D' to be the very journal of some observant courtier-circumstantial as Dangean, and artless as Pepys."-Newspaper, 29th November 1845. PUFF 2.- "The Q of D—, edited by Mrs G-The classifiers of literary productions will be rather puzzled what place to assign to one which has just been introduced to the public by Mrs G. We allude to the Q of D—,' a book, the most important events and circumstances of which are strictly historical, and which must have been so designated but for the links of fiction that necessarily connect those scenes. It relates the brief career of the lovely Caroline Matilda, youngest sister of our George III., consort of Christian VII. of Denmark, and mother of the late King Frederick VI., the causes of whose misfortunes, which involved her in the fall of Struensee, the minister, hurled her from the throne, tore her from her children, and exiled her for life from her adopted country, have never before been detailed with such a convincing truthfulness, and such an unpretending simplicity as are infinitely more captivating than the most ostentatious efforts of art."-bid, 6th December 1845. PUFF 1.-" Mr D'I-'s Two Romances.'-The public will be glad to learn that Mr D'I- has permitted [] the re-publication of his two extraordinary romances, entitled 'CF, and 'A' If the first is distinguished by an air of wildness and exaggeration which seems scarcely compatible with these matters-of-fact times in which the incidents are laid, it abounds the more in spirit and vigour; and it possesses a twofold interest from blending with the imaginary history of the hero, the veritable adventures and observations of the author during his travels in Spain, Italy, and the East. How much he has profited by information so acquired, is manifest in A- -a tale rivalling in richness of invention and gorgeousness of description, the startling marvels of oriental fiction."-Ibid, 20th December 1845. · PUPF 2.-"Mr D'I- -'s Two Romances,' 'CF -,' and 'A-,' were formerly published, the first in four, and the second in three, volumes. They are both now reprinted together in three volumes. The re-publication of these works will doubtless be highly acceptable to the numerous admirers of 'C' and 'S!' Of 'CF the celebrated Heine justly observes that Modern English letters have given us no offspring equal to it. Cast in the Teutonic mould, it is, nevertheless, one of the most original works ever written. Profound-poignant, and pathetic; its subject the most interesting, if not the most imaginable-the development of a poet !' 'A,' says the Foreign Quarterly Review, is truly the very beau ideal of orientalism. Massive grandeur, luxuriant magnificence, fancy absolutely prodigal of its wealth, are the most characteristic features of this singular emanation of creative genius; but to these Eastern qualities it adds a deep and intimate knowledge of the human heart, which has been derived from the purest philosophy of the west."-Ibid, 3d January 1846. We have no hesitation in saying, that these puffs are paid for in the indirect way named, and we believe so for the following reasons:— 1. Because these criticisms do not appear under the regular head of "Notices of Books," to be found in the same paper, but on the contrary are printed on an ignominous type, and placed in the ignominious vicinity of "Cattle Markets,' Tide-tables," and similar gross matters. 2. These same puffs may be seen in the Times with the brand of [Advertisement] printed before them. 3. The whole style of composition savours of the shop-being evidently the emanations of some poor starving hack, who supplies them to the publishers, like herrings, at so much a dozen. 4. It never by chance happens (which it sometimes would were our position untrue) that puffs appear of the books of such publishers as do not advertise. These four points prove with the rigidity of demonstration, that puffs are inserted for a "consideration," and doubtless for one which is "duly" proportionate to the respectability of the paper in other respects. But supposing that they were inserted for love and not for money, that does not mend the matter. You, Mr Editor, profess honestly and sincerely to guide public opinion, why do you then delegate your functions to others, whom you not only do not know, but to whose opinions you positively are opposed-for it so happens that the principles held by one of the authors, whose books are puffed as above, are opposed, and have frequently been exposed in the self-same journal. We are unwilling to impute deliberate impropriety to any one, and we are therefore willing to believe that the abuse in question has crept in silently, and has attained its present magnitude almost unobserved. It cannot, however, be excused on the ground of inadvertency after it has been pointed out. The unsuspecting public trust in an editor's sincerity, and it will not do for him to insert statements which avowedly bear that they emanate from himself, and then shrink out of the responsibility by saying, that he is doing what his neighbours do. Such a system will not bear investigation, and should be reformed by being-suppressed. And if some change do not take place in