Mrs. Vanderclump.

* * * * *

_La Villegiatura_ is a pleasant article; but we do not think there is
much of the "love of pastoral associations" left in the English character,
and we are sorry for it. The _Rustic Wreath_, by Miss Mitford, is very
sweet; the _Cacadore_, a story of the peninsular war, is a soul-stirring
narrative; there is much pleasantry in Mrs. Hofland's _Comforts of
Conceitedness; Virginia Water_, by the editor, could hardly be written
by his fireside--it has too much local inspiration in every line;
_Auguste de Valcour_, by the author of _Gilbert Earle_, is in his usual
felicitous vein of philosophic melancholy; Miss Roberts has a glittering
_Tale of Normandy_; the _Orphans_, by the editor, is simple and pathetic;
_Palinodia_ we subjoin:--

There was a time when I could feel
All passion's hopes and fears,
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,
By smiles, and sighs, and tears.
The days are gone! no more, no more,
The cruel fates allow;
And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,
I'm not a lover now.
Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight--
I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,
I laugh at girls and boys,
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,
And very fond of noise;
I never wander forth alone
Upon the mountain's brow;
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone,--
I'm not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh;
I never tell a tender tale,
I never tell a lie;
I cannot kneel as once I did;
I've quite forgot my bow;
I never do as I am bid,--
I'm not a lover now!

I make strange blunders every day,
If I would be gallant,
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey.
And nieces for their aunt;
I fly from folly, though it flows
From lips of loveliest glow;
I don't object to length of nose,--
I'm not a lover now!

The muse's steed is very fleet--
I'd rather ride my mare;
The poet hunts a quaint conceit--
I'd rather hunt a hare;
I've learnt to utter yours and you
Instead of thine and thou;
And oh! I can't endure a Blue!--
I'm not a lover now!

I find my Ovid dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill,
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,
Tom Moore for Mr. Mill;
And belles may read, and beaux may write,
I care not who or how;
I burnt