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broke in upon my papers and books, and the shining bleached pavement looked highly inviting, when a crabbed collocation of consonants grated on my ear;-it was nervous and expressive. Many a rough sentence, not squaring with the rules of cuphony, I suffered to stand untouched—" a man may polish too much." -I like a sort of Dryden asperity-it is not necessary to write ad unguem-give me nerve, strength, the tiger-spring of the first rough idea. Lord Byron never retouches. Dimond, with his intuitive knowingness, at the first gleam of sunshine, had, of his own accord, spread the neat olive-coloured great coat on the back of a chair, and placed the smooth beaver by the side, with the kid gloves neatly laid across it. The wax-taper soon paled its feeble flame; the proof was laid in a neat half-sheet of cartridgepaper; and, as I folded up the corners, I took a last affectionate farewell of the offspring I was launching forth into the ocean of literature, beset with the shoals of criticism.

"Vix sustinuit dicere lingua Vale!"

The single decisive rap of the inexorable devil presently struck on the door. "There it is, Dimond. I! secundo omine.'" I heard the little black Mercury tramp down stairs, and slam the As door after him, I felt myself eased of an indescribable loadthank Heaven!-freedom for a full fortnight-a fortnight of literary revelling with nothing to do but to pay visits, devour Scotch novels, and rifle the uncut volumes from Leipsic.

D. C.

THE SPARE BLANKET.

COLD was the wind, and dark the night,
When Samuel Jinkins, call'd by some
The Reverend, (tho' I doubt his right,)

Reach'd Yarmouth's town, induced to come

By ardour in the cause of Zion,

And housed him at the Golden Lion.

His chamber held another bed,

But, as it was untenanted,

Our hero, without fear or doubt,

Undress'd, and put the candle out,

And, Morpheus making haste to drop his

Drowsiest soporific poppies,

Sleep soon o'ertook the weary elf,

Who snored like---nothing but himself.

The night was pretty far advanced,

When a stray smuggler, as it chanced,

Was by the yawning Betty led

To the aforesaid empty bed.

'Tis plain that, since his own bassoon Did not awake him with its tune,

Sam could not hear his neighbour, Who very leisurely undress'd, Put out the light, retired to rest, And, weary with his labour, Form'd a duet with nose sonorous, Although it sounded like a chorus. The witching-time of night is near--Hark! 'tis the hollow midnight bell, Whose echoes, fraught with solemn fear, Far o'er the land and ocean swell. The sentry, on his lonely post, Starts, and bethinks him of a ghost; Lists, eager for the distant sound Of comrades marching to the round, And bends athwart the gloom his eye, The glimmer of their arms to spy :--While many a startled nymph awaking, Counts the long chime so dull and dread, Fancies she sees the curtains shaking,

Draws underneath the clothes her head, Feels a cold shudder o'er her creep, Attempts to pray, and shrinks to sleep. Altho' our Missionary woke

Just at this moment in a shiver, "Twas not the clock's appalling stroke That put his limbs in such a quiver ;--The blankets on his bed were two, So far from being thick and new,

That he could well have borne a dozen; No wonder that, with such a store, When his first heavy sleep was o'er, The poor incumbent woke half frozen. "Since Betty has forgot the clothes," Quoth Sam, (confound her stupid head!) "I'll just make free to borrow those That lie upon the empty bed:" So up he jump'd, too cold and raw To be punctilious in his work, Grasp'd the whole covering at a claw, Offstripp'd it with a single jerk, And was retreating with his prey, When, to his horror and dismay, His ears were almost split asunder By a "Hollo!" as loud as thunder! As Belzebub, on all occasions, Was present in his lucubrations, He took for granted that to-night The rogue had come to wreak his spite,

And stood transfix'd, afraid to breathe,
With trembling lips and chatt'ring teeth;
But cry'd at last, with desperate shout,
"Satan, avaunt!---I've found thee out."
Meanwhile, the Smuggler, who had shouted
At finding all the blankets gone,
Though for a little while he doubted
The cause of the phenomenon,
Soon as he heard Sam's exclamation,
Concluded, without hesitation,
'Twas an exciseman come to seize
His contraband commodities;
Wherefore, within his fist collecting
His vigour and resentment too,
And by the voice his aim directing,
Since every thing was hid from view,
He launch'd a more than mortal blow
Intended to conclude the matter,
Which, whizzing on its work of woe,
Fell, with a desolating clatter,
Just where our Missionary bore his
Two front teeth, or Incisores.
This made the Jinkins fiercer burn
To give his foe a due return,
And punish him for what the brute did
When his front teeth he had uprooted.
Rearing, with this intent, his fist,
Although the smuggler's face it miss'd,
It met his ear with such a rap,
He thought it was a thunder-clap,
Especially as from the crash

His eye-balls gave a sudden flash.
Jinkins, meanwhile, with clamour dire,
Vociferating "Thieves!" and "Fire!"
Host, hostess, men and maids, rush'd in,
Astounded by his fearful din,

While many more prepared to follow
With lights and buckets, hoop and hollo!
His foe, who saw how matters lay,
Slipp'd on his clothes, then slipp'd away ;
And, being somewhat waggish, thus

Began the adventure to discuss :--

66

Sure, neither acted like a wise man

To think the devil would fight th' exciseman,

When both pursue the self-same ends,
Like fellow-labourers and friends.
Both have authority to seize
Unlawful spirits, where they please;
Both have a right to claim as booties
All those, who have evaded duties;

They roam together, hour by hour,
Both seeking whom they may devour;
And since th' inseparable two

A partnership in this world form,

God grant that both may have their due,
And, in the next, be friends as warm!"

