same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.

THE UNEXPECTED JOURNEY.

'COACHEE! coachee! put me in, and see
You take all proper care of me.' '
'Gee up!' 'Damn your gee ups, and stop,
For I am feeble and shall surely drop.'

'I think you have dropp'd too much to-day
Already, so take care-this way.'

'Why how your coach turns round and round!

It's topsy-turvy on the ground,

And all the wheels are spinning so,

Like cockchafers on wings they go.'

"Your head is like a whirligig,

Take care, you'll lose your hat and wig;

The step is down, now, sir, get in,

Mind you don't slip and break your shin;

You're cursedly top-heavy.' 'What!

I'm sober as a judge, you sot.
You talk to me of drinking,

There's virtue in it-it aids the thinking:

And it improves the sight,

For all to me looks double by this light.
There, I am safe, so shut the door,
And mind you pother me no more;
I'll take a nap, for sleep, they say,
Relieves us from the toil of day.'
The coachman mounts, and off he goes,
And leaves his inmate to repose.

Sleep, placid monarch! I'll to thee
Now pay a brief apostrophe.

Y

Thou salve to heal the wounds of care,
To soothe the workings of despair;
Thou opiate to the woe-worn mind,
Thou strengthening aid to human kind;
Thou-but I must from praising keep,
Or I shall send you all to sleep.

He slept and snor'd, and snor'd and slept,
The coachman on his journey kept:
I should have told you, that the day
Had clos'd, and evening's sober grey
Turn'd black as undertaker's pall
With which he decks a funeral,

When coach he call'd and coach replied,
And plac'd him snugly withinside;
No questions or replies took place,
Further than has just been recounted;
Each merely look'd to his own case,
And by the one 'twas for granted,
He understood what t'other wanted.
But, right or wrong, our sleeper reck'd not, he
Possessed much more philosophy;

And his must be profoundly deep,
If there's philosophy in sleep;

For he slept on the whole night round,
O'er hill and dale, and level ground;
Town, village, milestone-all they past,
Fast as you please-he slept as fast;
Thus to the journey's end he goes,
Lull'd by the softness of repose.
Our sleeping partner, for such he
Must be deem'd undoubtedly;

When coach' he call'd was going on
Towards his home at Newington;
But in the borough, being tir'd,
Thinking he saw a coach unhired,
He hail'd it, and away

He rode, nor thought to say
At such a number put me down
Close by the church at Newington.

Such sober thoughts from him had fled,

Or rather, drowned in grog, were dead.

To Newington he went, 'tis true,

And several other places too;

For the coachman call'd was bound

To Portsmouth, there

To deliver up his fare

Both safe and sound.

So the next morning, about eight,

He pull❜d up at the Crown Inn gate;

Where, if you please, a trip we'll take
To see our sleeping partner wake.

A waiter opens the coach-door,

'Sir, you'll alight.' He answers-snore.
The coachman cries- Come, sir, your fare,
A guinea and a half you'll spare.'

This roused him-Eh? what's that you say?'
Why, sir, you've got your fare to pay.'

'Aye, eighteen pence, I know

Here, take it, and I'll go.'

You'll go? none of your rigs;

All through the night,

Till broad daylight,

While I drove horses you drove pigs;
And now you say

You've eighteen-pence to pay:
Damme; old master, tho' you're queer,
Such hogs won't do for market here?'

Here, where am I?' while with surprise,

He now unbutton'd both his eyes.

Why this is not my house!' Yours! no,
You're come to Portsmouth, where I go
Each other day, say, to and fro.'

'Portsmouth! Portsmouth! why then I've gone

From Newington

Just seventy miles beyond what I intended!

So take me back,

And, next time, when I want a hack,

I'll look before,

And see that Portsmouth is not on the door!'

RODERIGO AND IAGO FROM OTHELLO.

Rod. Iago.

Iago. What say'st thou, noble heart.

Rod. What will I do, thinkest thou?

Iago. Why, go to bed, and sleep.

Rod. I will incontinently drown myself.

Iago. Well, if thou dost, I shall never love thee after it. Why, thou silly gentleman!

Rod. It is silliness to live, when to live is a torment: and then we have a prescription to die when death is our physician, Iago. O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years; and since I could distinguish between a benefit and an injury, I never found a man that knew how to love

himself. Ere I would say, I would drown myself for the love of a Guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon.

Rod. What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond; but it is not in virtue to amend it.

Iago. Virtue a fig! 'tis in ourselves, that we are thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens; to the which our wills are gardeners so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce; set hyssop, and weed up thyme; supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many; either to have it steril with idleness, or manured with industry; why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to the most preposterous conclusions: But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts: whereof I take this, that you call-love, to be a sect, or scion.

Rod. It cannot be.

Iago. It is merely a lust of the blood, and a permission of the will. Come, be a man: Drown thyself! drown cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of per-durable toughness; could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow these wars; defeat thy favour with an usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be, that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor,-put money in thy purse ;-nor he his to her: it was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration ;-put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills ;-fill thy purse with money: the food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must change for youth: when she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice. She must have change, she must therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst: If sanctimony and a frail vow, betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian, be not too hard for my wits, and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! it is clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy, than to be drowned and go without her.

Rod. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue? Iago. Thou art sure of me :-Go, make money :-I have told thee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, I hate the Moor: My cause is hearted: thine hath no less reason: Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him: if thou canst cuckold him,

thou dost thyself a pleasure, and me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time, which will be delivered. Traverse; go; provide thy money. We will have more of this to-morrow.

Adieu.

Iago. At my lodging.

Rod. I'll be with thee betimes.

Iago. Go to; farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo?
Rod. What say you?

Iago. No more of drowning, do you hear.
Rod. I am changed. I'll sell all my land.

Iago. Go to; farewell put money in your purse.
Thus do I ever make my fool my purse-
For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane,
If I would time expend with such a snipe,
But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor;
And it is thought abroad, that twixt my sheets
He has done my office: I know not if't be true;
But I, for mere suspicion in that kind,
Will do, as if for surety. He holds me well;
The better shall my purpose work on him.
Cassio's a proper man: Let me see now;
To get his place, and to plume up my will;
A double knavery,-How? how? Let me see :--
After some time, to abuse Othello's ear,
That he is too familiar with his wife,
He hath a person, and a smooth dispose,

To be suspected; fram'd to make woman false.
The Moor is of a free and open nature,

That thinks men honest, that but seem to be so ;
And will as tenderly be led by the nose,

As asses are.

I have't;—it is engendered :-Hell and night
Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light.

THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE.

THERE once was a painter in Catholic days,
Like Job, who eschewed all evil;

Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze,
With applause and amazement, but chiefly his praise
And delight was in painting the devil.