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notwithstanding the stinging bites of the mosquitoes, which issued in clouds from the arbutus bushes which cover the sides of the narrow valley. This beautiful sight caught his eye, in the midst of a discussion with another about the prices of beef and mutton in the London markets last week, and the effects generally of free trade upon the price of food. "Bless me,' he suddenly exclaimed, "what a remarkably nice waterfall! That, now, would be worth any money to the proprietor, if he could exhibit it in London." "At Cremorne, for instance." "Yes, or at the Colosseum why, it quite beats the Alpine Falls and the Swiss Cottage, I declare!"

:

As the car drove down the avenue towards Macross, sundry girls came running up, offering "mountain dew" to drink; the said mountain dew consisting of goats' milk and whisky. Some sipped, and declared it equal to "old man's milk," and even the ladies were curious to try the native Killarney beverage. It was now evening. The red sun shone in the waters of the lake, and half of his disc had sunk behind the highest of the Reeks, casting broad black shadows across the landscape. The trees in the foreground seemed as if tipped with gold, and the fleecy clouds hovered over the god of day, as he went down the sky. We reached the Lake Hotel, just as his last rays were illumining the now dimly discerned features of the glorious landscape, and were fortunate enough to find room (though on the sofa) in that delightful resting-place.

THE VOCATION OF THE POET.

WHAT are the essential elements of poetry, and what is the true mission of the poet, are themes upon which considerable difference of opinion exists, even among poets themselves, notwithstanding that a large amount of thought has been expended on the production of books and treatises designed to set these questions at rest. It is but a short while since, that a literary institution in the great metropolis, offered a prize of one hundred guineas for the best essay in answer to the inquiry: "What is the legitimate influence of poetry on the human mind?" and that sum of money was actually awarded the successful essayist. For ourselves, we confess, that after an anxious perusal of the essay referred to, with a multitude of similar papers, we are yet unable to tell what is precisely the legitimate sphere wherein the poet may pursue his vocation, or to define exactly, and with logical precision, what is poetry. We are inclined to think the first of these questions proceeds upon an incorrect assumption, and are of opinion that the only boundary-if the term be not a misnomer to the poet's exertions, is that imposed on him by his finite powers and conceptions; that the whole universe of mind and matter is his sphere; and that he is entitled to travel wheresoever his impulses or his fancy may lead him, to cull incense for the Muses. To the second question we have no reply. If any venturous reader can solve this problem to his satisfaction, and give us a definition of poetry, we shall indeed feel grateful to him, for we confess in all humility, we have hitherto utterly failed in our efforts to that end. But we are consoled in our ill success, by the reflection that a host of wiser heads than ours have been as unsuccessful as ourselves. The truth in this case we also half suspect to be, that poetry is universal in its manifestations as its origin,-its spirit is in everything, pervading everything, and influencing everything for Good. When therefore we speak of the Vocation of the Poet, or of poetry itself, we would

guard against being supposed to mean every duty of the poet, or every aspect of his divine art. The fact really is:

The forms of the heroic change from age to age,

although

The spirit in the forms remains the same. With the progress of the celestial system, the material condition of this world of ours has undergone a gradual but continuous change; the mental relations of society have become altered, and even our moral perceptions have taken a somewhat differentwe hope a loftier and purer-form. Tennyson somewhere thus expresses his views on this subject. He says:

I believe that throughout nature one eternal purpose runs, And the minds of men are widened by the progress of the

suns.

A beautiful and clear exposition of a great truth,the analogy between physical and mental progress, and their mutual dependence on each other. There can be no doubt that

Truth is eternal, but her effluence,

With endless change, is fitted to the hour;

a fact from which we indirectly deduce a wide lesson of charity, that he whose mind is so shapen that he cannot keep pace with the general progress of civilization, should be gently led forward by persuasion and kindness, rather than urged onward by the goad and spur of persecution.

We write for the men and women of the present day, and we deal therefore with the poet and his office as they concern and affect the well-being of those whom we desire to serve. What then are the characteristics of the poet of the present age? By what outward and visible sign, or what mental indication, shall we distinguish the true from the false poet,-he whose whole soul is instinct with Beauty and Love, the true apostle of humanity, from the mere Poetaster, whose being is devoid of generous emotion? The true poet has about him no outward sign by which he can be recognized, save that his writings and his utterances furnish. To be a poet,

Is to have a quicker sense than most
Of what should be, but deeper pain than most
To see what is.

