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Where oft the mastiff skulks with half-shut eye,
And rouses at the stranger passing by ;
While unrestrained the social converse flows,
And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows,
And rival wits with more than rustic grace
Confess the presence of a pretty face.

Rosy Hannah.

A spring, o'erhung with many a flower, The gray sand dancing in its bed, Embanked beneath a hawthorn bower, Sent forth its waters near my head. A rosy lass approached my view;

I caught her blue eyes' modest beam; The stranger nodded 'How-d'ye-do?'

And leaped across the infant stream.

The water heedless passed away;

With me her glowing image stayed; I strove, from that auspicious day,

To meet and bless the lovely maid. I met her where beneath our feet

Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; Nor moss elastic, flowers though sweet,

Matched Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale moon rising gave
New glories to her rising train.
From her sweet cot upon the moor,

Our plighted vows to heaven are flown;
Truth made me welcome at her door,
And rosy Hannah is my own.

Lines addressed to my Children.

Occasioned by a visit to Whittlebury Forest, Northamptonshire, in August 1800.

Genius of the forest shades!

Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;
A stranger trod thy lonely glades,

Amidst thy dark and bounding deer;
Inquiring childhood claims the verse,
O let them not inquire in vain ;
Be with me while I thus rehearse
The glories of thy silvan reign.

Thy dells by wintry currents worn,
Secluded haunts, how dear to me!
From all but nature's converse born,

No ear to hear, no eye to see.
Their honoured leaves the green oaks reared,
And crowned the upland's graceful swell;
While answering through the vale was heard
Each distant heifer's tinkling bell.

Hail, greenwood shades, that, stretching far,
Defy e'en summer's noontide power,
When August in his burning car

Withholds the clouds, withholds the shower.
The deep-toned low from either hill,

Down hazel aisles and arches green-
The herd's rude tracks from rill to rill-
Roared echoing through the solemn scene.

From my charmed heart the numbers sprung,
Though birds had ceased the choral lay;

I poured wild raptures from my tongue,
And gave delicious tears their way.
Then, darker shadows seeking still,

Where human foot had seldom strayed,

I read aloud to every hill

Sweet Emma's love, 'the Nut-brown Maid.'

Shaking his matted mane on high,
The grazing colt would raise his head,
Or timorous doe would rushing fly,
And leave to me her grassy bed;
Where, as the azure sky appeared
Through bowers of ever-varying form,
'Midst the deep gloom methought I heard
The daring progress of the storm.

How would each sweeping ponderous bough
Resist, when straight the whirlwind cleaves,
Dashing in strengthening eddies through

A roaring wilderness of leaves?
How would the prone descending shower
From the green canopy rebound?
How would the lowland torrents pour?
How deep the pealing thunder sound?

But peace was there: no lightnings blazed;
No clouds obscured the face of heaven;
Down each green opening while I gazed,
My thoughts to home and you were given.
Oh, tender minds! in life's gay morn,

Some clouds must dim your coming day;
Yet bootless pride and falsehood scorn,
And peace like this shall cheer your way.
Now, at the dark wood's stately side,

Well pleased I met the sun again;
Here fleeting fancy travelled wide;

My seat was destined to the main.
For many an oak lay stretched at length,
Whose trunks-with bark no longer sheathed-
Had reached their full meridian strength
Before your father's father breathed!

Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave,
And many a dreadful storm defy;
Then, groaning o'er the adverse wave,
Bring home the flag of victory.

Go, then, proud oaks; we meet no more!
Go, grace the scenes to me denied,
The white cliffs round my native shore,
And the loud ocean's swelling tide.

Description of a Blind Youth.

For from his cradle he had never seen
Soul-cheering sunbeams, or wild nature's green.
But all life's blessings centre not in sight;
For Providence, that dealt him one long night,
Had given, in pity, to the blooming boy
Feelings more exquisitely tuned to joy.
Fond to excess was he of all that grew;
The morning blossom sprinkled o'er with dew,
Across his path, as if in playful freak,
Would dash his brow and weep upon his cheek;
Each varying leaf that brushed where'er he came,
Pressed to his rosy lip he called by name;
He grasped the saplings, measured every bough,
Inhaled the fragrance that the spring's months throw
Profusely round, till his young heart confessed
That all was beauty, and himself was blessed.
Yet when he traced the wide extended plain,
Or clear brook side, he felt a transient pain;
The keen regret of goodness, void of pride,
To think he could not roam without a guide.
May-day with the Muses.

