resided, blew out his brains in consequence of having lost heavily at Rouge et Noir. At eight o'clock on that morning his servant entered, and found him sleeping calmly and soundly. At nine, a brother officer who slept in an adjoining room was startled by the report of a pistol, succeeded by a few heavy sobs; and, rushing into the chamber of his friend, found him stretched upon his back, already lifeless, with the fatal instrument clenched firmly in his grasp. His wretched father arrived the next day, just as the police had brought a mean hearse and a rough shell to bear away the body: what must have been his feelings at such a moment? the victim was an only son! I have given the circumstance a place here, less because it is remarkable, than

on account of its having fallen within the cir

cle of my own observation.

The following trifle was written in the midst of the dissipated scenes which it attempts rather to sketch than to describe: imagination has had nothing to do with it, for almost every circumstance alluded to was witnessed; and every scene introduced, copied and coloured from life. Should it prove fortunate enough to afford half an hour's amusement to such as are in no danger of infection from the spirit of play which constitutes the epidemic of a Parisian atmosphere; or act as a preventive against the disease, in one case out of a hundred, with such as are in the way of contagion, it will be all that I desire, and more than I expect.

The stanza which I have adopted, although revived by Mr. Frere, and since made fashionable by Lord Byron, was a very favourite one in the early ages of our poetry. I believe Chaucer had the merit of importing it from Italy; and Fairfax afterwards made it the medium of his unrivalled translation from the "Jerusalem Delivered." The mere measure, however, has very little to do with the merit of a poem, as it is not the quantity of syllables, but of thought, which constitutes the value of verse: for what can be more common than prose in rhime? whilst, on the other hand, we sometimes even meet with poetry in prose.

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE

SECOND EDITION

The Author of these Poems cannot suffer them to be printed again without endeavouring to express his thanks for the kind reception of the first edition. He does not indeed know what to say to the critics, as the celerity with which his book has sold has not allowed of his receiving the benefit of their opinions. He will, however, imagine he has heard their favourable voices; and, "laying this flattering unction to his soul," awaits the stern reality.

April 9th, 1821.