His credentials, as we have said, are in his verse, and his muse being always attuned to the most holy sympathies, will not fail to touch the responsive heartstrings in every listener, even as an instrument in the hands of a skilful player sends forth sweet melodies, which float upon the air, and entering the ears of men, awaken an echo in their souls, if they be not wholly dead to a perception of the beautiful.

From whence does the poet's inspiration proceed? Is its source to be found in the busy sphere of commerce, where men rudely jostle and crowd each other, and where the stern conflicts of everyday life keep men in a state of bubbling commotion,-where men's souls seem bound by the iron bonds of a narrow expediency, and the sympathies never enter, -where all thought and feeling, every hope and fear, desire and aspiration, are represented by the talismanic symbols £. 8. d., or those trite phrases, profit and loss? If, again, the spirit of poesy dwells amid society, is it with the high-born or lowly, the poor or rich, those most or those least favoured by fortune, that she chiefly loves to dwell? Where may we most reasonably seek her presence,-in the humble walks of life, the lanes and alleys where disease and poverty find their abode, where fever and miasma hold sway, and rosy health is never seen; or is it amidst wealth and fashion, the gilded saloons and

the perfumed drawing-rooms of stately palaces, where luxury runs riot, and does her deadly work as surely, if not so rapidly, as the like result is brought about by directly opposite agencies in the other extreme of human society; or does she shun both the very rich and the very poor, and select the happy medium, which stands half-way between the two poles of society, as her abode? Or, again, does she hold her court, as pastoral poets tell us, apart from the noise and hubbub of towns and cities, in the green fields and meadows, the hills and valleys, the "woods and wilds," far removed from the footprints of man and woman, attended by a retinue of wood-nymphs and water-sprites, and such bright creatures of fairyland, who know nothing of the toils and woes of humanity, and who consequently dance and dream away their lives in a round of unvarying bliss? Authorities are not wanting to sustain each of these views. One poet tells us

The lapse of waters o'er a rugged stone,

A pool of reeds,-a moorland weed or flower,—
A dimpling spring,-a thorn with moss o'ergrown,
Are symbols of her universal power.

While another, a true bard, who has high claims upon our consideration, and who, if the question, like a legal dispute in one of our law courts, could be settled by the mere force of authority, would have great weight with us,-informs us

The poet sees beyond, but dwells among The wearing turmoil of our work-day life. Then we have Madame Dudevant, the poetnovelist of France, a wild and wayward spirit, but gifted with a warm heart and a soul devoted to noble behests, who in one of her "Letters of a Voyager," exclaims, "Oh, God! I was not born to be a poet, but misery hath made me one;" and another poet tells us also,

High natures must be thunder-scarred
With many a searing wrong;

From mother Sorrow's breast, the bard
Sucks gifts of deepest song.

In addition to which, there is an oft quoted passage in Shelley's "Julian and Maddalo," to the effect that

Most wretched men

Are cradled into poetry by wrong;

They learn in suffering, what they teach in song. Now if these latter opinions be correct, and the essential elements of poetry are sorrow and tribulation, the muse must be indeed a melancholy sort of muse, more likely, we opine, to engender sorrow in the breasts of men, than chase away the necessary gloom which all are heirs to. Then we have the pastoral poets, to whom cursory reference has been already made, and who having drawn their inspiration from primeval nature, would assert with the shade of Wordsworth, if challenged, that the genuine spirit of poetry lurks only amid such scenes as it has been their delight to revel in and pourtray. They would tell us

These speak a language to the favoured ear,
Loud as the thunder, lofty as the lights

That crowd the cope of cloudless winter nights, And fill the soul with worship, hope, and fear. James Westland Marston is a name honourably know in connection with recent efforts to elevate the dramatic literature of this country, and as the author of "The Patrician's Daughter," a dramatic poem of the first order. In this play, Mordaunt, the hero,

says:

To feel

A deep and constant love for humankind,—
A sense of beauty's presence, not alone
In lofty show, but in its latent haunts,
Which few investigate,-the humble hut

And bosom meanly clad; worship of justice;
The warm emotions of an unchecked nature,
Which rises as by instinct against wrong;
These are the elements of poetry.

