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visited. In point of fact, it makes them
hate what you wish them to love.
"morbid sympathy."

This is

England is a wealthy country. There is money enough in it to regenerate the length and breadth of the land, and to make all sorrowful hearts happy. But there is no disposition towards this.

Everybody is selfish, cold, and indifferent. The world seems to be turned topsy-turvy. If a man be convicted on the clearest evidence of murdering his wife—or the wife her husband, the most strenuous efforts now-a

days are made to rescue them from punish-But
ment. Nay, in the very face of the judges,
jurymen will give verdicts quite against the
evidence adduced. In the late case of the
villain Kirwan, who murdered his poor wife,
the morbid sympathy evinced to prove him
"innocent" almost exceeds the power of be-
lief. This ought not to be. The man was
a fiend, and yet-not executed! Elizabeth
Vickers, too, tried for murdering her master
at Brixton,-morbid sympathy has found HER
"not guilty!" She gets all his money too!!

With the example of Mrs. Harriet Beecher
STOWE before them, let our fair country.
women arise and exert themselves. Charity
begins "at home." We need not wander
far away for a theme. England's "cabins
hold many
"slaves "-already but too well
acquainted with "Uncle Tom." Great as
may be the horrors of slavery in America
and we shudder to read of them-yet are there
equally horrible cases of slavery here.
They may differ in kind, it is true; but they
differ nothing in intensity.

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English slavery is an expression little used; but a well-compiled work under that very title, would form a volume far exceeding in size that of "Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and be readily acknowledged as a national blessing.

If only one billionth part of the money lavished daily on silly tom-fooleries, which perish with the using, were set aside for this good work,-what a happy nation we should be whilst our women-God bless them! would be worshipped and held in everlasting remembrance.



Nothing is more moving to a man than the spectacle of reconciliation. Our weaknesses are thus indemnified and are not too costly-being the price we pay for the blessing of forgiveness. The archangel, who has never felt anger, has reason to envy the man who subdues it. When thou forgivest, the man that hast pierced thy heart

stands to thee in the relation of the sea-worm that perforates the shell of the muscle, which straightway closes the wound with a pearl.

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The bitter storm; the ceaseless rain;
And Zephyrs whisper as they play,-
"Spring, gentle Spring, is come again."


I love the Spring; the Summer flowers
May wear a brighter, gayer dress,
lilies pearled with passing showers,
Sweet vi lets peep where'er we stray,
Have greater claim to loveliness.

And daisies dance upon the plain,
While laughing blue-bells nod and say,
"Spring, gentle Spring, is come again."

I love to wander through the vale,

When merry warblers sweetly sing;
And pretty ring-doves tell a tale

And when at eve I listen long,
Of joys that bloom with lovely Spring;

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To Philomel's enchanting strain,
Methinks I hear, in that lov'd song,

Spring, gentle Spring, is come again."

I love the Spring; a rich perfume,

Is mingled with the cheering breeze;
The fields their brightest garb resume,

And beauty clothes the forest trees.
The Nect'rine, Peach, and Almond bloom,
May still be seen in Nature's train;
And buzzing bees dispel the gloom,

By humming "Spring is come again!'

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love to roam at dawn of day,

To see the sun rise o'er the hill;
Where dew-drops glisten on the spray,

And softly flows the murmuring rill.
Then, whilst I listen with delight

To lowing herds, o'er hill and plain,
The merry Cuckoo, in its flight,

Sings "Lovely Spring is come again!"

I love the Spring-the Lark's soft lay
Awakens thoughts of happiness;
And by the stream where sunbeams play,
Are pleasures words can ne'er express.
Oh, who can fail to love and prize

The countless joys we thus obtain !
Hark! every voice in Nature cries,—




MY DEAR SIR,-It's all very well of you to write so sweetly about the country, and to down to sip the morning dew "just to give invite us young city fellows, and west-enders, us an appetite." You talk, too, about walks in the fields, fair companions, visits to farmhouses, &c.,-enough to turn one's head!

But while you thus write-hear how another annotates by way of caution. He says:

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"There's a world of buxom beauty, young I do? I want to love the country, but fear fellows, flourishing in the shades of the to risk the danger that lurks among the farmcountry. 'Aye, marry is there!' Above houses. Will you kindly give me a hint ? all things, avoid farm-houses. Farm-houses Yours, TYRO. are dangerous places. As you are thinking [Your question is an odd one; and had only of sheep or of curds, you may be sud- you lived in the country so long as we have denly shot through by a pair of bright eyes, done, you needed not to have asked it. and melted away in a bewitching smile that Come down, Sir, and get "used" to the sight you never dreamt of till the mischief was of these lovely faces. What would the done. country be without them? Never mind the "mysterious magic" lurking beneath a witching smile. If, after beholding it once, you should require our aid-you will not—we will then gladly assist you.]

