STATISTICS OF LONDON.-POPULATION.

In the reign of Henry II. London contained 40,000 inhabitants. In that of William III. the number was 674,000; George III., 676,000; ditto, 1801, 1,097,000; ditto, 1811, 1,304,000; George IV., 1821, 1,574,000; William IV., 1831, 1,860,000. Of this population, there were within the bills of mortality, in 1821, 660,578 men, and 768,007 women, being 38 women to 33 men. Of this number, according to the census, 8,855 families were agriculturists, 199,902 mechanics, and 116,834 of other professions, Allowing four persons to each family, there were 800,000 persons of the industrious class, and 464,000 without any particular useful profession. In 1836, amongst this great population, there were 60 bankers, 1,680 stock-brokers, 300 physicians, 580 chemists, 1,180 surgeons, 131 notaries, 1,150 lawyers, 1,560 merchants, 3,480 commercial agents, 2,100 bakers, 1,800 butchers, 200 brewers, 4,300 public-house keepers, 3,900 tailors, 2,800 shoemakers, 390 hatters, 200 curriers, 520 architects, builders, &c. But the number of persons attached to each of these professions is about ten times that of the masters. There are 16,502 shoemakers, without including the apprentices; 14,552 tailors; 19,625 carpenters and joiners; in all 450 different sorts of businesses. In 1836 there were 207 hotels, 447 taverns, 557 coffee-houses, 5,975 public-houses and beer-shops, 8,649 gin palaces, and 15,839 various shops. From 1744 to 1800, during the period of 56 years, the deaths in London exceeded the number of births by 267,000, being on an average annually a loss of 4,800 persons. Whilst from 1801 to 1830, during a space of 30 years, the births exceeded the deaths by 102,975, or on an average 3,600 per aunum.-The Mirror.

SPELLING.

The Woods of Lancashire are a distinguished family for character, wealth,

and talent; the eldest son, John Wood, has been returned member of parliament for Preston several times, and proved himself a steady supporter of civil and religious liberty. A laughable circumstance once took place upon a trial in Lancashire, where the head of the family, Mr. Wood, sen., was examined as a witness. Upon giving his name, Ottiwell Wood, the judge, addressing the reverend person, said, “ Pray, Mr. Wood, how do you spell your name?" The old gentleman replied"O double T I double U E double L double U double O D."

Upon which the astonished lawgiver laid down his pen, saying it was the most extraordinary name he had ever met with in his life, and, after two or three attempts, declared he was unable to record it.-Gardiner.

TURKISH CEMETERIES.

There is nothing more striking perhaps about a Turkish town or village, than the extent of burying-grounds attached to them, and the great disproportion in number which the mansions of the dead bear to those of the living. Not that it is difficult to account for this peculiarity in a country where the practice is never to disturb a grave, but to assign to each pilgrim his own restingplace; so that we can see the tombs of many departed generations, while one only of the living requires lodgings at a time, and the same tenements may serve for many successive tenants. But the multitude of these memorials of the dead seen collected together, and outnumbering so ominously the signs of life and population, cannot fail to impress the beholder very forcibly with thoughts of the myriads who have passed away-who have gone the road we must all follow; in short, of the exceeding frailty of human existence, and that "in the midst of life we are in death." At this place (Eskew) the buryinggrounds exhibited a singular spectacle, disposed as they were upon the brow of certain rising grounds above the village; for as every grave was marked with a slender upright white stone, on the top of which a turban is sometimes rudely indicated, or some verses from the Koran are inscribed, they looked in the beams of the rising sun just like the remains of some young plantation that had been suddenly blasted, and the withered rain-bleached stumps of which alone remained.-Fraser's Winter Journey.

DIFFERENT EFFECTS OF VEGETABLES UPON DIFFERENT

ANIMALS.

The Botanical Professor, in a lecture delivered at King's College, said that "Horses will not touch cruciferous plants, but will feed on reed grasses, amidst abundance of which goats have been known to starve; and these latter again will eat and grow fat on the water hemlock, which is a rank poison to other cattle. In like manner, pigs will feed on henbane, while they are destroyed by common pepper; and the horse, which avoids the bland turnip, will grow fat on rhubarb."-Farmer's Magazine.

