A FIRST ATTEMPT IN RHYME.

The attempt and not the deed.-LADY MACBETH.

BY THE EDITOR.

A FEW days since it happened to me to look into a Lady's Albumone of those pretty nuisances which are sent to one like the Taxgatherers' Schedules, with a blank or two for the victim to fill up. The Book was of the usual kind: superbly bound of course, and filled with paper of various tints and shades, to suit the taste of the contributors-baiting, one might fancy, with a bluish tinge for Lady with a light green for Mrs. Hall, or Miss Mitford, and with a French white for Miss Costello-for Moore with a flesh colour, with gray for the Bard of Memory, and with rose colour for the Poet of Hope-with stone colour for Allan Cunningham, with straw colour for the Corn Law Rhymer, with drab and slate for Bernard Barton and the Howitts, and with a sulphur tint for Satan Montgomery. The copper colour being, perhaps, aimed at the artists in general, who are partial to the warmth of its tone.

As yet, however, but few of our "celebrated pens" and pencils had enriched or ornamented the volume. The literary offerings were short and few; and the pictorial ones were still more rare. Thus between the Mendicant begging for Scraps in the Frontispiece, and a watercoloured branch of Fuchsia, there were no less than eighteen blank leaves: twenty-two more from the flower to the Group of Shells-if they were shells-for they looked more like petrifactions of a cracknel, a French roll, and a twist-and fifteen barren pages from the Conchology to the great Parrot-which, by the bye, seemed purposely to have been put into the same livery as the lady's footman, namely, a peagreen coat, with crimson smalls. There was only one more drawing; a view of some Dutch place, done in sepia, and which some wag had named in pencil as "a Piece of Brown Holland."

The prose and verse were of the ordinary character: Extracts from Byron, Wordsworth, and Mrs. Hemans; a Parody of an Irish Melody, an Unpublished Ballad, attributed to Sir Walter Scott, and sundry original effusions, including a Sonnet of sixteen lines, to an Infant. There were also two specimens of what is called Religious Poetry-the one working up a Sprig of Thyme into an "ETERNITY!" and the other setting out as jauntily as a Song, but ending in a "HIM."

In glancing over these effusions, it was my good fortune to be attracted to some verses by a certain singularity in their construction, the nature of which it required a second perusal to determine. Indeed, the peculiarity was so unobtrusive, that it had escaped the notice of the owner of the Album, who had even designated the lines in question as "nothing particular." They were, she said, as the title implied, the first attempt in rhyme, by a female friend; and who, to judge from her manner and expressions, with respect to her maiden essay, had certainly not been aware of any thing extraordinary in her performance. On the contrary, she had apologized for the homely and common

place character of the lines, and had promised, if she ever improved in her poetry, to contribute another and a better sample. A pledge which Death, alas! had forbidden her to redeem.

As a Literary Curiosity, the Proprietress of the original Poem has kindly allowed me to copy and present it to the Public. Instead of a mere commonplace composition, the careful Reader will perceive that whilst aiming at, and so singularly missing, what Garrick called "the jingle of verse," the Authoress has actually invented a New Species of Poetry-an intermediate link, as it were, between Blank Verse and Rhyme, and as such likely to be equally acceptable to the admirers of Thomson and the lovers of Shenstone.

(COPY.)

If I were used to writing verse,
And had a Muse not so perverse,
But prompt at Fancy's call to spring
And carol like a bird in Spring;
Or like a Bee, in summer time,
That hums about a bed of thyme,
And gathers honey and delights
From ev'ry blossom where it 'lights;
If I, alas! had such a Muse,
To touch the Reader or amuse,
And breathe the true poetic vein,
This page should not be fill'd in vain!
But ah! the pow'r was never mine
To dig for gems in Fancy's mine;
Or wander over land and main
To seek the Fairies' old domain-
To watch Apollo while he climbs
His throne in oriental climes;
Or mark the "gradual dusky veil"
Drawn over Tempé's tuneful vale,
In classic lays remembered long-
Such flights to bolder wings belong;
To Bards who on that glorious height
Of sun and song, Parnassus hight,
Partake the fire divine that burns
In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns,
Who sang his native braes and burns.

