A HAPPY MEETING.

For all the long years I've been wand'ring away, To see thus around me my youth's early friends, As smiling and kind as in that happy day!

Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,

He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but likes it still less than he did years back, and cannot bear it in comparison And doth not a meeting like this make amends with Ranelagh. He thinks every thing looks poor, flaring, and jaded. "Ah!" says he, with a sort of triumphant sigh, "Ranelagh was a noble place! Such taste, such elegance, such beauty! There was the duchess of A. the finest woman in England, sir; and Mrs. L., a mighty fine creature; and lady Susan what's her name, that had that unfortunate affair with sir Charles. Sir, they came swimming by you like the

swans.

The snow-fall of time may be stealing-what then?

Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.
What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,

The Old Gentleman is very particular in
having his slippers ready for him at the fire, So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced,
when he comes home. He is also extremely
choice in his snuff, and delights to get a
fresh box-full at Gliddon's, in King-street, in
his way to the theatre. His box is a curiosity
from India. He calls favourite young ladies
by their Christian names, however slightly
acquainted with them; and has a privilege
also of saluting all brides, mothers, and
indeed every species of lady on the least
holiday occasion. If the husband for in-
stance has met with a piece of luck, he
instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses
the wife on the cheek. The wife then says,

The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light
And thus, as in memory's bark, we shall glide
To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining through-
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers

My niece, sir, from the country ;" and he kisses the niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, says, 66 My cousin Harriet, sir;" and he kisses the cousin. He never recollects such weather, except during the great frost, or when he rode down with Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket. He grows young again in his little grand-children, especially the one which he thinks most like himself; which is the handsomest. Yet he likes best perhaps the one most resembling his wife; and will sit with him on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for a quarter of an hour together. He plays most tricks with the former, and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who was the father of Zebedee's children. If his grandsons are at school, he often goes to see them; and makes them blush by telling the master or the upperscholars, that they are fine boys, and of a precocious genius. He is much struck when an old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too fast; and that poor Bob was a sad dog in his youth; a very sad dog, sir, mightily set upon a short life and a merry one."

66

When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole evenings, and say little or nothing; but informs you, that there is Mrs. Jones (the housekeeper), -“ She'll talk."-Indicator.

That once made a garden of all the gay shore,

Deceiv'd for a moment, we'll think them still ours,

And breath the fresh air of life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

For want of some heart that could echo it near.

Ah! well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But come-the more rare such delights to the heart,
The more we should welcome, and bless them the

more

They're ours when we meet-they're lost when we part,
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er,
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure thro' pain,
That fast as a feeling but touches one link,
Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.

LINES TO HIS COUSIN
ON THE NEW YEAR,

BY A WESTMINSTER BOY.

Time rolls away! another year
Has rolled off with him; hence 'tis clear
His lordship keeps his carriage:
A single man, no doubt;-and thus
Enjoys himself without the fuss

And great expense of marriage,

His wheel still rolls (and like the river
Which Horace mentions) still for ever
Volvitur et volvetur.

Colley Cibber's youngest Daughter.

Last of her sire in dotage-she was used
By him, as children use a fav'rite toy;
Indulg'd, neglected, fondled, and abus'd,
As quick affection of capricious joy,
Or sudden humour of dislike dictated:

Thoughtlessly rear'd, she led a thoughtless life;
And she so well beloved became most hated:

A helpless mother, and a wife unblest,

She pass'd precocious womanhood in strife;
Or, in strange hiding-places, without rest;
Or, wand'ring in disquietude for bread:
Her father's curse-himself first cause of all
That caused his ban-sunk her in deeper thrall,
Stifling her heart, till sorrow and herself were dead.

"THE LIFE OF MRS. CHARLOTTE CHARKE, youngest daughter of Colley Cibber, Esq. written by herself," is a curious narrative of remarkable vicissitudes. She dedicates it to herself, and aptly concludes her dedication by saying, "Permit me, madam, to bscribe myself, for the future, what I t to have been some years ago, your SOL. I.-5.

real friend, and humble servant, CHARLOTTE CHARKE."