THE TRUE USES OF KNOWLEDGE.

I make not my head a grave, but a treasury of knowledge; intend no m nopoly, but a community in learning; I study not for my own sake only, but for theirs that study not for themselves; I envy no man that knows more than myself, but pity them that know less. I instruct no man as an exercise of my knowledge, or with an intent rather to nourish and keep it alive in mine own head, than beget and propagate it in his; and in the midst of all my endeavours there is but one thought that dejects me, that my acquired parts must perish with myself, nor can be legacied among my honoured friends.-Sir T. Browne.

RECREATIONS.

Recreation is a second creation, when weariness hath almost annibilated one's spirits. It is the breathing of the soul, which otherwise would be stifled with continual business. We may trespass in them, if using such as are forbid. den by the lawyer as against statutes; physician as against health; divine as against conscience.-Fuller's Holy and Profane States.

EXPENSE OF A SEVENTY-FOUR GUN SHIP.

1. A regular 74 gun ship takes 3,000 oaks to build her. These trees would require one hundred acres of land for their growth, and would be nearly a hundred years in coming to maturity. Three thousand oaks would timber a thousand cottages, for as many industrious families, and this would be a rational purpose for employing oak timber.-2. The yearly expense of a 74-gun ship in com. mission is about eight times as much as the salary of the president of the United States; yet our president, with his enlightened views of our foreign policy, is a far better security for the preservation of peace, than any battle-ship we can send to sea.-American Paper.-3. How many thousand ships has England sent to foreign countries to spread devastation and death? The money expended in building, equipping, and supporting one of these, would be sufficient, with the Divine blessing, to convey Christianity, with its civilising effects, to hundreds of thousands of people.-Williams's Missionary Enterprises.

GILT BUTTONS.

Looking at the brilliant appearance of a gilt button, the substance of the gold which covers it is by no means obvious to us; but when it is proved that amazing ductility of the metal no longer surprises us, and we can easily credit five grains of gold, worth 15d., will gild 144 buttons an inch in diameter, the

that its thickness does not exceed more than the 214,000th part of an inch in the coarser branches of this manufacture.-Newspaper Paragraph.

SAYINGS FROM THE TALMUD.

"What God was

When Esop in answer to the question put to him by Chilo, doing?" said "that he was depressing the proud and exalting the humble," the reply was considered as most admirable. But the same sentiments are to be found in the Medrash; though expressed, as usual with the Jewish writers, in the form of a story, it runs thus :-"A matron once asked Rabbi José, In how many days did God create the world?' 'In six days,' replied the Rabbi, as it is written, In six days God made the heavens and the earth.' 'But,' continued she, what is he doing now?' 'Oh !' replied the Rabbi, he makes ladders on which he causes the poor to ascend, and the rich to descend,' or, in other words, he exalts the lowly, and depresses the haughty." There were discovered on the fragments of an ancient tombstone, Greek words to the following purpose:-"I was not, and I became; I am not, but shall be." same thought is expressed in the following reply of Rabbi Gabiha to a sceptic. A freethinker once said to Rabbi Gabiha, “Ye fools who believe in a resurrection, see ye not that the living die? how then can you believe that the dead shall live ?" Silly man!" replied Gabiha," thou believest in a creation— well then, if what never before existed, exists; why may not that which once existed, exist again ?"—Goodhugh's Lectures on Biblical Literature.

GOODNESS.

The

It is some hope of goodness not to grow worse; it is a part of badness not to grow better. I will take heed of quenching the spark, and strive to kindle a fire. If I have the goodness I should, it is not too much; why should I make it less? If I keep the goodness I have 'tis not enough: why do I not make it more? He ne'er was so good as he should be, that doth not strive to be better than he is: he never will be better than he is, that doth not fear to be worse than he was.-Warwick's Spare Minutes.

NEGOTIATION BEFORE A WAR.

