There is one remark I may as well make here, with regard to the personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from England will of course be filled. It is quite a different thing from publishing such letters in London. America is much farther off from England than England from America. You in New York read the periodicals of this country, and know every thing that is done or written here, as if you lived within the sound of Bow-bell. The English, however, just know of our existence, and if they get a general idea twice a year of our progress in politics, they are comparatively well informed. Our periodical literature is never even heard of. Of course, there can be no offence to the individuals themselves in any thing which a visiter could write, calculated to convey an idea of the person or manners of distinguished people to the American public. I mention it lest, at first thought, I might seem to have abused the hospitality or frankness of those on whom letters of introduction have given me claims for civility. N. P. W. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO MISS C----, ON HER COQUETRY. "Go to," and quit thy idle ways Thou winning little creature; A mind of nobler import plays, Around thy every feature. Why waste those powers, by heav'n design'd To win true hearts and wear them? To wreck the peace of half mankind, Who let thy arts ensnare them? In thy pursuit 'tis all the same, The simple, wise, or learned, Alike are fuel for thy flame-- Are on thy altar burned. Nay, say not "no!"--within that hall, Hallowed by deeds of ages, I've seen thy _look_ around thee call Virginia's proudest sages. I've seen thee, 'midst the festive scene, With fools and fops in waiting, Essay to conquer things too mean, For pity, love, or hating. Go, quit it all--'tis weak--'tis vain-- 'Tis wicked--nay, 'tis _cruel_; Thy native truth alone can gain For thee, the brightest jewel. B. _Richmond, Feb. 1835_. For the Southern Literary Messenger. WRITTEN FOR MISS M---- T----'S ALBUM. Mary, thou wert a lovely child! A sweeter cherub never smiled! Tho' since we have not often met, Those days I well remember yet; When, in thy sportiveness and glee, Thou wert a favorite with me; And told me, in thy frolic mood, The story of Red-riding-hood-- In words I ne'er could understand-- They seemed sweet sounds from fairy land. Time's changes numberless had passed O'er thee when I beheld thee last, Yet still I thought that I could trace The same expression in thy face; Only that then it was refined By the bright impress of the mind-- For years had failed to steal away The artlessness of childhood's day. In nature's richest tints arrayed, Thy cheek the bloom of health displayed; And in its varying flush, I read All that thy lips had left unsaid.