that whether they ever passed in the world or not doth not signify a halfpenny to its instruction or its welfare.

That we may draw something for our advantage out of the foregoing discourse, I must entreat my reader, upon having any company, to examine himself whether he has behaved himself in it like a Drum or a Trumpet, a Violin or a Bass-viol, and accordingly endeavour to mend his music for the future. For my own part, I must confess I was a Drum for many years; until, having polished myself a little in good company, I threw as much of the Trumpet into my conversation as was possible for a man of an impetuous temper, by which mixture of different musics I look upon myself, during the course of many years, to have resembled a Tabor and Pipe. I have since endeavoured at the sweetness of the Lute; but in spite of my resolutions, I must confess, with great confusion, that I find myself daily degenerating into a Bagpipe: whether it be the effect of my old age, or of the company I keep, I know not. All that I can do is to keep watch over my conversation, and to silence the drone as soon as I find it begin to hum in my discourse, being determined rather to hear the notes of others, than to play out of time, and encroach upon their parts in the consort by the noise of so tiresome an instrument.

Polonius.

(Shakspeare.)

Give thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,

Bear't that the opposer may beware of thee.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;

For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be;

For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

MY

(Robert Chambers.)

Y winsome one, my handsome one, my darling little boy, The heart's pride of thy mother, and thy father's chiefest joy; Come ride upon my shoulder, come sit upon my knee,

And prattle all the nonsense that I love to hear from thee:

With thine eyes of merry lustre, and thy pretty lisping tongue,
And thy heart that evermore lets out its humming happy song:
With thy thousand tricks so gleesome, which I bear without annoy,
Come to my arms, come to my soul, my darling little boy!

My gentle one, my blessed one, can that time ever be,
When I to thee shall be severe, or thou unkind to me?
Can any change which time may bring, this glowing passion wreck,
Or clench with rage the little hand now fondling round my neck?
Can this community of sport, to which love brings me down,
Give way to anger's kindling glance, and hate's malignant frown?
No-no, that time can ne'er arrive, for, whatsoe'er befall,
This heart shall still be wholly thine, or shall not be at all;
And to an offering like this thou canst not e'er be coy,
But still wilt be my faithful and my gentle little boy!

My winsome one, my gallant one, so fair, so happy now,
With thy bonnet set so proudly upon thy shining brow,

With thy fearless bounding motions, and thy laugh of thoughtless glee,
So circled by a father's love, which wards each ill from thee!

Can I suppose another time when this shall all be o'er,

And thy cheek shall wear the ruddy badge of happiness no more:
When all who now delight in thee far elsewhere shall have gone,
And thou shalt pilgrimise through life, unfriended and alone,
Without an aid to strengthen or console thy troubled mind,
Save the memory of the love of those who left thee thus behind?
Oh, let me not awake the thought, but, in the present blest,
Make thee a child of wisdom-and to Heaven bequeath the rest :

Far rather let me image thee, in sunny future days,
Outdoing every deed of mine, and wearing brighter bays;
With less to dull thy fervency of recollected pain,

And more to animate thy course of glory and of gain;

A home as happy shall be thine, and I too shall be there,

The blessings purchased by thy worth in peace and love to share-
Shall see within thy beaming eye my early love repaid,
And every ill of failing life a bliss by kindness made-
Shall see thee pour upon thy son, then sitting on thy knee,
A father's gushing tenderness, such as I feel for thee;
And know, as I this moment do, no brighter, better joy,
Than thus to clasp unto thy soul thy darling little boy!

THE LITTLE FACTORY SLAVE.

TO A MORE FORTUNATE PLAYMATE.

(Grimstone.)

I OFTEN think how once we used in summer fields to play,

And run about and breathe the air that made us glad and gay : We used to gather buttercups and chase the butter-fly:

I loved to feel the breezes lift my hair as they went by.

Do you still play in those bright fields, and are the flowers still there?
There are no flowers where I live now-no flowers anywhere;
But day by day I go and turn a dull and tedious wheel;-
You cannot think how sad, and faint, and tired I often feel!

I hurry home to snatch the meal my mother can supply,
Then back I hasten to my task, that, not to hate, I try.
At night my mother kisses me, when she has comb'd my hair,
And laid me in my little bed,-but, I'm not happy there!

I think upon the factory-the fines that on us wait;

I start, and ask my father, if I have not laid too late;

And once I heard him sob and say, “O better were a grave,
Than such a life as this for thee, thou sinless little slave!"

I wonder if I ever shall obtain a holiday!

Oh! if I do, I'll go to you, and spend it all in play :

And then, I'll bring some flowers home, if you will give me some, And at my work I'll think of thee, and holidays to come.