Two nations, or most likely two governments, have a dispute; they reason the point backwards and forwards; they cannot determine it; perhaps they do not wish to determine; so, like two carmen in the street, they fight it out; first, however, dressing themselves up to look fine, and pluming themselves on their absurdity. Just as if two carmen were to go and put on their Sunday clothes, and stick a feather in their hats besides, in order to be as dignified and fantastic as possible. They then "go at it," and cover themselves with mud! blood! and glory! Can anything be more ridiculous? Yet, apart from the habit of thinking otherwise, and being drummed into the notion by the very toys of infancy, the similitude is not one atom too ludicrous; no, nor a thousandth part enough so.-Leigh Hunt.

VANITY A FOE TO AGREEMENT.

For Pope's exquisite good sense, take the following, which is a masterpiece:"Nothing hinders the constant agreement of people who live together, but mere vanity; a secret insisting upon what they think their dignity or merit, and inward expectation of such an over-measure of deference and regard as answers to their own extravagant false scale, and which nobody can pay, because none but themselves can tell readily what pitch it amounts to." Thousands of houses would be happy to-morrow, if this passage were written in letters of gold over the mantel-piece, and the offenders could have the courage to apply it to themselves.-Monthly Chronicle.

London: WILLIAM SMITH, 113, Fleet Street. Edinburgh: FRASER AND Co. Dublin: CURRY & Co.-Printed by Bradbury & Evans, Whitefriars.

No. VI.

WORDSWORTH AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES. DURING the greater portion of the eighteenth century, the spring of English poetry yielded but a scanty supply. A respectably filled list might be produced, of names, all of which were more or less celebrated. But some of the best poets of that period wrote very little; and there were others who, if they put forth their claims in the present day, would either be assigned a low place on the roll, or be excluded altogether; such as Dyer with his "Fleece," to whom, notwithstanding, Wordsworth has inscribed a complimentary sonnet; and Grainger, with his "Sugar Cane." From the days of Pope and his minor contemporaries, to those of Goldsmith, Cowper, and Burns, the most conspicuous names are, Thomson, a genuine bard; tasteful and fastidious Gray; elegant Shenstone; fiery Collins;

"Ill-fated Savage, at whose birth was given

No parent but the Muse, no friend but Heaven;"

coarse, clever Churchill; Chatterton, "the sleepless soul that perished in his pride;" Mark Akenside, the author of the "Pleasures of Imagination;" Young, of the "Night Thoughts;" with poet-critics, and collectors, one or two of whom displayed true feeling and taste; Bishop Percy, and Warton, to whom we may add Dr. Johnson. Hannah More and Mrs. Barbauld belong, like Crabbe, to the past century and the present.

The French revolution seemed like the breaking up of the fountains of the great deep. High over the flood floated the ark of imagination; and when the waters abated, a host came forth, who, like the sons of Noah, parcelled out the earth amongst them. Wordsworth chose for his domain the HUMAN HEART; Southey went hither and thither, now in Spain, now in South America, or in the Arabian Desert, or deep in "Domdaniel caverns; " Coleridge, with his “Ancient Mariner," soared into a new region; Rogers and Byron selected classic ground; Scott, attended by the "Ettrick Shepherd," made his native hills, and lakes, and border land, to ring with the echo of the bugle blast, and the clash of arms; Campbell fled across the Atlantic, and by the banks of the Susquehanna painted "the stoic of the woods, a man without a tear;" and Moore hovered over

"That delightful province of the sun,

The first of Persian lands he shines upon,"

which he has lit up with the glories of "Lalla Rookh." Then came a troop of children and disciples worthy of their sires and masters. Deep-sounding and mysterious Shelley; graceful, though feeble Keats; James Montgomery, who, whether he leads us to the "World before the Flood," to the "Pelican Island," to the tropics, or to Greenland, has displayed no mean genius in a wonderful age; his brother and fellow minister, Bernard Barton; Wilson, and Bowles, and Milman, and Croly; Pringle, who roused the lion in his lair, and shouted "Afar in the Desert; " Hood, whose laughter has made us forget that he can move to tears; Leigh Hunt, who, if he had lived in another age, might have been hailed as a star of more than ordinary magnitude; with Tennant, who sang of "Anster Fair and Bonnie Maggy Lauder; " Bloomfield and Kirke White, Cunningham and Kennedy, Atherstone and

VOL. I.

