tinued his meal with a composure which proved he was not unused to the morning excursions of his volatile yoke-fellow. By the time he had got through his beefsteak, and three columns of the Courier, Charles re-entered, and despatched the business of eating with a rapidity in which many a modern half-starved rhymer would be glad to emulate him. A walk was immediately proposed; but the one had scarcely reached an umbrella, and the other prepared his manuscript book, when a slight shower of rain prevented our design.—“ Provoking," said Rhyme. "Good for the crop," said Reason.

The shower, however, soon ceased, and a fine clear sun encouraged us to resume our intentions, without fear of a second disappointment. As we walked over the estate, we were struck with the improvements made by our friend, both as regarded the comfort and the value of the property; while now and then we could not suppress a smile on observing the rustic arbour which Charles had designed, or the verses which he had inscribed on our favourite old oak.

It was determined that we should ascend a neighbouring hill, which was dear to us from its having been the principal scene of our boyhood's amusements. "We

must make haste," said Charles, "or we shall miss the view." "We must make haste," said Jonathan, "or we shall catch cold on our return." Their actions seemed always to amalgamate, though their motives were always different. We observed a tenant of our friend ploughing a small field, and stopped a short time to regard the contented appearance of the man, and the cheerful whistle with which he called to his cattle. "Beatus ille qui procul negotiis," said the poet; "A poor team, though," said his brother.

Our attention was next excited by a level meadow, whose green hue, set off by the mixture of the white fleeces of a beautiful flock of sheep, was, to the observer of nature, a more enviable sight than the most studied

landscape of Gainsborough's pencil. "Lovely colours !" ejaculated Charles;-" Fine mutton," observed Jonathan. "Delightful scene for a rustic hop!" cried the enthusiast; I am thinking of planting hops," said

the farmer.

We reached the summit of the hill, and remained for some moments in silent admiration of one of the most variegated prospects that ever the country presented to the contemplation of its most ardent admirer. The mellow verdure of the meadows, intermingled here and there with the sombre appearance of ploughed land, the cattle reclining in the shade, the cottage of the rustic peeping from behind the screen of a luxuriant hedge, formed a tout-ensemble which every eye must admire, but which few pens can describe. "A delightful landscape!" said Charles; "A rich soil," said Jonathan. "What scope for description!" cried the first; "What scope for improvement!" returned the second.

As we returned we passed the cottage of the peasant, whom we had seen at his plough in the morning. The family were busily engaged in their several domestic occupations. One little chubby-faced rogue was conducting Dobbin to his stable, another was helping his sister to coop up the poultry, and a third was incarcerating the swine, who made a vigorous resistance against their youthful antagonist. "Tender!” cried Rhyme;-he was listening to the nightingale. "Very tender!" replied Reason; he was looking at the pigs.

As we drew near home, we met an old gentleman walking with his daughter, between whom and Charles a reciprocal attachment was said to exist. The lateness of the evening prevented much conversation, but the few words which were spoken again brought into contrast the opposite tempers of my friends. A fine evening, Madam," said the man of sense, and bowed ;—-“ I shall see you to-morrow, Mary!" said the lover, and pressed her hand. We looked back upon her as she

left us. After a pause," She is an angel!" sighed Charles;-" She is an heiress," observed Jonathan. "She has ten thousand perfections!" cried Rhyme;-" She has ten thousand pounds," said Reason.

We left them the next morning, and spent some days in speculations on the causes which enabled such union of affections to exist with such diversities of taste. For our

selves, we must confess, that while Reason has secured our esteem, Rhyme has run away with our hearts; we have sometimes thought with Jonathan, but we have always felt with Charles.

THE EVE OF BATTLE.

"It is not yet near day. Come, go with me

P. C.

Under our tents. I'll play the eaves-dropper."-SHAKSPEARE.

THE night comes on, and o'er the field
The moon shines bright on helm and shield;
But there are many on that plain,

That shall not see her light again:

She looks serene on countless bands

Of mailed breasts and steel-bound hands;
And shows a thousand faces there,
Of courage high, and dark despair;
All mingled as the legions lie,
Wrapt in their dreams of Victory.
A lowering sound, of doubt and fear,
Breaks sudden on the startled ear,

And hands are clench'd, and cheeks are pale,
And from bright blade and ringing mail
A thousand hands, with busy toil,
Clean off each ancient stain or soil;
Or spots of blood, where truth may read
For every drop a guilty deed.

Survey the crowds who there await,
In various mood, the shock of fate ;

Who burn to meet, or strive to shun,
The dangers of to-morrow's sun.
Look on the husband's anxious tears,
The hero's hopes, the coward's fears,
The vices that e'en here are found,
The follies that are hovering round;
And learn that (treat it as you will)
Our life must be a mockery still.
Alas! the same caprices reign,
In courtly hall, or tented plain;
And the same follies are reveal'd,
In ball-room, and in battle-field.

Turn to yon open tent, and see
Where, drunk with youth and Burgundy,
Reclines, his midnight revel o'er,
The beau of battle, Theodore.-
Before him, on his desk, he lays
The billet-doux of other days;
And while he reads, his fancy lingers

On those white hands and witching fingers,
That traced the darling signatures-
The "yours till death" and "truly yours:"
And, as by turns they meet his eye,
He looks, and laughs, and throws them by,
Until perchance some magic name
Lights up a spark of former flame;
And then he ponders, in his trance,
On Mary's love-inspiring glance,
On Chloe's eye of glittering fire,
And Laura's look of fond desire.
Poor Theodore! if valiant breast,
And open heart, and song, and jest,
And laughing lip, and auburn hair,
And vow sent up by lady fair,
Can save a youthful warrior's life,—
Thou fall'st not in to-morrow's strife.

Look yonder-on the dewy sward Tom Wittol lies-a brother bard;

He lies, and ponders on the stars,
On virtue, genius, and the wars;
On dark ravines, and woody dells,
On mirth and muses, shot and shells;
On black mustachios, and White Surrey,
On rhyme and sabres-death and Murray;
Until at last his fancy glows,

As if it felt to-morrow's blows;
Anticipation fires his brain,

With fights unfought, unslaughter'd slain;
And on the fray that—is to be,
Comes forth a Dirge or Elegy:-
And if he meets no heavier harm
To-morrow from a foeman's arm,
Than crack'd cuirass, or broken head,
He'll hasten from his fever's bed,
And, just broke loose from salve and lint,
Rush, like a hero, into print;

Heading his light and harmless prattle-
"Lines-written on a field of battle."
Thou favour'd bard--go boldly on,--
The Muse shall guard her darling son;
And when the musquet's steady aim
Is levell'd at the pet of fame,
The Muse shall check the impious crime,
And shield thee with a ream of rhyme ;-
But if 'tis doom'd, and fall thou must,
Since bards, like other men, are dust,
Upon the tomb where thou shalt sleep,
Phoebus and Mars alike shall weep;
And he that lov'd, but could not save,
Shall write "Hic jacet" o'er thy grave.

What wight is that, whose distant nose
Gives token loud of deep repose?
What! honest Harry on the ground!
I' faith thy sleep is wond'rous sound,
For one who looks, upon his waking,
To sleep" the sleep that knows not breaking."
But rest thee, rest! thou merriest soul