"In towns, and theatres, and thronged assemblies of the rich and titled fair, you are on your guard; you know what you are exposed to, and put on your breast-plate, and pass through the most deadly onslaught of beauty --safe and sound. But in those sylvan retreats, dreaming of nightingales, and hearing only the lowing of oxen, you are taken by surprise. Out steps a fair creature, crosses a glade, leaps a stile; you start, you stand by, lost in wonder and silent admiration. You take out your tablets to write a sonnet on the return of the nymphs and dryads to earth, when up comes John Tomkins, and says, 'It's only the farmer's daughter !''

"What! have farmers such daughters now a-days?'

"Yes: I tell you they have such daughters -those farm-houses are dangerous places. Let no man with a poetical imaginationwhich is but another name for a very tindery heart, flatter himself with fancies of the calm delights of the country; with the serious idea of sitting with the farmer in his old-fashioned chimney corner, and hearing him talk of corn and mutton; of joining him in the pensive pleasures of a pipe, and brown jug of October; of listening to the gossip of the comfortable farmer's wife; of the parson and his family, of his sermons and his tenth pig. Over a fragrant cup of young hyson, or whilst you are lapt in the delicious luxuries of custards and whipt creams, in walks a fair vision of wondrous witchery; and. with a curtsey and smile of most winning and mysterious magic, takes her seat just opposite. It is the farmer's daughter! A lovely girl of eighteen. Fair as the lily, fresh as May-dew, rosy as the rose itself; graceful as the peacock perched on the pales there by the window; sweet as a posy of violets and "clove gillivers;" modest as early morning, and amiable as the imagination of Desdemona or Gertrude of Wyoming.

"You are lost! It's all over with you. I wouldn't give an empty filbert or a frog-bitten strawberry for your peace of mind, if that glittering creature be not as pitiful as she is fair. And that comes of going into the country, out of the way of vanity and temptation; and fancying farm-houses only nice old-fashioned places of old-fashioned contentment.-Young fellows! again I say-beware!" Now, Mr. Editor, what can I-what shall


ALL men, women, and children, are manifestly poets-except those who write verses. But why that exception? Because they alone make no use of their minds.

Versifiers--and we speak but of them--are the sole living creatures that are not also creators. The inferior animals, as we are pleased to call them, and as indeed in some respects they are, modify matter much in their imaginations. Rode ye never a horse by night through a forest? That most poetical of quadrupeds sees a spirit in every stump; else why by such sudden start should he throw his master over his ears?

The blackbird on the tip-top of that pinetent is a poet, else never could his yellow bill so salute with rapturous orisons the re-ascending sun, as he flings over the woods a lustre again gorgeous from the sea. And what induces those stock-doves, think ye, to fill the heart of the grove with soft, deep, low, lonely, far-away, mournful, yet happythunder? What, but love and joy, and delight and desire? In one word, poetry. Poetry, which confines the universe to that wedded pair, within the sanctuary of the pillared shade impervious to meridian sunbeams, and brightens and softens into splendor and into snow divine the plumage beautifying the creatures in their bliss, as breast to breast they crood-en-doo on their shallow nest.

Thus all men, women, and children, birds, beasts, and fishes, are poets,-except versifiers, Oysters are poets. Nobody will deny that, whoever in the neighborhood of Preston-pans has beheld them passionately gaping, on their native bed, for the flow of the tide coming again to awaken all their energies from the wide Atlantic. Nor less poetical are snails. See them in the dewy stillness of eve, as they salute the crescent Dian; with horns humbler indeed, but no less pointed than her own. The beetle, "against the traveller borne in heedless hum," if we knew all his feelings in that soliloquy, might safely be pronounced a Wordsworth.

Thus are we all poets, high and low,

except versifiers.
They, poor creatures, are
a peculiar people, impotent of good works.
Ears have they, but they hear not,-eyes
have they, but they will not see. Nay,
naturalists assert that they have brains and
spinal marrow; also, organs of speech. Yet,
with all that organisation, they have but
little feeling, and no thought; and by a feeble
and monotonous fizz, are you made aware, in
the twilight, of the useless existence of the
obscure ephemerals!

These remarks are intended more particularly for the eye of the gentleman alluded to in our first article (see page 193). Versifiers, he will see, are mere gingling jobbers, not poets. We entreat him to mark well the difference between talking, rhyming, and feeling.

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IN A VERY INTERESTING LECTURE recently delivered by BRANSBY COOPER, before the "Royal College of Surgeons,' the subject of "Animal grafting"-a pet crotchet of the immortal JoHN HUNTER, was introduced, with the following curious illustrations.