It would be very possible to multiply our quotations to a wearisome length, but we will conclude this portion of our subject by a brief extract from James Russell Lowell, a transatlantic poet, who asserts that

Poesy springs not from rocks and woods;
Her womb and cradle are the human heart,
And she can find a nobler theme for song,
In the most loathsome man that blasts the sight,
Than in the broad expanse of sea and shore,
Between the frozen deserts of the poles.

There is, it seems to us, a truth in each of the ideas set forth in the above quotations, however contradictory they may at first sight appear. The sphere of poetry is universal, its elements are everywhere, and it manifests itself in everything. The true poet is he who works out fully and thoroughly the dictates of his inner soul, who follows the design and purposes of his individuality. If it be true, as it most certainly is, that the effluence of truth varies with the mental progress of the world, and changes with time; it is as true that the forms of the heroic vary also in like manner, from the like causes; and it is almost self-evident that both are influenced by ten thousand modifications of character and circumstance. Thus, in olden times, Homer wrote songs to celebrate the victories of war, but the modern bard, if he speak the Anglo-Saxon tongue, must in his verse relate the victories of peace, if he would live in the memories of men. The recollection of such poets as Korner and Dibdin is fast fading out, as the circumstances that inspired their muse cease to be remembered, and even Sir Walter Scott, despite his brilliant genius, must share the same ultimate fate, while Shakspere, and even quaint old Chaucer, are gaining daily appreciation with the multitude. Such poets as those we have just named, revealed the workings of the spirit of the times in which they lived, and have furnished us with a sort of esoteric chronicle,--a record of domestic habits, thoughts, and feelings, that the ordinary historian, whose sole business was with courts and battles, wotted not of. The muse of Shakspere

Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, which although at brief periods obliterated from the view, ever and anon reappear and bestud the crest of heaven, as with choicest jewels. But it must never be forgotten, that we have fallen on eventful times," we live and move, and have our being in a peculiarly stirring and active period of the world's history; great thoughts are moving in the bosom of society, there is a mighty upheaving of the giant mind of humanity at this moment; and the poet of the present day must comprehend the "wondrous meaning" of all these things:

He must reflect his race's struggling heart,
And shape the crude conceptions of his age.

We have no wish to decry any phase of the divine faculty, and may remark that we are keenly sensitive to the charms of nature. We can join in the apostrophe of John Critchley Prince, and exclaim :Dull must he be,-oppressed with earthly leaven,

Who looks on nature's face, yet feels no nearer heaven. But we also a sert that the poet cannot now-a-days afford to spend his whole time and energies in trilling lays to buttercups and daisies. It is not, assuredly, by merely looking on the face of nature that we can attain to the excellencies of the spiritworld. We are in "the valley of the shadow of

death," and must nerve our souls for conflict with the powers of darkness, or succumb to their fatal power. The kingdom of heaven can only be reached, by the children of this world, after having undergone a probation of severest trial, and the poet no more than any other man is exempt from this necessity. On the contrary,

God judgeth us by what we know of right,

and from one so bounteously endowed with blessings as is the poet, much will be expected. The modern bard must be a never-ceasing labourer for the behoof of his fellow-men, and he is but

An empty rhymer,

Who lies with elbow idly on the grass.

The vocation of the poet is to teach the true dignity and worthiness of human nature; he must address himself therefore to the whole people, if he would achieve an enduring reputation. The poet of the present era, who would fulfil the higher destinies of his nature,—

He who would win the name of truly great,must remember that the words of Longfellow,— Life is earnest, life is real,

are pregnant with deep meaning; and imbuing himself with the spirit of the times, he must not only address himself to all people, but seek to ally himself to all people in feeling, and obtain the mastery over their sympathies. His heart must

In itself enfold the whole, Felt by the hearts about him, high or low. He must be the friend of all humanity, with a heart especially open to the claims of misery and woe. He must be the teacher of great truths and principles. It is his duty to teach

His fellow-men their beauty and their strength, And show them the deep meaning of their souls. But while he asserts the sense and desire for goodness, which lurk at the bottom of all,-even the most evil hearts, his muse will never fail to arouse the efforts of all such to effect their own emancipation from crime and sin, and will direct their aspirations upwards, excelsior-like, to the regions of purity and love. He must ever be the champion of virtue and of worth. His muse will always be found enlisted on behalf of right and justice, and in the performance of his duty he will protect the weak and suffering, and must not shrink from the more distasteful task of exposing cruelty and injustice in high and low places, regardless of fear or favour.

