given birth to a species of poetry more legitimate and useful in its design, and more valuable in its tendencies and characteristics.  Instead of the “namby pamby” verses of the period I have alluded to, and the coarse scurrility of style which runs with a discolouring vein through the satirical pages of Dr. Wolcot, we have now the heart-stirring metres of a Campbell, as in that beautiful rainbow of poetic loveliness and imagination, his “Pleasures of Hope.”  We have now a series of pictures bearing an impress as pleasant as the gleams of warm autumn in the “Pleasures of Memory,” by Rogers; the wildness of Loutherbourgh, the grandeur of Salvator Rosa, the terror-striking forms of Fuseli, embodied with increased energy in the immortal Lays of Byron:  the every-day incidents of life, copied with the graphic fidelity of a Sharp, and bearing the faithful stamp of cottage grouping, which distinguished the pencil of a Morland,—­in the natural paintings of Crabbe.  We have Catullus stealing from his couch, to breathe a new intonation into the harp of Moore; and last of all, we have the votaress of virtue and moral feeling, the Cambrian minstrel, Mrs. Hemans, making melancholy appear as delightful as love.

The Author of a Tradesman’s Lays.

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STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

  Though the waves of old Time are darkly advancing,
  There still is one spot where the sunbeams are glancing,
  There glow the gay visions of youth’s sunny morn,
  Safe from the ocean-wave, safe from the storm: 
  For Memory keeps the spot fresh and green ever,
  The dark tides of Time, shall sweep over it never!

  There Fancy, her mirror holds up to the eye,
  And lovely the forms that come wandering by,
  Like music come softly the sounds that have fled,
  The voices of lov’d ones, the tones of the dead: 
  Oh Memory! keep that spot fresh and green ever,
  And the dark tides of Time, sweep over it never.

  For beautiful Hope, wanders oft to the Isle,
  With her wreath of bright flowers, and radiant smile. 
  She stands with her finger upraised to the sky,
  And she dries the sad tear-drop in Memory’s eye: 
  An emerald green, be that Island for ever,
  May the dark tides of Time, sweep over it never!

  Kirton, Lindsey.  Anne R.

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ANECDOTE GALLERY

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CARDING A TITHE PROCTOR.

In Ireland, carding the tithe proctors was occasionally resorted to by the White Boys, and was performed in the following manner:—–­