"

"the Naval officer at Haulbowline, for conveyance to Plymouth, some cordage may be made, in order to ascertain more correctly its strength "and its fitness for Naval purposes."

A few days ago I received from a quondam College acquaintance, now in London, the letter from which the following is an extract-it needs but little comment-it speaks for itself.

66

of MagBy the bye, speaking of the black mare, poor B"dalen, is off-blew his brains out a few days ago-he road a famous "black mare at Cambridge, you remember, and a bold horseman he was— "he left us oddly enough at College, and went abroad, and when he came back, gave us all the go bye, on town-he was always a queer fel* -E**, who "low, especially after the death of-they say that he -E

picks up all sorts of odd things, gave me a paper of verses that was "found in his desk the day after his death-I dont know what to make of "them but as you are a poet, I send them to you.-He was a devil of a "fool to shoot himself, that B- : for he was a fine looking fellow, and "had plenty of money, and half the girls in town were dying in love for "him.-Dont forget the Greyhound, like a good fellow, and be sure to❞—

Poor Edward! your moan was soon made by the companion of your youth-I saw him about a year ago, and an altered man indeed he was, I annex the unfinished verses which my sporting correspondent could "make nothing of;" to me they have told much; they have one merit at least, they are true to nature; they exhibit a faithful picture of the mind of the unhappy man, and they teach an awful lesson.-Young, talented, and accomplished, as he was, with every advantage of person and of fortune, one would have deemed his course through life, a path strewed with flowers. What was his fate?—A miserable existence-a fearful end.

I stand upon the brink of life, and look
Into the dark and fathomless abyss,

The world of shadows-are they shadows, these—

The awful Forms that seem to beckon me

To leap from life into their element.—

A solem feeling, not of fear, but awe

Mingled with longing, steals into my soul.

-A captive from my childhood, I have been

Chained in the fetters of mortality,

Passions, and hopes, and fears, and earthly longings;

And I have struggled fiercely,-but in vain ;

Dashing my prisoned spirit 'gainst the bars

That shut me from the freedom which I sought.

-Bright forms have crossed my path, with looks of light
Immortal in their beauty, as it were,

And I have hail'd their coming from afar,

As the sad watches of the night hails morning,

And turns him from the darkness which hath passed

Unto the coming light, and when we met,

We took sweet counsel, as it were together,

How we might pass thro' life without a tear,
-I would I might forget those passages-

I would I might forget myself to stone:
Or sleep and dream not--but it may not be
When my lids close, come sad and shadowy forms,
The race whose dwelling is in gloom, come forth
And flock with silent step around my couch,
Making the darkness populons with horrors

-I wander――I am wandering from my task-
I will go on-I well remember one,
The brightest of the forms of which I spake,
So radiant in her beauty, one might deem
She was some fair creation of a dream,
Life-like, but brighter than the life :--her eye
Had more of sweetness in it than of fire,

We parted.The inexorable one

With whom I soon will grapple, laid his hand
Upon her beauty, and it faded fast,

But yet more sweet, and touching in decay
"Twould almost move to tears, to look on it.
Her form, tho' light and delicate before,
Seemed melting into very air, it grew
So phantom-like and shadowy, as she stood
In wan and aerial lovelines before me,
I almost fear'd to close my watchful eyes
Lest she might vanish wholly--It is coming,
It comes again-the unutterable hour,
And I must fling aside my task, and turn
And string myself to bear with stern endurance

The

She smil'd

Sadly, but sweetly, and the bluse rose-tint Flushed for a moment on her cheek, then faded; She pressed my hand in her's-1 feel that clasp After the lapse of years, I feel it still;

-And then she turned her gentle eyes to mine, And her lips moved, as tho' they syllabled The words they might not unter, for the voice The sweet low voice I had so loved, was gone, -And when she saw the effort was in vain,

And that it moved me to an agony,

She sighed as if for me-not for herself-
And tremulously loosened from her clasp

The passive hand she held unconsciously,

And looked the sad farewell, she might not speak :

A sweet, long look of pity and of love

-And then her features settled, as her spirit Receding slowly from its dwelling place, Addressed itself unto it's earthly flight

