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mercy of every superior mind that held a different

How many of our most cherished beliefs are like those drinking-glasses of the ancient pattern, that serve us well so long as we keep them in our hand, but spill all if we attempt to set them down! I have soinetimes compared conversation to the Italian game of mora, in which one player lifts his hand with so many fingers extended, and the other gives the number if he can. I show my thought, another his; if they agree, well; if they differ, we find the largest common factor, if we can, but at any rate avoid disputing about remainders and fractions, which is to real talk what tuning an instrument is to playing on it.

What if, instead of talking this morning, ] should read you a copy of verses, with critical remarks by the author ? Any of the company can retire that like.

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ma petite,-Yes and no, my child. Five of the seven verses were written off-hand; the other two took a week,—that is, were hanging round the desk in a ragged, forlorn, unrhymed condition as long as that. All poets will tell you just such stories. C'est le DERNIER pas qui coute. Don't you know how hard it is for some people to get out of a room after their visit is really over? They want to be off, and you want to have them off, but they don't know how to man. age it. One would think they had been built in your parlour or study, and were waiting to be launched. I have contrived a sort of ceremonial inclined plane for such visitors, which being lubricated with cer. tain smooth phrases, I back them down, metaphori rally speaking, stern-foremost, into their “native element,” the great ocean of out-doors. Well, now, there are poems as hard to get rid of as these rural visitors. They come in glibly, use up all the serviceable rhymes, day ray, beauty, duty, skies, eyes, other, brother, mountain, fountain, and the like; and so they go on until you think it is time for the wind-up, and the wind-up won't come on any terms. So they lie about until you get sick of the sight of them, and end by thrusting some cold scrap of a final couplet upon them, and turning them out of doors. I sus. pect a good many “impromptus” could tell just such a story as the above.—Here turning to our landlady, I used an illustration which pleased the company much at the time, and has since been highly A million sleepless lids, they say,

Will be at least a warning;
And so the flowers would watch by day,

The stars from eve to morning.

On hill and prairie, field and lawn,

Their dewy eyes upturning,
The flowers stil watch from reddening dawn

Till western skies are burning.

Alas! each hour of daylight tells

A tale of shame so crushing,
That some turn white as sea-bleached shello,

And some are always blushing.

But when the patient stars look down

On all their light discovers,
The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown,

The lips of lying lovers,

They try to shut their saddening eyes,

And in the vain endeavour
We see them twinkling in the skies,

And so they wink forever.

What do you think of these verses my friends? Is that piece an impromptu ? said my landlady's daughter. (Aet. 19+. Tender-eyed blonde. Long ringlets. Cameo pin. Gold pencil-case on a chain. Locket. Bracelet. Album. Autograph book. Aco cordeon. Reads Byron, Tupper, and Sylvanus Cobb junior, while her mother makes the puddings. Says "Yes?” when you tell her anything.)— Oui et non

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