LITERARY PARLIAMENT.

My Friends and Lettermen,

It is with great satisfaction that I meet you in consultation, and that I am enabled to recur in the present conjuncture to your assistance and advice.

Events of deep interest and importance have occurred in the Literary World. The old series of the Ladies' Museum no longer exists, and a New Series is to be raised on its base, which must not fail to create general approbation. I have witnessed with deep regret the state of affairs in the female circles. I lament, that in this enlightened age, no Lady's Periodical should be found worthy, by its elegance and talent, to receive the exalted patronage of the Fair.

Appearances of tumult and revolution have exhibited themselves abroad, which, by creating confusion, will occasion, we predict, the downfall of others, tending, nevertheless, materially to our benefit. You will keep an eye upon the belligerents, in order to profit by their destruction.

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.

By Mrs. Hemans.

OH! call my brother back to me,

I cannot play alone;

Lettermen of Ivy Lane,*

I have ordered estimates to be laid be-fore you, by which you will perceive, that I am determined to spare no expense in the current year, to embellish our periodical with the best type, the finest plates, and the prettiest cover that human ingenuity can devise.

I trust you will unite your efforts with mine in the furtherance of the end in view.

My Friends and Lettermen,

I continue to receive the most gratifying assurances from Foreign parts. Our Subscribers are daily increasing, and the time will shortly arrive, when no family of respectability in the kingdom will be without a monthly copy of our interesting work.

I am determined to exert my best ener gies in promoting our object, and I hope you will employ your pens in the concoction of such articles as shall exclude dullness and monotony, and enliven the sociability of our Christmas hearths.

The summer comes with flower and bee,-
Where is my brother gone?
The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sun-beam's track;

I care not now to chase its flight-
Oh! call my brother back.

The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed
Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load-
Oh! call him back to me!

He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled
On earth no more thoul't see.

A rose's brief, bright life of joy,

Such unto him was given ;--
Go! thou must play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven.

And has he left his birds and flowers?
And must I call in vain ?

And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wandering's o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more !

PUNNING SERMON.

The following curious string of puns is stated to be taken from a scarce work published in the reign of James the First. A divine, more willing to play with words than to be serious in expounding his text, spoke thus in some part of his sermon. This Dial shows that we must die all; yet notwithstanding, all houses are turned into Ale Houses; our cares are turned into cates; our Paradise into a pair o' dice; Matrimony into a matter o' money, and Marriage into a Merry age; our Divines have become Dry Vines; it was not so in the days of Noahah no!

Or radiant planets stud the sky,
When the rude breeze is hushed to rest,
And all is calm serenity;
'Tis sweet in recollection then

Each blissful moment past to see,
And though far absent from thee, pass
In happy thought an hour with thee.
"An hour with thee!"-When the fatigue
And labour of the day are o'er,
And every worldly thought resign'd

For those of pure affection's store, What boon on earth can equal mine? What bliss surpass the charm for me, To sit and gaze, and while away,

In converse sweet, an hour with thee? "An hour with thee" can well repay

This life's anxiety and care, And form sufficient recompence

For all the troubles that I bear!
There is no sorrow that I feel,

Albeit acute its pangs may be,
Thy soothing art will not dispel
In one fond hour- -an hour with thee!

-

A STORY OF ANCIENT TIMES.

Brantome, a respectable French author, relates, that in the reign of Francis I., a young lady, who had a very talkative lover, laid her commands upon him, to observe an absolute silence for an unlimited time. The lover obeyed the order for two years, during which space it was thought, that, by some accident or other he had lost the use of his speech. He happened one day to be at an assembly, where he met his mistress, who was not known as such-love being conducted in those days in a more mysterious manner than at present. The lady boasted she would cure him instantly, and did it with a single word, Speak. What more could the Pythagorean philosophy have done with all its parade and boasting? Is there a lady now that could depend upon so exact an obedience even for a single day?

But the times of chivalry, in particular, afforded examples almost incredible, of an attachment, carried even to adoration, which the knights, and other military heroes of those ages, constantly evinced for their mistresses, to whom, indeed, they were, in the literal sense of their amorous professions-the devoted slaves.

Oh! my love has an eye of the softest blue, Yet it was not that that won me;

But a little bright drop from her soul was there,

'Tis that that has undone me.

I might have pass'd that lovely cheek,

Nor, perchance, my heart have left me; But the sensitive blush that came trembling there,

Of my heart it for ever bereft me.