The poet possesses a lively faith, with which he seeks to imbue his disciples. It is a feeling everpresent with him, and one that mixes up in all his daily movements and affairs; but principally he strives to instil into men's minds that faith

In humankind,-the only amulet

It

By which the soul walks fearless through the world. This faith, which has been so well described, in sacred writ, as the evidence of things unseen, enables him to peer into men's souls, and to trace out the hidden motives of human conduct. inclines him to the sunny rather than the shaded paths of life, and when distrust temporarily triumphs in his mind, and engenders gloomy thoughts, it dispels the cloud as soon as it is formed. Faith tells him there is

Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful, To be the guerdon of a daring heart. The poet is also richly endowed by "meek-eyed Hope," and when even faith loses her control, and the bitter teachings of sad experience destroy the creations of his fancy, or at least shake their founda

tions in his mind, her mild twin-sister, gentle Hope, whispers consolation and encouragement in his ear, which stimulate him to renewed exertions to accomplish his ends, and re-establish his tottering belief. Yes! the true poet has both faith and hope in an eminent degree, and they shine forth lustrously with every word and deed; but he has charity also in abundance. His charity, however, is not of the fashionable kind that displays itself in ostentatious almsgiving, for the poet is generally too poor to render this possible, and were it otherwise,-did his means permit him to dispense material bounties to his fellows, to ever so large an extent, he would take care not to let his "left hand know what his right hand did." As it is, he scatters his mental gifts with unstinting hand, and freely gives to all. Yes! gentle reader, to all,-even to the outcasts and Pariahs of society, for he even

Sees a brother in an evil-doer.

And so far from Pharisee-like spurning those who may have transgressed the proprieties, he rather seeks by redoubled efforts, and by continued appeals to the moral consciousness of the offender, to restore him to the paths of rectitude.

And the true poet is the apostle of love. His love is indeed boundless,-to him it seems

That love is the law of infinity,

The dominant chord of the mighty Seven,
That form the harmonies of heaven.

It were strange indeed if he were not, since all who can read the book of nature will learn the lessons of love from every page; and the evidences of this holy feeling are also everywhere manifested in art. Love then is the "dominant chord" in the music of poesy, -the basis of all her teachings:

Oh, yes! the humblest of external things,

Whereby she deigns to enchant us and to teach (If loving heart the human learner brings),

Are signs of her grand harmonies and speech. Such are a few of the wider and more general aspects of poetry and the poet's vocation. It will certainly be admitted that while we consider the poet's a "high office," we attach to it grave and serious responsibilities. But has the bard no compensating pleasures? Oh, yes! he has privileges and rewards richer than ordinary mortals can conceive,

He knows and feels to him is given
The joys that yield a glimpse of heaven.

He lives in the bright ideal of his own fancy, where the carking troubles of the outer world cannot intrude, and drinks an atmosphere of beauty and love. Think not, although one or two of the "sons of song" may so assert it, that the poet's life is one of misery, and that he whose labours cheer the fireside of poverty, and find appreciation in the drawing-room and boudoir, is himself only "made to mourn. Oh, no! far otherwise,—

For poets' dreams, tho' strange it seems,
Can help the weary heart along;

and no one knows this fact better than the poet himself, who has learned it experimentally.

We are not unprepared to expect that in thus describing the purpose and vocation of the poet, we attack the claims of those versifiers and their name is legion-whose pretensions to the title they assume, mainly rest on a certain singularity of costume, and who affect all sorts of airs and conceits, forgetting the self-evident truth, that

The day has long gone by, wherein 'twas thought
That men were greater poets, inasmuch

As they were more unlike their fellow-men.

