180 SONNET. 



in the possession of my Catherine, I can hardly bring myself to make 

 any mention of " metal less attractive." She has, however, in mone- 

 tary means, nearly two hundred a-year, derived from her deceased 

 parents, and husbanded for her till lately by that very respectable 

 old gentleman (her guardian), with whom and his wife she had 

 chanced to be on the identical evening when I first beheld her at the 

 pit entrance of the King's Theatre. 



If I have now renounced for ever the trammels of City clerkship, 

 and the martyrdom of desk and ledger, it is not wholly on the 

 strength of my dear Catherine's property. I have, in fact, expecta- 

 tions from a distant aunt but let that pass and I have thoughts of 

 attempting to write something for the about-to-be regenerated 

 British stage something pertaining, in short, to the legitimate 

 drama. 



Experience confers the best title to give advice. If any respect- 

 able young man, of taste and capacity for a domestic life, but not 

 having the ordinary opportunities of getting married, should parti- 

 cularly wish to do so, I would say unto him, " Advertise in a re- 

 spectable newspaper." Since the success attendant on my own 

 experiment, I have been led to make some rather nice inquiries on 

 this delicate subject, and I learn that among the papers whose 

 columns lend particular support to the altar of Hymen, the Sunday 

 Times occupies a distinguished place. I would, however, decidedly 

 say, in the words of my friend Doleman, and in the spirit of my own 

 feeling, " Try the Morning Herald /*' 



SONNET. 



BY SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 

 THE WAVE OF TREES BY TWILIGHT. 



SHOOK by the wind the trees wave awefully, 

 And bend their branches in the twilight air ; 

 They seem to whisper solemn mystery, 

 And tidings of half-hidden warning bear. 

 Is there a Seer who plainly can descry 

 What secrets of our fate they would declare ? 

 Th' obeisance low, the flutter and the sigh, 

 The semblance of a prophet's murmurs wear. 

 And now the light grows strong, and in the glare 

 Of day-beams they put off their witchery ! 

 'Tis in the dark or twilight spirits dare 

 The magic of their fearful arts to try ! 

 But fearful though they be, the visions seem 

 To trick me thus, as in a fairy dream ! 



