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which it is only necessary to talk fluently about, because nobody understands 'em. Do you take me?

25. N. I think I understand.

26. Mr. G. With regard to such questions as are not political, and which one can't be expected to care a screw about, beyond the natural care of not allowing inferior people to be as well off as ourselves — else where are our privileges ?- I should wish my secretary to get together a few little flourishing speeches of a patriotic cast. For instance, if any preposterous bill were brought forward for giving poor grubbing wretches of authors a right to their own property, I should like to say that I, for one, would never consent to opposing an insurmountable barrier to the diffusion of literature among the people - you understand !- that the creations of the pocket, being

? man’s, might belong to one man or one family ; but that the creations of the brain, being God's, ought, as a matter of course, to belong to the people at large; and if I was pleasantly disposed, I should like to make a joke about posterity, and say that those who wrote for posterity should be content to be rewarded by the approbation of posterity. It might take with the house, and could never do me any harm, because posterity can't be expected to know any thing about me or my jokes either. Don't

27. N. I see that, sir.

28. Mr. G. You must always bear in mind, in such cases as this, where our interests are not affected, to put it very strong about the people, because it comes out very well at election time; and you could be as funny as you liked about the authors, because, I believe, the greater part of them live in lodgings, and are not voters. This is a hasty outline of the chief things you'd have to do, except waiting in the lobby every night, in case I forgot anything, and should want fresh cramming; and now

you see?

and then, during great debates, sitting in the front row of the gallery, and saying to the people about, “ You see that gentleman with his hand to his face, and his arm twisted round the pillar? That's Mr. Gregsbury," with any other little eulogium that might strike you at the inoment. And for salary, I don't mind saying at once,

. in round numbers, to prevent any dissatisfaction — though it's more than I have been accustomed to give -- fifteen shillings a week, and find yourself. There !

29. N. Fifteen shillings a week is not much.

30. Mr. G. Not much !- fifteen shillings a week not much, young man ! fifteen shillings a

31. N. Pray do not suppose that I quarrel with the sum ; for I am not ashamed to confess that, whatever it may be in itself, to me it is a great deal. But the duties and responsibilities make the recompense small, and they are so very heavy that I fear to undertake them.

32. Mr. G. Do you decline to undertake them, sir? 33. N. I fear they are too great for my powers,

however good my will may be.

34. Mr. G. That is as much as to say that you had rather not accept the place, and that you consider fifteen shillings a week too little. Do you decline it, sir?

35. N. I have no other alternative. 36. Mr. G. There's the door.

37. N. I am sorry I have troubled you unnecessarily, sir. 38. Mr. G. I am sorry you have; begone!


We can expect to pass through this world but once. If, therefore, there be any kindness we can show, or any good that we can do to any fellow-being, let us not defer or neglect it,- let us do it now, or the opportunity may slip from us; for we will not pass this way again.


1. Tell me, ye winged winds,

That round my pathway roar,
Do you not know some spot

Where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell

Some valley in the west,
Where free from toil and pain,

The weary soul may rest ?
The loud wind softened to a whisper low,

And sighed for pity as it answered—“No!” 2. Tell me, thou mighty deep,

Whose billows 'round me play,
Know'st thou some favored spot –

Some island, far away,
Where weary man might find

The bliss for which he eighs;
Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?
The loud waves rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer –“No!”

3. And thou, serenest moon,

That with such holy face
Dost look upon the earth

Asleep in night's embrace,
Tell me, in all thy round

Hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man

Might find a happier lot?
Behind a clond the moon withdrew in woe,
And a sweet voice, but sad, responded —“No!”

4. Tell me, my secret soul,

O, tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place

From sorrow, sin and death?
Is there no happy spot

Where man is fully blest,
Where grief may find a balm,

And weariness a rest?
Faith, Hope, and Love — best boons to mortals given,
Waved their bright wings and whispered—“Yes, in



1. The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals the European lark, in my estimation, is the boblincoln, or bobolink, as he is commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year which, in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May so often given by the poets. With us it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June.

2. Earlier than this winter is apt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of the year; and later than this, begin the parching and panting, and dissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, Nature is in all her freshness and fragrance: “the rains are over and gone, the flowers appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land."

3. The trees are now in their fullest foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the clustered flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed with the sweet

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brier and the wild rose; the meadows are enameled with clover blossoms; while the young apple, the peach and the plum begin to swell, and the cherry to glow among the green leaves.

4. This is the chosen season of revelry of the bobolink. He comes amid the pomp and fragrance of the season ; his life seems all sensibility and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshest and sweetest meadows, and is most in song when the clover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some long, flaunting weed, and as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a succession of rich tinkling notes, crowding one upon another like the outpouring melody of the sky-lark, and possessing the same rapturous character.

5. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his mate; always in full song, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same appearance of intoxication and delight.

6. Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the bobolink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the rural feeling throbbed in every bosom; but when I, luckless urchin! was doomed to be mewed up during the livelong day in a school-room.

7. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. O, how I envied him! No lessons, no task, no school ! —nothing but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then more versed in poetry I

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