The bounty of our friends not only enables us again to offer a brilliant number for the amusement of our hearers, but has occasioned us much regret at the necessity of deferring many contributions whose excellence strongly called for immediate notice. Among these, we are sorry to be compelled to postpone the 2d number of the Modinhas or as we have denominated them, The Portuguese Melodies, The Spanish Armada, The Fairies’ Isle &c. &c. &c.

We shall commence the readings of this evening with a beautiful poem called “The Lily of the Valley, addressed to a Lady on her Birthday.” This will be followed by two other little poems which appear in continuation. They all display a highly poetic imagination, and we think we recognize in them the style of one of the oldest and most valued of our members, whose contributions we are sorry to say have not been quite so frequent of late as in former years. We hope that he has not seriously quarrell’d with his muse, and that she has long ere this afforded him better food than stone and water.

We are amused at the escape and capture of poor Dapple, and the comparison of the two Herveys.

From Positive House our communications are numerous. Electromagus has favoured us with an essay on the Materiality of Electricity and Sir Pertinax with a letter in which he informs us, not only that he is a personage of much more property than we had ever suspected, but also of his determination to become a Benedick! We do not know which piece of information has most excited our admiration. Darcy, announced as the prize Essay of Mr Scriblerus, appears somewhat different from his usual style. Are we to suppose that while writing for others his is himself written for, or is it that he fancies it necessary to be more than usually serious for on an occasion of so much importance to his future prospect. Be this as it may, we welcome his effusion with pleasure. The first chapter of Mrs Bustleton’s novel (which by the bye wants one indispensable thing, a title) contains a due proportion of mystery and interest, and is embellished by as many disparates as any of the fashionable romances of the days of Cervantes, which he ridiculed in his Don Quixote, and afterwards imitated, if he did not excel, in his Persiles and Sigismunda.

The ballad Romance of Biorno appears a striking legend, and is well told, but we cannot help regretting that the stepdame is ultimately triumphant in her wickedness.

We are obliged to a correspondent for the Imitation of an Arabian author. The passage is sublime in its imagery, and the modern application is to us very evident.

We are glad to be informed by the very elegant and finished little poem of Love in April that the Hermits are still alive, tho’ it appears that some alterations have taken place in their society. We hope that we shall continue to receive frequent communications from them. May we ask for the History of the New Members.