, in the midst of his spiritual children. The Marquis of Mongomery, however, the lord of the manor, had fallen its victim, and the magnificent chateau had been destroyed. When I approached the village, the beauty of the valley, joined to the stillness and calm of the evening, induced me to alight, and to pursue the course of a small rivulet which led to the village. I ordered my carriage to wait for me at the inn, and proceeded leisurely on my way.

Since I had passed the Rhine, my eyes had continually met with scenes of destruction, which spoke loudly of the days of terror, for the all-softening hand of time had only then begun to heal the wounds of this unhappy country, and to draw a veil over the desolation of these scenes. However afflicting the sight, I had by degrees become accustomed to it, added to which, the expedition with which I travelled, did not allow me to take a close inspection of the surrounding objects. But here, in the deep solitude of nature, the effect of which was heightened by the calm of a summer's evening, and where nothing met my view but some roofless huts, peeping through the trees; behind which towered the ruins of the chateau, huge and black, like a burnt out volcano; at the sight of these horrors, in the midst of a scenery glowing in all the beauty and richness of nature, the mercy of God and the barbarity of man formed too striking a contrast, not to awaken feelings of a gloomy and melancholy nature. Lost in my reveries, I scarcely perceived that I had taken a small, but little trodden path, which led through meadows and underwood, leaving the village to the right. After walking for some time, I found myself shut in by hedges of considerable height, and of a regular cut. The place had all the appearance of a complete wilderness; but nevertheless bore witness that the hand of man had once been busy there, The grass had grown to such a height as to impede the step, and at every advance I made, the birds flew fluttering from out their quiet nests; here and there were

* Vide Literary Magnet, Vol. ii. p. 177.

recesses in the hedges, and occasionally a broken statue was seen lying on the ground; and in other places, a fragment was observed still standing on its pedestal. All this bespoke a deserted garden in the old French style, and, indeed, I perceived the chateau at a small distance. The hedges I walked between formed narrow alleys, open spaces, and serpentine walks. There was something in all this more dreadful than the mere solitude of a wilderness. Where Nature reigns alone in her native majesty, she is ever smiling, grand, or soothing; but where she triumphs over the works of men, her aspect is fearful and appalling; the genius of humanity veils her face and flies, while men are lost in awful contemplation of their own transient condition.-I approached the ruined edifice; the fire had destroyed only a small portion of the immense building; it still frowned in gloomy grandeur-magnificent even in ruins. A small gate led me to a kind of court-yard: bushes obstructed my path, and it was not without some difficulty I gained an entrance into the chateau. After forcing my way over different heaps of ashes and rubbish, I at length found myself in a large apartment, which led into several others. All wore the strong marks of a splendour, which had been effaced more by the rude hand of force and rapine, than by the slowly destroying hand of time. Torn arras, broken windows, fragments of costly furniture, and the architectural ornaments, were the gloomy, but powerful and eloquent, interpreters of the past. At length I reached a small chapel, where the broken altar and mutilated statues spoke the same language. I was about to retire, wlien leaning against the wall, at the back of the altar, to take another view of the building, a door suddenly opened behind me. I started, turned round, and saw an aperture which led into a low, dark vaulted passage. It was evident I had unconsciously touched and opened a hidden spring in the wall. Curiosity urged me to enter. I proceeded slowly, and soon found myself in a kind of vaulted hall of considerable extent. It was some time before I became so far accustomed to the dim twilight of the scene, as to enable me to discern the surrounding objects. The atmosphere was not oppressive as I had expected to find it; a strong current of air caused me to direct my attention towards the roof, when I perceived that the only light of the hall came through a cupola, the windows of which were broken, and accounted for the fresh stream of air which flowed into the closed vault. The veil of darkness had gradually dissolved before my eyes, and I remarked that the walls were ornamented with gloomy images and emblems of death. Fronting the door stood, upon a high pedestal in a niche, a statue representing a veiled female figure. On the pedestal was the simple inscription:

Clara Mongomery.

While I stood contemplating the statue, which appeared of good workmanship, and was wondering at the singularity of placing a veiled figure as a monumental effigy, a ray of the parting sun glanced through the cupola and fell at my feet. It enabled me to see that I was standing upon a plate of metal covered with inscriptions. I stooped down, and read as follows: CLARA MONGOMERY, OF THE HOUSE OF LIMEUIL, BORN 1543, DIED 1559. Under this inscription were several others in smaller letters, and engraved by different hands. I attempted to