The mirth was hush'd, the songsters' lays
Broke short; and each in solemn gaze
Hung on the leaf, nor dared to raise
A timorous eye;

Each fear'd, upon the other's face
His own sad feelings writ, to trace,
As the pale emblem spoke the race

Of summer run.

It seem'd some fairy, throned in air,
Had mark'd our bliss, and pausing there,
Dismiss'd a monitor to bear

Truth to each heart,

To tell us that the scene might glow,
But soon should change in cheerless snow,
To tell us that our bliss should know

An autumn too.

That joys but coming sorrow speak,
As calms precede the tempest bleak,
That death his surest victim's cheek

With roses paints.

Yes, in that moment, on that day,
Reflection stole my smiles away;
And, like him, weeping to survey

His myriad bands,

Methought, ere many a year goes round,
Few may, of us, who on this ground

Now gaily revel, few be found

To meet again.

The young before the old may go;
And he who bids this measure flow
May fall, perhaps, the first, to show

This moral true."

I will close this chapter with the following lines of George Canning's and some by Mrs. O'Neill, also from the scrap-book: the former do not certainly impair the force and truth of Mr. Lockhart's remark on his satirical powers. "No man," he says, 66 ever possessed a gayer wit in society than he did; his lash fetched away both skin and flesh, and would have penetrated the hide of a rhinoceros:" it would indeed have penetrated the hide of that animal, and tanned. I have not found these lines amongst Canning's published poems. They were written on Mr. Whitbread's speech at the opening of the impeachment of Viscount Melville in 1805, of which trial Chief Baron Thompson observed, that he had "heard of an 'impeachment of waste,' but that these proceedings were, in his humble opinion, a waste of impeachment." Many were the droll stories that the amiable old judge had to tell of this trial, and that of the famous one of Warren Hastings; at which he used to assure his delighted listeners, the juniors of the bar, that his Brother Gould, when proceeding with great solemnity to take his place at the spot appointed for the judges, sat down on one of the heralds,-who was so disguised by his tabard, that he mistook him for a state chair!

GEORGE CANNING.

"I'm like Archimedes for science and skill,
I'm like a young princess that went up a hill ;
And, to interest the hearts of the fair, be it said,
I'm like a young lady just bringing to bed.

Would you know why th' eleventh of June I remember,
Much better than April, or March, or November?
'Twas because on that day ('tis with pride I assure ye)
My sainted progenitor took to his Brewery.

That morn he began his first brewing of beer,

That evening commenced his connubial career :

On that day he died, having finished his summing,

And the angels cried, 'Look! here's old Whitbread a-coming.' So that day I hail with a smile and a sigh,

For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I.

And on that day each year, in the hottest of weather,

The whole Whitbread family feast altogether.

My Lords, while the beams of this hall shall support
The roof which o'ershades this respectable court
(Where Hastings was tried for oppressing the Hindoos),
While the beams of the sun shall shine in at the windows,
My name shall shine bright, as my father's now shines,
Emblazon'd on Journals, as his is on Signs."

A most extraordinary and touching circumstance closed the proceedings of this trial, which, however it may have flattered Lord Melville, did not perhaps afford him such unalloyed gratification as it did amusement to his brother peers. It is said that when his acquittal was pronounced, the eccentric Duchess of Gordon, his countrywoman, rose from her seat, and with a warmth of feeling, which made every particular hair of his lordship's ermine stand on end, rushed forward and kissed him!-exclaiming, in no very subdued tone, "Weel, my lord, I'm very glad to see that we have at least one honest mon in this hoose." Henrietta Boyle, the authoress of the amusing verses that conclude this chapter, born in 1758, was

the only daughter of Charles, Viscount Dungarvon, eldest son of John, fifth Earl of Cork.

On the 18th of

October 1777, she married John O'Neil, Esq., of Shanes Castle, near Antrim, in the streets of which town he was cruelly and brutally piked by the rebels in 1798.

MRS. O'NEILL.

"Ere raging seas between us roll,
Oh come and soothe my tortured soul!
Return once more to me;

Come, and each anxious fear remove,
Speak peace, and tell me that you love,
And bid me live for thee.

Come, and my wayward fancy cheat,
Persuade me by some dear deceit

That long I shall not mourn ;

Calm all my woes, subdue my sighs,
By some sweet lawful perjuries,
And be for once forsworn.

Swear, that ere three eternal weeks,
You'll kiss the tear from off my cheeks,
Though you mean twice the time ;

Swear, that for worlds you would not be,
Another day or hour from me,—

Love will absolve the crime."

Mrs. O'Neill died on the 3rd of September 1793, and her husband was created a peer on the 30th of November following. This accomplished lady wrote some interesting poetry, amongst which, under the name of Geraldine Verney, was an Ode to the Poppy, originally printed in her friend Charlotte Smith's novel of "Desmond," and subsequently in the Rev. A. Dyce's "Specimens of British Poetesses."

CHAPTER XIX.

"Wales, ring the bell"-The Real Delinquent-Brummell's Quarrel with the Prince of Wales-Causes that Led to it-Ben and Benina -Mrs. Fitzherbert-The Beau's Impudence-" Who's your Fat Friend?"-Brummell's Intimacy with the Duke of York-Letters from the Duchess to Brummell-Her great Partiality for DogsFête at Oatlands-The Duke's Reply to his Servant-A Pastoral Dialogue by R. B. Sheridan-The Right Honourable George Rose.

NOTWITHSTANDING the great disparity of rank, the intimacy that was formed between Brummell and the Prince of Wales continued for some years uninterrupted. He was a constant guest at Carlton House, and was distinguished by many marks, never pecuniary ones, of his royal friend's partiality for him. At length however a rupture took place, but it was not caused by the circumstance to which it is usually attributed. The story of "Wales, ring the bell!" was always denied by Brummell: indeed he seemed indignant at its being generally credited; and I have heard him, in explanation of the subject, say, "I was on such intimate terms with the Prince, that if we had been alone I could have asked him to ring the bell without offence; but with a third person in the room I should never have done so; I knew the Regent too well."