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I long not lo o'erlook Earth's fairest clades

Amltfreen savannahs—Earth has nut a plain

So boundless or so bf Muiitu! as ibine;

The eagle s vision cannot take it iu.

The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its

Sinks half way o'er it like a weaned bird ;—
ft is the mirror of the stars, where all
Their host within the concave firmament,
Gay marching to the music of the spheres,
"-,ives at once—

N'.r on the stage Of rural landscape are their lights and shades Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. How vividly this moment brightens forth, Between grey parallel and leaden hn-ndtlis, A belt of hues that stripes thee many a leaeue. Flush'd like the rainbow or the ringdove's neck. And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing The semblance of a meteor.

Mighty Sea!
Cameleon-Hke thou chaagest, but there's love
In all thy change, and constant sympathy
With yonder Sky— thy mistress; from her brow
Thou tnk's! thy moods and wear'st her colours on
Thy faithful bosom; morning's milky white.
Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow r.f eve;
And all thy balmier hours' fair Element,
Have such divine complexion—crisped smiles,
Luxuriant beaviugs, and sweet whispermgs,
That little is the wonder Love's own Queen
From thee of old was fabled to have sprung—
Creation's common! which no human power
Can parcel or inclose; the lordliest floods
And cataracts that the tiny hands of man
Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew
To thee that conhl'st subdue the Earth itself,
And brook 'at commandment from the Heavens

For marshalling thy waves—
Yet, potent Sea!
How placidly thy moist lips speak e'en now
Along yon spn-klmg shingles. Who can be
So fauciless as to feel no gratitude
That power and grandeur can be so serene,
Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful way.
And rocking e'en the fisher's little bark
As gently as a mother rocks ber child ?—
The inhabitants of other worlds behold
Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share
On earth's rotundity; and is he not
A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man
Who sees not, or who seeing has no joy,
In thy magnificence? What though thou nrt
Unconscious and material, thou camt reach
The inmost immaterial mind's recess,
And with thy tints and motion stir its chords
To music, like tbe light ou Memnou's lyre!
The Spirit of the Universe in thee
Is visible; thou bast in thee the life—
The eternal, graceful, and majestic life—
Of nature, and the natural human heart
I* therefore bound to thee with holy love.
Earth has ber gorgeous towns; the earth-circling;

Has spires nnd mansions more amusive still—
Men's volant homes that measure liquid space
On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land,
With pain'd and panting steeds, and clouds of

Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair Careerers with the foam beneath their bows, Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by "day.

Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night,

Moor'd as they cast the shadows of their masts
In long array, or hit ner flit and yond
Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights,
Like spirits on the darkness of the deep.
There is a magnet-like attraction in
These waters to the imaginative power, liuks the viewless with the visible,

And pictures things unseen. To mlma beyond

Yon highway of the world my taucy flies.
When by her tall and triple mast we know
Some noble voyager that has to woo
Tbe trade-winds, and to stem the ecliptic snrge.
The roral groves-the shores of conch a nd pearl,
Where she will cast her anchor, and reflect
Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves,
And under planets brighter than our own:
Tbe nights of ualmy isles, that she will see
Lit boundless by the fire fly—all the smells
Of lr< pic fruits that will regale her—all
The pomp of nature, and the inspiritmg
Varieties of life she has to greet,
Come swarming o'er the meditative mind.

True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has
His darker hints; but where s the element
That chequers not its usefulness to man
With casual terror? Scathes not earth some-
times „ . ,
Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes
Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang
Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat
As riddled ashes—silent as the
Walks not Contagion on the Air itself?
I should—old Ocean's Satnrnalian daya
And roaring nights of revelry aud sport
With wreck and human woe—be loth to smg; <
For they are few, and all their ills weigh light
Against his sacred usefulness, that bids
Our pensile globe revolve in purer air.
Here Morn and Eve with bluabmg thanks re-

ceiTe a 11 . u

Their fresh'ning dews, gay fluttering breezes

cool mm ...

Their wings to fan the brow of fever'd climes. And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn For showers to glad the earth.