[PRICE TWOPENCE.

Pollok, and Robert Montgomery-with others, who shrink from arrogating the name of poet, though they have produced poetry that need not hide its head. Of the lady poets, Joanna Baillie and Mrs. Hemans may be taken as the representatives.

But now Byron is dead, and Scott is dead, and Coleridge is dead; grey hairs, like a crown of glory, encircle the head of the old man of the mountains; Southey has made his literary will, and is acting as his own executor-the sons of Anak are departing from the earth, and soon there will be scarcely one left of the remnant of the giants. We are fallen on evil times! cry the palled critics -"the star of the engineer must be on the decline, before that of the poet can culminate again." Doleful indeed it would be if the literary world remained as it once was, when critics and readers moved together like a united phalanx, and when the casual readers were regarded as a mixed multitude that followed the camp, of whom little heed was taken. Now, inclosing the old literary

world, there is an outer circle increasing daily in depth and breadth, a vast accession to the ranks of readers, to whom Wordsworth, and Scott, and Southey, and Coleridge, and all the host of them, are almost as new as when their productions first appeared. In fact, the master-minds of English literature, from Chaucer and Shakspeare, down to Scott and Wordsworth, are renewing their youth; and living again in the hearts of the British people, and wherever the English tongue is spoken. We can therefore afford to rest awhile, even though no great man should speedily appear among us-for we have ample store of immortal thought, wherewithal to feed and fill the public mind for a generation yet to come. If we use the word "popularity" in an extended sense, not as implying merely great sale of productions and great praise of critics, but as signifying one whose character and genius have provoked great discussion, and whose name has been much in the public mouth, then Wordsworth has been as popular as any of his most celebrated contemporaries. and physical impossibility that he should have made as much He was in advance of his time; noise as Byron or Scott.

It was all but a moral

and that time was a period of tremendous conflict. When the thunder of the cannon deciding the fate of nations was almost heard in our island, could we be expected to pay attention to-or at least to understand-a man who lay down in the grass and listened to the "wandering voice" of the cuckoo, who sympathised with the ecstatic delight of an idiot boy, or drew a profound thought from the braying of an ass? Campbell struck the true chord, when he summoned "the spirits of our fathers" from the deep, and "far flashed the red artillery;" Scott touched a responsive strain when he sang of Marmion and the fatal fight of Flodden; Byron found an audience when he poured out his burning thoughts, for his heart was a volcano, and the sound of it was like the echo of a battle-field. And in like manner, other poets of the day, who appealed to whatever most strongly occupied or agitated classes of men, were honoured and applauded in proportion to their success in touching the prevalent feeling. But Wordsworth speaks to the inner man; he is the great QUIETIST of poetry: he rouses no turbulent or unholy emotions; he does not make the feelings of his hearers oscillate between vice and madness; under his touch the meanest weed that grows becomes a portion of the

G

"The moving accident is not my trade,

To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;
'Tis my delight alone in summer shade

To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts."

Yet he, too, can write an inspiring strain; some of his sonnets are amongst the noblest things in the language; and when he tells a legend of war and of the olden time, he converts it into a strain of purest chivalry-moving, like his own "White Doe of Rylstone," most gracefully amongst the ruins of the past.

Wordsworth, we have said, has been as popular as any of his contemporaries. He was in advance of his time, and could not but expect to be misunderstood, and, being misunderstood, to be misrepresented. Yet the power of his genius has kept him ever before the public, in spite of misunderstandings and misrepresentations. The many, indeed, stood back, and asked what the man was muttering; and some, who said they understood his language, expounded it to the multitude, and pronounced it gibberish. But there were a few who knew that Wordsworth's meaning lay in the ccho of his words; and even in that time of noise and strife they waited in silence till they heard it. That number is increasing; and if it be a fact that a considerable bulk of readers are now enjoying Wordsworth's poetry, it is a sure proof of our social progress. It shows that the poetry of the bugle and the drum does not occupy our attention to the exclusion of the music of nature; that our social and household affections are becoming more quick and powerful; and that more largely than ever we sympathise with the common joys, and wants, and woes of humanity. We do not doubt but that this is, to a considerable extent, the case; and Wordsworth's fame may, therefore, be likened to the evening star, rising with an ethereal lustre as his day of human life is descending into the darkness of the grave.

