neat; plants in most of the windows, and a number of very inviting rose-trees running up their outsides; the women and children for the most part clean. At the farther end of the village went up a narrow lane arched over with boughs of trees, till we came upon a tall plastered and painted house, with a sham-Grecian sort of portico entrance, to reach which you have to mount some half-dozen steps. It was a gaunt thing of two stories and an attic, besides the ground-floor, lamentably out of keeping with the beautiful country round; with two windows, one on either side the grand entrance, which looked like a nose between two eyes. On each side of a wretched iron gate, stooped a hump-backed tree, cut into an imaginative peacock, and in a garden in front, which was cut into diamondshaped beds, were some wretched pedestals, surmounted with urns, human heads, and so forth. garden was stocked with London pride, sweet-william, hollyhock, sunflowers, cabbages, broad-beans, and onions. Sundry unhappy memories of Islington, Hackney, &c. came over me, which I could not quite banish. However, enough of this eyesore. It is the domicile of the village doctor, whom I am to have the honour of seeing to-morrow at the dinner-table with his wife. His house has not given me a very fierce longing to see him.

The

Walking home, had a most agreeable gossip with Miss Montague, who was not a little vivacious. I purposely referred in an incidental way to her fraternal. She exclaimed," O, dear, dear Charlie! I don't think you know all of him yet. He is noble and good all over." She told me many things about him: one story I must note down. He wanted to spend his long on the Continent,-saved up by self-denial from his university allowance enough for the trip, not to draw on his Governor;—a clergyman in the next parish, with a family of nine children, a curate on a stipend of seventy pounds a-year, was in a great mess; he sent the money to him anonymously, and in the most delicate way possible. It would never have come out if his father had not, more strictly than was his habit, asked why he had given up his tour abroad. This very curate had before that done him injury by some slanderous reports, which he sent before him to Oxford, when first he went up. The people in the neighbourhood were remarking at the time how callous and indifferent Montague was when these troubles were first talked about. "He actually laughed, the wretch! while poor, dear Miss Hawkner was sobbing out loud." How easy it is to cry at misfortune, and be sympathizing over a cup of tea! Almost as easy as talking piously! How difficult it is to most people to take a penny out of their pockets to lighten misfortune! Yet if deeds do not give feelings a real body to toddle about in, they are worse than useless, say I. It is rather pleasant than not to cry, and gets one such a name for compassion. Laughter is very often the escape of a deep susceptibility, which is hard up to prevent a sentimental explosion. It is not always the merriest heart that rings a peal. (To be continued.)

A NEW POET.'

To the critic who is earnestly imbued with the "sacred love of song," and sincerely anxious to foster and encourage rising genius, there can be no

(1) Poems by William Say, Officer of Excise: Printed and Published by W. Aubrey, 45, Free-school Street, Horselydown, 1847.

more gratifying task than that of hailing the advent of a new luminary among the stars of poesy, and predicting to the worthy aspirant for fame the imperishable honours which await him. Such is the pleasant duty we now have to perform, and sure we are that before we have brought the present paper to a close, the majority of our readers will concur with us in the belief that the race of poetic giants is not yet utterly extinct, that Apollo's service is still compatible with "gauging auld wives' barrels," and that hereafter we may hear the names of Burns and Say associated in poetic fellowship like those of Beaumont and Fletcher.

The volume before us is the maiden product of our author's muse ;-a remarkable work in every respect, in fact the most remarkable book of the kind ever submitted to our notice.

But listen to the poet's own exordium :

66 Respected readers,

Midst noise and bustle I have written,
That off my head may clean be bitten,
By those who've strength beyond their wit,
To swallow men when in the fit.
Before the jaws of ign'rance gape:
Shrug shoulders like the grinning ape;
Curse this and that, to shame and fetter,
I ask them first to shape a better.
'Tis true, there are of errors plenty,
Doubtless two or three-and-twenty;
But what of that-pray learn the cause,
That censure might in justice pause.
Six months ago I scarcely thought
That my poor mind could thus be brought
To waste my time in humble rhyming,
When brilliant stars around were shining;-
Much more so when my duties foil'd,
And oft true inspiration spoil'd.
When firm respect and honour claim'd
That conduct which ne'er feels asham'd,
Like Nelson, who would home or beauty
Forsake, when called to do his duty!
Disturb'd, alas! by children's brawls,
My barking dog, and daily bawls,
Peculiar to our London streets,

I think you'll say were queerish treats;
Still, to increase refinement's taste,
I wrote and rhym'd in dreadful haste,
Wrought nothing out of something p'r'aps-
To please my young aspiring chaps.
Good meaning call'd my interference,
To teach the worth of perseverance.
I've labour'd hard to raise the mind
With feelings tender, prompt and kind;
Discharged with due respect and care,
My duty justly every where.
My hopes ne'er dream of recompense,
Beyond the dues of common sense;
No vain ambition slyly steals
To turn my person head for heels;
No calculating on the skies,
To disappoint poor Nature's eyes,
Nor wisdom sleeping in the rear,
Shall by the storm of ign'rance fear:
But resting on my slender oars,
I'll sing awhile the torrent pours;
ASSUR'D THAT GREATNESS WILL REPAY
THE EFFORTS OF POOR HUMBLE SAY.""

