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JOHN ROBY, author of “Traditions of Lancashire,” and other works, which have been as popular as any of their class, is mentioned as one of the persons lost in the “Orion” steamer.  Mr. Roby was long a banker in Rochdale, and partner of Mr. Fielden, and though an excellent man of business, his mind was deeply interested in literary pursuits and in cultivating the friendly intercourse of literary men.

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Prof.  CANSTATT, of the University of Erlangen, died on the 10th of March, after a long and painful illness.  Dr. C. was one of the most distinguished physicians of our times, and had won for himself a lasting reputation by his work on the diseases of old age.

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ORIGINAL POETRY

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The following graphic picture of domestic happiness in humble life, was written by Townsend Haines, Esq., late Secretary of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and now Register of the Treasury, at Washington.  Mr. Haines is an eloquent and accomplished lawyer, with fine capacities for literature, to which it may be regretted that he has recently given so little attention.

  BOB FLETCHER

  I once knew a plowman, Bob Fletcher his name,
  Who was old and was ugly, and so was his dame;
  Yet they lived quite contented, and free from all strife,
  Bob Fletcher the plowman, and Judy his wife.

  As the morn streaked the east, and the night fled away
  They would rise up for labor, refreshed for the day,
  And the song of the lark, as it rose on the gale,
  Found Bob at the plow, and his wife at the pail.

  A neat little cottage in front of a grove,
  Where in youth they first gave their young hearts up to love,
  Was the solace of age, and to them doubly dear,
  As it called up the past, with a smile or a tear.

  Each tree had its thought, and the vow could impart,
  That mingled in youth, the warm wish of the heart: 
  The thorn was still there, and the blossoms it bore,
  And the song from its top seemed the same as before.

  When the curtain of night over nature was spread,
  And Bob had returned from the plow to his shed,
  Like the dove on her nest, he reposed from all care,
  If his wife and his youngsters contented were there.

  I have passed by his door when the evening was gray,
  And the hill and the landscape were fading away,
  And have heard from the cottage, with grateful surprise,
  The voice of thanksgiving, like incense arise.

  And I thought on the proud, who look down with scorn,
  On the neat little cottage, the grove and the thorn,
  And felt that the riches and tinsels of life,
  Were dross, to contentment, with Bob and his wife.