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the way;

hearted philosopher-Plato's soul in Chad- try and philosophy of the business, it beband's body-crying unctuously in a green hoved gentle Tom Hood to chronicle its English lane:

comicality, which he did delightfully in his MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD.

“ Parental ode to my son, aged three years

and five months :" The house is a prison, the school-room's a cell ; Leave study and books for the upland and dell;

Thou pretty, opening rose, Lay aside the dull poring, quit home and quit (Go to your mother, child, to wipe your nose!) care;

Balmy and breathing music like the south, Sally forth! sally forth ! let us breathe the fresh (He really brings my heart into my mouth.) air!

Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue ; (I wish that window had an iron bar !) The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew; Bold as the hawk; yet gentle as the dove, – Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light,

(I tell you what, my love, And here and there turns his eye piercing and I can not write unless he's sent above.)

bright; Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car,

But there is another and deeper glimpse, With smiles to the morn-for he means to go far; in Hood's noblest vein, to be found in While the clouds, that had newly paid court at his such pictures as that of the little schoolboy

levee Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy. reading the “Death of Abel” in the playTree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling ground, and listening to the frightful between

“dream” of Eugene Aram; in the deliDewy meadows enameled in gold and in green, cious lines commencing With king.cups and daisies that all the year please,

I remember, I remember, Sprays, petals, and leaflets, that nod in the

The house where I was born; breeze, With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck And generally among the pure serious

pieces of this great and only half-appreciAnd tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray, ated English master. Itself its own home;- far away! far away!

In England, we must look for poems of The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower, this kind among the works of the great The humble bee sings in each bell of each flower; singers; but if we go to Scotland, we shall The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill: find a lyric in every cottage and a song for And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill; The birds carol gladly—the lark mounts on high; every cradle. The lowly Scotch are a The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye, home-loving and child-loving people; and And as birds of good omen, that summer loves

express themselves almost instinctively in well, Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell.

song. The fields, the highways, and the

woods swarm with humble poets. GreatThe hunt is abroad-hark! the horn sounds its note,

est, perhaps, of all Scotchmen who have And seems to invite us to regions remote. written about children is a poet almost unThe horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound, known in England, but crowned long ago And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound: Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he sand Scottish homes. His name is Wil

as the laureate of the nursery in a thoubounds, To the whoop of the huntsman and tongue of the liam Miller, and he is still living. Before hounds.

hearing another word on the score of his Then stay not within, for on such a blest day

literary pretensions, read the following, and We can never quit home, while with Nature we

confess that it would be hard anywhere to stray far away! far away!

find its peer : This is delightful, especially as coming from Coleridge ; and, indeed, all the great

THE WONDERFU’ WEAN. man's child-poems are lovely of their kind Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw; —not quite so precious a kind as Blake's It would tak’ me a lang summer day to tell a' or Shelley's, but filling its worthy place in His pranks, frae the morning till night shuts his the catalogue of lovely things. Is it not, when he sleeps like a peerie 'tween father and then, noticeable that all these men whom

me; we have been quoting-Blake, Words- For in his quiet turns siccan questions he'll speir: worth, Coleridge, Shelley—men who vir- How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae

clear? tually revolutionized literature, loved to fix their eyes on the dawn of life, with all its Wat gars the winds blow? and whar frae comes

? undeveloped issues and vague evanescent He's a perfect divert,—he's a wonderfu' wean. meanings?

Or wha was the first bodie's father ? and wha When they had given mankind the poe- Made the very first snaw-shower that ever did fa’?


him ;

And wha made the first bird that sang on a tree? shirt-front, on his neck, would look uncom-
And the water that swims a' the ships in the sea? monly like “ Doctor Drawblood,” of vil-
But after I've told him, as weel as I ken,
Again he begins wi' his wha ? and his when ?

lage notoriety. But mark the moral, old And he looks aye sae watchfu' the while I ex- boys as well as young

plain,He's as auld as the hills,-he's an auld-farrant So hain wi' care each sair-won plack, and honest

pride will fill

Your purse wi' gear,-e'en far-off friends will And folk wha hae skill o' the lumps on the head, bring grist to your mill; Hint there's mae ways than toiling o' winning And if, when grown to be a man, your name's ane's bread;

without a flaw, How he'll be a rich man, and hae men to work Then-rax your neck and tune your 'pipes tofor him;