There is a felicity of metaphor, a lucidity of meaning, a conciseness and simplicity of expression about the foregoing, inexpressibly pleasing. How admirable, too, the contrast between the lofty egotism which thunders through the line,

"I ask them first to shape a better,"—

and the meek and modest self-denial which (so to speak, biezts in the paragraph commencing,

"Fix months ago I scarcely thought," &e. What paternal solicitude is here implied,

"To please my young aspiring chaps,"—

and what a spirit of genuine bumility breathes through the lines which presently succeed:

My hopes ne'er dream of recompense," &c. Then, with the afflatus full upon him, our Author reunites in his own person the long-dissevered functions of the Seer and the Bard, and with a far-reaching ye foresees, and in fervid words foretells the greatness," which awaits him.

་

The power of investing mean and ordinary objects with high and ennobling attributes and associations confessedly belongs to genius. Take the following as a case in point:

"On attending the Coroner's inquest upon the body of Peter Hall, the noted barber of Dock-Head, Bermondsey; who died suddenly from the effects of carrying a sack of coals.

"Alas! alas ! poor Peter Hall,

The debt you've paid awaits us all;
And tho' thy age was seventy-four,
How many souls depart before !
To gaze on thy poor wrinkled frame,
It moves the heart; but still thy name
With pleasure can record the fact,
That while in life you well did act.
What pity that such cloudy rays
Should thus have clos'd the latter days
Of him, who'd scrap'd o'er hills and holes,
To sink beneath a sack of coals.
Thy neighbours tried in vain to save,
That you their beards again might shave,
With that peculiar case and grace,
So pleasing to a tender face.

But, ah! though we advance in age,
Our life is like a paltry stage;
Where actors oft appear as kings-
But are, in truth, poor wretched things.
Thy friendly tales, and gossips, now
Have made their earthly farewell bow;
Thy razors, brush, and lather must
Commit thee to the worms and dust."

Originality is evident in every line; need we point to the "bowing" of the "friendly tales and gossips," or to the solemn consignment of his body to the "worms and dust," by the agency of his "razors, brush and lather," as examples of this peculiar gift?

Our author, like his Scottish prototype, owns due allegiance to the power of female beauty, and to the time-honoured names of “ Bonnie Jean" and "Highland Mary," future ages will add the not less illustrious one of Mrs. Say, immortalized in the following

LINES TO MY BEST HALF.

My bosom's pet-my comfort's pride-
Oh! could I have thee by my side;
Rich joys my burning heart would feed,
While I caress'd my love indeed."

From this enthusiastic burst of marital admiration our second Burns diverges into Nature-worship:

"Kind Heaven's lustre treats my sight,

With views of green and purple bright;
Richly below, are fields so green,

Where hopping birds too may be seen."

And then he proceeds to make one of these "hopping birds" a participator of this passion and an expositor of his ferings.

"The Robin perch'd in yon ler tree,
Is sweetly singing, love, of thee;
Its pensive notes now tell my heart,
That we, my Rose, are far apart.
The garden's walk, all taste and grace,
Presents a lily to my face,

And further on, sweet violets bice,
Still seem but paintings after you.”

The reader cannot fail to appreciate the delicacy and felicity of this compliment; while in the dim mysteriousness which shrouds the meaning of the succeeding verse, he will at once discover that the poet is as deeply versed in metaphysics as in the heavenly art of song:

"Oh! ne'er can shadows such as these
Arouse my heart, to give it ease;
If torn from thee, my costly prize,
In grief I'd fall, no more to rise."

But the climax, the crowning glory of this immortal lay, is yet to come. The solemnity and sublimity of the closing verse, its pathos and Ovidian warmth, stamp it as the master-piece-the ne plus ultra-of its loving author:

"Good heavens! feel my tender sighs,
And wipe my loving, rainy eyes.
Sweet kisses, thousands of the best,
Accept, my dear, with all the rest."

In the whole range of English poetry, we know of nothing comparable with the severe simplicity of these concluding couplets, if we may be allowed to except the memorable fragment of antiquity which has reference to a traditionary Jack and Gill, their travels and misfortunes.