When I awakened into dreary life,

I did not well remember what I was,

For all things seemed tho' as they had been changed;

I lay upon a couch, and crowded around me
Were unremembered forms, and sounds of pity
Were jingling in mine ears confusedly,

All harsh and out of tune,-Oh! how unlike
The tones I did so love--and then came back
As with a sudden blow, upon my brain,
The terrible parting—and the stagnant blood
Leaped in my veins, as if instinct with life,
Wheeling and boiling like a cataract
That toils in the deep caverns of the earth,
In blind and darkling rage— -my reason reeled,
But consciousness departed not

How long that unimaginable strife
Of reason and of madness did continue,

I cannot tell, albeit I felt it all;

But well I know, the agony of an age
May be endured within a single hour,

And the mind wither, and the heart grow cold,
As with the wint'ry touch of years of grief;
But let that pass,-I soon will be the thing

All fear to look on, but which all must be;
I would endure existence, tho' the hell

Of which they preach, is in me, and around me,
For I am safe from fear in my despair ;-

But reason is about to pass from me,

And I do but anticipate my fall,—

My race is run,-I have no further task,

And I would rest in peace,-I will not live

To be the pity, mockery, or sport

Of those whom once my mind had power to sway;

I will not rot within a darkling cell,

With gyves and fetters on my wasted limbs,

A moving sepulchre, a living grave

Of buried hope and love, and lofty thought;

I will die standing, as the Roman did,
Erect in mind and body to the last,
And looking my dark destiny in the face.

I pray you, when I pass from out this body,
To lay it in the solitary spot

Where she lies sleeping, -'tis an idle wish,

But yet refuse it not.—I have no more

To ask, nor you to grant,—

-so fare you well.

0.

AMY GREY.

Letter to the Editor, inclosing the Letters of Amy Grey.

DEAR SIR,

I shall feel obliged by your inserting a portion of "The posthumous letters of AMY GREY," in your Magazine. They were written by a dear and valued friend, who during her life-time shrunk from appearing before the world, but in her last illness she complied with my earnest request, that I might be allowed to publish them after her death. I feel deeply anxious, that sentiments so well felt, and so well expressed, as those of my valued friend, should at last meet the public eye, and perhaps influence the public taste. The character and writings of the celebrated individual to whom they relate, have long been themes for illiberality and misconception. If there be any, who allow their rage for condemnation to extend beyond the hallowed precincts of the tomb, without venturing to remind them of the Christian precept, "judge not, that ye be not judged," we may simply ask: is it not the law of England, that every man shall be judged by his peers? The answer is obviously contained in the question: where are Lord Byron's peers? To him, it is true, the publication of these letters can be of no consequence. No,

But doubtless it is of consequence, that the subject should be discussed in the spirit of enlightened impartiality; and the letters of Amy Grey prove how highly the noble Poet was estimated by a person, who possessed not only rare and personal talents, but an eminently pious and virtuous soul. It may likewise be useful to show, that on the minds of the young and innocent, (who are not exposed to injudicious comments) the impression that the works in question have made, and which they are most likely to make, is neither dangerous nor unsalutary.

I have never known a more interesting woman, than Amy Grey. I saw her in the spring-tide of her existence, and I can never forget the novel and attractive style of her appearance, at the early age of sixteen. She was not pretty-she was much more. If an elastic form, if a noble line of feature, if soft dark eyes, "lovely in their strength;" if the power of intellect, and the spell of gracefulness are allowed to constitue beauty-Amy Grey was beautiful. I saw her in after-life: when care and suffering, had blended premature grey hairs, with her luxuriant raven tresses, when the lustre of her eye was dimmed, yet not extinguished, when her wan, though still lovely eyelids, told a tale of sorrow, which was concealed from the indifferent spectator, by a smile beaming with playfulness and intelligence, and by a glance still bright, with the inspiration of genius. Her manners, gay, graceful, and fascinating to an unusual degree, were to the last, untainted by provincialism; they would have graced the most polished court. I am incompetent to convey a just idea, of the rare and exquisite conversational powers, of this highly-gifted woman,

Whose humour as gay, as the fire-fly's light

Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd,

Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright,

Never carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

D