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Thou darling of thy sire !
Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy !

ink!) There goes my

Thou cherub—but of earth ;
Fit playfellow for fays, by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail !)

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 !
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!
Toss the light ball—bestride the stick-
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !)

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 !)


(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.


An Eton stripling, training for the Law,
A Dunce at Syntax, but a Dab at Taw,
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf

cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf,

With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Arrived, and past the usual " How d'ye do's ?"
Inquiries of old friends, and College news-
“Well, Ton, the road, what saw you worth discerning,
And how goes study, boy-what is't you're learning ?

Oh, Logic, Sir-but not the worn-out rules
Of Locke and Bacon-antiquated fools!
'Tis wit and wranglers' Logic—thus, d'ye see,
I'll prove to you, as clear as A, B, C,
That an eel-pie's a pigeon :—to deny it,
Were to swear black's white."- - Indeed!"-"Let's

try it.

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
To think the night must pass before the morrow;
Dream'd of his boots, his cap,

Of leaping five-barr'd gates, and crossing ditches;
Left his warm bed an hour before the lark,
And dragged his Uncle, fasting, through the park :-
Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross,
To find out something like a chestnut horse :
But no such animal the meadows cropp'd:
At length, beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopp’d;


Took a bough—then shook it—and down fell
A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell-
There, Tom, take that," "Well, Sir, and what

beside ?
"Why, since you're booted, saddle it and ride!"
" Ride what ?-A chestnut!” Ay; come, get across.
I tell you, Tom, the chestnut is a horse,
And all the horse you'll get; for I can show,
As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so-
Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules
Of Locke and Bacon-addle-headed fools !
All Logic but the wranglers' I disown,
And stick to one sound argument--your own.
Since you have prov'd to me, I don't deny,
That a pie-John's the same as a John-pie;
What follows then, but as a thing of course,
That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse ?”


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 !
Unseal your closed

Ye have lingered long in your narrow bed,

From the sleep of death arise !


not look upon
The things ye loved while here?
O brightly gleams the glorious sun

In the ocean's mirror clear!

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