Occasionally the poet gives utterance to aphorisms, worthy of Rochefoucault or La Bruyère; e.g. :

""Tis my opinion, firm and ready,

That all are wrong who are unsteady;
And all the steady oft are wrong,
Who to Dame Fortune don't belong.
We owe our present earthly state
As much to conduct as to fate;

As much to fate as conduct wise, For none are free from enemies." Did space permit, we would willingly quote from the brief monody composed "On the Death of a favourite Pointer," concerning which he makes the following gloomy revelation

"Poor Nell was hung, and Death could boast

That she had now gi'n up the ghost."

"A Peep at the Easter-Monday Folks" offers some tempting extracts; and there is much piquancy in "The Dressmakers' Remonstrance with the Quakeress," of whom he most ungallantly remarks that,

"When hard fate you with ill-shape endows,

You most resemble clean but awkward cows." "Advice to my Sons" is a perfect gem; the concluding passage is of surpassing merit:

In the poem entitled, "A Visit to my Native Village, Waltham Cross, in Hertfordshire," Mr. Say would seem to have imitated, or rather improved upon, Bloomfield's ballad style. Ecce signum :

"One charming day, in May so fair,
Allured my thirsty soul,

To breathe once more my native air,
And o'er the fields to stroll.

The heart now glowed with sweet content,
It thought of happier days,
When youthful pleasures, innocent,

The wearied mind repays."

We are not hypercritical, and therefore will not cavil at the assumption of the faculties of the brain by Mr. Say's heart; indeed, we are of opinion that, in this individual case, the ratiocinative process might be carried on equally as well by the latter as by the former. But we are digressing. Our poet, passing Edmonton, glances pleasantly at "Johnny Gilpin's Bell," relinquishes his seat upon the omnibus, which he designates "a four-wheeled mournful knell," and "Thus, from this spot to Waltham Cross, Four miles I further had

To trudge, on my two-legged horse,
To see my aged Dad."

This concise allusion to his paternal progenitorthis delicate shadowing forth of filial reverence-is exquisitely unique. We should scorn to insinuate that a certain other quadruped might have been advantageously and truthfully substituted for "horse." Standing once more amidst the haunts of early youth, recalling the frolics of his boyhood, and dwelling with a loving emphasis upon "birds'-nests and pop-guns," Mr. Say flings the reins upon his Pegasus, and thus pours forth a swelling tide of song:

"The lark now warbling in the skies

And gentle breezes west,

Fans sweetly, while the swallow flies

On high, to peaceful rest.”

What a delightful image is this!-the lark and the west-wind fauning each other, while the swallow mounts upward, to make her "procreant cradle" in the clouds!

"The cooling streams, sweet lily fair,
The bulrush, flags, and weeds,

Still grow to tell me when I there
Perform'd my fishing deeds."

"At last sweet home I reach, so dear,
Where comforts still remain,
Though oft I there was made to fear
By faggot-stick or cane.

The old arm-chair as usual placed,
And in it, snugly seated,

Was my poor Dad, who ne'er disgraced

A soul, nor ever cheated."

And here let our quotations end. We could not find it in our hearts to intrude upon the domestic sanctities of so great a poet, so dutiful and so affection

ate a son.

We now take our regretful leave of this invaluable contribution to our land's literature. Of its merits

there can be but one opinion, and that a very decided one; any language we could command would be utterly inadequate to express it.

humble subject shall have fallen into lamentable When the mighty empire of which our author is a decadence, like Tyre and Carthage, Rome and Greece, when future travellers shall explore the ruins of the once imperial London, and speculate upon her bygone history, her language, and her laws, --we can confidently predict that this precious fragment of our country's literature will be found unmutilated and intact, surviving the wreck of ages, aiding the antiquarian in his study of the past, and proudly perpetuating the immortal name of William Say!

"Now, Bavius! take the poppy from thy brow,
And place it here !-here, all ye heroes, bow!
This, this is he, foretold by ancient rhymes;
The Augustus born to bring Saturnian times.
Signs, following signs, lead on the mighty year;
See, the dull stars roll round, and re-appear!
See, see, our own true Phoebus wears the bays,
Pre-eminent among the race of Says!"

J. S.

MEMORANDA OF NATURAL PHENOMENA.

BY F. P. NICHOLS.

No. I.-VEGETABLE LIFE.

VEGETABLE, like animal life, is derived from parental germination, it grows up to a state of maturity through the medium of nutrition, it sinks and declines from the exhaustion of its organization occasioned by old age, and death ensues; the mate

"An aged man I next observed,

Worn out by toil and care;

Hard time his comforts oft had swerved,
And turned quite grey his hair.”

And now we have a touch of Wordsworth, the bard of Rydal is here refined upon :

"I paused awhile! he paused too!

And gazed and so did I!
'If you're not Muster Say, then true,
By pure mistake I lie!

"You're right, my friend, and if on earth
I speak the truth as well,
If you are not old Hollinsworth,

The truth I ne'er can tell.'"