John Hunter, said the lecturer, more this fluid than any physiologist who had clearly recognised the great importance of gone before him. His views with respect to the importance of the blood to the animal economy, led him to the belief that the blood was endowed with a life of its own, more or less independent of the vitality of the animal in which it circulated. The following experiments seemed to have been instituted with the view of establishing the fact, that the blood of a living animal could, even under the artificial stimulus induced by the introduction of the part of another animal into itself—by ingrafting, nourish and support it, so as to convert it into a part of itself. Hunter transplanted a human tooth to the comb of a cock, where it not only became fixed, but actually became part of the organic structure of the cock's comb; he proved this by injecting the cock's head, and, on dissection (as the preparation on the table illustrated), the blood-vessels filled with the coloring matter of the injection were traced into the capillaries of the living membrane of the cavity of the tooth.

The most striking instance of this incorporation of a foreign organic body with a living tissue, was shewn by the learned orator in another preparation made by the immortal Hunter, in which the spur of a cock had been removed from its leg and transplanted to its comb, where it not only continued to grow, but had acquired a far greater size than the spur ever acquired in its natural situation. The result of this experiment involved a very interesting physiological inquiry-how the capillaries, which were destined by nature merely to furnish blood fitted for the elaboration of the tissues of the comb, should, under the stimulus of necessity, to use Hunter's own expression, be rendered competent to eliminate the horny matter of the spur, even to the extent of an hypertrophied condition.

The orator then took an elaborate review of the digestive organs of various animals; and found that, in certain instances, they were capable of becoming modified to meet contingencies to which an animal might be exposed. By this change the animal_might be rendered capable of existing and even thriving on a kind of food entirely of an opposite character to that originally intended by nature for its support and nourishment;

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and illustrating which, Mr. Cooper mentioned
that Hunter fed a sea gull (naturally a bird
of prey) with grain, and after twelve months
he destroyed the bird, and, upon examination,
found that its normally membranous stomach
had become much thickened; and so changed And I, alone, am left to celebrate your mass.

Who hath sung your praises?
Poets by you pass,

in character, as to resemble in appearance
the gizzard of the graminivorous fowl rather
than that of a carnivorous bird.


Fair and peaceful daisies!
Smiling in the grass;

In the summer morning,

Through the fields ye shine,
Joyfully adorning

Earth with smiles divine,


Another striking instance of the periodical modification of the digestive apparatus, was found by Hunter in the crop of the pigeon And pour from sunny hearts fresh gladness into during the period of incubation. This crop, which at other times was similar to that of birds in general, during incubation assumes a glandular character, which enables it, in addition to its ordinary function, to secrete

Lying in the meadows,
Like the milky way,
From nocturnal shadows
Glad to fall away,

a milky fluid, which is ejected, and affords a And live a happy life in the wide light of day.
nourishment for its young progeny; rendering
the crop, in fact, a kind of mammary gland.

Bees about you humming,

Pile their yellow store;
Winds in whispers coming,
Teach you love's sweet lore-
For your reluctant lips still worshipping the more


Birds with music laden,

Shower their songs on you;
And the rustic maiden,
Standing in the dew,-

WE beg most cordially to commend to our readers' notice, the following advice, given by an American orator. At no season could it be more appropriate than at the present:"Gentlemen aud ladies, open your By your alternate leaves tells if her love be true. windows-let in the fresh air. Light, physical or moral, is not more essential to vision than air is to health and happiness. Yet how careful are most of us to exclude it!

Little stars of glory,

From your amber eyes
No inconstant story

Of her love should rise;


You close up the windows, nail list around And yet " He loves me not!" is oft the sad surthe doors, and appear to do all in your power to exclude Heaven's free gift of fresh air; and the reason why people are not smothered is that the air is so subtle, it works its way through every little crevice, so that it is almost impossible to get it shut out alto- In Heaven, I think the light of flowers immortal gether. But, if people do not get themselves quite suffocated, they continue to get pale, stupid, nervous, and heavy headed for want of pure air, which is so anxious to force itself into their rooms, but which they contrive to keep barred out.

Crowds of milk-white blossoms,
Noon's concentrated beams
Glowing in your bosoms;
So, by living streams


When your date is over,
Peacefully ye fade,

With the fragrant clover,
And sweet grasses laid-

What would you think of a man, coming In odors for a pall, beneath the orchard shade. down the river, on a raft, who would get a basin of water and keep it for weeks to wash himself every day, when the broad river was running level with his feet? You would say he was a fool. Are you any wiser, who have And ever in my heart to Heaven's clear sunshine miles deep of fresh air above you, and yet do not allow yourself more than a few square feet to be used over and over again hundreds of times? I wish every one of you knew what a curious piece of machinery your lungs and hearts are, and how well the atmosphere is adapted to our use.