Old Ocean was Infinity of aces ere we breathed Existence—and he will be beautiful When all the livingworld that sees him now Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. Quelling from age to age the vital throb In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate The pulse that swells in his stupendous breast, Or interdict bis minstrelsy to sound In thuud'rine concert with the quiring wmds; But long a* Man to parent Nature owns Instinctive homage, and in times beyond The power of thought to reach, bard after bard Shall ring thy glory. Beit.f.o M*^^


Mr. Abernethy, although amiable and good-natured, with strong feelings, possessed an irritable temper, which made him very petulant and impatient at times with his patients and medical men who applied to him for his opinion and advice on cases. When one of the latter asked him once, whether he did not think th'it some plan which he suggested would answer, the only reply he could obtain was, " Ay, ay, put a little salt on a bird's tail, and you'll be sure to catch him." When consulted on a case by the ordinary medical attendant, he would frequently pace the room to and fro with his hands in his breeches' pockets, and whistle all the time, and not say a word, but to tell the practitioner to go home and read his book. "Read

* With such a poem A, tola, even occasionally, the Metropolitan must take high ground.

my book'' was a very frequent reply to his patients also; and he could seldom be prevailed upon to prescribe or give as opinion, if the case was one which appeared to depend upon improper dieting. A country farmer, of immense weight, came from a distance to consult him, and having given an account of his daily meals, which showed no small degree of addiction to animal food, Mr. Abernethy said, " Go away, sir, I won't attempt to prescribe for such a hog."

He was particular in not being disturbed during meals; and a gentleman having called after dinner, he went into the passage, put his hand upon the gentleman's shoulders, and turned him out of doors. He would never permit his patients to talk to him much, and often not at all: and he desired them to hold their tongues and listen to him, while he gave a sort of clinical lecture upon the subject of the consultation. A loquacious lady having called to consult him, he could not succeed in silencing her without resorting to the following expedient:—"Put out your tongue, madam." The lady complied. "Now keep it there till 1 have done talking." Another lady brought her daughter to him one day, but he refused to hear her or to prescribe, advising her to make the girl take exercise. When the guinea was put into his hand, he recalled the mother, and said, "Here, take the shilling back, and buy a skipping-rope for your daughter as you go along."— He kept his pills in a bag, and used to dole them out to his patients; and on doing so to a lady who stepped out of a coronetted carriage to consult him, she declared they made her sick, and she could never take a pill. "Not take a pill! what a fool you must be," was the courteous and conciliatory reply to the countess. When the late Duke of York consulted him, he stood whistling with his hands in his pockets; and the duke said, " I suppose you know who I am." The uncourtly reply was, "Suppose I do, what of that?" His pithy advice was," Cut off the supplies, as the Duke of Wellington did in his campaigns, and the enemy will leave the citadel." When he was consulted for lameness following disease or accidents, he seldom either listened to the patient or made any inquiries, but would walk about the room, imitating the gait peculiar to different injuries, for the general instruction of the patient. A gentleman consulted him for an ulcerated throat, and, on asking him to look into it, he swore at him, and demanded how he dared to suppose that he would allow him to blow his

stinking foul breath in his face! A gentleman who could not succeed in making Mr. Abernethy listen to a narration of his case, and having had a violent altercation with him on the subject, called next day, and as soon as he was admitted, he locked the door, and put the key into his pocket, and took out a loaded pistol. The professor, alarmed, asked if he meant to rob or murder him. The patient, however, said he merely wished him to listen to his case, which he had better submit to, or he would keep him a prisoner till he chose to relent. The patient and the surgeon afterwards became most friendly towards each other, although a great many oaths passed before peace was established between them.

This eccentricity of manner lasted through life, and lost Mr. Abernethy several thousands a year perhaps. But those who knew him were fully aware that it was characteristic of a little impatient feeling, which only required management; and the apothecaries who took patients to consult him, were in the habit of cautioning them against telling long stories of their complaints. An old lady, who was naturally inclined to be prosy, once sent for him, and began by saying that her complaints commenced when she was three years old, and wished him to listen to the detail of them from that early period. The professor, however, rose abruptly and left the house, telling the old lady to read his book, page so and so, and there she would find directions for old ladies to manage their health.