I might have forgotten that red, red lip --
Yet how from the thought to sever;
But there was a smile from the sunshine
within,

And that smile I'll remember for ever.
Think not 'tis nothing but mortal clay,-
The elegant form that haunts me;
'Tis the gracefully delicate mind that moves
In every step that enchants me.

Let me not hear the nightingale sing,

Though I once in its notes delighted; The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth,

Has left me no music beside it.

Oh! who could blame, had I lov'd that face, Ere my eye could twice explore her; Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there, And her warm-warm beart, I adore her.

REV. C. WOLfe.

"would

After the revocation of the famous edict of Nantz, when the Protestants were persecuted in every part of France, an English ambassador demanded of Lewis XIV. the liberty of all those that were sent to the gallies on account of their religion. "And what," answered the royal bigot, the King of Great Britain say, were I to require the release of all his prisoners in Newgate ?"—" Sire," returned the ambassador, the king, my master, would immediately comply with your requisition, if your majesty interposed for them, not as malefactors, but as your brethren."

THE TALBA; or Moor of Portugal. A Romance. By Mrs. Bray, Author of "The White Hood," 'The Protestant,' "Fits of Fitsford," &c. &c. 3 Vols. London, 1830. Longman and Co. THE story of this romance is laid in the middle of the fourteenth century, and was suggested, as far as regards one of its leading features, to the mind of the admired authoress while viewing, in the exhibition at Somerset House, in 1829, the picture by St. Evre, which represents the coronation of a corpse, as Queen of Portugal, in the church of Alcobaça. At the solemnization of this awful ceremony, the royal family, nobility, and courtiers, are stated to have attended "to do homage to her remains," and to have "kissed her withered hand," in token of a sort of posthumous allegiance, while Don Pedro, the sovereign, "stood by directing the ceremony as if she had been a living queen." To the representation of this strange and chilling spectacle are we indebted for the highly amusing volumes before us. It may easily be imagined that the age which could give birth to a ceremony at once so peculiar and unprecedented, was not wanting in that wild and chivalric character so well fitted, generally, to the purposes of Mrs. Bray's work. But the period to which her story reverts possesses another advantage, for it was then that the Moors, that daring, and oppressed, and despised race, those

"Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue,"

were fretting themselves against the tyrannies of Alphonso, and playing, in wild and terrible starts, the game of rapine and of death. Good as are the materials with which Mrs. Bray has wrought, yet has she done ample justice to them-she has imagined well and executed boldly. Her delineations of character and descriptions of events possess, for the most part, the noble energy of a master-spirit. We would fain follow her through the details of the story, but we know that we should be far from gratifying our fair readers, should we thus abridge the pleasures of anticipation by breaking the charm of deep and engrossing interest which pervades almost every chapter of this well-told tale. We cannot, however, refrain from giving one extract from a work which has called forth so much of our admiration.

Don Manuel de Castro, a patriot in the genuine sense of the word-by birth a JAN. 1831.

Welcome, my father?' said Ines; oh, can you doubt it! many and worthy have been the thoughts that I have entertained for you.'

"But hast thou entertained the like for thyself, Ines?' continued Don Manuel, as he bent on her a look of anxious inquiry. What truth is there in the things I hear of thee? Even at the court of Arragon it is noised abroad that the daughter of De Castro is more to the prince of Portugal than suits with her own fame or her father's honour. I would not decide rashly. I will hear calmly and judge fairly. Thy head is cast down, there is a blush on thy cheek. Look up, Ines! darest thou look up, and say thou art worthy to call thyself the child of old Manuel de Castro?'

"Ines seemed deeply affected, and her agitation increased at every word that was spoken by her father. She did not answer.

Nay, then, I see how it is,' he cried; 'thou art worthless. Oh, Ines, I would rather see thee dead than see thee shamed; -yet I cannot think ;-speak but the word, say thou art guiltless. Do not break the heart of thy father-already does it bleed with sorrow;-say thou art innocent, and he lives!'

"Ines, in a transport of feeling, rushed to her father's arms, clasped her hands, and vehemently exclaimed, As there is a God in heaven who sees the truth of all hearts, so does he know that I am innocent! These foul suspicions, these whispers of envy and calumny, these may dis turb my peace, but they cannot alarm my conscience.'