Wordsworth, though avowedly looking forward to a better time, and professedly content to be a present martyr, has yet shown himself a poet and a man, by the manner in which he has felt the ridicule heaped upon him. Thus, on the publication of Peter Bell-a story presenting, as other portions of Wordsworth's poetry does, many points for stupid ridicule, but which is full of a homely, eloquent wisdom-there followed a shout of derision; and, in imitation of Milton, he writes a sonnet, on the detraction which followed a certain poem," in which-though far indeed from displaying anything of the mingled spite, hatred, and wrath of Byron,-he yet shows how he was touched. "Some," he says,

"Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,
On bard and hero clamorously fell.

Heed not, wild rover once through heath and glen,
Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,
Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,
Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice
In the just tribute of thy poet's pen!"

An instance of his yielding to the power of ridicule may be given. He heard an incident respecting a blind boy, who, on the banks of Loch Leven, had ventured out on the water in a very frail boat, and was brought back by a pursuing crew of fishermen, after much anxiety on the part of his mother and neighbours. This he turns into a tale-"The Blind Highland Boy." The "Edinburgh Review" screeched with laughter at the mention of the boat,

"A HOUSEHOLD TUB, like one of those

Which women use to wash their clothes!"

"This," the Review exclaimed, "it will be admitted, is carrying the matter as far as it will go; nor is there anything-down to the

be introduced into poetry, if this is tolerated." The story was afterwards retouched and altered; a "turtle-shell" was substituted for the "Household Tub;" a roundabout explanation is given of how the large shell came to the neighbourhood; the blind boy is represented to have heard a story we can scarcely suppose him to have heard; this story "flashed upon his mind," he steals the shell from the house of a neighbour, and sets sail in it. Thus a very simple and interesting "tale of a tub" was turned into a mere conceit.

Measuring the poets of our time by that trying test, the depth and the duration of their influence over the minds and hearts of men, Wordsworth stands out the greatest of them all. Others have written more immediately for the present; and in the present have some of them found an exceeding great reward. He has written for the future; and in the future must his treasure lie. For poetry is the shadow of man, and moves with him as he moves. The roving barbarian and the venturesome "sea-king," were fired by a tale of slaughter and of blood; the bard threw the sunshine of his genius over murder, rapine, and suffering, and cruelty and vulgarity became radiant as with glory. Half-civilised nations delight in seeing the past held up to them through the haze of imagination; and those who are still farther advanced, whose blood flows sluggishly in the tame routine of city life, and under the orderly rules of civilisation, like to have their quiescence stirred by tumultuous emotions. But a still farther advance is made, when we come to such poetry as that of Wordsworthpoetry which sanctifies the commonest actions of the commonest life-which gives us a vivid interest in our own humanity—makes the hum of the bee, the prattle of a child, laughter and tears, even the very stupidities of ignorance, full of a holy and divine wisdomlinking the visible and invisible worlds, and revealing to man glimpses of his marvellous destiny. All poetry does this in a degree; the noblest poets have set this, more or less, before them, as the great aim of their high calling. But Wordsworth has set himself to it as the exclusive business of his life, and pursued his object with a lofty spirit and an untiring faith; and whatever difference there may be respecting his diction, or his style, or his invention, (mere verbal criticism!) none who have read what he has written will doubt that he has built for himself an enduring monument in the noblest faculties and feelings of the HUMAN

HEART.

Wordsworth has scarcely anything of what is called dramatic power. He cannot construct an intricate plot, nor make his characters breathe and think aloud in our presence, through all the mazes of love, joy, hope, jealousy, hatred, wrath, and despair. He has but little versatility; his human beings have no great variety, and we can frequently trace the same individual called upon to perform service in different parts. Though an exquisite painter, his lights and shadows are oftentimes too delicate for the great body of readers. At his command, the heath does not bristle up armed men, as if it had been sown with dragons' teeth. He can lift a banner, and stir "the towers of St. Cuthbert" with the shout of a warlike multitude: yet his voice is not for war, but peace:

:

"Armour rusting in his halls

On the blood of Clifford calls:

⚫ Quell the Scot!' exclaims the lance;
'Bear me to the heart of France!'
Is the longing of the shield:
Tell thy name, thou trembling field!
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day and mighty hour,
When our Shepherd, in his power,

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,

To his ancestors restored,

Like a re-appearing star,

Like a glory from afar,

First shall head the Flock of War!

