Careless of thirsty spoil,—of war's alarms—
Nor with imperial emulation fired.
Where once her orisons devotion paid
By fear, or hope, or reverence inspired,
The sad solicitude of youth allay'd,
And age in resignation calm attired.
The houseless cottager from wind severe,
His humble habitation oft has made;
Once gloomy penitence sat silent there,
And midnight tapers gleam'd along the shade.
The lonely shepherd here has oft retired,
To count his flock and tune his rustic lay,
Where loud Hosannas distant ears inspired,
And saintly vespers closed the solemn day.
HUGH DELMORE.
BOOK-MACHINERY
The world being supplied with books by machinery is almost, literally, a fact. Type-founding and stereotyping are, of course, mechanical processes; and lately, Dr. Church, of Boston, invented a plan for composing (setting the types) by machinery; the sheets are printed by steam; the paper is made by machinery; and pressed and beaten for binding by a machine of very recent date. Little more remains to be done than to write by machinery; and, to judge by many recent productions, a spinning-jenny would be the best engine for this purpose.
PHILO.
GRAVITATION
In a matter-of-fact age like the present, methinks it behoves every man to apply the improvements of scientific research as much as possible to the ordinary concerns of life. Science and society may thus be called at par, and philosophical theory will hence enlighten the practical tradesman.
To demonstrate the truth of the above remarks, I mean, with the editor's leave, to prove the necessity of keeping a friend in one's pocket, upon the principles of gravitation, according to Sir Isaac Newton's "Principia."
The learned doctor has mathematically proved that all bodies gravitate or incline to the centre. It is on this principle only that we can account for our being fixed to the earth; that we are surrounded by the atmosphere; and that we are constantly attended by, and seem constantly to attend, the planets around us.
Should any farther demonstration be necessary than the incomparable Sir Isaac has himself furnished us with, let any sceptic who doubts that the earth attracts all smaller bodies towards its centre, only take a hop from the Monument or St. Paul's, and he will soon find the power of gravitation, and die by the truth of the experiment.
But what, methinks, exclaims the reader, has all this to do with the proposition in hand, viz. the necessity of keeping a friend in one's pocket? Why, I'll tell you—from a due consideration of this very principle, you will soon see the use of a man's keeping his money in his pocket. It is this alone (the pocket) which nowadays constitutes the centre of friendship; there alone, therefore, must this most valuable, most faithful of all friends (money) be deposited. Now if this friend be of magnitude, he will soon collect many more around you, who, true as the needle to the pole, will point to you from every quarter—friends who will smile in your prosperity, bask in the sunshine of your glory, dance while you pay the piper, and to the very ground will be "votre très humble serviteur, monsieur." But if by sickness, misfortune, generosity, or the like, this friend be removed from your pocket, the centre is destroyed, the equilibrium is lost, away fly your friends, and, like pelicans, turn their beaks at your breast whenever you approach. "It is your own fault, fellow; you might have done well if you would; but you are an ass, and could not keep a friend when you had him; and so you may die in a ditch, and go to the devil, my dear."
The man of affluence, who lavishes away his substance, may aptly enough be likened to a porpoise sporting in the ocean—the smaller fry play around him, admire his dexterity, fan his follies, glory in his gambols; but let him once be enmeshed in the net of misfortune, and they who foremost fawned under his fins, will first fall foul of him.
Now, to illustrate the subject further, let us consider the advantages arising from this practical use of gravitation, and the losses attendant upon the neglect thereof. First, then, he who has secured this friend in his pocket, may go when he pleases, and where he pleases, and how he pleases, either on foot or on horseback, by barouche or by boat, and he shall be respected and esteemed, and called sir, and made welcome in every season and in every place, and no one shall presume to say unto him, Why doest thou these things?
But a man that hath not this friend in his pocket, may not go when, where, and how he pleases, but when, where, and how he is directed by others. Moreover he shall travel on foot, and perchance without shoes, and not have the benefit of a horse, barouche, or boat; and moreover he shall be called sirrah, and not sir; neither shall he be esteemed nor respected, nor made welcome; and they shall say unto him, "Don't be troublesome, fellow; get out of the way, for thou hast no business here!"
The rich man shall be clothed in scarlet, and get whatsoever his heart desires; and the people shall give him the wall, and bow before him to the ground. But the poor man shall be clad in rags, and walk in the dirt, regarded by no man; nor shall he even purchase to himself a name, though the composition thereof consist only of air!
This is the state of modern times—such our modern friendship; and since, gentle reader, it is so, who, possessing one grain of common sense, would not duly attend to the theory of gravitation, by taking care of a friend while he has him, especially if he be so portable as to be placed in one's pocket.
JACOBUS.
THE DREAM OF POESY.—A FRAGMENT
I had a vision fair and bright,
And when I waken'd I was griev'd
To own 'twas but a dream of night,
And sigh'd to find my hopes deceivd.
But then o'er my fancy crept,
Those who hail'd me while I slept.
There were those; of olden time,
Milton, wond'rous, wild, sublime—
Chaucer, of the many tales;
Spenser, soft as summer gales,
With a mild and gracious mien
Leading on his "Faery Queene."
Shakspeare, child of fancy, stood
Smiling in a mirthful mood,
As tho' he that moment spied
The fairy folk by Bottom's side,
Or beheld by Herne's old oak,
Falstaff with his antler yoke.
Dryden, laurel-crown'd and hoary,
Proudly stood in all his glory;
Pope, as if his claims to speak
Rested on the ancient Greek;
And that prince of merry-men,
Laughing, quaffing, "rare old Ben,"
Whose quaint conceits, so gay, so wild,
Have oft my heart from woe beguil'd,
Shone like a meteor 'midst the throng,
The envy of each son of song.
There too were those of later years,
Who've moved the mind to mirth or tears:
Byron, with his radiant ray—
Scott, with many a magic lay—
The gay and gorgeous minstrel, Moore,
Rich in the charms