And we fear, too, that we shall move the ire of another numerous class of her Majesty's lieges. We appre

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This we cannot help. We have no wish to give offence to any mortal, but we certainly desire to rescue the "divine art" from the "low estate" into which these vapid and miserable rhymesters have, in the circles of their influence, succeeded in reducing it. But there is another class of persons with whom we would have a word. There are those who deny the usefulness of poetry altogether, who, having "no music in their souls," would banish the Muses from the face of God's creation. By these men the poet's high office is decried, and the bard himself

Deemed a vain trifler, wrapt in airy dreams,-
A child unfit for commerce with the world,
A cloudy theorist, incompetent

To auglit that's practical.

We know not exactly how to deal with these objectors. Their reasonings may touch the young gentlemen just described-to the quick, as the phrase is; but we do not see how they affect the true poet. If, however, it be necessary to offer any reply in defence of the positions we have set up, we do so by asking those who deny the usefulness of the poet's office, in the words of a great living author, what art can be

So practical as that,

Which showing what should be, nourishing
Feelings of goodness, beauty, bravery,
By portraitures of those possessing them,
Describes the mental model of a world,

After which it were well if ours were fashioned?

And having asked this question, we pause for a response. "Silence," saith the old saw, "gives consent;" unless, therefore, an answer is attempted, we venture to consider we have made good our case. This point settled, we shall next ask our "practical" friends

What is the end

Of all true policy, if it be not

To work out poetry in act?

We

Reader, one word with you in conclusion. have claimed for the poet's office a high and broad utility, we have assigned to the poet an important mission in the mental and moral economy of the world. The means of realizing the results of his labours for the benefit and advantage of poor suffering humanity, are however contingent on your support. Sustained by the favour of his fellow men, he will be enabled to achieve those results quickly; but without such aid, his task will be dreary and his toil will be long. Show then your sense of his usefulness, by cultivating an acquaintance with his muse. You will there learn the lessons of Love and Charity, of Hope and Faith, which lessons cannot fail to improve the mind and purify the soul. Poetry is a sweet consoler in the hour of trial and of difficulty; it tinges the darkened landscape of life with "a gold and silver sheen," and rainbow hues; it sings glad anthems to cheer the woe-worn spirit, and point its aspirations upwards to a lofty ideal, and the practical result is to lead the sorrowing soul ever onwards in new endeavours after a life of goodness and of truth. Oh! then we bid thee, for thine own sake and for the sake of thy fellows,-endue thy mind with her living influence, garner up her rich treasures, give heed to her holy teachings, and in so doing thou wilt render thyself blessed indeed.

TO "RICHARD CŒUR DE LION." [The Equestrian Statue placed outside the Great Exhibition Building, in Hyde Park.]

OH! for a pride like thine, to be

The spirit of the modern time;
When dreams of peace and liberty

Have tinged the thought of every clime.
Onward! but not with battled steed,-
Not for a false and brutal dream,
But for a purer heart and creed,—

Humanity's love-dawning beam.

For laws, and faith, and truth, and love,-
The holy strife with vice and sin;
To rear the name of Him above,
O'er each unholy thought within.
Onward, for ever! till we learn

The lessons of each flower and star;
Till Heaven in every heart shall burn,
And God speak clearly from afar.
The far, far fading, sun-bright sky

Seems to reflect His image down,
And light thy conscious, kingly eye,
And shine upon thy circling crown.
Yes, thou wert noble in thy time,-

Ay, worthy of that noble face,
And worthy, under any clime,

To lead the progress of thy race.
But Richard, in that darkened day

Men had not learnt their Father's will,
And Christ in vain had showed the way
That lies, alas! in shadow still.
Ay, Richard, in thine own best light,
Thou nobly didst the hero's part;
And would that still, in Christian fight,
We hailed thy true, thy lion heart!
In mighty war of steam and steel,—
The war of Art, and Truth, and Joy,-
The war that speeds the engine-wheel,
And doth all powers of love employ.
But we have spirits true as thou,

For he who cast thy glorious mould,
Who flung such glory on thy brow,
Must some of thy devotion hold.
E. M. S.

Just Published, price Two Shillings, postage free.
DEAD LEAVES,

A Ballad; the Words and Music by ELIZA COOK. London: Charles Cook, Office of "Eliza Cook's Journal."

No. 137 of the Journal will contain THE HOUSE OF LORDS & THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, By Eliza Cook.