If you are afraid to have the fresh air blow upon you while you are asleep, break a pane of glass out of the top of the window until you get used to fresh air; and then a stream of it hard enough to blow the quilts off the bed will not hurt you.

Happy, happy daisies!
Would I were like you-
Pure from human praises,
Fresh with early dew,


"Life, long and happy, to English beauty!" says Mrs. S. C. Hall. Amen! say WE. Despite all that has been or ever will be said of its fragility, its dangers, its destruction, it is a blesssed thing to look upon and live amongst.

Talk of its fading! it never fades. It is but transferred from face to face. The bud comes forth as the blossom is perfected; and

the bud bursts into blossom but to hide the falling leaves, fragrant amid the decay of the parent flower.

susceptibility which so pitiful a person as WILLIAM SMITH of Norwich could rouse into passionate indignation; the whole sensitive nature which, even in so quiet a sphere as the library at Keswick, at how could these have stood the judicial browbeatlast yielded its possessor a prey to insanity,

Then the beauties of our country are so

varied! The peasant girl, gifted with pearl like modesty, and the courtly maiden, set, as

her birthright, in a golden circlet-the intel-ings and professional exasperations and wear and tear of metropolitan legal existence?

lectual face beaming intelligence, and the English matron, proud as Cornelia of her living jewels.

Let any literary man, with the gifts and sentiments of the genuine student, and who is disposed to grumble at the chagrins of his lot, ask himself whether these would be fewer or less keen were he a surgeon or a merchant,-were he a competitor of Mr. Pecksniff's, or doomed to be pitted against the learned and eloquent Serjeant Buzfuz?

Nor is the perfection of English beauty confined to any class. In summer-time you meet it everywhere; by the hedge-rows, in the streets, in the markets, in the parks, at watering places; at home, and abroad. At every turn, one meets some fair specimen of living beauty. We are reflected in it, and we get rude health by the contact.


THE MISERABLE OUTCRY of certain literary men about their "hardships," and their ignoble attempts to be admitted to pensions (!) are truly contemptible.

Whatever may have occurred in earlier times, when the claims of literature were not properly recognised and rewarded, can have no reference to the sums now paid for mental labor. A recent pension granted to a public literary man, reminds us, although he is a sad grumbler, that he has in his time rolled in money. Few persons have been better remunerated, or better enabled to live in complete affluence. If his expenditure was unduly extravagant,-which it was, who but himself can be to blame? This whining; puling, outcry, we repeat, is disgusting; and we hope to hear no more of it. Meantime, let us append the very sensible remarks of a contemporary (the Critic), bearing hard upon the same subject:

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A great deal of exaggeration and absurdity has been vented, especially in a certain recent "Autobiography," with respect to the "calamities" of authorship by profession. Much of the pain which is said to attach exclusively to that condition of life, is mitigated by counterbalancing advantages or pleasures; while still more of it will be found, on close inquiry, to be no necessary concomitant of literary pursuits, but, in a greater or less degree to accompany all the forms of industry cultivated in a state of society so highly complex and artificial as is our own.

When, towards the close of his laborious literary life, ROBERT SOUTHEY, indulging in a train of retrospective meditation, endeavored to sum up what literature had done for him, he chronicled the result of his reflections in the question, "Would I have been a happier man had I been all my life arguing in Westminster Hall ?" and it needs no great acquaintance with the character or temperament of men like SOUTHEY to enable any one to answer for him "No!" The temper which was ruffled by the sarcasms of BYRON; the

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Our Eastern land is a gorgeous one, but it is a picture land. It better suits the portfolio of an artist-the" tesselated pages of an album," than the personal contest of hand and foot, or constitution. It is fair to look upon, but let us see it in a diorama. It has all the capabilities of producing a superb and showy painting, or series of paintings; but it will not do to tread those sunny tracts, to wander among those glittering scenes, that look so well on canvas. The sunbeams that impart life to the picture, give death or delirium to the traveller who dares their influence; and those grotesque groups of trees and depths of junglebright with flowers and birds, whose very plumage seems a flower-bed-afford shelter to beasts of prey, and reptiles whose venom is as powerful and deadly as their colors are beautiful.

There are squirrels sporting before my door. I love those graceful little creatures-so wild, so boldly shy, so untameably-regardless of the endearments of man! Parroquets, with green feathers and roseate bills, are fluttering noisily among the cocoa-trees, with a mad sort of rompishness allied to intoxication. They are delighted, no doubt, with the sudden shower which has so refreshingly cooled the air; or perhaps they have been banquetting on the seeds of the cotton-plant; which if Pomet, a botanist of other years, is to be credited, "fuddle the parroquets."

The oleander scents and beautifies the little garden plot before me, and the wild plants, that spring profusely around, are full of beauty,

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