there is an apparent sympathy between the pages she peruses, and her own feelings. The back of her hand again passes across her eyes, to dash aside the tear that trembles on the long silken fringe which conceals them; but there is a smile of triumph playing about her beautiful lip, which seems to proclaim, that they are but rainbow tears the shower that predicts sunshine.

What can she be reading? The marble half-bound cover makes me surmise it to be the book of some circulating library-a novel, no doubt-and the poor girl fancies the denouement of her own history in the imaginary one of some fictitious heroine. By the broad square label on the cover, and the neat smaller one on the back, the book is evidently from the vicinity of Bond-street. It is not usual for persons in her situation to subscribe to such superior emporiums of romantic lore. It is most likely lent to her by some one in a higher station than herself and the cabriolet again crosses my mind.

But the book is finished-her eye still lingers on the last page she turns over the blank fly leaf, in search of only one more moment of forgetfulness. St. James's clock strikes the four quarters-she counts them anxiously— and waits the sonorous completion of the sentence of the of the tongue of time. It tolls one-she seems to wait breathlessly, in the hope of one more chime-but it comes not excepting from other clocks, which all confirm the truth of its being but one. Two, then, is the hour which she anticipates. The book has done its duty, and is thrown aside-her hat and scarf are laid where they are most readily to be seized when they shall be wanted. Her movements up and down the room become quicker, and her glances out of the window are no longer directed only to the sky-at the rattle of every carriage, there is an involuntary approach to the balcony-and as

it passes, and its sound dies away in the distance, so does the flush of hope fade from her countenance. "No, no-He will not come before his time," is indicated by that expressive shake of the head. The quarters are struck as slowly as usual-at length, one-two, is counted by the evident movement of her lips-and her hands are for one moment clasped in silent thankfulness.

Impatience now characterizes every motion-in her visits to the window, one foot is stretched out into the balcony, and the eye strained to catch a glimpse of the most distant carriage, or, with a desperate kind of movement, she now passes up and down the room, with the determination to take so many turns before she ventures another look-then she resolves to count so many, in the hope, that before the completion of her self-imposed task, her wishes may be accomplished. She hurries on the numbers-she rushes to the window-a fine glow of animation suffuses her face-hope accomplished sparkles in her eye-she retreats suddenly to the centre of the room--she drops upon her knees, and rises again as suddenly then she buries her face in her hands, as though she were ashamed of the excess of her pleasure. My eyes now turn in the direction from which hers had been so speedily withdrawn. My presentiment is right;—an elegant cabriolet is driving slowly down the street,-its calash is up to its utmost extent of concealment,-nothing is discernible from within, but a pair of dovecoloured kid gloves, gently and dexterously managing a fine high-spirited animal, whose veins, starting through his silky skin, proclaims the excellence of his blood, while his bone renders it rather questionable whether, like some of our noble families, he has not had it strengthened with a stream from some source not quite so pure as that of his ancestry. He is of one bright bay colour,―his appoint

ments black,—not a spot sullies the sleekness of his skin-every thing shews that his master is not better valetized than he has been groomed. The cabriolet is of a deep olive-green, relieved by the polished black of the knee-board, and the dead-black of the calash.

No mark of impatience or of expectation is evinced by the driver as he approaches the house,-a slight pressure of the right hand upon the white-web reins, and an elegant turn of the wrist, which conveys the lash of his whip to the flanks of his horse, puts him a little more upon his mettle as he passes the door; but there is no other sign of recognition, save a knowing glance of the impudent fresh-coloured boy who hangs on behind, and who, by a look of impertinence thrown up at the windows, shews that he is but too well aware of his master's secrets.

It is this look which has induced her to shrink behind the drapery of the window, and almost into herself;yet she cannot resist taking one glance at the wellappointed equipage,—and I can almost read in her eye, the comparison which her mind has drawn between that and the dislocated tilbury of her humbler friend.

She now seizes her scarf, and throws it carelessly over her shoulder,-she ties her bonnet in a knot, loose, perhaps, as that which is likely to attach her to her lover, she makes no appeal to the glass, whether from the full consciousness of beauty, or from that total abstraction from self, which some of that generous sex experience in their attachments, I cannot tell ;-she rushes to the door, but suddenly stops as the clock strikes the half hour after the appointed time. Female pride seems to struggle a moment for mastery in her mind, while she mentally exclaims, "I will not betray my impatience." A few minutes, however, sees her in the street

another brings her to the carriage, drawn close up to the kirb, with the step carefully thrown over the pavement; the ponderous knee-board opens, not unlike the jaw of a shark into which shoals of poor maids, soles, and other flat fish are carried by the stream,-she mounts,-the knee-board is closed. The groom takes his station behind, the steed, obedient to the rein, starts in a majestic trot, and they are out of sight in an instant.

As I linger out of my window at night, I have heard the cutting and slashing of the whip, impelling the jaded horse of the tilbury to perform his last trot for the day, as it reaches the door. Not all the energy of the driver can get it out of a walk from thence to the stable,-and in the absence of his mistress, he is not so solicitous about his coachmanship. I have heard the hearty farewells of the glass and hackney-coach travellers, and have marked papa watch the safe entry of the white beaver hat and rose-coloured spencer.

Lights in the long windows proclaim that all are seeking their pillows, and the short time that they remain appears to indicate that candles are portioned out as they are in some sales at Garraway's, by the inch.

The cabriolet drives up on the opposite side,-I looked to see the lover spring lightly out of the carriage to assist his mistress,-but, no,-she is driven home by the servant!

I can imagine her silently seeking her bed, in the midst of her more joyous companions,-and she has sought it in the dark, for no light appears in the dormitory, though I can distinguish her white figure, as she seems to seek a last look of the carriage from the window.

The gaiety of her companions is painful to her,—for she has nothing she dares communicate in return for the accounts which are pressed upon her of their adventures. At length they talk and laugh themselves to forgetfulness,-while she sighs or weeps herself into a dream, which may never be realized.

Apprentices now redouble their haste to get home within the appointed time-I see lovers and friends bidding hasty adieux, as they arrive at that point where the paths to their different destinations separate,-a drunken song here and there bursts upon the night, but is quickly silenced by the guardians of the peace,-every footstep becomes more palpable to the ear,-St. James's clock strikes twelve on one side, and is re-echoed by St. Martin's on the other, I close my window and my speculations together.

AN ACCOUNT OF A CELEBRATED EXECUTION.

In the month of March 1817, I was suffering under a nervous disorder, with which I had been afflicted for some weeks. It used to cause me extreme irritation of the spirits, and, in particular, affected my rest. For many nights I got scarcely any sleep at all-and would lay in that state of tossing restlessness which is, perhaps, more wearing than any other kind or degree of suffering. There is hardly any thing which affects the mind so much as this. I am naturally of a buoyant and elastic temper, and yet there was no species of horrors which I did not then conjure up to myself. I used to lie and think, and think, till thought quite became a pain; and I need not say how impossible it is at such