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about from pillar to post; because, you know, 'a rolling stone gathers no moss,' &c., &c., &c." The poor listener, who has this bundle of “you knows" inflicted on him, of course manifests his entire concurrence, and departs with little of the other's tirade in remembrance, except the words "you know."

Others will interlard their harangues with an occasional "Don't you see?" thereby drawing attention to the point of their subject, or else questioning the auditor's capability of perceiving it. This is what the phrase directly means. As usually introduced, it is nothing but "superfluous breath."

The adjective," beautiful," has been distorted to many absurd significations.

previously, we find their terms of existence do

not exceed those of their fellow-men.

"To pray” implies to entreat, supplicate, implore. Does Miss B., in writing to her intimate confidant, Miss C., entreat or implore her to "accept her best love," when she concludes her triple-crossed epistle with a "pray accept, &c.?" or does Miss Sharp, the schoolmistress, when she addresses one of her pupils with a cross "Pray mind your lessons," intend anything beyond a preceptor's command? Of course not.

We should much like to know the derivation and meaning-nay, the orthography-of the nasal murmur some folks will favour others with, in lieu of the distinct affirmative "Yes." We scarcely know how to put it on paper.

L. speaks. "Then you fully intend to do soand-so?"

M. replies: "Ooom-m-m-ss, humce!” or

"Oh! do taste this, it is so beautiful.” This, perhaps, refers to an ice-cream in hot weather. The ice-cream may be nice, may be refreshing, but it cannot strictly be beautiful," 'mce!" otherwise the eatable would become elegant and lovely; for such are the qualifications that the word imparts. A slight consideration will call to mind many similar instances of the misemployment of this adjective.

We come upon an interesting nest of absurdities in the expressions, "I have no doubt on earth," "I am sure,” Really I," "Positively I," &c., &c.

"Is Mr. So-and-so within ?"

"I am sure I don't know, but I will inquire." Here the person addressed intimates the extraordinary fact, that he is quite sure, positive, and convinced, in his own mind, of what? That he doesn't know! Is not this "a most lame and impotent conclusion?" Many parties will tell you that " 'they have not the slightest doubt on earth; just as if they could possibly entertain any doubt elsewhere but on earth. How frequently too is an observation introduced with a high strain of magniloquence, by the word "positively," when a simple answer is required to a simple question

I wonder if the post has arrived or not?" inquires G.

Positively I cannot tell you," replies H. By-the-bye, we here find another morsel of nonsense, in the commencement of G's. remark -"I wonder!" Nothing like astonishment or amaze, rely upon it, was present in his mind at

the moment.

"Would you reply to this letter or not?" asks J.

"No, that I wouldn't, for worlds!" is the answer from an individual who is far from reflecting that he thus places the value of heaven and earth, and all things that are therein, against some petty business of mortality.

"Wherever have you kept yourself of late, my friend? I have not set eyes on you for ages past!" says J. to K.

Considering that age is synonymous with century," these friends must run Methuselah hard for the palm of seniority. However, being enabled to communicate to the reader, in confidence, that they dined together the day before one started on a continental tour just one month

Have pity, reader, and inform us what these confused noises signify. To our ears they are neither "fish, flesh, nor good red-herring!"

Numerous similar absurdities might be selected from our vernacular idiom, and descanted upon; but we trust we have written sufficient to fulfil our purpose, and to amuse the reader, without wearying his patience. In conclusion, we would remark that every word has a true signification, whatever false or unintentional one we may give it; and by employing words and phrases such as the above, we (unwittingly, and not purposely, be it rememembered) give ut terance to ideas, thoughts, passions, and feelings of which the mind at the moment has not the remotest conception or entertainment.

THE SECRET DISCLOSED.

BY S. J. G.

"Come, sit ye down by me,
For I ha'e a simple story
O' love to tell to thee."

JENNY'S FIRST LOVE-LETTER.

Oh, mother, kind as thou art dear, how beautiful

those flowers,

Which for your dying child you've culled from her

own favourite bowers!

Upon my pillow lay them near and nearer still. Oh,

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They call up days for ever gone-when, merry as the bee

That robbed them of their hidden sweets, I plucked them from the tree,

And laughing wreathed them in my hair, or placed them on my breast;

My cheek with health was coloured then, my heart with gladness blest.

Ah, mother! those were happy times-I'm sadly altered now;

There is no blush upon my cheek, no joy upon my
brow;

The film of death is o'er my eyes, and day by day I feel,
Slowly but surely, through my heart his icy influence

steal.

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See, here it is! I wear it thus for ever next my heart, Nor for the wealth of worlds would I that withered rosebud part.