It must be confessed, Mr. Abernethy, although a gentleman in appearance, manner, and education, sometimes wanted that courtesy and worldly deportment which is considered so essential to the medical practitioner. He possessed none of the " suaviterin modo," but much of the eccentricity of a man of genius,which he undoubtedly wos. His writings must always be read by the profession to which he belonged with advantage; although, in his great work upon his hobby, his theory is perhaps pushed to a greater extent than is admissible in practice.— His rules for dieting and general living should be read universally; for they are assuredly calculated to prolong life and secure health, although few perhaps would be disposed to comply with them rigidly. When some one observed to Mr. Abernethy himself, that he appeared to live much like other people, and by no means to be bound by his own rules, the professor replied, that ho wished to act according to his own precepts, but he. had "such a devil of an appetite,'' that he could not do so. ; Air. Abernethy had a great aversion to any hint being thrown out that he cured a patient of complaint. Whenever an observation to this effect was made, fie would say, "I never cured any body." The meaning of this is perfectly obvious. His system was extremely wise and rational, although, as he expressed himself to ignorant persons, it was not calculated to excite confidence. He despised all the humbug of the profession, and its arts to deceive and mislead patients and their friends, and always told the plain truth Without reserve. He knew that the term cure is inapplicable, and only fit to be used by quacks, who gain their livelihood by what they call cures, which they promise the patient to effect. Mr. Abernethy felt that nature was only to be seconded in her efforts, by an aft which is derived from scientific principles and knowledge, and that it is not the physician or surgeon who cures, but nature, whom the practitioner assists by art. Weak-minded persons are apt to run after cures, and thus nostrums and quacks are in vogue, as if the living human system was as immutable in its properties as a piece of machinery, and could be remedied when it went wrong as the watchmaker repairs the watch with certainty, or the coachmaker mends the coach. No one appreciated more highly the value of medicme as a science than Mr. Abernethy; but he knew that it depended upon observation ond a deep knowledge of the laws and phenomena of vital action, and that it was not a mere affair of guess and hazard in its application, nor of a certain tendency as to its effects.

- This disposition of mind led the philosopher to disregard prescribing lor his patients frequently, as he had less faith in the preKcription than in the general system to be adopted by the patient in his habits and diet. He has been known accordingly,'when asked if he did not intend to prescribe, to disappoint the patient by saying, " Gh, if you wish it, 1'11 prescribe for you, certainly." Instead of asking a number of questions, as to symptoms, cSrc., he usually contented himself with a general dissertation, or lecture and advice as to the management of the constitution, to which local treatment was always a secondary consideration with him altogether.

When patients related long accounts of their sufferings, and expected the healing remedy perhaps, without contemplating any personal sacrifices of

their indulgences, or alteration of favourite habits, he often cut short their narratives by putting his fore-finger on the pit of their stomachs, and observing, "It's all there, sir;" and the neverfailing pill and draught, with rigid restrictions as to diet, and injunctions as to exercise, invariably followed, although perhaps rarely attended to; for persons in general would rather submit to even nauseous medicine than abandon sensual gratifications, or diminish their worldly pleasures and pursuits.—Metropolitan.

STije ©atf)erei\

A mapper up of unconsidered trifles..



In the 16th century, when figure and fortune, or quality and wealth, were more considered than wisdom or probity, or justice and equity, in our courts of law, Judge Doddridge took upon him to reprimand the sheriff of the county of Huntingdon, for impanneling a grand jury of freeholders who were not, in his opinion, men of figure and fortune. The sheriff, who was a man of sense, and of wit and humour, resolved at the next assizes to try how far sounds would work upon that judge, and gain his approbation. He presented him with the following pannel, which had the desired effect, for when the names were read over emphatically, the judge thought that he had now indeed a jury of figure and fortune:—

A true copy of a Jury taken before Judge Doddridge, at the Assizes holden at Huntingdon, July, 1619.

Maximilian King—of Torlnnd.

Henry Prince—of Godmunchester.

George Duke—of Someisham.

William Marquess—of Stukely.

Edmund Earl—of Hartford.

Richard Baron—of Bythorpe.