the system, we shall undoubtedly feel it to be our duty to return to the subject again, and we give fair warning that if we do require to refer to it at an after period, we shall feel quite exonerated from observing our present leniency. Miscellaneous. THE STAGE AND THE PEERAGE And thin partitions do the two divide." The famous Earl of Peterburgh, the hero of the war of the succession in Spain, married, in or about the year 1715, the celebrated Anastasia Robinson, a songstress. Lady Henrietta Herbert, widow of Lord Edward Herbert, second son of the Marquis of Powis, and only daughter of James, first earl of Waldegrave, took, “for better for worse," on the eighth of January 1739, John Beard, Esq., of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. Charles, the third duke of Bolton, married, secondly, in 1751, Miss Fenton, the original Polly in The Beggar's Opera. It is said that, on his Grace once threatening a separate maintenance, she knelt, and sung "Oh, ponder well!" in a style so tenderly persuasive that he had not the heart to fulfil his intention. Lady Elizabeth Bertie, daughter of the Earl of Abingdon, married Signor Gallini, one of the Corps de Ballet at the King's Theatre. Date of the marriage is not known. In 1764, Lady Susannah Sarah Louisa Strangways, daughter of the Earl of Ilchester, married William O'Brien, of .Stinsford, Dorsetshire, Esq., a favourite comedian on the London boards, and a contemporary of Garrick, Mossop, and Barry. The Countess of Derby, the Noble Earl's second wife, who died in 1829, was a Miss Farran, of the Cork Theatre. The late Earl of Craven married, 12th December 1807, Miss Brunton, a popular actress of Covent Garden Theatre, and mother of the present Earl, born 18th July 1809. The Beggar's Opera now put another coronet on the brows of another Polly: Mary Catherine Bolton, called also Polly Bolton, in 1813 became the wife of Lord Thurlow, nephew of the first Baron Thurlow, nominated Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain in 1778. His lordship dying unmarried, he was succeeded by his nephew, Edward Hovell Thurlow, Esq., as second Baron, who married Miss Bolton, by whom, who died in 1830, he had issue Edward Thomas, the present peer, and two other sons. Lord William Lennox espoused Miss Paton (now the celebrated Mrs Wood), which marriage was dissolved by the laws of Scotland in 1830. The Earl of Harrington, 7th April 1831, married the fascinating Maria Foote, and has one son, Lord Pe tersham. The late Duchess of St Albans was a Miss Mellon, of the Portsmouth Theatre, who married, and subsequently became the relict of the late Thomas Coutts, Esq., an eminent metropolitan banker, when she married, secondly, the present Duke of St Alban's, June 16th 1827. Her Grace, like indeed all the fortunate heroes and heroines whom we have been enumerating, had the good sense not to forget or be ashamed of her histrionic connexions. As an instance it may be mentioned that, on passing through Macclesfield a few years ago, she visited the site of a barn theatre (long since demolished), and pointed out to her attendants the humble dwelling in which she had once lodged. She also, on this occasion, showed an example of that charitable disposition universally to be found among players, in presenting a handsome souvenir to an old and decayed performer, who had often performed with her before a Macclesfield audience.-Court Journal. MISERIES OF A PUBLIC DINNER. has he to do but to glance around him? And there opposite, are we-we alone-eating tongue-tongue at that hour-when the cloth is rolled up, and the mahogany visible at the lower end of the table! His eyes are riveted upon us. They reveal clearly, too clearly, all that is passing in his mind. He has not the smallest particle of a doubt, that so we have been going on ever since the far-distant era of soup; that the fork has been in incessant employ ever since the spoon was laid down; that we have been dining, indeed, with a forty-dando power of perseverance! Imagine the position we are in. The tongue's rich redness is faint compared with the blush with which it is contemplated. The smile on our observer's face, his stare prolonged-they are not expressive of disgust at the supposed achievement of a never-to-bediscontinued dinner: no, they are expressive of envy. In one minute more, just as we finally laid down the fork with a portion of the untasted treasure upon it, the attention of half the table is attracted to the awkward incident, by his ejaculating in a very audible and emphatic whisper across the table, "Waiter, here, waiter! bring me a small slice of tongue !-Waiter-thickish!"