You marvel, mother, wherefore I do prize this paltry thing

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He

He

Win

spoke to me in accents filled with trancing tenderness;

told me how for my dear sake he'd leave his native land,

wealth and fame in foreign ones-return, and claim my hand:

He told with voice, that falter would, how by the dawn of day

He'd take his leave of home, for then the ship would anchor weigh;

And though his lip was quivering, and white as death his cheek,

He forced a feeble smile, and strove some words of hope to speak.

I heard him, but my heart grew sick with its own weight of woe

From lip and cheek I felt the blood back to its fountain flow;

I looked at him in tearless grief-I could not speak

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Why on a simple flower like this such lavish love IA fling;

Oh, well you may, for never once hath word or look revealed

The secret that so long hath lain deep in my heart concealed.

Oh, mother! I have loved-adored! I know there never dwelt

In woman's breast a truer love than that which I have felt,

And feel, for over love like mine death-death hath
no control;

It lives beyond the grave-it is immortal as the soul.
Bend lower, I would breathe his name.

fluttering heart!

Alas! poor

One little moment aid me yet, then let thy life depart; I'll whisper low that cherished name--Ah! now the worst is o'er

I thought I could not form those lips to breathe that sound once more.

He had no wealth-oh, mother dear, you know how poor was he,

And love and pride forbade him yet to share his lot

with me.

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all he asked whilst absent was, a fond and faithful heart

changeless one, that would, amidst the wealthy
and the gay,

Unto the lonely exile steal in tenderest thought away.
I wept as I have never wept before or since that hour-
A strange and gloomy presage held my heart within
its power-

I felt

And,

that parted once, we ne'er should meet on earth again;

though I strove to crush the thought, it would all mighty reign.

He told me that he had no wealth to purchase gifts for me,

And then he sighed, and turned to pluck this rose from off the tree;

And as he placed it in my hand, besought with earnest tone,

That I would prize it for his sake, when its bright bloom had flown.

We parted, and I felt that life had lost all charm for

me

By day, by night, my anxious heart was filled with misery;

I trembled at a breeze; each wind that broke upon my ear

Appeared a tempest, and I felt my cheek grow white with fear.

I knew no sleep throughout the night, no rest | Dear mother, dry those bitter tears; we yet again

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In each pursuit most loved before I now no pleasure found,

Still did that gloomy presage hold my heart within its bound.

And when you asked me where the smile of other days had fled,

And where the joy, that lit my eyes and tinged my cheek with red

You little knew the pang that rent my bosom as you spake;

Oh, many a time and oft I thought my lonely heart would break.

Alas! my mother dear, alas! you've heard but half my woe

All, all the sufferings of this heart its God alone may

know;

The crushing tidings came-the ship was lost, and 'neath the wave

Oh, horror! every soul on board had found a watery grave.

Too true my heart's foreboding proved-I knew it would be so,

And he and I shall meet no more in this wide world of woe.

I will not paint my agony - my wild yet vain despair

Look, mother, on this altered form, and see their workings there;

Look on this dimmed and sunken eye, this wan and wasted cheek,

And tell me, shall I not ere long find all the rest I seek? I care not, mother, where you lay my bones when I am dead

Beneath the far, far ocean-wave his bones have found

a bed;

And as mine cannot rest beside what, living, loved I best, Take you no thought about my grave-I care not where I rest.

Ere comes the morrow's sun I shall have breathed my latest breath,

And this cold hand now clasped in thine shall colder be in death.

But why thus weep, dear mother mine? Ah, why thus weep for me?

Wouldst have me live, yet know each day brought but

fresh misery?

Wouldst have me pine from year to year in hopeless

grief away,

Until perhaps e'en reason's self would fall beneath

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shall meet

In that bright land, where he now waits his bestbeloved to greet;

I fear not Death-I welcome him-oh, sweet my rest shall be;

Then, mother, dry those bitter tears-you should not weep for me.

SONNETS TO MARY HOWITT.

BY H. G. ADAMS.