"Don Manuel seemed in some degree relieved by this emphatic declaration of his daughter; for there was in it that fervour of expression which truth imparts to those who are inspired by the love of virtue. Holy Virgin be praised!' he said: 'I no longer doubt thee. Thine, Ines, is not the brow of shame; nor was so fair an index as this face made to bear the cha

F

racter of dishonour. Whence is it, then, that these reports have arisen? I know the sacred alliance which subsists between Don Pedro and yourself, that of your being sponsor to his son. I know it sanctions his devoted respect, his attentions to you. These things make it in some degree a duty that he should be to you as a faithful friend, a brother. In consequence of this holy alliance, he gave to you the very palace in which I find you as a residence. Yet I hear the boy is removed from your care, whilst his father has made no change in his devotion to your service.'

"The youthful Ferdinand is of sufficient age,' replied Ines, to be removed to the charge of a governor. The prince of Portugal, his father, is wise and virtuous, incapable of dishonour, and--'

"And loves thee,' said Don Manuel, as, with a penetrating look, he fixed his eye on his daughter to read her inmost soul. I see it is so. I will not, therefore, question thee on that point: I will not tempt thee to sully thy pure mind with even a thought of dissembling. But, oh, Ines, beware:-I know the sacred tie, which, through the medium of his boy, binds thee to Don Pedro. Beware, lest it becomes abused. The prince, both by the laws of the church and of his station, can never be more to thee than he now is. There lies a gulf between you. To pass it would be infamy. It is a boundary guarded by the interdict of heaven itself. Whilst you respect it, you are safe. Attempt to climb the height on which the prince soars so far above you, and ruin, misery, and death must follow. Did all else fail, I would play the Roman father rather than see thee live dishonoured. Remember my admonition, and beware-'

con.

"I shall never forget, sir,' said Ines, what is due to my own honour or to yours. The prince himself, I am vinced, would no longer esteem me could I become base. His heart is full of virtue, and his lips breathe its dictates.'

"It may be so,' said Don Manuel,'yet princes are not as other men. There is a lustre about their high station which throws a light, though it be a false one, even on their very vices. Beware, my daughter; in one so far above you, there is seduction in his very favour. The wrath of a prince is far less destructive than his affections when they are lawless. Too often are they like poisons, sweet to the lips, but deadly in the draught. So much for this. Now for other matters. Dost thou know I was sent from Algrave to Arragon, as ambassador from Alonso, King of Portugal?'

"I have heard as much, sir,' replied Ines. The object of your mission I did not learn. But as I heard you undertook it with more than ordinary anxiety, I conjectured that, whatever the mission might be, it in some way affected your native country of Castile.'

"You were right, my child,' replied Don Manuel, 'it did affect Castile-nay, more, the very existence of my country, so long exposed to danger, rests on the ultimate success of this mission to Arragon. Thou knowest that the Count of Transtamare, who has risen in arms against the tyrant, Peter the Cruel, has applied to Alonso of Portugal to become his ally in the enterprise. Alonso, desirous to give effectual aid, sent me as ambassador to Arragon, to propose terms that should induce the sovereign of that country to join him. I have fulfilled my mission, and now return to Portugal in the hope to bring all things to a favourable close.'

"Yet I hear,' said Ines,' that Peter the Cruel has obtained the support of England. What hope, therefore, has Castile?'

"All hope,' replied Don Manuel, 'if Portugal, if Arragon, take up arms in her behalf. And that Arragon may do so, now depends on one condition. Should that fail, Castile may be numbered with those countries that lie deluged in blood, and look on misery as on their inheritance ; whilst here, there will breathe no soul who will lay these griefs to heart but one old man, whose arm, weakened by age, already trembles as it wields the sword. If this purpose fails in favour of Castile, I shall go down to the grave in sorrow and in shame.'

If she

"Alas, sir,' said Ines, 'you think too deeply on these things. You have suffered every peril in the support of your native land; whilst you could aid her, nothing have you spared to do so. must fall, console yourself with thinking it to be the will of Heaven; and do, my dearest father, do endeavour to forget these anxious thoughts.'

'Forget!' cried Don Manuel; 'as soon could I forget my own soul. No; if the tyrant who now rules Castile falls or lives, I will not forget her. Tyrants have their date of life, they pass away, but our country never. Have I not cause of grief? Does it not seem as if, at this very time, the wrath of God was poured out on the nations of the earth? It is as if the fourth seal were opened, and that death with the pale horse, followed by hell, had power given to them: for surely the sword, hunger, and misery, have spared no