uired her taste
for castle and romance, and proceeded to lament that she had, for many
years, fallen into a state of insanity, and was under confinement in
Derbyshire. Nor was the above traveller unsupported in her statement, and
some sympathizing poet apostrophized Mrs. R. in an "Ode to Terror." But the
fair romance-writer smiled at their pity, and had good sense enough to
refrain from writing in the newspapers that she was not insane. The whole
was a fiction, (no new trick for a fireside tourist,) for Mrs. Radcliffe
had never _seen_ Haddon Hall.

In the "Bijou" for 1828, an elegant _annual_, on the plan of the German
pocket-books, (to which we are indebted for the present engraving,) are a
few stanzas to Haddon Hall, which merit a place in a future number of the
MIRROR.

* * * * *

POETICAL LOVE-LETTER.

_(For the Mirror.)_

The sweeper of New Haven College, in New England, lately becoming a
widower, conceived a violent passion for the relict of his deceased
Cambridge brother, which he expressed in the following strain:--

Mistress A--y.
To you I fly,
You only can relieve me;
To you I turn,
For you I burn,
If you will but believe me.

Then, gentle dame,
Admit my flame,
And grant me my petition:
If you deny,
Alas! I die
In pitiful condition.

Before the news
Of your poor spouse
Had reached our _New Haven_,
My dear wife died,
Who was my bride,
In _anno_ eighty-seven.

Then being free,
Let's both agree
To join our hands--for I do
Boldly aver
A widower
Is fittest for a widow.

You may be sure
'Tis not your dow'r
I make this flowing version;
In those smooth lays
I only praise
The glories of your person.

For the whole that
Was left to _Mat_,
Fortune to me has granted
In equal store,
Nay, I have more.
What Mathew always wanted.

No teeth, 'tis true,
You have to shew;
The young think teeth inviting--
But, silly youths,
I love those mouths
Where there's no fear of biting.

A leaky eye,
That's never dry,
These woeful times is fitting;
A wrinkled face
Adds solemn grace
To folks devout at meeting.

A furrow'd brow,
Where corn might grow,
Such fertile soil is seen in't,
A long hook nose,
Though scorn'd by foes,
For spectacles convenient.

Thus to go on,
I coul