Oh, thou who singest of the clear blue streams;
Of verdant meadows, and of gushing springs,
Lighting the woodlands with their silvery gleams;
Of butterflies, with rainbow-tinted wings;
And trees, round which the fragrant woodbine
Crowned with a coronal of golden beams;
clings,

Of "birds and flowers, and other country things,"
That toil-worn citizens behold in dreams :-
Who wakest all our kindly sympathies
With ballads quaint and sweetly musical,
Of cottage-hearth, and manor-house, and hall,
And ships that wander on the stormy seas;
Whose gentle thoughts and pure moralities
Upon the heart like dews on folded flower-buds fall:-
Fain would I thank thee for the many hours

Transported by thy strains to woodland bowers,
Of pure and calm delight that I have spent,

Where sorrow cometh not, nor discontent;
Listing the warblings of the song-birds, blent
In one delicious harmony, while flowers
Breathed incense round; the blue sky o'er me bent,
And trees upon me shed their leafy showers:

Fain would I thank thee for the visions bright

Thy lays have conjured up, of happy vales
And quiet nooks, and old men telling tales;

Of cottage children, laughing in the light
Of their own loveliness; and groves bedight
With blossoms, shedding perfume on the southern
gales.

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THE VILLAGE SHOP.

BY CLARA PAYNE.

The village shop, the pretty little village shop! how many pleasing associations does it recall to mind; associations of one's childhood, when its attractive wares shone so highly coloured to the youthful imagination, that we thought the world contained nought that could surpass them; and though Old Time has dispelled the delusion, the pretty village shop has still its charms for us; and we seldom pass it by, without pausing to gaze on the literal omnium gatherum displayed in its bow window, over which a license to sell various articles is announced; and beneath the announcement is placed a square board,

"Mangling Done or to I.ett,"

thereby proclaiming that the art of mangling is practised within; while the door is adorned on either side by huge cabbage-nets filled with

onions.

The little village shop patronises industry; cleanliness, literature, and enjoyment. Behold in its window the juvenile library-The Illustrated Fairy Tales, consisting of those, dear companions of our childhood-" Jack the Giant Killer," "Blue Beard," "Jack and the Beanstalk," "Little Red Riding Hood," "Tom Thumb," &c. &c.; each tiny volume, with its gay cover, to be obtained for the trifling sum of one halfpenny. Behold, too, an assemblage of rosy-cheeked dolls, so arranged that they appear inviting their admirers in. Near them, see a regiment of leaden soldiers, ready to face the enemy, and keeping guard over some tempting gingerbread in the shape of hearts. Not far from these is a sweet little duck of a bird perched on a stick, to be sold for one farthing; and close to the bird is a square glass, well filled with bull's-eyes, sugar plums, and sticks of rock. An ornamental basket next invites attention, containing some moss-covered eggs; and on it a paper is fixed, asserting the eggs to be "new laid." Numerous green hard-looking apples are placed in a row before the basket; and a

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variety of pale little currant cakes are stuck against the panes of glass, supported by battledores and shuttlecocks, while gorgeously painted kites occupy the rear; with hoops, and bats, and various toys for girls and boys. Imple ments of industry are also everywhere visibleballs of cotton, pins, needles, tapes, twine, shoe binding, hooks and eyes, thimbles and buttons, slate pencils and lead pencils, paper and ink, wafers and wax, quills and pens, are all in this little shop met together; with mops and brooms, bricks and brushes, pepper and salt, tobacco and tea, candles and soap, flour and snuff, sugar and spice, and all that is nice. Yes! all may here be found. Here, too, can the loyalist purchase a correct likeness of his beloved sovereign for the moderate price of one penny. Here, too, can the songster gratify his taste with a choice selection of popular ditties, for a similar charge. But we must not omit to eulogise amongst these various things the mistress of the shop herself. The good old dame, who is always so cheerful and obliging, so cleanly in appearance, and who, with patience unwearied, is ever ready to attend to the wants of her youthful customers; how well she looks in her neat plaited cap, with her bright silver spectacles, and her snow-white apron; her fame has extended beyond her own little village; and children from all adjacent parts come hither to pay her a visit. Often have we here seen the juvenile spendthrift hastening to get rid of his last farthing; and often have we beheld the longing eyes of a poor child directed towards the window of the shop at some (for him) unattainable object, which his more fortunate companion carries off in triumph; for even the village shop has its temptations, and very great temptations, to offer; however, success to its worthy proprietor, good old Dame; long may she enjoy her well-deserved earnings; long prosperously flourish her

"Little Village Shop."

THE EAGLE AND THE THUNDER CLOUD.

An eagle sat on the pinnacle of a lofty rock, which raised its proud head sublimely to the summer sky. Beside him were scattered the fragments of a kid, which had formed his noonday's repast. Three thousand feet below stretched the brown valley, far and wide, whose banks were dotted with numerous herds and flocks of sheep, which looked like white specks in the distance. Panting, they sought out the water-courses which were wont to trickle from

the mountain sides, licking the hot stones in vain with their thirsty tongues: for the sun glowed like red-hot metal in the cloudless firmament, and his sultry beam had drunk them up, and all nature withered beneath his ardent rays.