— Laman Blanchard's Sketches from Life. MATRIMONIAL SULKS. On the slightest misunderstanding, instead of advising not quarrelling, married people become sulky, and enjoy their recriminations in silent dignity for weeks together. This annoys the wife delightfully, it vexes her, and brings out in active operation all the peevishness of her nature. But will she yield? No! She will fret likewise, and show him who can hold out longest. She will indulge herself with a cry now and then during his absence, but will brace up her resolution on his return, and look as frigid as she feels excited. In the meantime he considers himself a martyr to her ill temper, and begins to calculate the expense of allowing her so much per week, of disposing of the furniture, and taking lodgings in a neighbourhood where he is unknown. He could take his breakfast as well in a coffee-house, as in his own parlour, when he has to do so alone-butter his own toast, and actually fill out his own tea! His dinner is as well providedeven the fish is excellent, and the meat beautifully brown -but then he is not asked if he will take a little more, and It seems to be a rule that the gentleman who first seizes upon the salt should keep it. It is upon the same principle that the party who sits opposite the turbot, helps himself liberally to the fins, and having pitched a rude supply into one or two plates thrust over his shoulder by beseeching waiters, drops the fish slice, and can neither see nor hear appeals until he has finished his fins. Whosoever fixes his fork in a fowl becomes the proprietor of it so far as wings, or breast, or all that he himself has a taste for, is concerned. A slice of tongue is quite unattainable with your chicken -chicken and tongue too must always be considered unreasonable and romantic at a public dinner; but perhaps he is compelled to leave a portion of the beer without the desired slice is securable by itself. We make a trial; knowing what becomes of it. If he comes home rather we send a plate, having little chance of seeing another late, the fire is there, and the candle with a box of lucifers, with an earnest, a pathetic appeal. That plate we never and a doubly perplexing doubt comes into his mind, and see again. With exemplary patience we await its return; he thinks "it might be me or any one else for aught she time passes on and the dishes disappear; we have be- knows," as she opens the door in the dark, and never come accustomed to our hunger, and having some of the asks who is there. He therefore resolves at length to nicely rasped roll left, we forget our application in apply-end it or mend it. Saturday night is generally chosen; ing ourselves to that. But at length the solid dishes have all melted away into a horrible mockery of custards and jellies! Even a wrong cut of the spoiled mutton is now irrecoverable. Grumio's "beef without the mustard" we might have had-but may not now. The tough turkey has become an impossibility. The dinner, shockingly arranged, infamously selected, and iniquitously cooked bad as it was-is gone! and now remembering the almost longed for, the all but necessary bit of tongue, we once more make trial with our own. "I asked you twenty minutes ago for a slice of tongue-I have had nothingnever mind." And ten minutes afterwards the slice actually comes: it is brought, set down before us, left ⚫here. Why, it must be tasted, then, late as it is. Its colour is inviting. Just as we have adopted so much of it as seemed fairly apportioned to the remaining fraction of the roll, we feel, rather than perceive, that somebody is looking at us; and there, directly opposite, is a huge gentleman, who, having necessarily occupied two seats, had come into possession of two sets of plates, with a double supply of forks and et-ceteras, all of which he had contrived, greatly to our loss, to make incessant use of throughout the dinner: monopolising all godsends that came to our part of the table, and confining his whole attention to his own proceedings. And now when he has performed his appointed task, when he has despatched all, when the very cheese charms him no longer, what and with one or two expressive hems, he declines his usual chair, places his right fore-finger on the table, and desires that she may not leave the room. She pauses ere turning round, not with the least intention of refusing, although he ascribes her dilatoriness to that cause; but a spark of electricity has burst from her heart-it glows upon her bosom, and flushes over her face-yet she would rather die than let him know how glad she is to hear his voice again. Little did the poet know the deep intent of his line when he wrote "And shall I hear him speak." The dizziness ensuing upon the conviction of that welcome truth is only equalled by the delirium felt when Admissions are made on both first love meets return. sides, promises are mutually given, and the weighty affair, which so long banished comfort from the dwelling, is settled with a laugh. CURE FOR LAMENESS.-A few days since, one of the helpers, upon going to clean out the dens in the Clifton Zoological gardens, found a fine young leopardess had escaped. A vigorous search being instituted, the animal was found in the gardens, crouching among some shrubs; upon an attempt being made to catch it, the creature darted away, and leaped over the wall on to the Down. Here its sudden appearance created no little alarm to the passers by; but the most marvellous thing that occurred was to a poor lame beggar man-" A poor sailor, your honour"--who came limping by, and being warned of the approach of the leopardess, his lameness was instantaneously cured, and he bolted at a pace that would not have discredited a first rate pedestrian. The leopardess having entered a yard at the back of the gardens, was, after some trouble, secured by the keeper.