In such strain writes the author of Why so pale and wan, fond lover? and both the circumstance and the doggerel should be very instructive to the snobologist.

The literary work of Lord Broghill is not unknown to fame, and Mr. Waller’s verse is still read by us; but I have never seen a history of the Civil Wars from Mr. Waller’s pen, and cannot find that he ever published one.

Prazimene and Polexander are two romances translated from the French,—­the former, a neat little duodecimo; the latter, a huge folio of more than three hundred and fifty closely-printed pages.  The title-page of Prazimene, a very good example of its kind, runs as follows:—­“Two delightful Novels, or the Unlucky Fair One; being the Amours of Milistrate and Prazimene, Illustrated with variety of Chance and Fortune.  Translated from the French by a Person of Quality, London.  Sold by Eben Tracy, at the Three Bibles on London Bridge.” Polexander was “done into English by William Browne, Gent.,” for the benefit and behoof of the Earl of Pembroke.

William Fiennes, Lord Say and Sele, was one of the chiefs of the Independent party, a Republican, and one of the first to bear arms against the King.  He had, for that day, extravagant notions of civil liberty, and on the disappointment of his hopes, he appears to have retired to the Isle of Lundy, on the coast of Devon, and continued a voluntary prisoner there until Cromwell’s death.  After the Restoration he was made Lord Chamberlain of the Household, and Lord Privy Seal.  He published some political tracts, none of which are now in existence; and Anthony Wood mentions having seen other things of his, among which, maybe, was the romance that Dorothy had heard of, but which is lost to us.

SIR,—­Pray, let not the apprehension that others say fine things to me make your letters at all the shorter; for, if it were so, I should not think they did, and so long you are safe.  My brother Peyton does, indeed, sometimes send me letters that may be excellent for aught I know, and the more likely because I do not understand them; but I may say to you (as to a friend) I do not like them, and have wondered that my sister (who, I may tell you too, and you will not think it vanity in me, had a great deal of wit, and was thought to write as well as most women in England) never persuaded him to alter his style, and make it a little more intelligible.  He is an honest gentleman, in earnest, has understanding enough, and was an excellent husband to two very different wives, as two good ones could be.  My sister was a melancholy, retired woman, and, besides the company of her husband and her books, never sought any, but could have spent a life much longer than hers was in looking to her house and her children.  This lady is of a free, jolly humour, loves cards and company, and is never more pleased than when she sees a great many others that are so too.  Now, with both these