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Chaunt of The Cholera; Soncs roa Ireland.—By the Au-

thors of The O'Hara Titles—London, 1831. This is really a catchpenny performance, and if it met with its due, instead of being praised up by " hireling critics," it would have been long ago drummed out of the literary republic. The "Chaunt of the Cholera" is nothing hut a chain of jingling stanzas, by which this fell disease is supposed, like the rattlesnake, to give us warning of its approach. The effect which our author produces is very different from what he intended, as his jumping versification elicits any emotion rather than that of awe, and demonstrates that, while in his poetic phrenzy, he supposes himself soaring on the back of Pegasus, he is only mounted on some hobbling hack, which all his efforts are unable to stimulate into any thing but an ineffectual activity. The " Songs for Ireland," of which the greater part of the volume consists, possess little merit, and are written, we must say, in a very bad spirit. They are intended to express the feelings of the Irish peasantry; but they are, in fact, rather calculated to encourage the natives of the Sister Isle in an antipathy to the English government. Most of them, though only now published, were written two or three years ago, when the deputy administration at Dublin was in all its unpopularity; aud it is very ill-judged, to say the least of it, to revive old grudges, by recalling these times to remembrance. In fact, this book of Mr. Ilanim's is merely got up, like some quack advertisemeuts, to take by its alarming title, and we hope that a discerning public will withhold from it their encouragement.


We have received the following epistle, upon the grave subject of gentlemen's trousers, which we insert in the hope that some of our numerous correspondents may clear up the matter that is so justly complained of by our correspondent. We may merely say. that, having little acquaintanceship ourselves with the mysteries of the goose, we order our publisher to take the opinion of the "World of Fashion" on that momentous point at issue, according to its dicta in puris naturahbus. Whether he has done so to the letter or not, we cannot say; but it is certainly to be hoped that, notwithstanding his peculiar accuracy, he has, in this instance, been guilty of an erratum.

To the Editor of the Day.

Sir,—Among the variety of information and amusement contained in " The Day," I was particularly pleased to observe that you had not neglected the " Gentlemen's Fashions." It is very satisfactory for me to be informed, that when in full puff I put on my best blue coat, with yellow buttons; the proper thing to wear with it is a green velvet waistcoat; and I shall figure with one accordingly at the assembly on tbe 19th.

All this is very easily understood, and comfortable; but when you descend to the no less "indispensable" article of habiliment, I must say I am a little puzzled. I am there informed'it is fashionable to wear trousers " without straps or bottoms." The former article I do not object to dispense with; but, unless a kilt is allowed, I must demur to the latter. At all events, dear Mr. Editor, do issue, as soon as possible, an order for broad skirts to the coat, for the sake of the comfort of

A Dandy.



O! Mary, when the wild wind blows,
And blasts the beauty o' the rose;
Thy coming fate to me it shows,
And I could weep for Mary.

Aft has the blossom deck'd the tree,
Since first thy flatt'ring tell-tale e'e
Confessed a wee bit love for me;
And I was smit wi' Mary.

0 ! Mary, I hae loved thee lang,
Tbou'rt aye the burthen o' my sang.
Baitb day an night, whare'er I gang,

I think o' nought but Mary.

When sleep seals up my weary e'e,
In dreams thy AngeLJbrm I see,
And in soft raptures say to thee,
Oh! dinna leave me Mary.

O Mary! when the world's unkind,
And poverty leaves me behind,

I still can cheer my drooping mind
Wi' thoughts o' thee, sweet Mary.

And were I sick and like to dee,
Thy witching smiles could comfort gi'e;
Then, come what will, my prayer shall be
For happiness to Mary.

J. W. L.


Says Tom, " Of drink it is the rule,
To change the wise man to the fool."
Now, all Tom's friends most gravely think
Tom need not fear a drop of drink!