Stephen ... Pope—of Newton.
Stephen .. .Cardinal—of Kimbolton.
^Humphry.. Bishop—of Bugden.

Robert Lord—of Worsley.

Robert. Knight—of Winwinck.

William... -Abbot—of Stukely.

Robert Baron—of St. Neot's.

William Dean—of Old Weston.

John Archdeacon—of Paxton.

Peter Squire—of Easton.

Edward Friar—of Ellerton.

. H enry Monk—of Stukely.

George Gentleman—of Spsldock.

George Priest—of Graff ham.

Richard... .Deacon —of CaUworth.

Thomas .. .Yeoman—of Durham.

G. K.

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(For the Mirror.) An- astounding announcement, bat an incontrovertible fact, as shown by the following festive arrangements, made wholly from names of members returned forming the new legislature.

At the head of the table will be found, in A Court Style, a Blunt, Harty, King, dressed in Green Snd Scarlett, seated on a Lion—supported on the right by three Thynne Fellows and two Bastard Knights, Baring a Shiel; and on the left by a Sadler, seven Smiths, and the Taylor "wot" Mangles with his Bodkin. The bottom, it is understood, will be "graced by a Mandeville on a Ramsbuttom, with a WhiteRose at each elbow, ar.d a Forrester and Carter on one side, and a Constable and Clerk on the other. The sides will contain a Host of unknown Folks.

Lamb, dressed by an English Cooke, will be one of the principal joints; and birds being scarce this season, there will only be a Heron, two Martins, a couple of Young Drakes, and a Wild Croaker. There will, however, be an immense Lott of French Currie, and the Best Boyle Rice. Fruit being yet unripe, there will consequently only be some Peach and Lemon Peel.

The whole will be got up at a great Price; but in order to go a Pennefather, the amusements of the evening are to be further promoted by the performance of Dick Strutt, the celebrated Millhank Ryder, who will Mount a Hill, and afterwards, while swallowing a Long Pole, blow a Horn fantasie through his nose without Pain, and then Skipwith a live Buck and two Foxes—concluding with a description of his late two Miles Hunt in three JVoods.

Among the splendid pictures decorating the walls, are some views along the Surry Banks and of the Bridges.

On the whole, some warm work is anticipated, from there being a supply of both Coke and Cole; but as to who will Wynne, remains to be seen. Walworth. G. W

On a Publican.
A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King's Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till Death my license took away,
And put me in this house of clay:
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great and small.

On John Vnderteood.
Oh cruel Death, that dost no good,

With thy destructive maggots;
Now thou hast cropt our Underwood,
What shall we do for fagots?
In Dorchester Churchyartl.
Frank from his Betty snatch'd by Fate,
Shows how uncertain is our state;
He smiled at morn, at noon lay dead—
Flung from a horse that kick'd his head.
But tho' he's gone, from tears refrain,
At judgment he'll get up again.


On Ann Jennings, at Wolstanton. Some have children, some have none; Here lies the mother of twenty-one.

On Du Bois, born in a baggage-wagon, and killed in a duel.

Begot in a cart, in a breath,

Carte and tierce was his life, and a carle was his death.

part first rIeB» Printed and Published bv J. LIMBIRD, Mi, carl nrsi drew Strand, (near Somerset Hoxse.)"

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We rejoice to see the site of Burleigh House partly occupied by the above Building. Its object is to afford accommodation for the meetings of Philanthropic Societies—so that whatever may be the olden celebrity of the spot, it is reasonable to expect that its present appropriation will be associated with the most grateful recollections. • This building is, perhaps, the most perfect erection of its kind in England. The approach from the Strand is remarkably modest: it is by a very narrow, though very chaste, door-way, situated between two Corinthian coVol. xvii. 2 D

lumns and pilasters. Within the door is a hall, with two flights of steps, which afterwards unite, and lead up to the entrance of the great hall itself; the hall below leads into a broad passage, which extends to the farther extremity of the building, opening right and left into various offices. On entering the door of the great hall, a vast and splendid room is presented to view, with scarcely a single mterruption to the eye throughout its whole extent, capable of containing, with comfort, more than 3,000 persons. The floor is covered with substantial oak seats, equal to the accom4U4

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