The Number for Christmas Week will contain,
THE SEVEN TREES; OR, A CHRISTMAS IN THE BACK-WOODS,
By Percy B. St. John; and

UNDER THE MISTLETOE, A CHRISTMAS SONG,
By Eliza Cook.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

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THE "HOUSE OF LORDS," AND THE "HOUSE OF COMMONS."

BY ELIZA COOK.

"Her

DON'T be alarmed, gentle reader, you are not about to be called on to study "Parliamentary Reform," "Elective Franchise," or "Constitutional Law." Oh dear no! we hear so much of these subjects every day from clever people, who often seem, to our ignorant mind, to leave off just where they begin, that we have no relish for such themes. It is quite another way that our thoughts are turning. Majesty's Theatre, Fidelio, Playhouse Prices, Cruvelli, Pardini," &c. &c., struck our eye as we rattled through the streets of London on our way from Brighton, just before the close of the season, and we suddenly thought that we should like to see play-going folks revel in full-dress, German composition, Italian singing, and the run of the musical "House of Lords."

Accordingly, we ensconced ourselves in a "capital box," having the fullest view possible of the whole house. We did not go to worship Beethoven on this particular evening,-we did not intend to be hypercritical as to the instrumentation of the band, or the execution of the vocal difficulties,- we meant to pay particular attention to the audience, and see how they enjoyed themselves.

We cast our glass around, and beheld a tolerably full house, the greater portion of the number evidently being unaccustomed to the Opera. The style of dress was, in many instances, very amusing, especially among the elderly ladies, who seemed to have rummaged the chests, wardrobes, and bandboxes of even their grandmammas, to do honour to "the Opera." We detected an unknown quantity of valuable lace in all sorts of shapes, from the Spanish veil to the French ruffle. We saw embroidered satins, Indian scarfs, Chinese fans, Angola wrappers, superb taffetas, and gorgeous damasks, that reminded us of the treasures tumbled on the floor by somebody in the "Arabian Nights." One dear old lady attracted our, we fear, rude attention; her grey hair was banded under a sort of cap, half turban, half something else (we are not great in millinery); her dress was of black velvet, and her shoulders bore a rich crimson shawl. She seemed thoroughly determined to be happy, and when she smiled there was a sort of condensed star

PRICE 1d.

light about her face, which was quite grateful after running one's eyes against the flaring gas. She sat perfectly upright, gazing on the house "as good as gold," while the overture was played; but there was an old gentleman beside her, with whom we got up a mental quarrel directly; he seemed fumy and fidgetty, everything about him was "sharp," and he was set down by us as one of those domesticated porcupines, that continually remind us of gooseberry tart without sugar. His white waistcoat glistened with a sort of extra-starched fierceness, his cravat stuck out in two right points like a terrier-dog's ears; his hair was afraid of his head, and stood bolt upright in a sort of acute "Brutus ;" his eyes seemed keen enough to cut off his nose, and his nose seemed jealous of a perfect axe of a chin. "Can that man admire Beethoven ?" thought we, as he jerked his chair, and looked sharper than ever. Wait a bit,

and we shall see.

Look round the pit; Cruvelli is singing her best towards the end of the first act, and a lank-haired individual is yawning, and actually cutting his nails with a penknife! Can it be! Yes, so it is. Go back to the Adelphi at half-price, young man, and do not delude yourself into the belief that a suit of black and a white tie will enable you to pass for a gentleman. See, further on to the right, that lady in a tartan silk, with red flowers in her hair is trying to be amused, but the attempt is useless. The music breathing from her face is embodied in that long sigh of weariness, just escaped; she secretly wishes herself at home "crocheting," and begins to wonder what people can find to admire so much at the opera. Two gentlemen and three ladies have just caught our eye, all yawning at once, and the second act not over. Look in the grand tier, and see that handsome boy brought to the opera, for a great treat, by his godfather. How fidgetty the lad is! how he wriggles about in his seat! he is thinking of that "capital pantomime" he saw last Christmas at Drury Lane, and how lovely Madame Vestris looked as "King Charming" last week; he is twisting the finger-ends of his gloves into dirty rags, and using his pockethandkerchief a deal more than is necessary; but the fidgets must have some outward sign, or they become dangerous to the nerves. The act is just over, and he exclaims in restless impatience, "Is it all like this? won't there be any fun?" We hear the god

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