For me, a novice strange and new,
Who ne'er such inspiration knew,
But weave a verse with travail sore,
Ordain'd to creep and not to soar,
A few poor lines alone I write,
Fulfilling thus a friendly rite,
Not meant to meet the Critic's eye,
For oh! to hope from such as I,
For any thing that's fit to read,
Were trusting to a broken reed!

1st of April, 1840.

E. M. G.

REMINISCENCES OF A MEDICAL STUDENT.

No. VIII.

LEAH MERIEL.

SOMETHING about half a century ago, the inhabitants of "the Thorn," a village on the borders of Wales, remarked the appearance among them of a mendicant, who had never before been observed to frequent that neighbourhood. She was a woman, and bore with her a child, whose extreme squalor and unhealthiness of aspect attracted compassion to mingle with the disgust, excited by her own filthy and debauched character and appearance. She was tall, thin, and pale. Her clothes were tattered and dirty to an extreme degree, and she was continually in a state of semi-intoxication. Her language, too, and general deportment were of a most abandoned description,-indeed, such as would have ensured her being stoned out of any orderly place, instead of obtaining charity. But it was the child that was her bread winner: the poor little thing was so tiny and delicate, so dirty, naked, and skinny, and appeared by its looks to feel so acutely the wretchedness of its case, that pieces of copper money were plentifully thrown to them, as they sat by the hedge-side-for the road through the village was much used, the Thorn Inn being the first stage from a pretty large country town. The mother used to sit, mechanically repeating over, if she were sober enough, a whining petition for charity, while the little girl crouched to her side, and looked up in the faces of the passengers, her large gray eyes having such a pleading expression that words of pity were copiously bestowed upon her from those who could not afford more substantial indication of their benevolence. She was about four or five years old, and appeared so thin, debilitated, and continually shivering and shrinking, that one wondered how she could stand or walk. It was a most disagreeable sight to look at the sickly, fleshless child, dirty and cold, and the tall, slouching, and more filthy and disgusting parent, with her lack-lustre drunken eye, as they staggered along, the latter frequently stopping to beat the poor unoffending little thing, and she, again, taking it all with an air of patient resignation, uttering no complaint,-hardly even shedding a tear. In fact, the creature was so wasted, that one could scarcely guess where tears in her could have a source.— I have said that coppers were liberally bestowed upon them;-all went for liquor, to satisfy the cravings of the mother; nor this alone; whatever she could lay her hands on, and exchange for money or drink, she recklessly appropriated, stealing utensils even from the outhouses, where charitable people were prevailed upon to allow her shelter.

At that time public charity was hardly so strictly managed as now, and this woman was allowed to beg publicly, and even to take possession of two rooms of a dilapidated building, about a quarter of a mile distant from the village. In a short time indolence and drunkenness confined her to this place, and her daughter was sent out daily, alone, to beg for their support. The disgust of the woman's presence being Sept.-VOL. LXVI. NO. CCLXI.

F

removed, people began to question the child. They found her remarkably intelligent and sagacious, and very grateful for such little kindnesses as housewives were disposed to grant her. Her name was Leah, she said, Leah Meriel; her father had been a soldier, but she had no recollection, save of being carried about to beg.

This child displayed a singular desire for instruction, collecting together all sorts of ballads, printed notices, and such things, and being mightily pleased when any one would take the trouble to name to her the letters, and show her how to join them into words. The gift of an old book, torn and boardless, delighted her; if it contained pictures, she was in ecstasies; and things like these she hoarded up in a corner of the old building, where, when the weary travail of the day was over, and her brutal mother sunk in drunken senselessness, they served her for companions and playmates.

A year passed, and she became better known about the district. She was now more warmly clad, and a little taller, but still exceedingly thin, wan, and unhealthy, with a look of care on her sickly, childish features, most unnatural and unpleasant to see. She never affected the society of children of her own age, or mingled, or would have been allowed to mingle in their play. They were her enemies; by them the poor frail beggar child was hunted and stoned. She more desired the

company of grown up women, and would hold lengthy and serious conversations with them at times, not a little to their amusement. From such traits, as well as from her loathsome appearance, she began to be called, by most in thoughtlessness, but by some in earnest, a fairy changeling, and the name Fairy Leah attached itself to her thencefor

ward.

