Club was to induce writers and speakers in general, by their precept and example, to compress what they might have to utter, into as small a compass as possible. The report dilated upon the alarming increase of forensic and parliamentary eloquence, and then enumerated the number of epigrams which, with a view of stopping the farther increase of the mischief, the committee had caused to be distributed in England, Scotland, and Ireland, a great portion of which had been translated into the Hindostan and Catabaw languages; so that, to adopt their own phraseology, "they had the heartfelt delight of epigrammatizing the naked Gentoo and the tattooed Otaheitean." The report then stated, that, by the exertions of the committee, seventeen epic poems had been strangled in their birth. As a special instance of the efficacy of their labours, the report mentioned that Major Cartwright, at a late meeting at the Mermaid at Hackney, had reduced his oration within the compass of seven hours; and that Mr. Gale Jones had not said the same thing more than seven times. The committee concluded by lamenting that in the midst of their apparently prosperous career, the dæmon of Circumbendibus (so was he denominated in the report) had suddenly reared his hydra head, and, though pelted by a large assortment of cheap epigrams, had maintained a running fight until he had reached his camp in the liberties of Westminster. The report added, that the dæmon had lately "grown fat and kicked," in his two strongest citadels, the Court of King's Bench and Saint Stephen's Chapel. But that, aided by the Speaker in the latter, and the Judges in the former, Members and junior Counsel were henceforth to be limited in their harangues and that, upon the whole, the committee relied with confidence on the hope, that in the process of a century or so, lawyers and senators would be forced either to speak in epigram, or to hold their tongues.

"A dry subject, Mr. Secretary," exclaimed the chairman." Mr. Daffodil, pray favour us with an epigram." This request was addressed to a slender young man, who sat like a lily drooping,' and had all the air of having been recently jilted. Thus called upon, he started from the reverie in which he appeared to be plunged, and in a silver tone spoke as follows:

"To Flavia's shrine two suitors run

And woo the fair at once:

A needy fortune-hunter one,

And one a wealthy dunce.

How, thus twin-courted, she 'll behave
Depends upon this rule-

If she's a fool she 'll wed the knave,
And if a knave the fool."

This effort was received with some applause, but it did not quite amount to a hit. The company seemed to opine that knave and fool were not fit names to call a lady. It mattered little what they thought, young Daffodil had relapsed into his reverie. The following was pronounced considerably better:

"My thrifty spouse, her taste to please,

With rival dames at auctions vies;

She doats on every thing she sees,

And every thing she doats on buys.

I with her taste am quite enchanted:
Such costly wares, so wisely sought!
Bought, because they may be wanted;

Wanted, because they may be bought."

"I should not be at all surprised," said Captain Thackeray to the utterer of this jeu d'esprit, "if Mrs. Backhouse gave you that idea. You must know her she lives in Castle-street, Holborn, and spends the whole morning in picking up things remarkably cheap. She bought the late Irish giant's boots; she has no occasion for them at present, but they may come into play. Last Wednesday she met with a capital bargain in Brokers' Row, Moorfields-a brass door-plate, with Mr. Henderson engraved upon it: it only cost her ninepence halfpenny. Should any thing happen to Backhouse, and she be afterwards courted by any body of the name of Henderson, there is a door-plate ready." This sally, proving successful, drew the attention of the club towards the utterer; and the chairman told him, that, when his turn arrived, he had no doubt of his favouring the company with an excellent epigram; adding, "in the mean while, sir, I believe it is my turn:

Two Harveys had a separate wish

To please in separate stations;
The one invented Sauce for fish,
The other Meditations.

Each has his pungent powers applied

To aid the dead and dying,
That relishes a Sole when fried,

This saves a Soul from frying."

"Gentlemen," said the member whose turn was next in succession, "I have a weighty objection to all that has been hitherto uttered. An epigram should not be extended to eight lines; and I believe all that we have heard this evening, have been of that length. Four lines ought to be the ne plus ultra: if only two, so much the better. Allow me to deliver one which was uttered by an old gentleman, whose daughter Arabella importuned him for Money:

Dear Bell, to gain Money, sure, silence is best,
For dumb Bells are fittest to open the chest."

"I am quite of your opinion," said he who followed; "and in narrating an epitaph by a disconsolate husband upon his late wife, I mean to confine myself within the same Spartan limits:

Two bones from my body have taken a trip,

I've buried my Rib, and got rid of my Hyp."