-Bath Journal. ORIGIN OF THE WORD " Boz."-A correspondent has handed us the following communication ::-"Having crossed the Atlantic in the Britannia with Mr Dickens, I recollect a few of his observations made to me on the passage. I asked him the origin of the signature' Boz.' He said that he had a little brother who resembled so much the Moses in the Vicar of Wakefield,' that he used to call him Moses also; but a younger girl, who could not then articulate plainly, was in the habit of calling him Bozie or Boz. This simple and natural circumstance made him assume that name in the first article he risked to the public, and therefore he continued the same, as the first effort was approved of. Mr Dickens is married to an Edinburgh lady, whom he calls Kate; she made a very bad sailor, and Dickens himself was not much better; both, however, conducted themselves with much grace and simplicity on board, and were great favourites. Mr Dickens did not write much on board, nor was he a book-worm; he understood chess and all games very imperfectly, and contented himself by taking a few literary sketches, and in the afternoons and evenings a puff of the genuine Havannah. His conversation was generally very interesting."-Note of MS. Journal, Passenger of Britannia. COLERIDGE AND THE ATMOSPHERIC RAILWAY.-To crown all, we have to mention another "ingenious gentleman," who asserts that the first discovery of the principle of the atmospheric railway, is clearly to be awarded to the most unlikely man in the world, as one might have thought-namely, to the dreamy poet and metaphysician, Coleridge. The passage in which this extraordinary discovery is announced, is in the "Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner." Here it is-let the reader wonder, if he does not admire : "But why drives on this ship so fast, Without a wave or wind? And closes from behind?" Now, this exhausting or cutting away of the air in front, with the immediate rush of air behind to fill up the vacuum, is precisely the principle of the atmospheric railway; and we recommend the Hon. Member for Sunderland, and the directors of the Croydon Railway, to subscribe immediately for a statue of the author of the "Ancient Mariner," to be erected at their chief station, and a button-die to be struck, with the head of Coleridge, to be worn by all the officers of the company.-New Quarterly Review. AN ECONOMICAL PREACHER.-A Parochial incumbent was blamed for having an erroneous opinion of the memories of his hearers, inasmuch as he frequently entertained them with "cauld kail het again," in the shape of sermons that he had previously given. On one occasion, his own memory allowed him to make a slip, and only a Sabbath had elapsed between the giving of the sermon a second time. After the dismissal of the congregation, the beadle remarked to him, "I hae often heard ye blamed, sir, for gie'in us auld sermons; but they'll be mislear'd folk as weel as sklentin' frae fact, that say that o' the ane ye gied us this afternoon, for it's just a fortnicht sin they heard it afore in the same place!"—Laird of Logan. A young divine, preaching for Mr of, delivered a most eloquent harangue with great gusto, and was highly complimented by some strangers who happened to be at the manse at the time. Mr said nothing until a lull in the conversation took place, when he proposed that one of his daughters should read a sermon out of a particular volume to be found in a certain shelf in his study. The volume was brought, and the identical homily read, to the no small confusion of the theologaster. Aye," said Mr-, "we have often heard about parallel passages, but this beats a'.”—Original Clerical Anecdotes, by an Old Clergyman. 66 Poetry. FAREWELL.-Miss LANDON. FAREWELL! for I have schooled my heart At last to say farewell to thee! But I let not one tear-drop fall; Thy latest step; and mine the eye Had quite forgot Farewell and Thee, Was what I could not teach my heart. Nerved me to what I had to bear; I would not, though my heart had broke, I felt my hand within thine hold; I heard my name breathed by thy voice, I knew the day, the very hour, That you were wed, and heard your vow! I heard the wedding bells-O God! I may not say that you were false, Look as it loved to look on me. And for myself an early grave! Per quarter of 13 Nos., delivered to subscribers, Per quarter, free by post, 24d. 18. 