In the "Introduction" to the recent reprint of this singular work, it is well observed, that "her Life will serve to show what very strange creatures may exist, and the endless diversity of habits, tastes, and inclinations, which may spring up spon

taneously, like weeds, in the hot-bed of comedy of Rule-a-Wife. She with a torpid corrupt civilization." She was born when voice and hungry smile desired us to Mrs. Cibber was forty-five years old, and walk in. The first object that presented when both her father and mother had itself was a dresser, clean, it must be conceased to expect an addition to their family: fessed, and furnished with three or four the result was that Charlotte Cibber was a coarse delf plates, two brown platters, and spoiled child. She married Mr. Richard underneath an earthen pipkin and a black Charke, an eminent violin player, of disso- pitcher with a snip out of it. To the right lute habits; and, after a course of levities, we perceived and bowed to the mistress of consequent upon the early recklessness of the mansion sitting on a maimed chair her parents, she was repudiated by her under the mantle-piece, by a fire, merely father. When she wrote her life, she was sufficient to put us in mind of starving. On in great penury: it was published in eight one hob sat a monkey, which by way of numbers, at three-pence each. In the last, welcome chattered at our going in; on the which appeared on the 19th of April, 1755, other a tabby cat, of melancholy aspect ! she feelingly deplores the failure of her and at our author's feet on the flounce of attempts to obtain forgiveness of her father, her dingy petticoat reclined a dog, almost and says, "I cannot recollect any crime I a skeleton! he raised his shagged head, and, have been guilty of that is unpardonable." eagerly staring with his bleared eyes, saAfter intimating a design to open an orato- luted us with a snarl. Have done, Fidele! rical academy, for the instruction of persons these are friends.' The tone of her voice going on the stage, she mentions her inten- was not harsh; it had something in it tion to publish "Mr. Dumont's history, humbled and disconsolate; a mingled effort the first number of which will shortly make of authority and pleasure.-Poor soul! few its appearance." This was a novel she was were her visitors of that description-no then writing, which a bookseller treated wonder the creature barked!.-A magpie with her for, in company with Mr. Samuel perched on the top ring of her chair, not an Whyte of Dublin, who thus describes her uncomely ornament! and on her lap was distressed situation :--placed a mutilated pair of bellows, the pipe was gone, an advantage in their present office, they served as a succedaneum for a writing-desk, on which lay displayed her hopes and treasure, the manuscript of her novel. Her ink-stand was a broken teacup, the pen worn to a stump; she had but one! a rough deal board with three hobbling supporters was brought for our convenience, on which, without farther ceremony, we contrived to sit down and entered upon business:-the work was read, remarks made, alterations agreed to, and thirty guineas demanded for the copy. The squalid handmaiden, who had been an attentive listener, stretched forward her tawny length of neck with an eye of anxious expectation !-The bookseller offered five!— Our authoress did not appear hurt; disappointments had rendered her mind callous; however, some altercation ensued. This was the writer's first initiation into the mysteries of bibliopolism and the state of authorcraft. He, seeing both sides pertinacious, at length interposed, and at his instance the wary haberdasher of literature doubled his first proposal, with this saving proviso, that his friend present would pay a moiety and run one half the risk; which was agreed to. Thus matters were accommodated, seemingly to the satisfaction of all parties; the lady's original stipulation of fifty copies for herself being previously

"Cibber the elder had a daughter named Charlotte, who also took to the stage; her subsequent life was one continued series of misfortune, afflictions, and distress, which she sometimes contrived a little to alleviate by the productions of her pen. About the year 1755, she had worked up a novel for the press, which the writer accompanied his friend the bookseller to hear read; she was at this time a widow, having been married to one Charke a musician, long since dead. Her habitation was a wretched thatched hovel, situated on the way to Islington in the purlieus of Clerkenwell Bridewell, not very distant from the New River Head, where at that time it was usual for the scavengers to leave the cleansings of the streets, &c. The night preceding a heavy rain had fallen, which rendered this extraordinary seat of the muses almost inaccessible, so that in our approach we got our white stockings enveloped with mud up to the very calves, which furnished an appearance much in the present fashionable style of half-boots. We knocked at the door, (not attempting to pull the latch string,) which was opened by a tall, meagre, ragged figure, with a blue apron, indicating, what else we might have doubted, the feminine gender, a perfect model for the copper captain's tattered landlady; that deplorable exhibition of the fair sex, in the