A Gentleman, t'other morning, having obtained our Journal in which the "Symposium in the Edinburgh Rainbow, by a Modern Athenian," was inserted, stepped on board a steam boat at the Broomielaw, and sat himself down, without drying it, to feast himself with its contents. A Greeneck witling who observed him ere long, approached, and, thinking to get a rise out of the Glasgow cit, said, "I see, Sir, that your Glasgow Day is like its synonyme—wet." "I beg your pardon, Sir, it is the wet night in Edinburgh that makes it so, and I may merely tell you that I hope the Day will reign thereby more effectually than ever." "Why, Sir," exclaimed the Shaws' Water man, " I think your wit seems to be as dry and cutting as the Edinburgh atmosphere in April." "It is a mercy," retorted the at, "that it is not so dull and misty as that of Greenock throughout the whole twelvemonth."

An inquisitive Paisley man, observing a large placard respecting our publication stuck at the corner of the Sneddon, stopped a waggish acquaintance with this question :—" Seett 'ou that yellow paper there—Gordon's Loan aud Prussia Street!—what's t'at noo?" "It's the ' Day ;' do you no understand that, man?" "'Od," said the wabstcr, " is't ocht mair about thae black chiels Day Martin f" "Na!" said the wag, "it is the Day of Alljeers I


On Monday, Da. Bkice read an ably-writteu and interesting Paper on the causes of the Greek Revolution. A discussion ensued—not on the subject of the Essay, on which there could be no difference of opinion—but on a question started by Mr. John Douglas, on the relative importance of Politics and the Natural Sciences. Mr. Douglas advocated the superior importance of Politics, whilst the President and Dr. Scouller took the opposite side of the question. We hope, in future, to be able to give a fuller account of these interesting Meetings, and that we shall also have it in our power to give a record of the dates, subjects treated of, and names of the speakers, at each of the preceding Soirees.


We have been prevented, for want of room, to continue the remarks which we commenced in a late number upon our own theatre; in the meantime, we beg leave to present our readers with a short epistle which we received yesterday, connected with that subject:—

(To the Editor of the Day. J

Sia,—Having heard considerable praise bestowed upon Miss Jannan, I had the curiosity to attend her benefit. The pieces were, "The Soldier's Daughter," "Perfection," and " The Evil Eye," in all of which she appeared to great advantage, but more especially in the first two. She is tall, handsome, and graceful, and her manner in every thing is that of a lady. Genteel comedy is her forte, and, in that alone, can she be called great; for, although she excels in the pathetic, her voice wants that breadth and volume that is necessary for the declamatory and heroic parts of tragedy. "Perfection" is a clever Interlude, and the title might, with the greatest propriety and truth, be applied to Miss Jarman's personification of the principal character. Her part in the "Evil Eye," with the exception of one scene, is an indifferent one, and was played nearly as well by Miss Mason, to whose style of acting it is peculiarly adapted.

The Dunlop-Street Company is, upon the whole, unworthy of so large a city as Glasgow. Stoddart, I think, has mistaken his profession, and has a vile custom of speaking with his teeth shut, as if to avoid lisping. Alexander, whom I allow to be a man of talent, ought to recollect, however, the nature of the character, which he is representing, before he introduces anything of his own, lest, in the part of a gentleman, he should call a lute a "hurdy yurdy" and be deservedly hissed for it, as he was on Friday. Lloyd is, as he ought to be, a favourite. If Ferguson, the prompter, was aware that his old hat is discoverable from the side-boxes, he would, perhaps, endeavour to look more like a gentleman than a Jew.

The band of the 4th Royal Dragoon Guards was in attendance, and played, during the evening, a number of delightful airs, which even the " Gods" seemed to appreciate, from the liberality of their applause.


We are happy to learn that other two volumes of the Tour of a German Prince, with a Portrait, containing among other things his observations on the Society and Manuers of the Metropolis, will be speedily published.

Mr. W. Raddon has just completed a line engraving from an early picture of Wilkie's, in possession of Mr. Catley of Barnet, called the "Clubbist," from Goldsmith's Essays. A companion plate is also just completed by Mr. Warren, from another early picture of Mr. Wilkie's, entitled the " New Coat," from Voltaire's Talcs, both of which are to be issued this month. Mr. Raddon is also engaged upon a line plate of" Queen Mab," from Milton, after a picture by Fuseli, forming a companion to his plate of the " Night Mare," after the same artist.