Alas! the fervent Harper did not know
That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed,
Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie,
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him the savage virtue of the race,

Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place
The wisdom which adversity had bred.

Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth;

The Shepherd Lord was honoured more and more:

And ages after he was laid in earth,

The good Lord Clifford' was the name he bore."

who meets by appointment a grey-haired Wanderer; one who in his youth had been a pedler, travelling over hill and dale, and by the sale of his merchandise had acquired a sufficiency in his old age, to enable him to wander for his pleasure as he had done for his profit. The Wanderer is the opposite of "Peter Bell." That notable rover had wandered over the country with a sluggish heart, and stupid head.

"Nature ne'er could find the way

Into the heart of Peter Bell.

In vain, through every changeful year, Did Nature lead him as before;.

A primrose by a river's brim,

A yellow primrose was to him,

And it was nothing more.'

But the Wanderer had ranged the earth with an observant eye; he was a self-taught philosopher; one of

"the poets that are sown

By Nature; men endowed with highest gifts,

The vision and the faculty divine,

Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.'

In him was the "child father of the man:" for in his youth he had been a herd on Scottish hills, where he received the

:

"thick shapes of human death

All horrible, and wrought by human hands.”

Rather does he come " to the mountain of God, even to Horeb ;" to him the bush burns with fire, yet is it not consumed; a voice is ever ringing in his ears: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place on which thou standest is holy ground."

The tender simplicity, and the charming grace, which characterise Wordsworth's mind, are exhibited chiefly in his minor poems. But the large poem of the "Excursion" is his standard production, in the preface to which he thus tells what has been the great object of his poetic life, and in which, though far from accomplishing his lofty purposes, he has succeeded more than any other :

"On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life

Musing in solitude, I oft perceive

Fair trains of imagery before me rise,

Accompanied by feelings of delight,

Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed;

And I am conscious of affecting thoughts

And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes

Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh

The good and evil of our mortal state.—
To these emotions, whencesoc'er they come,
Whether from breath of outward circumstance,

Or from the soul-an impulse to herself,

I would give utterance in numerous verse.

Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love and Hope,

And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith;

Of blessed consolations in distress;
Of moral strength, and intellectual Power;
Of joy in widest commonalty spread;
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own

Inviolate retirement, subject there

To Conscience only, and the law supreme

Of that intelligence which governs all

I sing fit audience let me find, though few!

The "Excursion" was published as a portion of

larger poem

planned by Wordsworth, called the "Recluse." The "Excursion" contains only four acting characters, three of them the counterparts of each other: its great deficiency of dramatic interest will probably ever prevent the poem from being generally read continuously. One of the characters is the author himself,

"on the tops

Of the high mountains he beheld the sun

Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He look'd-
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth

And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay

In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touch'd,
And in their silent faces did he read
Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank
The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form
All melted into him; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation from the living God,

Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;
Rapt into still communion that transcends

The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,

His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power

That made him; it was blessedness and love!"

The author meets this worthy man in a grove which was tenanted by a deserted and ruined cottage.

"four naked walls

That stared upon each other!"

Out of the ruins of this cottage is constructed a most exquisite and affecting story. It had been inhabited by a happy couple. The husband, a quiet, humble man, who divided his time between his loom, and his little garden; the wife, whom the poet calls Margaret,

"was a woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love,

Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy
Of her own thoughts."

The "famine seasons" of forty years ago struck down the comforts of the family, and the weaver was "smitten with perilous fever." When he recovered, he found himself so far back in the world as apparently not to be able to be the man he once was. Life became a purposeless thing—

"One while he would speak lightly of his babes,

And with a cruel tongue: at other times

He tossed them with a false, unnatural joy:
And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks
Of the poor innocent children."

and after some weary years were spent, she died—" last human tenant of these ruined walls." Poor Margaret! one weeps over her, as if she had been a dear and familiar friend.