74d. 2s. 6d. All Subscriptions payable in advance. Printed by THOMAS MURRAY, of No. 2 Arniston Place, and WILLIAM GIBB, of No. 26 Royal Crescent, at the Printing Office of MURRAY and GIBB, North-East Thistle Street Lane; and Published at No. 58 Princes Street, by WILLIAM AITCHISON SUTHERLAND, of No. 1 Windsor Street, and JAMES KNOX, of No. 7 Henderson Row; all in the City and County of Edinburgh. Edinburgh: SUTHERLAND & KNOX, 58 Princes Street; and sold by HOULSTON & STONEMAN, Paternoster Row, London; W; BLACKWOOD and J. M'LEOD, Glasgow; L. SMITH, Aberdeen; and may be had by order of every Bookseller in the United Kingdom. Edinburgh, Saturday, March 28, 1846. THE TORCH= A Weekly Journal for the Instruction and Entertainment of the People. DO YOU EVER READ POETRY? If this question were put in a steam-boat, railway train, market-place, or any other quarter where "men most do congregate," we doubt much if more than two or three persons would answer in the affirmative; and the conclusion which would naturally be drawn from such a response would be, that poetry is not a popular study. The conclusion would be wrong. Poetry, in its true acceptation, is not only nigh, but is within every man, and the supposed lukewarmness of the masses to poetry arises from an idea, that, in order to find it they have to step out of their way, whereas it seldom or ever leaves them, and, in very truth, forms part and parcel of their mental constitution. The fallacy farther appears in the notion held by so many, that poetry is to be found only in printed books, overlooking that, if they had not studied other poetry, these printed books could not be understood. The shortest way to explain the real state of the case, will be to show that poetry is supplied by nature as well as by art; but as these terms have often been used before, we must explain, that we do not at present intend to employ them in their usual meaning. Nature has been contrasted with art in poetry as denoting genuine heartinspiration, as opposed to dry, insipid, and affected versification; and the distinction is sound in its way, but, just now, we wish all written poetry to be considered as art, and the inherent perception of moral and physical beauty, "unuttered or expressed," to be regarded as the poetry of nature. A reference to chemistry will probably explain our meaning. That science has two great departments, the one the chemistry of nature, the other the chemistry of art. Mount Etna is an instance of the first, gunpowder of the second. The eruptions of Mount Etna arise from the spontaneous action of natural phenomena, but the deflagration of gunpowder proceeds from the artificial combination and ignition of certain proportions of saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal. Nature, therefore, has her laboratory as well as man; and in like manner she supplies her book of poetry, as independently of professional poets as the eruptions of Etna are independent of the crucibles and retorts of chemical philosophers. And although volcanic mountains are apparently more striking than na ture's poetry, yet, nevertheless, as we shall speedily show, the latter is in every way patent to the senses, and is incessantly the object of man's contemplation. In one sense poetry is an imitative art, and, as such, analogous to painting, which, in the same way, may also be divided into the natural and artistic. Earth and sky, sea and land, hill and dale, wood and wild, stars and flowers, all belong to nature's painting, and all have their influence on man; but yet they are totally distinct from the painting of the canvas. Would it not, therefore, be absurd to say, that, because a person had seen few paintings, he was unable to appreciate the landscapes of nature. But to say this would not be one whit more absurd than to say, that those who have not read poetry in books have read no poetry at all, for, in truth, it is absolutely impossible to exist without being more or less under the influence of poetical emotion. All that is beautiful in the works of God or in the handicraft of man go to make up the idea involved in this one feeling; and, classify the things of the world as we will, they all deposit their treasures at the feet of poetry, and if we annihilate it we annihilate the universe. If it be granted, then, that the materials furnished by nature for the exercise of the poetical faculty in man are so vast, it next comes to be considered to what extent does he avail himself of the facilities so afforded. There is a wonderful harmony in the constitution of the works of God, and prima facie we may rest assured that these materials exist in superabundance, simply that they may minister to a universal instinct. As an intellectual being, man's province is to reason and feel, and he cannot exercise feeling without becoming a poet, in the sense of being acted upon as an agent susceptible of perceiving and enjoying beauty. "All men," says Sir William Hamilton, "philosophise: they may do it well or ill, but philosophise they must." Similarly all men must feel, and must, to a greater or less extent, be impressed with the beautiful and true in all they see, touch, smell, hear, or feel. And however humble the mental training, this pleasurable perception of beauty is never eradicated from the human mind. Go to any fishing village, and see a mother fondling her first-born-mark how she is trying to extract a smile from the almost unconscious babe touch the right chord, it will vibrate above the din ―at last, when it does smile, the crimson flush that of railways and steam-engines, and force its entrance lights up the face of the proud mother shows that into the heart. All the men of bustle and turmoil the smile is poetry to her. Go to a dirty lane in a in this busy century love not din for