and Vanderbrucker was afterwards missing.-But to remember these things is like raking up the bottom of an old canal."

The stranger called out passionately, "It is impossible-We cannot believe it! It is cruel to say such things to people in our condition. There is a letter from our captain himself, to his much-beloved and faithful wife, whom he left at a pleasant summer dwelling, on the border of the Haarlemer Mer. She promised to have the house beautifully painted and gilded before he came back, and to get a new set of looking-glasses for the principal chamber, that she might see as many images of Vanderdecken as if she had six husbands at

once."

The man replied, "There has been time enough for her to have had six husbands since then; but were she alive still, there is no fear that Vanderdecken would ever get home to disturb her."

On hearing this, the stranger again shed tears, and said, if they would not take the letters, he would leave them; and looking around, he offered the parcel to the captain, chaplain, and to the rest of the crew successively; but each drew back as it was offered, and put his hands behind his back. He then laid the letters upon the deck, and placed upon them a piece of iron, which was lying near, to prevent them from being blown away. Having done this, he swung himself over the gang-way, and went into the boat.

We heard the others speak to him, but the rise of a sudden squall prevented us from distinguishing his reply. The boat was seen to quit the ship's side, and, in a few moments, there were no more traces of her than if she had never been there. The sailors rubbed their eyes, as if doubting what they had witnessed; but the parcel still lay upon deck, and proved the reality of all that had passed.

Duncan Saunderson, the Scotch mate, asked the captain if he should take them up, and put them in the letter-bag? Receiving no reply, he would have lifted

them if it had not been for Tom Willis, who pulled him back, saying that nobody should touch them.

In the mean time, the captain went down to the cabin, and the chaplain having followed him, found him at his bottle-case, pouring out a large dram of brandy. The captain, although somewhat disconcerted, immediately offered the glass to him, saying, "Here, Charters, is what is good in a cold night." The chaplain declined drinking any thing, and the captain having swallowed the bumper, they both returned to the deck, where they found the seamen giving their opinions concerning what should be done with the letters. Tom Willis proposed to pick them up on a harpoon, and throw it overboard.

Another speaker said, "I have always heard it as serted, that it is neither safe to accept them voluntarily, nor, when they are left, to throw them out of the ship."

"Let no one touch them," said the carpenter. "The way to do with the letters from the Flying Dutchman is to case them upon deck, by nailing boards over them, so that if he sends back for them, they are still there to give him."

The carpenter went to fetch his tools. During his absence the ship gave so violent a pitch, that the piece of iron slid off the letters, and they were whirled overboard by the wind, like birds of evil omen whirring through the air. There was a cry of joy among the sailors, and they ascribed the favourable change which soon took place in the weather to our having got quit of Vanderdecken. We soon got under weigh again. The night watch being set, the rest of the crew retired to their births.

Blackwood's Magazine.

HORACE IN LONDON.
Book IV. Ode 2.

TO HENRY JAMES PYE, ESQ.
Pindarum quisquis studet æmulari, &c.

I.

THE bard who rivals WALTER SCOTT,
Like SANCHO from the blanket shot,
Must soar in devious sprawl;
Then weaving in his antique plot,
Vocabularier long forgot,

With well I ween, and well I wot,
The days of yore recall.

Him tinkling cymbals on shall drive,
Queen-bee of the Parnassian hive,
The meed of glory won:
Whether he with the minstrel creep,
Or mount the massy donjon keep,
With black-brow'd MARMION!

II.

Let him in eddying metre sail,
Still changing with the changing tale,

Now ruffled, now serene;
His mutilated stanza treat
Like famed Procrustes, lopping feet,
Per Syncopen, I ween!

If e'er his creeping Muse invade

A convent's consecrated shade,

Let her describe those haunts of leisure,

In gentle undulating measure;

A see-saw, Della Cruscan flow,

O'ertaking GRAY, and beating RowE:

But if she urge Bellona's force,

Where knight, and squire, and foot, and horse, In wild disorder ride,

The Muse the battery should climb,

Present and fire, and load and prime,
And when the reader thinks 'tis time
To stay the oft-repeated chime,
Still order out another rhyme,

To turn the battle's tide.

III.

O'er mountain and through valley thus,
Too highly bred to faulter,
Drives on the prancing Pegasus
Of doughty Scottish Walter.
Whilst I, like WATTS's humble bee,
Perching on every plant I see,
"Improve the shining hours."
I cull the flowers that bloom each day
At chapel, opera, park, and play,
Around Augusta's towers;

And buzz about, now grave, now funny,
Producing far more hum than honey.

IV.

But thou, my gentle HENRY JAMES,
To garter'd knights and courtly dames,
Each year in bold Pindaric strain,
Of loyal odes producest twain,
When January's tempests lour,
And eke in George's natal hour;

Than whom more prompt at virtue's call,

None ever did, or ever shall,

Reign o'er this favour'd nation,

Until a golden age succeed,
The present age to supersede,
Of paper circulation.

ས.

Thou sang'st the hero, now no more! Whose deep-mouth'd cannons' deadly roar, (By DRYDEN call'd, I know not why, "Those younger brothers of the sky,")

With thunder sound, and lightning blaze,

Fill'd hordes of Arabs with amaze;

Made like an hunted ostrich, Nile,

Conceal his seven heads the while;

Flash'd like a meteor through the midnight gloom,
And shook the dust from Pharoah's marble tomb!
All this, dear bard, is mighty well,
But inland battles never tell

Of Albion's wit or worth:
Unlike that giant, big of bone,
Who wrestled with Alcmena's son,
Britannia mourns her vigour gone,
Whene'er she fights on earth!

VI.

Now cease, my Muse, thy vain desire
To emulate the Laureat's fire.
How vast the intermediate line
"Twixt hurricane and zephyr!
Ill match'd, as when in battle join
Ten bulls, and eke as many kine,
Opposed to one poor heifer!
Proceed, great sir, and still display
Shreds of the buckram garb of GRAY,
In thy Pindaric strain-

*

To cut thy wing though critics try,

* If wings can, by any extraordinary force of imagination, be supposed to belong to the Poet Laureat, it is clear that the ornithological orthography of his name is Pie-subintell.-Mag. This, and the "Pindarum quisquis," &c. remind me of a fine passage in Pindar : Olym. Od. 2.

σαφος ὁ πολ-λα ειδως φυσ

in the translation of which the opinion is confirmed, but rather too severely:

"He only, in whose ample breast, Nature has true inherent genius pour'd, The praise of wisdom may contest;

Not they who with loquacious learning stored,

Like crows, and chattering Pies, with clamorous cries
Pursue the bird of Jove, that sails along the skies."