"Lay of the Mill, or the Pleasures of the Pay-Night," will appear in the course of next week. It will be found a most appropriate ballad for the study of those who declare themselves every Saturday, by their deeds,—the sworn foes of Temperance


"The Bonnie Brig, to the tune of Johnny Cope," had been laid out for to-day's Number; but, it having appeared in a Contemporary, we have, of course, kept it back. Had we been aware that its author was so impatient to see himself in type, we certainly would have attempted to minister to his mania several days ago. We shall take care, however, when we are next favoured with his lucubrations, that we conform to the peculiar idiosyncrasy of our correspondent.

'* The Largs Regatta, No. 3," early next week.

A.'s liues on the *' Source of True Happiness," we fear would afford little pleasure to our readers.

"Volatile's" Stanzas are rather too much in the "hop-stepand-jump" style for our columns.

"M. M.'s" Verses, after a little emendation, will perhaps find a place when we have room. /

"The Three Leaves," by E. Nyam, are under consideration.

"Stanzas, by a Lady," are not quite up to our standard. The spirit is good, but the execution feeble.

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From the Unpublished Autobiography of An Orphan,

The tongues of dying men

Inforce attention, like deep harmony:

When words escape, they're seldom spent in vain;

For they breathe truth that'breathe their words in pain.


It being one of those cold gusty peevish April days incident to our climate, I hurried home so soon as the school I attended was dismissed. The games which were wont to eke out the half hour which intervened before the city clocks announced the hour of dinner, were this afternoon dispensed with, and I hence reached my father's house a little before my usual time. On entering, I was told by the servant that my mother wished to see me, and, obedient to the call of one who was the fondest and most amiable of parents, I immediately hastened to her apartment.

My mother had been long confined to bed, and still longer an invalid. Consumption, that baneful blight which of all other diseases attacks more particularly the sensitive and the beautiful, which, while the eye still beams with fire and the cheek yet glows with rosy freshness, is insidiously undermining health, and slowly but resistlessly gnawing at the vitals—which frequently, even unconsciously and without pain, pilots the soul into heaven, and always preaches a more impressive sermon upon death than any that ever fell from the eloquent lips of a Bossuet or a Massilon ;— Consumption was the blight which had fallen upon my mother—the disease which proved the immediate cause of me becoming an orphan! She had already passed through the whole varied course of this fitful complaint, and had exhibited all the delusive and melancholy phases which it invariably assumes. She was now perfectly emaciated and exceedingly weak— her mild expressive eye was still clear but deeply sunk—her fine Grecian nose was almost cutting the skin—her face was of the most pearly whiteness, while two bright hectic spots occupied the seat where once the carnation bloomed. The room where my mother breathed her last, I shall never forget—I remember it even now to its smallest piece of furniture. The spacious bed with its many cushions and pillows— the little round table covered with the physician's prescriptions—the large lounging chair that occupied the side of the fire-place—the quarto Bible that was ever and anon consulted—the active, attentive, silver-tongued nurse who watched the every look, and anticipated the every wish of the invalid. I see all these now distinct before me, and although six-andtwenty summers have fled since last I saw them, they are still as fresh as if they had only been gazed upon yesterday.

On reaching the door of my mother's apartment, I cautiously opened it, and slipt round on tiptoe to the front of her bed. At that moment, her eyes were fixed upon the quarto Bible, and her thoughts appeared absorbed in the things of heaven. Her abstraction was in fact so great, that though I stood pretty close to her eouch, she did not for some moments observe me—not indeed till I faultered out "My dear mama! how do you feel yourself to-day?"

"Oh, Harry, darling, is that you? your poor mama

is no better, no better;" while she added, in whispers that were apparently meant not to reach my ear— "nor ever will be—poor little innocentl" Then raising her voice, she continued, " you are just from school are you, Harry—attentive I hope to your lessons. I trust you never forget what I have always told you—to be diligent in youth—you will be rewarded for it in old age"

"I do all I can, mama" said I, " and I have this day got to the top of my class."

