Such is the life of man, alas!
Fresh toys employ each stage;
From infancy to youth we pass,
From manhood to old age.

We, like the lily, fresh and gay,
Spring up at early dawn,

But fly before the Sun's bright ray,

Like mists that skim the lawn.

Charm'd with each shifting scene we view,
Or ravish'd with a song;

Still pleas'd with something strange or new,
Life gently glides along.

But tired to find each joy so fast
Thus vanish'd from our sight,
The curtain drops, and then at last,
All's wrapt in endless night.

TRIUMPH OF THE ART OF HAIR-DRESSING OVER

PHILOSOPHY.

"Happy the man, alone thrice happy he,

"Who can through gross effects their causes see.”

COWLEY,

For many years past the hair-dressers have complained of their art not being honoured according

to its dignity. Queues are cut off without any ceremony; or a small rat's tail, at the most, is alone suffered to remain: all the rest must be bristles. Even the animating powder is dispensed with; and instead of being indebted to the comb, as formerly, for the captivating lock, we are seen, like cats or flies, with our hands up to our heads whenever we are afraid the bristles are not sufficiently elevated. The flowing wig, at once that boast of the art, and noble ornament of our ancestors, is banished; and we must look back with a melancholy regret to the times when a courtier borrowed the gravity of a judge from his appendage*.

These allegations of the honourable fraternity of peruque-makers are certainly well founded. It is now with our hair as with our philosophy; each has experienced a discouraging change: once the former had much pudding, and the latter much bombast; but by degrees every thing has been so cut away from both, as to leave them shapeless masses, without a name. The complainants may, however, console themselves with having some place of refuge where at least they will not starve amidst the universal desolation that has spread over their trade; but I

*With respect to a powdered head being an ornament to a human being, we have more than once expressed our opinion in the "Flowers of Literature."-We shall not repeat our sentiments on that subject, the fashion having now become sufficiently ridiculous-we do not, however, dispute the necessity of it to judges, courtiers, and old women!

do not recollect that philosophers have the advantage of any corner of the earth where their systems will be adopted without opposition. Augsburg is the resort for genuine peruque-makers of the old school; where every honest member, who is shocked by the conversion of hair into bristles, will find a retreat from the horrors that have assailed him in this innovating age. Here he will find reverend sirs with their monstrous wigs, which display a thousand locks dropping in so many curls; and, more than this, the friseur, who in his native place served only mortals, may here aspire to the glory of exercising his art upon deities. The Holy Ghost is the only person of the Trinity who appears at Augsburg unadorned with a curled wig. It is a real luxury to enter any one of the churches here, it matters not which, and behold the Virgin Mary dressed in brocades, with a wig flowing down her shoulders; and in her arms the child Jesus, no less decorated with a well-powdered peruque. Even in the representation of God the Father, the locks fall from his head upon the globe which he holds. In short, no peruquemaker will ever enter a church at Augsburg without shedding tears of joy.

PARTICULARS OF CHATTERTON,

ACROSTIC.

Mean as I am, yet have the Muses made
Me a free member of their tuneful trade;
I could have once sung down a summer's sun,
But now the chime of poetry is done!

-For cares and time change all things.

COMFORT and joy's for ever fled:
He ne'er will warble more!
Ah me! the sweetest youth is dead
That e'er tun'd reed before.

The hand of Mis'ry bow'd him low;
E'en Hope forsook his brain:
Relentless man contemn'd his woe:

To you he sigh'd in vain.

DRYDEN.

Oppress'd with want, in wild despair he cried, "No more I'll live!" swallow'd the draught--and died.

CHATTERTON AND THE BLACK-LETTER BIBLE.

SOME time after my discovery of the whole Shaksperian imposition, I quitted London, and remained for some weeks in the vicinity of Bristol. Curiosity naturally prompted me to visit the chamber in the turret of St. Mary Redcliff church, wherein were deposited the papers to which Chatterton must have had access, and from which he pretended to have drawn his Rowley's Poems. It contained the old

chests, which were empty; being in every other respect a cheerless stone room. After inspecting this chamber, I waited upon Mrs. Newton, Chatterton's sister, who, as usual, produced the letters received from her brother, which she styled the only remaining relics of her dear Thomas. After having given them a very careful perusal (from which many proofs of paternal affection were apparent), I proceeded to make more minute enquiries respecting Chatterton, than were usually made by the few strangers that were prompted by mere curiosity to visit her. My questions and her answers, as nearly as I can recollect, were to the following effect:

"Do you call to mind any circumstance of a particular nature respecting your brother when a child?"

"He was always very reserved, and fond of seclusion: we often missed him for half a day together; and once well I remember his being most severely chastised for a long absence: at which he did not, however, shed one tear, but merely said, "It was hard indeed to be whipped for reading."

"Did he ever betray any extraordinary symptoms when young?"

"No other, sir, than what I said; except, indeed, that he was taught his letters from an old blackletter Bible, and would not take his lesson from any book of modern type."

This circumstance very forcibly struck me, and I endeavoured to acquire more knowledge on this head, but she recollected nothing at all interesting.