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1 John Bull, nickname for the English people regarded as an individual.

2 Humour, &c. "Humour" is a species of wit; but whilst "wit" is bright and sparkling, "humour" is droll and funny; "wit" delights by its clever surprises, "humour," by its odd fancies.

3 Melancholy, &c., sad and gloomy, but not sour and sullen.

4 Takes it in dudgeon, takes offence; feels insulted.

5 Incontinently, immediately.

6 These filaments, these threads, namely, "his finely-spun rights and dignities."

7 Reconciliation, the making up of a quarrel.

EVENING AND THE NEWSPAPER.

EVENING.

COME, Evening, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet Evening, and continue long;
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
With matron step slow moving, while the Night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed
In letting fall the curtain of repose

On bird and beast, the other charged for man
With sweet oblivion1 of the cares of day:
Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,
Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems!
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee: 2 save that the moon is thine
No less than hers, not worn indeed on high
With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.*
Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:
And, whether I devote thy gentler hours
To books, to music, or the poet's toil;
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ;
Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,"

When they command whom man was born to please;
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.

THE NEWSPAPER.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

6

This folio of four pages, happy work!

Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read,

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,"
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;
What is it, but a map of busy life,

Its fluctuations and its vast concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge,
That tempts ambition. On the summit, see
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heelə,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,

8

And with a dextrous jerk, soon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft
Meanders' lubricate 10 the course they take;
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved
To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise:
The dearth of information and good sense,
That it foretells us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation 11 thunder here;
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehension wanders lost;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry descants on a nation's woes.
The rest 12 appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age,

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,

Heaven, earth, and ocean, plundered of their sweets,
Nectareous essences, Olympian 13 dews,

Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs,
Ethereal journeys,14 submarine exploits.
And Katerfelto,15 with his hair on end

At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.
'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world; to see the stir

Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all,
It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am still. The sound of war
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice that make man a wolf to man;
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,16
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates,17 as the bee

From flower to flower, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy, of all

Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He sucks intelligence in every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return-a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too.18 I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like he finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

1 Oblivion, forgetfulness.
2 Suffices thee, satisfies "thee," that
is, the evening.

3 Pageantry, pomp and splendour.
4 Ampler round. The moon looks

larger when seen near the horizon. 5 Or twining, &c. The poet Cowper

was remarkably fond of his own fireside and its simple pleasures and employments. He here refers to the part he sometimes took in winding silk on reels, when desired to lend a helping hand by his lady friends, "whom man," he says, "was born to please."

6 This folio, this sheet; namely, the
newspaper.

7 The fair, the ladies of the house.
8 A demagogue, lit. a leader of the
people; one who pretends to speak
and act in their interests. (Gr.
demos, the people; ago, I lead.)
9 Meanders, windings; so called
from a serpentine river of Asia
Minor, named Meander.

10 Lubricate, to make smooth. (Lat.
lubricus, slippery.)

11 Declamation, fiery language, de-
signed to excite the passions.
12 The rest, the advertisement

columns.

13 Olympian, Mount Olympus, in Greece, the fabled home of the gods, who are supposed to drink nectar. The poet is alluding to some advertisement about delicious drinks fit for the gods.

14 Ethereal journeys, balloon as

cents.

Submarine exploits, diving feats. 15 Katerfelto, a conjuror then exhibiting in London.

16 Brazen throats, the cannons.
17 Expatiates, ranges at large.
18 And I too, only I do it in imagi-
nation. The poet means to say
that through the newspaper he
gets all the advantages of travel-
ling without its dangers and fa-
tigue.

THE FIRST DAISY.

THE daisy is the first conspicuous, hardy, widespread, and abundant flower of spring. It grows in all places; on hills, in the meadows, in town, and country. It gives one a sudden start in going down a barren, stony street to see upon a narrow strip of grass, just within the iron fence, the radiant daisy shining in the grass like a star dropped from the sky! It stirs up the thoughts, and tells us what is going on in the heavens and on the earth, unbeknown to us who are pent up in cities. Why, if daisies have come, then birds are beginning to mate, and will soon set about repairing or building their nests. We reach our hand through after that solitary daisy. It is too far All eager persons measure the length of their arm by the eye, and will not believe how short it is under three or four tryings.

off.

People watch us, and wonder what we can be at. Two or three gentlemen, thinking there must be something important that attracts us, stop and look over, and seeing what it is, scarcely disguise with politeness their inclination to smile at our childish fancy for a daisy. Newsboys edge up familiarly: "What have you lost, sir? Shall I jump over and get it?" A kind old gentleman passes, and smiles sympathetically, as if he would say, "Ah, I understand your feelings; and I like you a great deal better for your enthusiasm." No; though I reached at least two inches further than before, I could only just touch it, but not pluck it. Some chubby-faced children want to see what it is, and, a little shy of me, stand at some distance, with their sweet faces framed in between the iron railings. Yes, dear things, that is just the way of the world into which you have entered. Flowers on one side, children on the other, and iron fences between!

I will try a forked stick! But where is there one? A stick! stones enough, dirt enough, bricks, shavings, beams, and planks; but sticks are rare things in a city. Oh, the country is the place to live in. You can always find a stick there, only you never want one to help you pick a daisy in the fields. I am here in two troubles. I cannot get my daisy without a stick, and a stick I cannot find.

Some school-girls are going past-one, two, three, four, five, the last one silent and alone; the rest, like a tree full of birds, making a jargon of music and a medley of sweet discordances. They look at me, and then at each other. The creatures see the ludicrous side of the affair! They hope for me, and really sympathise, I know. Yet, young rogues, they scarcely care to hide their laughter, which, at half a dozen steps,

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