"Blessings on you, my dear boy," said my mother, with evident tokens of satisfaction, while, after a short pause, she added in a whisper—" Oh, that I could have lived to see you a man, to have experienced a mother's pride in a dutiful and an intelligent son. But where am I going—why should I arraign the will of the Almighty. May heaven forgive this worldly wish of a poor frail mortal! Why indeed should I repine? —How few, how very few, have experienced so much true, so much unalloyed happiness in this nether sphere; an adoring husband—the emblem of tenderness, of gentleness, of benevolence —one who has never drawn a tear from these eyes, which ever looked to his for comfort and consolation—one whonever voluntarily wounded a heart which gave up all, and would have given up tenfold more had it possessed it, for his sake. And then, my children, my little prattlers, how many hours of speechless bliss have I enjoyed in gazing at your gambols. With these, what was the wide world to me? Nothing! nothing! I cared not for its pleasures nor its pomp. I had a better world —a heaven at home—in my husband, my children, and my God! Oh, Harry! put not thy confidence in the giddy world, nor look for enjoyment from its gaudy glories. Trust to other and better hopes of happiness, and, above all, do not forget the blessed author of all happiness—the God of heaven and of earth, in the contemplation of whose works there is endless joy. Oh, my dearest boy! what has all this world to bestow, compared with the hope of a blessed immortality. What can pour balm into the sorrows of a dying hour save this—save the well-grounded assurance of a Saviour's love! With this to rest upon, well, indeed, may the christian exclaim, ' Oh! Death, where is thy sting? Oh! Grave, where is thy victory?' Ponder, my beloved child, these things well; ponder what has been the only consolation of your dy—"

Here my mother was suddenly seized with a severe spasmodic cough. The long harangue had brought it on. The nurse ran to her aid, raised her up, and held her in her arms. I hid my face in my hands, and trembled in every limb. When the paroxysm was over, I whispered softly, " dearest mama, you must not exert yourself so much—you cannot bear it—do, take a little drop of this cordial," presenting her with something which she was in the habit of taking to allay her cough.

"My dearest boy," faltered my mother, I thought that my hour had come—that cough was the worst I have yet had—but I feel much better."—

"I hope you will get yet much better, when the weather becomes warmer. It is still cold—very cold indeed—but the summer will soon be here."—

"Ah! Harry, I shall see no more summers—poor fellow." And here my mother secretly wiped away a tear from her cheek, and after pausing for some time, she said, "Oh, God, let me not be found guilty of arraigning, in the least degree, thy wise and inscrutable providence! Harry, darling—do you ever pray for me —for your poor afflicted dying mother.—It is of no use to conceal the truth—yes, my son, I feel the hour of my departure is at hand !"—

My heart, at this solemn and tender appeal grew full, and falling upon my knees by her bedside, and clasping my hands together, gazed up in her face, and as it were, craved her to convey the sentiments of my soul to the throne of the Most High.

With an expression of joy and satisfaction which I never saw equalled, she turned round, raised her hand, gazed upon me, and clasping my hand in her's, she cast her eyes to heaven. Oh I I shall never—never forget my mother's look at that moment—it was angelic .—it was the embodied feeling of a heavenly confidence, mingled with a heavenly love—an unspeakable gratitude, combined with a parent's yearning for a heavenly blessing on her child. For some moments we remained silently in this position, at length my mother broke the silence in these words, "God of heaven and of earth, I thank thee that thou hast answered my prayer. Oh! be the God and the guide of this, my dear son, keep him from the evils of a wicked world, from the nets which the sinful fowler lays for innocence. Oh! be his God and his guide even unto death, and for the sake of him whom thou lovedst and gavedst for the sins of the world, bring him into that blessed realm of the just, where there is no more tears, and no more suffering, to that realm where, through thy mercy, a dying mother may again behold her darl—"

My mother stopped, and gave a long sigh. I opened my eyes which had been closed in the act of joining my parent in prayer. I found that her head had fallen back —that a deathlike hue pervaded her features. I leapt up and gave a piercing cry, the nurse was at the bedside in an instant, and immediately seized my mother's hand. At that moment too my father entered the apartment, and softly said, " what Harry is the matter with you?" and receiving no answer, quickly approached my mother's bed. "Mary—my dearest wife—what — art thou—" the words stuck in his throat. "Harry! said the nurse," you had better go into another room —go, dear, as soon as possible."