The Wanderer and the author now start off on a visit to the Solitary, a strange man. He had been a military chaplain; had married an affectionate 66 woman, not sparingly endowed with worldly wealth;" had lived happy with her in retirement for some years; when suddenly death entered his household, and carried off his two children and their mother. From the apathy of grief he was roused by a great event :

"To the wide world's astonishment, appeared

The glorious opening, the unlook'd-for dawn,
That promised everlasting joy to France!"

The three companions descend from the mountains; and they gain the company of a mountain Pastor, who takes up the argument against the Solitary on new ground. Standing in "the churchyard among the mountains," the history of a secluded and rural population is read; and out of such scanty materials, a variety of sketches are given, exhibiting "the universal forms of human nature."

"I love to hear that eloquent old man
Pour forth his meditations, and descant
On human life, from infancy to age.
How pure his spirit! in what vivid hues

His mind gives back the various hues of things,
Caught in their fairest, happiest attitude!
While he is speaking, I have power to see
Even as he sees; but when his voice hath ceased,
Then, with a sigh, I sometimes feel, as now,
That combinations so serene and bright,
Like those reflected in yon quiet pool,
Cannot be lasting in a world like ours,

To great and small disturbances exposed."

The Excursion" is concluded by a visit to the Parsonage, and an evening visit to the lake; with disquisitions on the past state and future prospects of England, and an eloquent appeal to the State on behalf of the education of the people.

THE DAGUEROTYPE.

THE triumphs of chemistry are continually disclosing new wonders in the structure of the vast universe, and as each fresh step is made in the path of knowledge-as another fact is

"That righteous cause of freedom did, we know,

Combine, for one hostility, as friends,
Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves;
Was served by rival advocates that came
From regions opposite as heaven and hell.
One courage seemed to animate them all:
And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained
By their united efforts, there arose

A proud and most presumptuous confidence
In the transcendent wisdom of the age,
And its discernment."

The Solitary, disappointed in his great expectations, was upset by the recoil; he lost the balance of his moral character; became a bad man and a sneering sceptic. After various wanderings, he fixed his home amongst the hills, and lived in a misanthropic

A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell;
Towhich, in silence hushed, his verysoul
Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for murmurings from within
Were heard-sonorous cadences! whereby
To his belief, the Monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the Universe itself
Is to the ear of faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation."

admiration. As the veil is lifted higher from the system of nature, we regard with greater reverence the Infinite Wisdom which planned that wonderful fabric.

We wish to draw the attention of our readers to a discovery recently made by M. Daguerre, the well-known artist of the Diorama. His attention has naturally been much directed to the nature and effects of light, and the course of his experiments has revealed to him an agent by which the reflections of a camera obscura may be fixed; by means of which Nature becomes her own delineator. The operation is extremely simple: the reflection is thrown on a sheet of copper, properly prepared, and in a few minutes, from eight to ten, according to the intensity of the light, a perfect representation of the objects reflected is obtained. The appearance somewhat resembles a drawing in bistre or sepia, but when it is examined with a magnifying-glass, the observer is astonished at beholding every minute fold in the garments of the figures displayed with the utmost accuracy; the stones in the street may be counted; the moisture left on the pavement by the rain, the signs on the shops, can be distinguished.

This astonishing invention is, however, attended with some inconveniences; the colours are not uniformly affected; green tints are not fixed with the same rapidity as red, and the consequence is, that when these tints occur together, it is impossible to procure a perfect representation; the parts of the picture will not possess an equal intensity of light and shade, and the design will consequently be deficient in the harmony of nature. Another imperfection is the difficulty of representing objects in motion; as, for instance, trees agitated by the wind. A number of impressions of moving objects will be begun, but none can be completed in the time sufficient to fix stationary ones. In one of the views taken by the Daguerotype, representing part of the Boulevards, a coach on the stand was included, but one of the horses happening to move during the operation, the animal appears without his head. M. Daguerre has succeeded in obtaining an image of the moon, but it appears with a train of light somewhat similar to