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Thou darling of thy sire !
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
ink!) There goes my
Thou cherub—but of earth ;
In harmless sport and mirth,
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every
blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble !—that's his precious nose !)
Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint(Where did he learn that squint?)
domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off
, with another shove !) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clothes his best ?)
Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb the table, that's his plan !) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life
(He's got a knife !)
Thou enviable being !
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
With many a lamb-like frisk,
Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,(I wish that window had an iron bar !) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,
(I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above !)
LABOUR AND RECREATION.
(From "Friends in Council."') Our modern system of division of labour divides wits also. The more necessity there is, therefore, for finding in recreation something to expand men's intelligence. There are intellectual pursuits almost as much divided as pin-making: and many a man goes through some intellectual process, for the greater part of his working hours, which corresponds with the making of a pin'shead. Must there not be some danger of a general contraction of mind from this convergence of attention upon something very small, for so considerable a portion of man's life?
I have seen it quoted in Aristotle, that the end of labour is to gain leisure. It is a great saying. We have in modern times a totally wrong view of the matter. Noble work is a noble thing, but not all work. Most people seem to think that any business is in itself something grand; that to be intensely employed, for instance, about something which has no truth, beauty, or usefulness in it, which makes no man happier or wiser, is still the perfection of human endeavour, so that the work be intense. It is the intensity, not the nature, of the work, that men praise. You see the extent of this feeling in little things. People are so ashamed of being caught for a moment idle, that if you come upon the most industrious servants or workmen whilst they are standing looking at something which interests them, or fairly resting, they move off in a fright, as if they were proved, by a moment's relaxation, to be neglectful of their work. Yet it is the result that they should mainly be judged by, and to which they should appeal. But amongst all classes, the working itself, incessant working, is the thing deified. Now what is the end and object of most work? To provide for animal wants. Not a contemptible thing, by any means, but still it is not all in all with man. Moreover, in those cases where the pressure of bread-getting is fairly past, we do not often find men's exertions lessened on that account. There enter into their minds as motives, ambition, a love of hoarding, or a fear of leisure, things which, in moderation, may be defended or even justified, but which are not so peremptorily, and upon the face of them excellent, that they at once dignify excessive labour.
The truth is, that to work insatiably requires much less mind than to work judiciously, and less courage, than to refuse work that cannot be done honestly. For a hundred men whose appetite for work can be driven on by vanity, avarice, ambition, or a mistaken notion of advancing their families, there is about one who is desirous of expanding his own nature and the nature of others in all directions, of cultivating many pursuits, of bringing himself and those around him in contact with the universe in many points, of being a man and not a machine.
cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf,
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
Oh, Logic, Sir-but not the worn-out rules
An eel-pie is a pie of fish.' Agreed." “A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie." Well, proceed.” “ A Jack-pie must be a Jolin-pie—thus, 'tis donc, For every John-pie must be a pi-ge-on!" “ Bravo I” Sir Peter cries, “ Logic for ever! It beats my grandmother-and she was clever! But zounds, my boy-it surely would be hard, That wit and learning should have no reward ! To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross, And then I'll give you”—“What ?”—“My chestnut
horse." " A horse !" cries Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces ! Oh, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!”
spurs, and leather
He went to bed and wept for downright sorrow
Took a bough—then shook it—and down fell
LUDOVIC CoLQUHOUN. [Mr. Colquhoun, a cadet of the family of Colquhoun of Luss, was born about 1806. He was educated at Edinburgh, and became an advocate at the Scottish bar. He died when little more than thirty.]
“As the cloud is consumed, and vanishes away; so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more.”—Job.
ARISE ! arise, ye dead !
From the sleep of death arise !
not look upon
In the ocean's mirror clear!