I immediately quitted my mother's bed-room, and hastened to the nursery, where I found my sisters busy with their usual childish vocations. I had scarcely answered a few common questions about the school, when my father entered the room; he appeared deeply affected—silently he approached the fire-place. We all gathered round him as we were wont. My little sister then said, gazing steadfastly up in his face, " my dear papa, what is the matter with you?" "I am deeply grieved," faultered out my father, and then said, " my little dears, come give me each a kiss and I will go." After taking each of us in his arms and kissing us, he burst into tears, and turning to the servant maid, and saying, in as firm a tone as he could command—" Margaret—take care of the children—their mother is gone;" he rushed from the apartment.


TM Be still, and know that I am God."

rsALM xlvi. 10.

■* Qna epe denique, ut vivere vcloit tonebantur si vol cos deseriuV'


When we reflect upon the vast amount of diurnal reading which, in our time, issues from the British press, and how very rarely it happens that any of the journals of our country (those only excepted which are exclusively devoted to religious objects) contain the slightest recognition of those great principles of human action, which lie at the root of all that is truly excellent in individual conduct, and all that is conducive to national prosperity and

happiness; and, when we consider how much it seems to have become matter of course, to treat the practical business of life upon the footing of mere expediency, and without any reference either to a superintending Providence now, or a day of final retribution hereafter; we are more and more strengthened in our original conviction, that In laying our opinions before the world, we were imperatively called upon to follow a course, if not wholly opposite, at least materially different; adopting, as the foundation of all our endeavours, to instruct and improve ourselves and our countrymen, that Divine record, which is, after all, the only true "guide to happiness" and the dominancy of which, in the hearts of Scotsmen, has long constituted the peculiar glory of our country, and, In spite of her natural disadvantages, has raised her to a high place in the scale of nations.

Such being the state of our feelings, in relation to this most important subject, we cannot but express, in very strong terms, the delight we have experienced in considering the favourable reception which our intelligent and numerous readers have given to the article contained in our last Saturday's number, in which we gave such an exposition of our views, as that no one can possibly misunderstand them. We hold that reception to be a token for good—to be equally probative of the little we have already done, and encouraging to us in our future labours; and we feel proportionately stimulated to persevere in the course we have prescribed to ourselves accordingly.

We have ever regarded it as a most dangerous propensity in man, and one inevitably leading, in its indulgence, to the grossest error, to make any attempt at minutely scanning the ways of Providence, or particularly explaining the intentions of the Deity, from those events which, from time to time, succeed each other in the ever-shifting drama of this present life; and, had any confirmation been necessary, of our views upon tiis head, we might readily have found it in the conduct of those otherwise highly gifted individuals of our day, who, departing from the sober and legitimate line of enquiry befitting them, have arrogantly arrayed themselves in the attributes of Divinity, and, by an extravagant and unwarrantable abuse of the propensity in question, have turned the grace of God into licentiousness, and made shipwreck of their faith, and of a good conscience. Yet, much as we deprecate any imitation of the conduct of such foolish men, we should esteem it as hardly less culpable to shut our eyes, and our understandings, and our hearts to those more stupendous events which are occasionally presented to our view, and which, without our daring to give them any specific or particular application, bring along with them an incontestible evidence of their being wrought by the hand of God, as well as of their being intended to accomplish his final purposes in regard to the children of men—purposes, we are well assured, replete with benevolence, and mercy, and love.

