are fairly estimated, we think that his integrity may be allowed to pass muster.”  Perhaps political honesty is like Joseph Surface’s French plate, or the tinsel spread over a pair of Birmingham saleshop candlesticks, whose tenderness will not withstand the wear and tear of conveyance in the purchaser’s pocket.  But the oddity of the reviewer’s comparisons even puts one in good humour with their virulence.

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STREET SYMPATHIES.

During “the season” the veriest stranger who has an eye and ear, and thoughts, must find in London sufficient to occupy his attention; true, he may start and sigh, to think that of the busy and enormous multitude around him, not one would care, if, treading on yonder bit of orange peel, he should slip off the flagway, and falling beneath the wheel of that immense coal-wagon, have his thigh crushed to atoms, while you’d be saying “Jack Robinson.”  But if he do sigh, the more fool he; first, because “grieving’s a folly,” as the old sea song hath it; next because he is mistaken in supposing that no one would feel interested in his misfortune.  There are two upon the very flagway with him, who would evince the greatest sympathy in his fate; the one is a surgeon’s apprentice, who, with anxious care, would bear him off to his hospital, that he might “try his ’prentice hand” to doctor him while living, and dissect him when dead; and the other is a running reporter to one of the morning papers, who would with gentle and soothing accents inquire his name, condition, and abode, to swell the paragraph, and increase his pay.—­Blackwood’s Magazine.

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LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.

  My heart is with you, Bulwer, and portrays
  The blessings of your first paternal days;
  To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith,
  To taste one’s own and love-born infant’s breath,
  I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss. 
  I’ve felt that to a father’s heart that kiss,
  As o’er its little lips you smile and cling,
  Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring.

  Such are the joys, ill mock’d in ribald song,
  In thought, ev’n fresh’ning life our life-time long,
  That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn bloom;
  Without them we are weeds upon a tomb.

  Joy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine,
  Propitious stars saw Truth and Passion twine! 
  Joy be to her who in your rising name
  Feels Love’s bower brighten’d by the beams of Fame! 
  I lack’d a father’s claim to her—­but knew
  Regard for her young years so pure and true,
  That, when she at the altar stood your bride,
  A sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride.

T.  Campbell.

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