Cockie-leerie-la. Wi'a kyte like a bailie's, shug, shugging afore

William Miller may not be recognized by Wi'a face like the moon, sober, sonsy, and douce, the great world; but he is at any rate cerAnd a back, for its breadth, like the side of a

tain of his immortality. Other poets have house. 'T weel I'm unco ta'en up wi't, they mak' a' sae

written admirably in the same vein ; but plain ;

his is the master-touch, as unmistakable in He's just a town's talk—a by-ordinar wean. its humble way as the coloring of a Titian I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat,

or the magic “smudge" of a Turner. To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat; Since Wordsworth and the rest, a whole Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far ower his school of child-poetry has arisen; we do

knees, The tap loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease.

not hear of poetry written for children to Then he march'd thro' the house, he march'd

but, read, which is quite another thing, but of he march'd ben,

poetry more or less connected with childLike ower mony mae o' our great little men, life. In one of Tennyson's finest Idyls, That I leugh clean outright, for I couldna con.

that of “ Dora," a child is the mysterious tain, He was sic a conceit-sic an ancient-like wean.

agent curing human wrong and misinter

pretation; and child-life is the subject of But 'mid a' his daffin' sic kindness he shows, That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose; Browning even has unbent in the same di

many of the same writer's best lyrics. And the unclouded hinnie-beam aye in his e'e Mak’s him every day dearer and dearer to me! rection, and given us, besides many more Though fortune be saucy and dorty and dour, serious pieces such as the profound little And gloom through her fingers like hills through vignette called “ Protus," his immortal

a shower, When bodies hae got ae bit bairn o' their ain,

“ Piper of Hamelin." It would be im. How he cheers up their hearts,-he's the won- possible to enumerate, much less to quote, derfu' wean!

all the writers who have followed suit.

honor This poem is only one of many by the But in any chronicle of this sort, same lowly author, áll as exquisite in lite- should be paid to the anonymous author rary workmanship as delightful in their of “ Lilliput Levee,"—one of the most quaint affectionate insight. "Wee Willie pleasant little volumes of pot-pourri in Winkie" is another perfect gem. In some

our language. In other quarters, childish we have the most delicate touches of na- şubjects have been carried to the verge of ture, as in the poem called “ Hairst,” or namby-pamby, and we have had a great Autumn :

deal of sickly twaddle-chiefly by ladies.

The infantine manner is very offensive Come, hairst-time, then, unto my bairn, when persisted in beyond a certain point. Drest in thy gayest gear,

Here must cease our very imperfect Wi' saft and winnowing winds to cool The gloaming of the year !

sketch of a most interesting subject. Sure

ly we have shown unmistakably that those In others we find the oddest turns of poets have ever been the greatest whose humor, as in “ Cockie-leerie-la," where the hearts have been in tune with all innocent farm-yard cock gets his apotheosis as “a loveliness; and that where among the pocountry gentleman who leads a thrifty etry of any epoch we do not see a Child's life," whose“ step is firm and even," his Face peeping out somewhere or other, we “bearing bold," as if he said, “I'll never may safely conclude that the society and be a slave,” and who, if he had a “pair of the poetry of the said epoch were in a low specks on his nose," and a "dickie," or and miserable condition.

Cornhill Magazine.


He was.

As still as lay
The cold unconscious clay,
When the last sigh of life had fled,
Of that great soul distenanted,

So, at the startling tale,

The breathless world grows pale;
In silence stands to ponder o'er
The fatal page closed evermore,

Nor knows if it may be
That mortal such as he
Shall with red footfall stain
The insulted dust again.

In splendor, on his throne

I saw him, and passed on: While Fortune, blending smile and frown, O'erthrew and raised and hurled him down,

Amid the clamorous throng

I scorned to wake my song:
Unskilled to flatter or to sting,
Incense nor outrage would I bring;

But when the lustre splendid
In sudden darkness ended,
Rose with a start to pay
The tribute of my lay.

From Alp to Pyramid,

From Moscow to Madrid,
His ready lightnings flashed and shone,
Vaunt-couriers of the thunderstone,

And lit that sea and this,

Scylla and Tanais-
Was this true glory? Answer ye
That are not, but that are to be;

We at Thy footstool bow,
Maker and Lord, for Thou
Hast of Thy master-hand
Never such marvel planned.

The stormy joys that fret

The soul on greatness set,
The yearning of the restless heart,
That burns to play the imperial part,

And wins a guerdon higher

Than Madness durst desire-
All this was his; 'twas his to claim
For peril's meed yet greater fame;

Flying, and conquering;
An exile, and a king;
Twice in the dust o'erthrown,

Twice on the altar-stone.
The anniversary of the death of the first Napolcon.

He uttered but his name,

And at his bidding came Two warring centuries to wait Upon his pleasure as their fate;

He set, with steadfast mien,

His judgment-seat between;
Then like a vision passed, and wore
His life out on that narrow shore,

A mark for boundless spite,
And pity infinite,
For hate as deep as Hell,
And love invincible.

