admired, he had little time, or perhaps disposition, for reflection; and the last preceding stanzas were no doubt written at the earlier period. But a strong contrast to them is presented in the next and last example of his poetical talent, and, greatly is the estimate that we should have formed of his character, elevated by the impression, that these lines leave upon the reader's mind; they evince, not only how deep and sincere were his parental feelings, but also those religious ones, which, as he himself observes, were "to cheer his closing day." In the evening of life, Lord John Townshend was visited by several heavy domestic trials, having lost three children; one of them was the godson of his friend Charles Fox, and named after him. The first of these afflictions was the death of a favourite daughter, and this melancholy event he thus feelingly records :

"TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGIANA ISABELLA TOWNSHEND, WHO DIED ON THE 17TH OF SEPTEMBER 1811, IN THE

TWENTY-FIRST YEAR OF HER AGE.

BY HER FATHER.

"Oh! gone for ever-loved, lamented child!
So young, so good, so innocent and mild,
With winning manners, beauty, genius, sense,
Fond filial love, and sweet benevolence;
The softest, kindest heart, yet firmest mind;
In sickness patient, and in death resign'd;
Never, oh! never yet a fairer bloom
Of opening virtues found an early tomb !
How hard thy trials, how severe thy woes,
She, she alone, thy sorrowing mother knows,

Who, three long years, with sad foreboding heart,
Bankrupt of every hope from human art,

Still wept and watch'd, and still to Heaven for aid,
Her fruitless vows with meek devotion paid.
But thou, pure spirit! fled to endless rest,

Dear child! my heart-Dear Bella! thou art blest.
And oh! the thought that we again may meet !
Oh! not another gleam of hope so sweet
Dawns on thy father's breast with welcome ray,
To soothe his grief, and cheer his closing day."

It was after reading this natural and affecting epitaph that the author, deeply impressed by its beauty, though unskilled in verse, wrote the following lines; they have no poetical merit, but may meet with charitable criticism from the many, and interest the sympathies of some, who have passed through the same ordeal as himself. They commemorate the death of Edgar, who was born at Odessa, in South Russia, and died there suddenly on the 7th of March 1840.

THE FOREIGN GRAVE.

"Traveller, why shed the tear?-the flowing sails
Are spread, and fill'd by favouring gales !

Why sad and pensive thus, when, high and bright,
Old England's cliffs rise proudly on your sight?
When all around is gaiety and mirth,

Why listless view the land that gave you birth?

The Traveller paused-then on his friend, his bride,
He threw an earnest glance, and thus replied:-
'Stranger, think not that with regret I view
Those headlands bold-to England I am true!
On mouldering Rome I've gazed with deep delight,

On Marathon look'd down from dark Pentelic's height;

And wandering on with ardour unsubdued,
Symplegades I pass'd, and Euxine rude;
But not fair Hellas, with her southern smile,
Compares with yonder gem-our sea-girt isle.
To me that bay, that crag and inlet deep,
Are old familiar friends, yet still I weep;

For as we journey'd, full of hope and joy,
Death cross'd our cloudless path-we lost our boy!
With aching heart, his beauteous frame I bore
To the wild steppe on bleak Odessa's shore ;
And there, where in the field of death is seen
A small enclosure, with its gate of green,
I laid him down it was the place of rest
Of friends, who in that land I loved the best.

I look'd into the grave, the snow had drifted there;
Oh! what a winding-sheet for one so fair!
Though from his lips no word our ears could greet,
His glance was language, and his smile was sweet.
When last I saw his tranquil little face,
'Twas nestled in his mother's fond embrace;
So warin, so rosy, cast in such a mould!
Now wreathed in snow, inanimate and cold.
In foreign accents rose the burial hymn ;
My eyes were fill'd-ay to the very brim-
No simple floweret decks that infant's tomb,
Nature denies the daisy there to bloom;
But near the wall a small acacia grows,
Which o'er the grave a transient shadow throws.
No sculptured marble decorates the spot-
Think you that cherub-boy is then forgot?
Oh no! so long as life and sense are ours,
His loss will tinge with gloom our gayest hours;
Tombs must, like man, decay; the foaming wave
May, in some ages hence, that churchyard lave;
Perhaps its mounds invade, and with rude hand
Sweep every trace away, and leave a sand-
Stranger! 'tis for my child these tears I shed;
Our hearts are on the Euxine with the Dead!'"

Towards the close of his life, Lord John Townshend spent much of his time at Brighton, where he was greatly respected, and received many and marked attentions from his late Majesty. He died on the 25th of February 1833, in the seventy-seventh year of

his age.

VOL. I.

P

CHAPTER XVII.

Estimation in which Brummell was held by Clever Men-The Poet Crabbe's Opinion of him-The Butterfly's Funeral-Brummell the Author of it-Julia Storer-The Beau's Verses on her Child-An Anecdote from the Clubs of London-A Rencontre between Sheridan and Brummell-Sheridan's Fugitive Poetry-Lines Addressed to the Countess of Bessborough-Tom Sheridan-The Loss of the Saldanha Frigate-His Stanzas on the Event-Lines to Julia.

THAT Brummell possessed a refined taste, not merely in dress and manners, but on subjects more worthy of his intellect, is proved by his being admitted on intimate terms to the society of such women as the late Duchesses of Devonshire and Rutland; and men whose pursuits were of a much higher order than those of the idlers of Watier's, or the flaneurs of Bond Street and St. James's. Had he indeed been nothing better than an elegant automaton, he would never have acquired the influence that he decidedly obtained; he would not have enjoyed the society of clever men, neither would they have thought it worth their while to bestow a word upon him, even in their moments of relaxation.-But the reverse was the case: his acquaintance was not limited to men of fashion only; it comprised a great portion of the most intellectual