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Vanslyperken bent his steps to deliver up to the authorities the despatches with which he was charged; and having so done, he then took out the letter intrusted to him by Nancy Corbett and read the address. It was the same street in which lived the Frau Vandersloosh. This was awkward, as Vanslyperken did not want to be seen by her; but there was no help for it. He trusted to her not seeing him, and he proceeded thither: he ran down the numbers on the doors until he came to the right one, which was exactly opposite to the widow's house :-this was more unfortunate. He rang the bell; it was some time before the door was opened, and while he was standing there he could not help looking round to see if any one saw him. To his annoyance, there stood the widow filling up her door with her broad frame and Babette peeping over her shoulder. Mr. Vanslyperken, as there was only the canal and two narrow roads between them, could do no less than salute her, but she took no notice of him farther than by continuing her stare. At last, upon a second pulling of the bell, the door opened, and on Mr. Vanslyperken saying that he had a letter for such an address he was admitted, and the door immediately closed. He was ushered into a room, the window-panes of which were painted green, so that no one outside could look in, and found himself in the presence of a tall man, in a clerical dress, who motioned to him to sit down.

Vanslyperken delivered the letter, and then took a seat. The gentleman made a graceful bow, as if to ask permission to break the seal, and then opened the letter.

“ Sir, I am obliged to you for charging yourself with these packets -infinitely obliged to you. You are in command of a sloop here, I believe.

“ A king's cutter, sir,” replied Vanslyperken, with importance; “I am Lieutenant Vanslyperken.”

“ I thank you, sir. I will take down your name. You expect, I presume, to be rewarded for this small service," continued the gentleman, with a bland smile.

“ Why, she must have told him,” thought Vanslyperken; who replied with another smile, “ that he certainly trusted that he should be.”

Upon which reply, the other went to an escrutoire, and taking out a bag, opened it and poured out a mass of gold, which made Vanslyperken's mouth water, but why he did so Vanslyperken did not give a thought, until having counted out fifty pieces, the gentleman very gracefully put them into his hand, observing,

“ A lieutenant's pay is not great, and we can afford to be generous. Will you oblige me by calling here before you sail for England, and I will beg you to take charge of a letter."

Vanslyperken was all amazement: he began to suspect what was the fact, but he had the gold in his hand, and, for the life of him, he could not have laid it down again on the table. It was too great a sacrifice, for it was his idol-his god. He therefore dropped it into his pocket, and promising to call before he sailed, bowed and took his leave. As he went out, there was the Frau Vandersloosh and Babette still watching him at the door, but Vanslyperken was in a state of agitation, and he hurried off as fast as he could. Had he known why they watched so earnestly, and what had occurred, his agitation would have been greater still. As soon as Mr. Vanslyperken had arrived on board, he hastened down into his cabin, and throwing the money down on the table, feasted his eyes with it, and remained for nearly! half an hour in a state of deep cogitation, during which he often asked himself the question, whether he had not been a traitor to the king and country in whose pay he was employed. The answer that he gave to himself was anything but satisfactory; but the prospect of possessing the fair Portsmouth widow, and the gold displayed upon the table, were very satisfactory, and the balance was on the latter side: so Vanslyperken gradually recovered himself, and had risen from his chair to collect the gold and deposit it in a place of safety, when he was interrupted by a tap at the door. Hastily sweeping off the gold pieces, he cried, “ Come in ;" when who, to his surprise, should appear in excellent condition and fresh as a peony, but the lost and almost forgotten Corporal Van Spitter, who, raising his hand to his forehead as usual, reported himself man-of-war fashion, “ Vas come on board, Mynheer Vanslyperken.” But as the corporal did not tell all the facts connected with his cruise in the jolly boat to Mr. Vanslyperken, for reasons which will hereafter appear, we shall reserve the narrative of what really did take place for another chapter.

( To be continued.)



I saw the brave ship, with her sails all unfurl'd,

Go forth like a spirit of light o'er the waves;
And I said in my pride, “ There are none in the world

Like the heroes of ocean, to combat with slaves :"-
Brave British tars! with feelings as warm,
To conquer the proud foe, and sing to the storm !
I saw the brave ship on her golden return,

When the song of her triumph went forth o'er the deep;
But the laurels so thickly o'ershadowed each urn,

That I traced not their names whom affection shall weep;
Brave British tars! like eagles they rise,
Till the bright sun of glory burst full on their eyes.
Oh! give me the wine-cup, and proudly I'll toast

“ The heroes of ocean," wherever they roam !
And never may Britain forget the brave host,

That bled for the dear rights of freedom and home;
Brave British tars! your welcome shall be,
From beauty's warm lip in the Isle of the free!

• Written for the beautiful air—"The Woodpecker." July 1836.-VOL. XVI.--NO. LXIII.

