nights; and though I strove every means in
my power to enduce other little things as might
be saleable (fired by the instance of Miss Kewney),
all was vain. The river was seald; the
pool would not deign flow;—but I remitted with
punctualitude the money agreed on for the boy
with them banes of my being;—and this, and
my keep, was purchased with the momentious
price of them lovely gold sleeve-buttons on which
I had prided myself in gaudy careless days, now
past and gone. And, sir, if I do not know
every macadomised inch and ell of the Regent's
Park, it is not the fault of my feet, winged by
a hungry appetite and the allusions of sick
Hope, as walked the lonely round till midnight's
murky chime!

For goodness knows what panes had been
mine, over them ballads in my opera, also the
spoken dialects between the true lovers and their
unfeigned parients,—one of whom nourished a
dreary grim secret, and the other was plunged
in difficulty's marass by disasters on the part of
a haughty proud landlord of the nobility. I
will divulge no further—nor anticipate by forecast
what may yet one day see the light (the
Orlando Rooms being momentamously propitious),
beyond simply prescribing the song which
young Robert Limetree is allotted with, while
sitting on a rock on Exile's shore, in act the
third, just before providentious rescue brightens
the sphere. The faded light of other days
vives him to his native home:

How Fancy's pensil dear can draw
The lone familiar scene,
The cot of bliss in roof of straw,
The grass so dewy green.
My parent's coat adown the chair,
His hat adorns the peg,
And in the baskit nestles rare
My mother's new-laid egg.

I've romed where rovers fish for peris,
Athwart the burning brine.
And 'mong Sirenia's luring girls
Have quaughed the rosiate wine—
And some must weep, and some must change,
And hearts go cold—or beg;—
But Memory, she can ne'er estrange
My mother's new-laid egg.

Prudence—as you will own—precludes further
specimens, the treatment with the Orlando
Rooms being not rectificated.

Well, sir, as I have said, that fortnight seemed
to be a cycle; but trials will roll on their way
at last;—and lo! I was at the appointed door,
with say my heart how idle beating—so secure as
I was of being on the threshing-stone of Fame.
On asking was Mr. Berrington expecting me:
imagine the torpedo of horror as overwhelmed
expectasion, on learning that he had quitted his
recent address, and was at Ramsgate,
Margate, or, perhaps, at Plymouth, in Dorsetshire
—mine hostess knew not which. Inquiry
disclosed that every stitch and scrap he possessed
(others' brains included) had decamped with
him, not leaving a rack behind!

Gentle reader, remote be it to harrow you
with my feelings on the question. The state of
abjection in which abiss I fell, what can depict?
How track out Mr. Berrington? Live I must,
beside eighteen shillings for that boy weekly to
them Harpers revelling in the spoil. Independency
and want forbid I should resort to them
females anew, in my crisis! My studs was the
resource as suggested themselves, and I oaned
two sets of which. So they evolved with a sigh
—and precious little I got for them, real
carbuncles considered. But storms pass, and
Thought will insert her seat with them as strives.
Mr. Berrington, I was sure, for his own sake,
could not be the unprincipalled villian as seemed
his role—nor abandon London's metropilis, since
where else was music's field? Alas! how little
I dreamed of the longitude of the intermedeary
epoch, before he did reopen on the horizon!

Suffice it, without prolixiousness, I repared to
my proximate calling with a view of both ends
meeting; and eschewing high art, and falling
into the tone of abasement of turms, some
little artless pictures well known to the
populous mind, as "The Carthusian's Monk at
the Altar," "The Outcast actuated by Remorse
over the Gate," and "The Adieu in the Hour
of War's Deadly Blast," with others, remain—
lithographicatious bearing witness as I worked
hard, but 0, with a heavy heart! to keep aloft
above the waters of necesity. Then I did, for
a pittonce, dispose of a lyrical song or two
—(Don't them publishers beat lowly souls
down to the dust!)—and my "Anne's Dispair"
was took up by one of them amiteurs who
prefers to set upon what posey costs them
nothing, or as bad; and it was sung by
Madame Campbell Canterini in six distinct
counties of England (so the Times inserted)
during nine days of gloomy November. But
what is the good of Fame, when its mead is
doled forth so disproportionated, and Poetry
only reaped ten shillings?

Week after week dragged its length, and
relict after relict of times when I had no end of
good clothes, and my little trinkits of taste
about me, vanished in the wake of them first
jewellery. I became careless-like, as if Hope's
plannet never would shed its beams more for me.
But sink as I pleased, them eighteen shillings
for the boy never baffled me; and it was a treat
that them female destroyers of domesticity never
entered communication with me on paper and
in personality. Months followed in their train,
and new projects resumed to dawn. When
arrived a day, the reversion of which brings back
suffering sorrow so keen, as, till this poor heart
shall omit to beat, will never find adequacy of
expression to portray it.

Agony, however, was ushered in by a gleam
of auspicious surprise. Fancy the rapturing
thril of a message from Covent-garden's principal
hotel, viâ medium of the publisher of
"Anne's Dispair." Mr. Berrington, who had
just come up to town, requested Mr. Theodore
to call any hour of the evening on business as
presto. Then my defunct dress suit and my
trinkets came poignant back before me. But
I titivated myself up in my best, and lightly