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EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER TO THE SAME.
THE BERKELEIAN SYSTEM.
You know, my dear Tom, that the objects we see,
And mountains, like lovers, whatever their hue,
The thing is notorious. Nay, as for that matter,
Are just, in the dark,-like the girl they belong to.
This truth, though it's stale to the present deep age,
Friends, pictures, books, gardens, like things in
Did he cry,
To him were but fictions,-agreeable fancies ; And things not so pleasant, of course, such as aches, Wounds, fractures, and thumps, were but cruel mistakes. “ A thought strikes me,” you
turn'd round to know What thought 'twas he spoke of, a kick or bon-mot; Had your brains been displaced by a bullet of lead, 'Twas a painful idea had got into your head; And did any one speak of a wreck on the ocean, He fell, as the crew had done, into a notion.
TO WILLIAM HAZLITT.
Et modd quà nostri spatiantur in urbe Quirites,
Miron, Eleg. 7.
Dear Hazlitt, whose tact intellectual is such
Who in politics, arts, metaphysics, poetics,
And turning on all sides, through pleasures and
Find nothing more precious than laughs and fresh
One's life, I conceive, might go prettily down
yields, In the town, of the town,-in the fields, of the
fields; In the one, for example, to feel as we go on, That 'streets are about us, arts, people, and so on;