Here perks from his arbour of crimson or green
A beau, who slips backward as though he were seen :-
Here, over my paper another shall go,
Looking just like the traveller lost in the snow,
Till he reaches the writing,—and then, when he's

eyed it, What nodding, and touching, and coasting beside it! No fresh-water spark, in his uniform fine, Can be graver

when he too first crosses the line :Now he stops at a question, as who should say

Hey ?" Now casts his round eye up the yawn of an A; Now resolves to be bold, half afraid he shall sink,

And like Giffard before him, can't tell what to think.

Oh the wretched transition to insects like these

From those of the country! To town from the trees! Ah, Tom,—you who've run the gay circle of life, And squared it, at last, with your books and a wife,

Who in Bond-street by day, when the press has been

thickest, Have had all the “ digito monstror” and “hic est,” Who've shone at great houses in coach-crowded

streets, Amidst lights, wits, and beauties, and musical treats, And had the best pleasure a guest could befall, In being, yourself, the best part of it all, Can the town (and I'm fond of it too, when I'm

there) Can the town, after all, with the country compare ?

But this is a subject I keep for my last,
Like the fruit in green leaves, which conclude a

repast.Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town; Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.

HARRY Brown.

EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER LETTER TO THE SAME.

Per me si va nella città dolente.-DANTE.
Through me you go into the city,-grieving.

Would you change, my dear Tom, your old mode

of proceeding, And make a dull end to a passage worth reading, – I mean would you learn how to let your wit down, You'd walk some fine morning from Hampstead to

town.

What think you of going by gardens and bowers, Through fields of all colours, refreshed by night

showers,

Some spotted with hay-cocks, some dark with

ploughed mould, Some changed by the mower from green to pale

gold, A scene of ripe sunshine the hedges betwixt, With here and there farm-houses, tree-intermixed, And an air in your face, ever fanning and sweet, And the birds in your ears, and a turf for your

feet;

And then, after all, to encounter a throng of
Canal-men, and hod-men, unfit to make song of,
Midst ale-houses, puddles, and backs of street-roads,
And all sorts of rubbish, and crashing cart-loads,
And so on, eye-smarting, and ready to choke,
Till you end in hot narrowness, clatter, and smoke !

'Tis Swift after Spenser, or daylight with candles, A sea-song succeeding a pastoral of Handel's,

A step unexpected, that jars one's inside,
The shout-raising fall at the end of a slide,
A yawn to a kiss, a flock followed by dust,
The hoop of a beauty seen after her bust,
A reckoning, a parting, a snake in the grass,
A time when a man says, 6. What! Come to this

a