As whelm the waters dread

The shipwrecked swimmer's head,
While ever and anon his eye
Strains upward in his agony,

And sweeps the pitiless main

For distant shores in vain,-
So slowly o'er that sinking soul
Did the full flood of memories roll !

Oft on the eternal pages,
Wherein to after-ages
He strove his tale to tell,
The listless fingers fell.

Oft, as the lazy day

Died silently away,
Earthward the flashing eye subdued,
And with enfolded arms he stood,

While o'er his thought was cast

The shadow of the past;
Again the tented squadrons sprang
To arms, again the ramparts rang;

Surged the bright ranks again,
And wave of mounted men,
And to the word of flame
The instant answer came.

Well might the spirit die

In such an agony ;
But, strong to succor, from above
Came down a messenger of love,

Raised him from his despair

To breathe a purer air, And set his feet



way Where Hope's fair flowerets bloom for aye

To those eternal plains,
Rich in unmeasured gains,
Where man's brief glories fade
In silence and in shade.

Oh, fair and healing Faith,

Triumphant over Death,
Write thou among thy victories
That loftier majesty than his

Ne'er bent in humbled pride
To Christ the crucified :

Let not the light or mocking word
Be near the wearied ashes heard;

The Lord of weal and woe,
Who raises and lays low,
A living glory shed
Around the desolate bed!

Chambers's Journal.


The following extraordinary case of vocation of the Edict of Nantes, the date successful imposture, although it occurred of Isaac's birth could not be verified from upwards of one hundred and seventy years this source; but any doubts on this point ago, is sufficient to show not only how were set at rest by an entry in the joureasily the unthinking portion of mankind nal of M. Bourdin, his grandfather, with may be induced to believe statements of whom Monsieur de Caille and his wife the most preposterous character, and how resided. This entry proves Isaac's birth readily they lend their support to claims to have taken place on the 19th Novemwhich bear on their surface the marks of ber, 1664. In 1679, Madame de Caille invalidity and falsehood, but also that men died, and, by her will

, she made her surof acknowledged talent, whose whole viving son Isaac her heir, and gave her lives have been passed in sifting and daughters legacies; leaving, however, a weighing evidence, may be duped by a life-interest in the whole of her property clever, cool scoundrel who is in possession to her husband, who determined to give of a retentive memory, and an unlimited his now only son an education suited to stock of audacity and perseverance. the position he was destined ultimately to

In most instances of criminal imperson- fill. ation, an extraordinary resemblance be- On the Revocation of the Edict of tween the genuine and soi-disant individual Nantes in 1685, the family were obliged has first suggested and then supported the to leave France, and settled at Lausanne, fraud; but in the case of Pierre Mêge, in Switzerland, canton of Berne. Here the hero, if he may be called such, of the one of the daughters died in 1686, and following story, no such likeness existed. the grandfather in 1690. In the year It would be difficult to find two persons 1689, a law was passed in France giving more dissimilar in face, form, character, to their nearest Catholic relatives the propand education than the noble and cultiva- erty of those Calvinists who were fugitives ted Sieur de Rougon and the ungainly from the kingdom on account of their reand ignorant French soldier who under- ligion. Monsieur de Caille remained faithtook to act his part. Yet the impostor, in ful, and preferred sacrificing his estate to one court of law, gained his case, and en- abjuring his creed. His property was tered upon the full enjoyment of the prop- claimed by Madame Anne le Gouche, the erty, in the face of evidence which declar sister of Madame de Caille, and the wife ed that the person he claimed to be was of M. Rolland, Avocat-général to the Sudead and buried.

preme Court of Dauphiné. It was, howScipion le Brun de Castellane, lord of ever, ultimately decided that the estate Caille and Rougon, was married, in the should be divided. Property producing year 1655, to Mademoiselle Judith le an annual rental of twelve thousand francs Gouche. Both were Calvinists, and the fell to a Madame Tardivi, another relahusband was

one of the most earnest tive; whilst Madame Rolland's share members of that sect. Their place of brought in a rental of only two thousand · residence was Manosque, a town in Pro- five hundred francs. vence; and their family consisted of five Monsieur de Caille's eldest son, who children—three boys and two girls. The was known as Monsieur de Rougon, aptwo younger sons died at an early age, but pears to have been of very studious habthe elder brother survived until he was its, and devoted himself to the study of thirty-two. The baptismal register of the literature and science. Indeed, severe Calvinists having been lost upon the Re- application was supposed to have greatly

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