We have been irresistibly led into this train of thinking, by our having, at length, had laid upon our table, the authenticated accounts of the existence, in our beloved country, and even in our close neighbourhood, of that direful pestilence, which, for fourteen years, has been a denizen of our globe, and yearly swept its myriads into a premature grave. In imagination we have figured to ourselves the destroying angel, in dread magnificence, and armed with a commission, to decimate the human race—descending upon the Delta of the Ganges—stalking in the appalling Majesty of death through the fertile and spacious plains of Hindostan—sojourning, for a time, in the summer regions of Persia and Arabia—scaling the dark declivities of Cancasus—skirting the shores of the Euxine and the Caspian—swerping across the wide Steppes of Tartary—exploring the darkest recesses of the Russian forest—expatiating, with ghastly pleasure, in the rich cultivated fields and densely peopled cities of Germany—every where mocking the puny efforts of man to arrest his progress, and spreading death, desolation and dismay, in mortal halo, all around—and, finally, when satiated with the blood of the old continent, landing upon the still happy shores of our island. Yet have we contemplated all these without either despair or despondency, and we shall now briefly state, for the comfort and the reassurance of our readers, the grounds of our confidence :—First, the disease itself is more inert in its movements in this country, and less virulent in its operation, than on the continent. Secondly, our population, upon the whole, (we do not, of course, speak of those who are already sunk In dirt, debauchery and iisrase) is much better fitted, both by constitution and habit, to resist the disease, than that of any other country under the sun. Thirdly, our general means of prevention and cure are, out of all sight, more complete and abundant than they have been any where else. Fourthly, the season of the year is in our favour. Fifthly, we have an army of the most able, intelligent, and enthusiastic medical men that ever adorned any country—men who, In the furtherance of the cause of humanity and of science, are ready to undertake any duty, and to face any danger. Sixthly, we have, among us, a bright galaxy of philanthropists, ready, at a moment's warning, to pour forth the fruits of their honourable Industry for the benefit of their less fortunate brethren. Lastly, we have our faith fixed on Him who, as he

"Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm," has likewise in his hands the issues of life and death, and has promised, in the midst of merited wrath, to remember mercy.

Reverting, however, to some of our previous remarks, we beg to call to our Readers' most serious attention, the fact—a fact established upon evidence, perfectly irresistible—that this disease is peculiarly the scourge of the vicious, debauched, and the licentious sensualist; and, without meaning to retract or impugn a tfngle word of what we have already written, we put it to every man's conscience whether he ought not to consider this circumstance as an express admonition, to observe, in his own person, and to promote the observance by all those who are under his control, or likely to be influenced by his example, that temperance and self-denial which, as they are the best security for health and happiness here, are, so far as practice is concerned, the best preparations for the enjoyment of heaven hereafter.

We cannot close our remarks without urging, on all our Readers, the duty of contributing, each according to bis ability, to the fund which is raising in Glasgow for the prevention or suppression of the disease in question, and of the other little-less fatal malady which, at present, infests our city; and, in the spirit of what we have already written, we would stimulate them to this deed of charity by a recollection of the Divine assurance, "forasmuch as ye did it to the least of these my brethren, ye did it likewise unto me."


The following definitions are well worthy of the perusal and study of our readers. They are as elegantly as they are justly given, and do honour to the mind of our correspondent:—

Genius Genius is vastness of conception, originality of

thought, brightness of ideas, and the application and concentration of these to useful purposes. Genius paints every thing it touches, elucidates every thing it examines, and, in letters of gold, impresses its image upon its productions. , Genius is of no country; the world is its native home, aud the mind is the throne of its temple- Ignorance retreats, superstition vanishes, and misery in its thousand forms, is disarmed and vanquished, when genius is seconded by industry. Genius is as a river rushing over a precipice, bold, rapid, beautiful, and sublime in its descent, and, like its rolling stream, disseminates blessings in its course.

