1 John Bull, nickname for the English people regarded as an individual. 2 Humour, &c. "Humour " is a species of wit; but whilst "wit" is bright and sparkling, "humour" is droll and funny; "wit" delights by its clever surprises, "humour,” by its odd fancies. 3 Melancholy, &c., sad and gloomy, but not sour and sullen. 4 Takes it in dudgeon, takes offence; 5 Incontinently, immediately. 7 Reconciliation, the making up of EVENING AND THE NEWSPAPER. EVENING. COME, Evening, once again, season of peace; On bird and beast, the other charged for man To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; Or twining silken threads round ivory reels," When they command whom man was born to please; I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. THE NEWSPAPER. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,7 Its fluctuations and its vast concerns? He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, 8 And with a dextrous jerk, soon twists him down, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn Here rills of oily eloquence in soft 9 Meanders lubricate 10 the course they take; The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; The tumult, and am still. The sound of war Pay contribution to the store he gleans; 1 Oblivion, forgetfulness. 3 Pageantry, pomp and splendour. larger when seen near the horizon. 5 Or twining, &c. The poet Cowper was remarkably fond of his own fireside and its simple pleasures and employments. He here refers to the part he sometimes took in winding silk on reels, when desired to lend a helping hand by his lady friends, "whom man," he says, "was born to please." 6 This folio, this sheet; namely, the 7 The fair, the ladies of the house. 10 Lubricate, to make smooth. (Lat. 11 Declamation, fiery language, de- 13 Olympian, Mount Olympus, in 14 Ethereal journeys, balloon ascents. Submarine exploits, diving feats. 15 Katerfelto, a conjuror then exhibiting in London. 16 Brazen throats, the cannons. THE THE FIRST DAISY. THE daisy is the first conspicuous, hardy, widespread, and abundant flower of spring. It grows in all places; on hills, in the meadows, in town, and country. It gives one a sudden start in going down a barren, stony street to see upon a narrow strip of grass, just within the iron fence, the radiant daisy shining in the grass like a star dropped from the sky! It stirs up the thoughts, and tells us what is going on in the heavens and on the earth, unbeknown to us who are pent up in cities. Why, if daisies have come, then birds are beginning to mate, and will soon set about repairing or building their nests. We reach our hand through after that solitary daisy. It is too far off. All eager persons measure the length of their arm by the eye, and will not believe how short it is under three or four tryings. People watch us, and wonder what we can be at. Two or three gentlemen, thinking there must be something important that attracts us, stop and look over, and seeing what it is, scarcely disguise with politeness their inclination to smile at our childish fancy for a daisy. Newsboys edge up familiarly: "What have you lost, sir? Shall I jump over and get it ?" A kind old gentleman passes, and smiles sympathetically, as if he would say, "Ah, I understand your feelings; and I like you a great deal better for your enthusiasm." No; though I reached at least two inches further than before, I could only just touch it, but not pluck it. Some chubby-faced children want to see what it is, and, a little shy of me, stand at some distance, with their sweet faces framed in between the iron railings. Yes, dear things, that is just the way of the world into which you have entered. Flowers on one side, children on the other, and iron fences between! I will try a forked stick! But where is there one? A stick! stones enough, dirt enough, bricks, shavings, beams, and planks; but sticks are rare things in a city. Oh, the country is the place to live in. You can always find a stick there, only you never want one to help you pick a daisy in the fields. I am here in two troubles. I cannot get my daisy without a stick, and a stick I cannot find. Some school-girls are going past-one, two, three, four, five, the last one silent and alone; the rest, like a tree full of birds, making a jargon of music and a medley of sweet discordances. They look at me, and then at each other. The creatures see the ludicrous side of the affair! They hope for me, and really sympathise, I know. Yet, young rogues, they scarcely care to hide their laughter, which, at half a dozen steps, |