No shepherd's pipe was blown in the valley; the herdsmen were stretched, fainting, beneath the shade of the parched trees, and gazed languidly at the glowing skies, praying that God

would send rain to refresh the herbage of the valley, and renew the dried-up springs of the mountain. Not a breath of air fanned the drooping leaves; the drowsy birds had not a note, and a death-like silence reigned over the face of

nature.

But the eagle rejoiced in the sultry glow, gorged with blood; he let down his breast to the burning rock, spread out his broad wings to the warm sunbeam, and closed his eyes in delicious enjoyment of life. Suddenly he felt that the pleasant warmth was withdrawn, and he turned his head and gazed upwards with fierce inquiring eye and lo! a dark cloud had arisen silently on the horizon, and was gradually stealing over the sun's bright disk, and a moaning sound, like the coming of a mighty wind, breathed through the drooping willow leaves in the valley, and again all was still.

But the wrath of the fierce bird was roused, and giving a hoarse scream, he launched himself from the brow of the precipice, and spreading his strong pinions to the air, rose, in magnificent gyrations, higher and higher to the glowing sky-then sailed with threatening cry to the dark cloud, whose sable folds had now entirely concealed the sun, and spread a mournful gloom over the brooding valley below. "What means this insolence?" screamed the haughty bird; "how darest thou, poor, insignificant, flimsy cloud, disturb my comfort, and withdraw the warm sunbeam from my back? Knowest thou not that I am lord of the creation; that bird and beast quail at my dread voice; and that puny man himself, plodding his weary way on his clumsy legs, looks up in awe and envy as he hears the rush of my mighty wings? Back, wretched cloud, before I shiver thee to atoms with my pinions."

"Back thyself, audacious bird!" said a deep voice from the cloud; "darest thou oppose thy

frail strength to that of the Almighty, whose humble servant I am? Seest thou not that all nature is oppressed, and sickens beneath the sultry glare of the sun? The water-courses are dried up; the sickly leaves fall from the trees; the wholesome juice of the herbage thickens in the stem; the grass hath lost its verdure, and the fainting cattle low feebly, and raise their beseeching eyes to the heavens, humbly imploring that aid which man can no longer give. Shall all nature want, that thou mayest enjoy thy comfort, selfish bird?"

"What is that to me?" more proudly screamed the eagle; "let them want! they were made to minister to my comfort, and will fall the easier a prey to my talons;" and he swooped fiercely upon the cloud. But a blue, livid flash came from it, a crash of thunder followed that shook heaven and earth; and the wretched eagle fell, a shapeless mass of scorched flesh, blood and feathers, to the earth, while the storm burst forth in all its grandeur. The springs of the mighty cloud were broken up, the rain descended in torrents; the lightning flashed; the thunder rolled far and wide; and the panting earth leapt up at the voice of the storm, and drank in the healing draught, with her million thirsty mouths.

And the storm passed away. The rain kissed flowers and shrubs, raised their cheerful heads, glittering in pearly drops; a thousand rills plunged from the mountains; the lowing of the cattle, as they rushed to the sparkling rivulets, filled pleasantly the valley; the pipe of the shepherd breathed out a joyful tune; the birds tuned their throats; the sun burst forth in renewed splendour; and the laughing earth, refreshed by the healing shower, sent up a grateful fragrance to the face of the smiling heavens. But the eagle was not missed from the crea tion. ALBERT TAYLOR.

LITERATURE.

LYRICS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. By Frances Brown.-(Simpkin, Marshall, and Co.)-In the little volume of poems before us, as in the one earlier published by the same author, we have evidence of a pure and truthful mind; of a sincere reverence for the beautiful and true. We have here the same easy flow of versifica-, tion, an equal abundance of graceful metaphor and simile, but characterised by the same defects-a superfluity of words, and the frequent repetition of the same idea; in varied clothing, certainly, but not the less wearying from its monotony. Miss Brown reminds us occasionally of her gifted countryman, Thomas Moore: she has his delicate ear and sense for rhythm and harmony; but it is an external resemblance

only; she lacks his force and originality. Her images-her similes-are

"Like snow upon a river: Seen a moment-gone for ever." They strike us at first as pretty, sometimes brilliant; but they leave no clear impression: on closing the volume, we retain but a confused remembrance of tears and smiles, of shadows and sunshine: whereas Moore's beautiful songs and images have sunk deep into our hearts, and have mingled with our thoughts and dreams, until they have become, as it were, a portion of our inward life. But if Miss Brown remind us externally of Moore, we also trace a deeper and nearer resemblance to Mrs. Hemans, whose

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