Truth.—Truth is the unclothing of all disguises, unveiling all defects; it is a proper regard to virtue—a proper disregard to vice. Truth is the criterion that regulates society, assigning to its members their proper situation, and considers their importance under every circumstance. Truth is the only road to improvement, to happiness, and to perfection. It can perform no second part in the drama of life, for upon it the success of the representation depends; we must judge every thought, action, and event by truth alone. Aristides the Athenian, and Petrarch the Italian, knew its value, and guided their lives by it; for this noble homage to the majesty of truth, their names have become immortal!

What Is Truth ? was the question of a Koman Governor; and who would not wait for an answer? Truth may be likened to a spring of water covered with snow, which, though deep and "lid, gives way to its silent and almost imperceptible influence; again, truth may be considered as a planet careering through the illimitable expanse of space, and diffusing a resplendent lustre over its chaotic gloom.


Sermons by the late Rev. Edward Pavson, D.D., Pastor of the Second Church in Portland, in the United States, 8vo. pp. 498. The life of this eminent Divine was of such a character as to create a particular interest in any thiug he has written. Decision of character was one of the strong traits of Dr. Payson's history through life, and we find, in the discourses before us, that there is scarcely a sentence which is not associated in the mind with the spirit of one of the buldust and most successful reprovers of sin in the age in which be lived. We regard the Seimons of the late American Pastor as, in fact, among the happiest specimens of the pointed and direct mode of assailing the human conscience—of driving the guilty sinner out of every refuge of lies, and, for this reason in particular, we would recommend them to the serious attention of the rising ministry.

The Child's Monitor.—This is a little volume of texts and verses which has been compiled by a lady who has had great experience in the education of youth, and is well adapted to the capacities of children. The poetry is, invariably, an exact illustration of the passage of Scripture introduced.

RELIGIOUS NOVELTIES. Mr. J. B. B. Clarke, M. A., of Trinity College, Cambridge, and Chaplain to his K. H. the Duke of Sussex, has nearly ready for publication, "A concise View of the Succession of Sacred Literature," in a chronological arrangement of authors and their works, from the invention of alphabetical characters to the year of our Lord, 1300.

"The Christian Servant, or Spiritual Exercises of Elizabeth West," is in the press, corrected by 11. Stodhart, Minister of Mulberry Gardens Chapel. To which is added, "the Dying Experience of Mrs. Jane Stodhart, the substance of her Funeral Sermon, preached by the Rev. John Rees." Also, " The Dying Experience of Mr. William Stodhart and Mrs. Mary Davis, of Brighton."



No sighs were heard—no tears were shed—
No friendly one wept o'er his bed,
Or marked the hour his spirit fled

From life's sun-setting sphere.
No farewell parting such as this,
No mother's tear, nor sister's kiss,
No father's pray'r, nor brother's bliss,

His last lone hour to cheer.

No father, clad in garb of gloom,
No brother weeping, to the tomb,
Did follow to his last bed-room,

To see the sod happ'd u'er him.
Tolls for him no funereal knell,
No requiem sad o'er him doth swell,
No friend to breathe a last farewell,

As in the grave they lower him.

But there was One who watch'd that bed,
Who caught his spirit as it fled,
And bore it from th' neglected dead,

Beyond the world's bleak shore.
Unsullied by woe's sigh and tear,
Far from the pangs that pierced him here,
He finds a home in heaven's bright sphere,

And greets his friends once more.



"Bead Brumiiel" must have observed, that his communication has been forestalled. We will be glad to hear from him again upon some topic where he may more tenderly exhibit his " bowels of compassion for his shivering countrymen."

"The Memoirs of a Paisley BailUe" will appear early next week.

The communication from our friend in Gayneld Square, Edinburgh, has reached us. We hope to hear from him soon in a shape somewhat more in accordance with his former paper.

Our fair friends are, really, overkind in the way of heaping verses upon us. It is a sad tax upon our time even to read them, far less to dress them for the "Day."

"Ode to Bacchus" has put quite enough of spirit for our columns.

"Soul of the Drowned" is quite twd-Uss. We really do not want mere rhymes. These we can get in our rhyming Dictionary.

"P. L." is capable of something even better than what appears to-day; and we hope, by hearing from him soon, tu find that he takes our hint.

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