its own sake; densely-peopled sea-port town, and enter one of the they look to the quiet fireside in the evening of life lowly doors-it is Saturday, and the floor is newly as the goal of earthly happiness, and while their sanded-a young girl fills a broken glass with pure sympathies thus converge towards the endearments water, puts into it a white lily, and places the whole of domestic life, poetry has the same chance that on the humble chimney-piece: that is her poetry. ever it had. So long as a street musician is listened Go to a charity workhouse of a Sunday evening, and to, and when is he not? the door is kept open for see an aged woman sitting outside with a Bible on the minstrel. It was only the other day that we her knees there is a dried sprig of mignonette on heard a utilitarian shoemaker assail a stout fiddler the page she is reading, and that is her poetry. for playing from door to door. "Why does an ableWe do not bid you go to the country, for somehow bodied man like you not work?" said Crispin. people have the impression that poetry is nowhere"Why do you not work?" retorted the wanderer. to be found except amongst meadows and shepher- "I work by making shoes," said the censor. "And desses, and, anxious to get quit of this misconception, I work by playing the fiddle." "Yes, but your we prefer alluding to places and scenes which the work is of no use, mine keeps people's feet warm." popular mind has not associated with poetic art. "And mine," concluded the musician, "keeps their hearts warm.' If we come to speak of the identity subsisting between book poetry and nature's poetry, we shall find that when the former is good the identity is most intimate. The fishwoman to whom we have referred would have no difficulty in understanding Wordsworth's" We are Seven"-the girl who tends her lily, would not turn away from the song of the "Briar Bush "-nor would the old woman in the charity workhouse listen unmoved to "John Anderson my Jo." No doubt the two last pieces have been wedded to music's "witching sounds," but all the music of Orpheus never can redeem bad poetry, and the charm lies therefore beyond auricular melody. Even the matter-of-fact merchant, although he may read no verses now, has learned them in his youth, and still remembers the lullaby, the hymn, or the ballad of his early days. They will come upon him when touched by the magic wand of association, even at the very time the ready reckoner or interest table is in his hands. He may say, tush! or pshaw as he chooses, but he may as well try to extinguish the soul within him as try to banish the spark of poetry, be it ever so feeble, which that soul contains. Mr Lewis, in his American Travels, tells of an old Scotch sailor, who met with an accident in America, and was taken to an hospital; and while there was visited by the chaplain, who in vain tried to enter into conversation with him. The Scotchman was dour and dogged, said he could die without a priest, and, like Hezekiah, although with a different object, he turned his face towards the wall. The chaplain sat down at some distance and hummed the well-known hymn, beginning, "O! mother, dear Jerusalem." "Whaur did you get that?" said the Scotchman. "My mother taught me it," was the reply. "And my mither taucht it to me too," said the now melted man, who sobbed like a child. The story tells of other things besides the reality of poetry, but it undoubtedly shows how this principle leavens and saturates the heart in childhood with an entireness which the storms of life cannot dispel. One of our modern poets has recorded it as his opinion of some of the men of this generation, that if the angels of heaven were to cast their harps upon the earth, being gold, the harps themselves would be melted down for coinage, and the strings used up in tying parcels. That there are men who would do this there can be no question, for some have been known to ring shillings on a mother's coffin; but these are the exceptions, not the rules. Therefore poets should not overly despair of this or any age that it cannot appreciate poetry-for if they Let no man then say that he does not read poetry, merely because a book of printed poetry is not to be seen in his hands. If a snatch of ballad or hymn ever springs to his lips-if he looks on his brethren with a kindlier feeling-if he is awed by a mountain if he sees sweetness in a flower-if he breathes softly over a sleeping child-if he shrinks at his littleness when gazing at the stars-if he goes forth to meditate at even-tide-if he leaves the city for the "pathless wood" or "lonely shore"—he is to all intents and purposes reading poetry. The very dread with which we contemplate the future, including in that word the realities beyond time, swells into poetry; and happy they who, whether by poetry or any thing else, are led to consider whence they have come and whether they are going. THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF THE COTTAGE. O' saxteen hunder' linin, As sleek and white as driven snaw; But I was young and tidie then, For my auld e'en and fingers. While some had far o'er mony: For we were unco cunning, When hearts are no a-wonning. |