But there was one place to which, in her daily round of bitterness, she drew near with a feeling of something that surely was pleasure. It was a large house, inhabited by the proprietor of the paper-manufac tory of Whitestream, from which most of the inhabitants of the Thorn derived their bread. Here she was always sure of a copper coin, haply some cast-off clothing, or cold dainties of the table, but the chief charm was, that the young master, a quiet, studious boy, would come to the drawing-room window, and amuse himself by holding long discussions with her. To him she was indebted for explanation of the mystery of old English and German letters, and for the first hint of writing, by the simple process of copying italic type. Odd volumes and pamphlets innumerable she owed to him; and frequently, as she was leaving, he would bid her go to the parterre and pull herself a flower, the prettiest she could find. Was not this a reason why the poor little ill-looking, despised, hopeless, and helpless outcast should feel the load of her cares and sorrows sit lighter on her childish heart as she crept along the avenue of Whitestream-lodge?

A few years more, and she obtained employment at the paper-factory, or mill, as it was called; the wages she earned weekly, and a larger allowance from the parish to the old woman, serving amply for their maintenance. She was now much taller, but still a perfect skeleton, and still she showed the same cowering, solitary disposition, the same eagerness to lay hands on old books and stray newspapers, but certainly much greater cleanliness and tidiness of person. Still was she insulted and neglected, or treated as an amusing inferior by her

fellow workpeople. The latter, however, was a character she now appeared desirous to avoid, and daily might she be seen wending her companionless way between the paper-mill and the old dwelling where she had her abode.

The country around the Thorn presented the usual slight undulations, cultivated almost to a square foot, and dotted with frequent timber, which is every where characteristic of the garden of England. The first risings of the Welsh hills formed a barrier to the sight on one side, while in the opposite direction the dimpled plain stretched away, itself becoming as a blue line in the far distance. About a quarter of a mile, or more, from the village, you observed what you would at first take to be a long, narrow wood, or plantation, dividing, perhaps, two estates. Haply as you looked, a distant rushing sound would reach your ears, which might be the breeze among the foliage, but it was the dash of water. What appeared a lengthened slip of copse, was the hollow, dingly course of the Whitestream, which, descending here, found its way by a scooped channel to join one of the large rivers of that part of the country.

The sides of the little valley were rocky, if not precipitous, and covered with a plentiful clothing of dwarf oak, birch, and other trees, which, confused together to the distant eye, completely concealed the romantic hollow. On account of the crystal purity of the water, a quality which had obtained for it the name of Whitestream, this place had been long used as a site for the paper-manufactory before alluded to. The channel, after being close and narrow for a mile or two, suddenly enlarged into a little oval green dale, the stream winding round under the rocks to one side, embracing in the bend a rounded bank of rich alluvial soil, covered with most vivid sward, whereon two horses, employed about the place, usually grazed. At the bottom of this meadow, which might have been a couple of gunshots in length, stood an extensive collection of low buildings, partly of stone, and partly of brick, the sound of machinery from which indicated the mill. At the upper end of it, again, was a broad, deep dam, which supplied the factory below with power. Close to the edge of this stood a broken down house, its roof partly fallen in, and the foundation of one corner washed completely bare by the water, a great rent indicating the insecurity of the whole fabric. In this place Leah's mother was permitted to reside, no other return being exacted from her than the custody of the heavy iron winches and other implements whereby the ponderous sluices were raised or lowered as the supply of water or the demand for power increased or diminished.

This building had, formerly, been the residence of the proprietors of the factory. Afterwards, on their leaving for Whitestream Lodge, it was occupied by the foreman and his family; but, from the increased respectability of this functionary as the works grew in extent and importance, as well as the loneliness and manifest danger of its position, it became finally deserted, and the materials not being worth expense of removal were allowed to remain.

A little room, in its upper story, was chosen by Leah for her chamber, partly because over it the roof was rain-proof-partly because the steep and ruinous state of the stair prevented her mother from having access to it. And this separation was the cause of the improvement so