"Now, captain," said the president, addressing himself to young Culpepper's mustachio'd associate. The dragoon started, and waxed rather red. "Oh me, is it? Geud Gad! I'm very sorry-I can't at this moment-Really, it's very ridiculous: Oh, now I remember, Had I a heart for falsehood framed-""" Beg pardon, sir," said the president, "but that's Sheridan." "Oh, true, I had forgotten; well then-'Drink to me only with thine eyes-" "Beg pardon again, sir, but that's Ben Jonson." "Oh, true! Geud Gad! how uncommonly stupid. Oh! now I have it: Quoth Sylvia to a reverend dean—" "Beg pardon again, sir, but that's Swift." "Swift, is it? Geud Gad! I could have sworn it was my own. Pray, must it be in English?" "No, sir, we are not confined to any language." "Well, then I will give

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you a Latin one. My friend Culpepper and I, on coming out of the Opera-house last Saturday, got into a dispute with a hackney-coachman. Upon which I collared him, and he collared me, and he tore the silk-facing of my cloak. Upon which says Culpepper, Who is to mend it? Upon which said I, Nobody can replace the silk-facing but the man who made the cape: because, according to the Latin adage,

Qui capit ille facit.

Now I think I have beaten the two gentlemen who epigrammatized last. They have made a great merit of confining themselves to two lines, and, egad! I have confined myself to one." "Your quantum of merit, sir," said the chairman very gravely," will depend upon the votes of the gentlemen present."

A dark mahogany ballotting-box was now produced: each member had two votes: the several epigrams were proposed, and ballotted for, in rotation; and upon drawing forth the balls, it was ascertained that each person had given one favourable ball to his own epigram, and one to Captain Thackeray's: thus intimating, that, next to his own production, the superior merit lay with the Latin adage. "Our visitor has it," said the president; and at the same time, with great ceremony, threw over the captain's head a blue silk riband, to which was appended a silver medal. "Geud Gad! it's very like a Waterloo Medal,” exclaimed the son of Mars, and sat as proud as a peacock until the meeting broke up.

THE SILENT LANGUAGE OF LOVE.

By an old German Poet,GEORGE RUDOLPH WECKHERLIN, who lived at the beginning of the Seventeenth Century, and was a friend of our Sir Henry Wotton; he appeared in England at the Court of James I. and was well received there, though now nearly forgotten.

To Myrta.

SINCE, Myrta, speech or silence tend

Alike to wound our mutual bliss,
Let us to looks a language lend,

Expressive of our tenderness;

For Love, whose power we constantly revere,

Will make this silent language clear.

Let then thy rapid glances move,

Nor fear by them thy flame to own;
They're faithful couriers of Love

To eyes of envious fools unknown;

For Love, whose power they impiously contemn,
Will hide this silent speech from them.

And should some busy eye observe
These still expressive looks of ours',
Then we'll our intercourse preserve
In spirit like angelic powers;

For Love, whose humble votaries we are,
Will make this silent language clear.
Thus we'll deceive the jealous eyes

Of babblers, by our simple art;

While their foil'd malice to our joys
Shall still increased delight impart ;

For Love, whose power they impiously contemn,
Will hide our silent speech from them.

D. J.

THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A STUDENT.

NO. I.

The Death of Friends.

DEATH is the tyrant of the imagination. His reign is in solitude and darkness-in tombs and prisons-over weak hearts and seething brains. He lives, without shape or sound, a phantasm, inaccessible to sight or touch, a ghastly and terrible Apprehension.

The fear of death is common to all. There never was a man of such hardihood of nerve, but he has, at one time or other, shrunk from peril. Death is a certain evil, (if life be a good :)-Philosophy may welcome it, and passion may disregard its approach; but our instinct, which is always true, first commands us to fear. It is not so much the pain of dying, nor even the array of death, (though the 'pompa mortis' is sufficiently repelling ;)-but it is that tremendous thought-that vast impenetrable gloom, without depth, or breadth, or bound-which no reason can compass and no intellect pry into, that alarms us. Our fancy is ripe with wonders, and it fills up the space between us and Heaven.