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My godfather was rich and old,

And when his days were numbered, He left me lands, estates, and gold,

Quite free and unencumbered ; Yet are my spirits faint and low,

'Midst all congratulations;
This is my ceaseless source of woe,

A host of poor relations !
Fame's trumpet my good fortune blew,

Throughout the neighbouring region,
And, like the horn of Roderic Dhu,

It roused an active legion : All to my lucky name allied,

Sprang to their several stations ; I saw myself on every side,

Hemmed in by poor relations ! When I attempt to go at large,

They cling to me like brambles ; They “stop the chariot, board the barge,"

And join me in my rambles ; Drop in to dinner every day,

Nor wait for invitations, “ Rich men should open house," they say,

“Keep for their poor relations.” My uncle loudly slaps my back,

With freedom bold and hearty,
And actually has styled me “ Jack,"

Before a titled party!
Nay, he my school-boy days recalls,

When (matchless degradation !)
I've nuts and apples, bats and balls,

Coaxed from my poor relation.
My aunt esteems my house 'tis clear

Most eligible quarters,
She's got two hundred pounds a year,

And five unmarried daughters;
My feasts will lead, she oft declares,

To nuptial celebrations,
And quickly bring five nice young heirs

To woo my poor relations.
My cousins to my house resort

In tribes too great to mention,
One much desires a place at court,

And one a trifling pension ;
A pair of colours one would seize

With loyal exultation,
An India writership would please

Another poor relation.

One has a poem just sent forth,

A mark for critic battery,
In which my talents, wit, and worth,

He lauds with fulsome flattery;
All the reviews to pieces pull

His clumsy adulation,
And quiz the vain and wealthy gull,

Puffed by his poor relation!

I read once in a German book

Of some poor wretch's trouble,
Who moved, whichever way he took,

Attended by a “ double ;"
I deem his sufferings incomplete,

Far worse are my vexations,
Daily pursued down Regent Street

By twenty poor relations !

If I some coldness e'er display,

One twaddler or another Whines—" What would your dear father say,

And what your worthy mother?
Kind, friendly folks, so good, so plain,

Imagine their sensations,
To see their only son's disdain

Shown to his poor relations.”

To-day a letter came to me,

Enough my nerves to splinter,
Two thirteenth cousins from Dundee,

Mean at my house to winter!
They “ know their visit I shall prize,"

They've “ often heard narrations
Of my kind hospitalities

To all my poor relations."

The Honourable Grace De Lisle

Might grant me her affections, “ Could I,” she whispers with a smile,

Shake off my low connexions :"
Alas! I've tried a thousand schemes,

All ending in frustrations,
My daily thoughts, my nightly dreams,

Are full of poor relations.

One hero of romance I know,

Safe from all rude intrusion,
How can the world its tears bestow

Upon his sad seclusion? 'Tis the last man !-this thought must check

At once his lamentations-
That he's amid the general wreck

Outlived his poor relations !

Literary Remains of the late William Hazlett, with a Notice of his

Life, by his Son, and Thoughts on his Genius and Writings, by E. L. BULWER, Esq., M.P., and Mr. SERGEANT TALFOURD, M.P.

2 Vols. Saunders and Otley, Conduit Street, 1836. A work better introduced to the public, or one that better deserves such an introduction, has not very lately appeared. We will not say it would be presumptuous, but it would certainly have been somewhat a labour of supererogation to have descanted at length on the idiosyncrasy of character and the merits of the writings of Mr. Hazlitt, when all that need be said on the matter, and which is so extremely well said also, is ready at our hands in these highly interesting volumes. It will be sufficient for us to inform those few of our readers, (and very few we presume them to be,) who are unacquainted with the outline of Mr. Hazlitt's life, that he was a man of the sanguineous and poetical temperament, the son of a most respectable Unitarian minister, well educated, and brought up professionally as an artist; in which pursuit, either from an excess of enthusiasm, a contempt of severe drudgery, or an impatience at mechanical detail, he failed. He never could paint up to his own standard of perfection, or adequately realize his conceptions either of the graceful, the beautiful, or the sublime. It must be told, in justice to him, that he judged more harshly of his own performances than did any other person. In fact, he was no mean proficient in his art.

Subsequently, he turned his genius from appealing to the physical, to address the mental eye, and used words instead of pigments to convey to his fellow man the aspirations of his soul. He became a general writer, excited much attention, and a great degree both of blame and approbation, and died at the early age of fifty-two.

The biographical sketch, written by his son, does much honour to his filial piety, and is by no means ill written, though we are compelled to say, that it has, in some measure, the effect of a foil to the spirited compositions that follow it, including his father's with those of Mr. Bulwer and Mr. Talfourd. Of this biographical sketch we shall merely extract one of Mr. Hazlitt's letters, written during the period that he was prosecuting his studies as a painter at Paris.

" December 10th, 1802. “ MY DEAR FATHER, “ I yesterday morning completed my copy of the picture called The Death of Clorinda ; I have been, in all, fifteen mornings about it. It is a very good copy; when I say this, I mean that it has very nearly all the effect of the picture, and will certainly make as great a figure in R- 's parlour, as the original does in the Louvre. It has been praised by some of the French painters. They have begun of late to compliment me on my style of getting on; though, at first, they were disposed to be very impertinent. This is the way of the world; you are always sure of getting encouragement, when you do not want it. After I had done my picture yesterday, I took a small canvass, which I had in the place, and began a sketch of a head in one of the large historical pictures, being

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