acceded to. Such is the story of the onceadmired daughter of Colley Cibber, Poet Laureate and patentee of Drury-lane, who was born in affluence and educated with care and tenderness, her servants in livery, and a splendid equipage at her command, with swarms of time-serving sycophants officiously buzzing in her train; yet, unmindful of her advantages and improvident in her pursuits, she finished the career of her miserable existence on a dunghill."*

the simplicity of the original, of which I doubt if a correct copy could now be obtained. As it is, it is at the service of your Table Book.

The hero of the ballad appears to be of somewhat the same class as the hero of the German ballad, the "Water King," and in some particulars resembles the ballad of the "Overcourteous Knight," in Percy's Reliques. I am, dear sir, &c.

Mr. Whyte's account of the "reading the manuscript," a subject worthy of Wilkie's pencil, is designed to be Grange-road, Bermondsey, Jan. 8, 1827.

illustrated by the engraving at the head of this article. Of Mrs. Charke, after that interview, nothing further is known, except that she kept a public-house, at Islington, and is said to have died on the 6th of April, 1760. Her brother Theophilus was wrecked, and perished on his way to Dublin, in October, 1758; her father died on the 12th of December, in the year preceding. Her singular "Narrative" is printed verbatim in the seventh volume of "Autobiography," with the life of the late❝ Mary Robinson," who was also an actress, and also wrote her own "Memoirs."

AN INEDITED BALLAD.

To the Editor.

Dear Sir,-A friend of mine, who resided for some years on the borders, used to amuse himself by collecting old ballads, printed on halfpenny sheets, and hawked up and down by itinerant minstrels. In his common-place book I found one, entitled "The Outlandish Knight," evidently, from the style, of considerable antiquity, which appears to have escaped the notice of Percy, and other collectors. Since then I have met with a printed one, from the popular press of Mr. Pitts, the six-yardsfor-a-penny song-publisher, who informs me that he has printed it "ever since he was a printer, and that Mr. Marshall, his predecessor, printed it before him." The ballad has not improved by circulating amongst Mr. Pitts's friends; for the heroine, who has no name given her in my friend's copy, is in Mr. Pitts's called " Polly ;" and there are expressions contra bonos mores. These I have expunged; and, to render the ballad more complete, added a few stanzas, wherein I have endeavoured to preserve

*Whyte's Collection of Poems, second edition: Dublin, 1792. † Biog. Dram,

THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT.

"Six go true,

The seventh askew."

Der Freischutz Travestie.

An outlandish knight from the north lands came,

And he came a wooing to me;

He told me he'd take me unto the north lands,

And I should his fair bride be.

A broad, broad shield did this strange knight wield,
Whereon did the red-cross shine,

Yet

never, I ween, had that strange knight been In the fields of Palestine.

And out and spake this strange knight,
This knight of the north countrie,
O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
Thou shalt at my bidding be.

Thy sire he is from home, ladye,

For he hath a journey gone,
And his shaggy blood-hound is sleeping sound,
Beside the postern stone.

Go, bring me some of thy father's gold,

And some of thy mother's fee,

And steeds twain of the best, in the stalls that rest,
Where they stand thirty and three.

She mounted her on her milk-white steed,
And he on a dapple grey,

And they forward did ride, till they reach'd the sea-side,
Three hours before it was day.

Then out and spake this strange knight,

This knight of the north countrie,
O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
Do thou at my bidding be.

Alight thee, maid, from thy milk-white steed,
And deliver it unto me;

Six maids have I drown'd, where the billows sound,
And the seventh one thou shalt be.

But first pull off thy kirtle fine,

And deliver it unto me;

Thy kirtle of green is too rich, I ween,
To rot in the salt, salt sea.