For my own part-I have, I confess, greatly feared Death. Some persons dread annihilation. But, to sleep for ever without a dreamwhat is it, if you feel it not? Let me not be understood as wishing for this state, this negation of being. I only say that it cannot generate the same fears. It is a desert without life, or fear, or hope,shadowless, soundless. But the grave, in our belief, is populous: it is haunted by some intermediate nature-between flesh and spirit :—or if not, what then is it? I throw the question to the theologians.

There is something very sad in the death of friends. We seem to provide for our own mortality, and to make up our minds to die. We are warned by sickness,-fever, and ague, and sleepless nights, and a hundred dull infirmities; but when our friends pass away, we lament them as though we had considered them immortal.

It is wise-I suppose, it is wise that we should attach ourselves to things which are transient; else I should say that 'tis a perilous trust when a man ties his hopes to so frail a thing as woman. They are so gentle, so affectionate, so true in sorrow, so untired and untiring,-but the leaf withers not sooner, the tropic lights fade not more abruptly into darkness. They die and are taken from us; and we weep; and our friends tell us that it is not wise to grieve, for that all which is mortal perisheth. They do not know that

We grieve the more because we grieve in vain!

If our grief could bring back the dead, it would be stormy and loudwe should disturb the sunny quiet of day-we should startle the dull night from her repose. But our hearts would not grieve as they grieve now, when hope is dead within us.

She sur

The few friends of my youth are dead-save only one. vives: but I am reminded often, when I am alone, that she may dienay, that she must die soon, and leave me to younger spirits (there is but one that cares for me)-to hopes which are half disappointed,— to friends who have forgotten the merry days we once passed together, -to feverish and gnawing troubles,—and, last, to infirmity, and old

age and death. It may beguile me awhile from so sad a speculation, if I try to trace upon paper the recollection of friends who are gone. I may raise them, like phantasms, before me-like the ghosts who mocked the murderer of Duncan,-save that they sprang from the future, outstripping the speed of Time,-whereas mine are all from the past.

Come forth, then, whatever ye are-shadows, or substances, or spirits, sublimed or transmuted natures-Ye who have left your clay to wither, and are become the messengers of Heaven, and tread the winds and the star-sown wilderness above us!-Come down, from your stately heights, and stand visible before me! Or if indeed ye live in the grave, or haunt on purgatorial shores, pale tenants of the dim Elysium,—Arise, and be manifest!-Fain would I recall ye for a time, and pourtray ye-your exits,' not your entrances.' I may relieve, perhaps the sad tedium of a wintry hour, or solace a heart that suffers.

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I remember, even as a grey-headed man remembers, clearly and more distinctly than the things of yesterday, that which happened long ago. I remember, when I was about four years of age, how I learned to spell, and was sent daily in the servant's hand to a little day-school, to fight my way (amidst a score of other urchins) through the perils of the alphabet. I had no ambition then,-no hatred, no uncharitableness. If these dæmons have possessed me since, they must have been cast down upon me by the malice of my stars.' I had no organs for such things:-yet now I can hate almost as strongly as I love, and am as constant to my antipathies as to my affections.

Well, when my fifth was running into my sixth year, and I was busied with parables and scripture history (the only food which nourished my infant mind), I was much noticed by a young person,a female. I was at that time living with an old relation in H—shire, and I still preserve the recollection of Miss R's tender condescension towards me. She was a pretty delicate girl, and very amiable ; and I became (yes, it is true, for I remember the strong feelings of that time)-enamoured of her. My love had the fire of passion, but not the clay which drags it downwards; it partook of the innocence of my years while it etherealized me. Whether it was the divinity of beauty that stung me-or rather that lifted me above the darkness and immaturity of childhood, I know not: but my feelings were any thing but childish. By some strong intuition I felt that there was a dif ference (I knew not what) that called forth an extraordinary and impetuous regard.

She was the first object (save my mother) that I ever attached myself to. I had better have loved a flower, a weed. For, when I knew her she had the seeds of death within her. Consumption had caught her: his sickly hand was upon her, like the canker on the rose, and drew out a perilous, unearthly bloom. The hues and vigour of life were flushing too quickly through her cheek-(yet how pale she was at times!)-She wasted a month in an hour-a year in a month; and at last died in the stormy autumn time, when the breath of summer had left her.

The last time I ever saw her was (as well as I can recollect) in October, or late in September. I was told that Miss R― was ill,— was very ill-and that perhaps I might not see her again. Death I could