Compare the two first lines of these stanzas with the often-quoted passage of "Eve at the Fountain," and acknowledge that as Milton improved upon Homer and Virgil, so has Say improved upon Milton,

As soon as the seed is deposited on a nutritive soil, it commences nourishing its enclosed germ, by absorbing the carbon of the surrounding air, and sucking up the fluids of the earth, thus strengthening

The fibres of the root take up the food in the soil, and convey it in the form of crude sap, or undigested food, into the body of the root; from which it rises through the vessels of the trunk, undergoing all those various changes by which it is assimilated to a fit and proper nourishment whereon to support the existence of the plant.

The crude sap thus deposited in the body of the root, is a compound of water and various earthy, saline, and gaseous matters: from the root, it is impelled into the sap vessels of the ascending trunk, where such agencies as light, heat, electricity, &c. acting upon it, it becomes decomposed, and deposits its various matters, in a solidified form, in the various parts of the woody structure; it is now digested, and, dissolving the various matters it comes in contact with, rises up to the leaves, in order to receive the carbonic acid gas which forms the vital ingredient of vegetable life, as oxygen does of animal; this is accomplished by the process of respiration. The sap being passed down a central vein of the leaf, is distributed through those innumerable minute vessels, which form the network of that organ; there, by the action of the solar rays, a portion of the oxygen of the sap is given out, and the carbon of the air is absorbed in its stead; this only takes place during daylight; in darkness the reverse is the case,-carbon is given out, and oxygen

taken in.

THE MAIDEN AUNT.-No. IV.1

CHAP. VI.

these were proscribed and exiled. In other words, the garden was filled with all that could minister to the body, but the influences that minister to the spirit were not suffered to enter it. And the gardener dwelt in the he did; his life was labour without a charm, and if he midst of it, and thought scorn of all who did not as holy passion-flower, adorning the gardens of his neighsaw the queenly rose, or the bounteous violet, or the bours, he said in his heart, "Aha! the fools; they are spending all their toil on that whose only worth lies in its beauty, and the first cast wind or over-sultry sun may destroy it for ever!" and then he would go back to his potato-beds with a cold, unloving self-satisfaction, and dig and water them; and if the sun parched the leaves, or the canker or the caterpillar injured the young shoots, he heeded it not, for the value of the plant was in its root, and that remained uninjured. It was said that in former days this gardener had dearly loved the those which he favoured most, and this was the reason beautiful flowers, but that a deadly canker had destroyed why he was so stern and bitter against them, and had uprooted them all, and cast them away, and sworn that there should be no more flowers in his garden. But this was not certain, for there was a mystery over his early days, and no one rightly knew whence had arisen that strange hatred of the kindly and innocent flowers, whose very existence seems to be pure love, inasmuch as they live but to be beautiful and fragrant, and yet can know nothing of their own fragrance or beauty. Truly, it is almost as if one should try to hate the little babes whom God sends into the world to force men to afterwards open their hearts more widely and receive learn the sweetness of loving, in order that they may the good influence more plentifully.

There came a bird through the air by nightdoubtless an angel guided it and it carried in its beak a tiny root, which it dropped into the soft newlyturned earth of that flowerless garden; and when the gardener arose in the morning some few days afterwards, behold a small green shoot forcing its way upward through the soil! At first he knew not what it was, and he tended and watered it like his other plants, but as it grew taller he began to perceive from the grace and tenderness of its shape, from the delicate green of the young buds, from the soft texture of the leaves, that it was indeed a flower, and 'that its life was in its beauty. this had come to him unawares and unsought; he received Then a strange deep joy took possession of his soul, for it as a gift, he considered it almost as a miracle, and all the care and labour and vigilance which others expended on their whole gardens he centred and lavished on this solitary flower. There grew up in his heart a love stronger than ever his hatred had been, and as the flower grew, his love waxed stronger, till it seemed to absorb his whole being; he guarded his treasure like the infancy of a queen, he sheltered it alike from the cold and the heat, no insect was suffered to rest upon its stem, no other plant to approach within the circle which his cautious hand had drawn around it. And at and of snowy whiteness, and one, the topmost, cresting last it was covered with buds; they were long, slender, the plant with its small upward-pointing spire, seemed ready to burst into bloom. Oh, how the gardener's heart

burned within him as the moment which should crown his hopes drew near! He arose from a dream in which he had beheld the alabaster cup of stainless loveliness spread forth as a couch for the moonbeans, which could not silver it with a more lustrous whiteness than that which it possessed by nature-he hurried to his darling

the cup was indeed open, the blossom had indeed expanded, but in the midst of it was a great green canker! The gardener stood still for a moment, stunned and despairing; then he plucked up by the roots the fair plant, with all its unopened buds, and flung it from him far over the wall, far as his arm could reach, and re

turned in silence to his house.