THE HARVEST-HOME.

A SKETCH FROM A PICTURE OF "TH' OLDEN TIME."

"Thus they rejoice; nor think

That, with to-morrow's sun, their annual toil

Begins again the never-ceasing round."-THOMSON.

THE man, who would annihilate the temperate and customary hilarity of the honest rustic, after he has performed the laborious duties of the harvest-field, ill deserves to reap the benefit of his homely toil; but that every change is innovation, and every departure from old exploded practices, is matter for regret and execration, I am decidedly disposed to contradict.

My rural pursuits commenced just soon enough for me to retain a distinct recollection of what in Norfolk is called the HARVEST-HOME, or harvest-supper; and to have witnessed the gradual decline of a practice, the discontinuance of which, we are now told, originated in the "eager desire of the middling classes, to ape manners and habits inconsistent with their pursuits, inimical to their interests, and dangerous to their happi

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ness."

Bloomfield felt what he wrote, when he composed those beautiful lines, expressive of the poor man's regret at beholding the "change, ungracious, irksome, cold" but his performance was got up for exhibition, and will not bear the test of scrutiny. He has painted, in vivid and glowing colours, the charms of rural life, real and imaginary, and omitted all the blemishes and defects; nevertheless his picture is still a portrait, and the colouring may be excused. But the "Picture from Life," (a palpable misnomer by the by,) in the First Series of the N. M. Magazine, is a broad caricature, a burlesque upon reality, and an unworthy censure on the conduct of a class of men, whose hard struggles and unavailing exertions against untoward circumstances, are deserving of a better fate, and more equitable remuneration.

If a more liberal education is bestowed upon the rising generation of the English yeomanry and tenantry; and if the farmers of the present day are more enlightened in the aggregate than they formerly were, will "the statements of our moralists and politicians" convert that circumstance into a "national grievance?" Taken as a whole, I fearlessly assert that the yeomanry

and tenantry of Great Britain are a worthy, generous, and enlightened body of men, unequalled for assiduity, perseverance, and morality, by any people similarly circumstanced throughout the world.

I should not express myself thus decidedly, did not the remark, that" of all the evils of the present day, there is none so destructive, and so fraught with ruin in its consequences, as the obliteration of old customs," seem to imply, that the distresses, of which the farming part of the community now complain, are the natural consequences of their own misconduct, through a faulty and expensive mode of living: whereas the very contrary is the fact; for, independent of the additional burden, which the times have imposed upon him, the farmer of the present day is a less expensive man, and a better moral character, than the farmer of old. The latter was a plodding illiterate being, an epicure in substantial delicacies; fond of his horses, which exhibited a bulk of carcass in happy unison with the rotund body of their master; addicted to the bottle and the chase; and priding himself on the fleetness of his greyhounds, and the extensive circle of his coursing acquaintances.

The pleasures of the day terminated, it is true, in what is usually denominated "good old English hospitality," alias gluttony and drunkenness, and their carousals were remarkable for that excess of eating and drinking (the primary object of their meetings) which distinguishes an age of free-born nature, from: the temperate gratifications of more refined taste. The tables. groaned under an enormous load of substantial viands, the spacious bowl afforded a fountain of intoxicating beverage, and the interposing whiff supplied many a chasm (when the sports of the day failed to afford subject for conversation) till the exhilarating nectar inspired a zest for Bacchanalian songs, and the Stentorian chorus crowned the revels of the night. Thus a habit of hard drinking was early contracted, and almost every farmer of the old school, if not decidedly a drunkard by profession, was in the constant habit of taking plentiful potations of strong ale, and occasional libations of more ardent spirit. Nor were these scenes of revelry confined exclusively to their hunting or coursing meetings; but a social tea-party, wherein the ladies sustained their part with characteristic uniformity, always afforded a similar profusion of "good cheer." I have not forgotten, indeed no one could ever forget, who had once beheld, the formidable pyramids of toast and hot bread, floating in butter, that vanished before the united efforts of a party of homely dames, and honest gaffers; to say nothing of the successful method they employed to lighten the burden of the side-table, abundantly supplied with cold ham, beef, chicken-pie, and sausage-roll. And as the axiom, that good eating requires good drinking, was

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