Banquet of an English Squire. Then came the jovial day, no streaks of red O'er the broad portal of the morn were spread, But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white, A screen of gossamer, a magic light, Doomed instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken, To reign a while, and be exhaled at ten.

O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored,
Forth came the conquering sun, and looked abroad;
Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung,
Like words of transport trembling on the tongue,
Too strong for utterance. Thus the infant boy,
With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy,
Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain;
But change the scene, and make him laugh again,
His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears
A thousand times more lovely through his tears.
From the first glimpse of day, a busy scene
Was that high-swelling lawn, that destined green,
Which shadowless expanded far and wide,
The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride;
To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive,
Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five;
There his whole household laboured in his view-
But light is labour where the task is new.
Some wheeled the turf to build a grassy throne
Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone,
Rough-ringed and bold, as master of the place;
Five generations of the Higham race

Had plucked his flowers, and still he held his

sway,

Waved his white head, and felt the breath of May.
Some from the green-house ranged exotics round,
To bask in open day on English ground:
And 'midst them in a line of splendour drew
Long wreaths and garlands gathered in the dew.
Some spread the snowy canvas, propped on high,
O'er-sheltering tables with their whole supply;
Some swung the biting scythe with merry face,
And cropped the daisies for a dancing space;
Some rolled the mouldy barrel in his might,
From prison darkness into cheerful light,
And fenced him round with cans ; and others bore
The creaking hamper with its costly store,

Well corked, well flavoured, and well taxed, that

came

From Lusitanian mountains dear to fame,

Whence Gama steered, and led the conquering way
To eastern triumphs and the realms of day.
A thousand minor tasks filled every hour,
Till the sun gained the zenith of his power,
When every path was thronged with old and young,
And many a skylark in his strength upsprung
To bid them welcome. Not a face was there
But, for May-day at least, had banished care;
No cringeing looks, no pauper tales to tell,
No timid glance-they knew their host too well-
Freedom was there, and joy in every eye:
Such scenes were England's boast in days gone by.
Beneath the thorn was good Sir Ambrose found,
His guests an ample crescent formed around;
Nature's own carpet spread the space between,
Where blithe domestics plied in gold and green.
The venerable chaplain waved his wand,
And silence followed as he stretched his hand :
The deep carouse can never boast the bliss,
The animation of a scene like this.

At length the damasked cloths were whisked away
Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day;
The heyday of enjoyment found repose;
The worthy baronet majestic rose.

They viewed him, while his ale was filling round,
The monarch of his own paternal ground.
His cup was full, and where the blossoms bowed
Over his head, Sir Ambrose spoke aloud,
Nor stopped a dainty form or phrase to cull.
His heart elated, like his cup was full :

'Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that fall?
Health to my neighbours, happiness to all.'
Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet,
Who would not instantly be on his feet:
An echoing health to mingling shouts give place,
'Sir Ambrose Higham and his noble race!'
May-day with the Muses.

The Soldier's Home.

'The topic is trite, but in Mr Bloomfield's hands it almost assumes a character of novelty. Burns's Soldier's Return is not, to our taste, one whit superior.'-PROFESSOR WILSON.

My untried Muse shall no high tone assume,
Nor strut in arms-farewell my cap and plume!
Brief be my verse, a task within my power;
I tell my feelings in one happy hour:
But what an hour was that! when from the main
I reached this lovely valley once again!
A glorious harvest filled my eager sight,
Half shocked, half waving in a flood of light;
On that poor cottage roof where I was born,
The sun looked down as in life's early morn.
I gazed around, but not a soul appeared;
I listened on the threshold, nothing heard ;
I called my father thrice, but no one came;
It was not fear or grief that shook my frame,
But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home,
Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come.
The door invitingly stood open wide;
I shook my dust, and set my staff aside.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say-past friendship to renew-
'Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?'
Through the room ranged the imprisoned humble bee,
And bombed, and bounced, and struggled to be free;
Dashing against the panes with sullen roar,
That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor;
That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed,
O'er undulating waves the broom had made;
Reminding me of those of hideous forms
That met us as we passed the Cape of Storms,
Where high and loud they break, and peace comes

never;

They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever.
But here was peace, that peace which home can yield;
The grasshopper, the partridge in the field,
And ticking clock, were all at once become
The substitute for clarion, fife, and drum.
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose;
My heart felt everything but calm repose;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and bursted into tears;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain;
I raved at war and all its horrid cost,
And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.
In stepped my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart.

Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid;
And stooping to the child, the old man said:
"Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again.
This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain.'
The child approached, and with her fingers light,
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.
But why thus spin my tale-thus tedious be?
Happy old soldier ! what's the world to me !

JOHN LEYDEN.

burgh Magazine. In 1800, Leyden was ordained for the church. He continued, however, to study and compose, and contributed to Lewis's Tales of Wonder and Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. So ardent was he in assisting the editor of the Minstrelsy, that he on one occasion walked between forty and fifty miles, and back again, for the sole purpose of visiting an old person who possessed an ancient historical ballad. His strong desire to visit foreign countries induced his friends to apply to government for some appointment for JOHN LEYDEN (1775-1811), a distinguished ori- him connected with the learning and languages of ental scholar as well as poet, was a native of the east. The only situation which they could Denholm, Roxburghshire. He was the son of procure was that of surgeon's assistant; and in humble parents, but the ardent Borderer fought five or six months, by incredible labour, Leyden his way to learning and celebrity. His parents, | qualified himself, and obtained his diploma. The seeing his desire for instruction, determined to sudden change of his profession,' says Scott, gave educate him for the church, and he was entered of great amusement to some of his friends. In Edinburgh College in the fifteenth year of his age. December 1802, Leyden was summoned to join He made rapid progress; was an excellent Latin the Christmas fleet of Indiamen, in consequence and Greek scholar, and acquired also the French, of his appointment as assistant-surgeon on the Spanish, Italian, and German, besides studying | Madras establishment. He finished his poem, the the Hebrew, Arabic, and Persian. He became | Scenes of Infancy, descriptive of his native vale, no mean proficient in mathematics and various and left Scotland for ever. After his arrival at branches of science. Indeed, every difficulty seemed Madras, the health of Leyden gave way, and he to vanish before his commanding talents, his re- was obliged to remove to Prince of Wales Island. tentive memory, and robust application. His He resided there for some time, visiting Sumatra college vacations were spent at home; and as his and the Malayan peninsula, and amassing the father's cottage afforded him little opportunity for curious information concerning the language, literaquiet and seclusion, he looked out for accommoda-ture, and descent of the Indo-Chinese tribes, which tions abroad. In a wild recess,' says Sir Walter afterwards enabled him to lay a most valuable Scott, 'in the den or glen which gives name to the dissertation before the Asiatic Society at Calcutta. village of Denholm, he contrived a sort of furnace Leyden quitted Prince of Wales Island, and was for the purpose of such chemical experiments as appointed a professor in the Bengal College. This he was adequate to performing. But his chief was soon exchanged for a more lucrative appointplace of retirement was the small parish church, a ment, namely, that of a judge in Calcutta. His gloomy and ancient building, generally believed spare time was, as usual, devoted to oriental in the neighbourhood to be haunted. To this manuscripts and antiquities. I may die in the chosen place of study, usually locked during week- attempt,' he wrote to a friend, 'but if I die without days, Leyden made entrance by means of a window, surpassing Sir William Jones a hundredfold in read there for many hours in the day, and depos-oriental learning, let never a tear for me profane ited his books and specimens in a retired pew. It was a well-chosen spot of seclusion, for the kirk -excepting during divine service-is rather a place of terror to the Scottish rustic, and that of Cavers was rendered more so by many a tale of ghosts and witchcraft of which it was the supposed scene, and to which Leyden, partly to indulge his humour, and partly to secure his retirement, contrived to make some modern additions. The nature of his abstruse studies, some specimens of natural history, as toads and adders, left exposed in their spirit-phials, and one or two practical jests played off upon the more curious of the peasantry, rendered his gloomy haunt not only venerated by the wise, but feared by the simple of the parish.' From this singular and romantic study, Leyden sallied forth, with his curious and various stores, to astonish his college associates. He already numbered among his friends the most distinguished literary and scientific men of Edinburgh. On the expiration of his college studies, Leyden accepted the situation of tutor to the sons of Mr Campbell of Fairfield, whom he accompanied to the university of St Andrews. There he pursued his own researches connected with oriental learning, and in 1799, published a sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Western Africa. He wrote also various copies of verses and translations from the northern and oriental languages, which he published in the Edin

the eye of a Borderer.' The possibility of an early
death in a distant land often crossed the mind of
the ambitious student. In his Scenes of Infancy,
he expresses his anticipation of such an event :
The silver moon at midnight cold and still,
Looks, sad and silent, o'er yon western hill;
While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,
Reared on the confines of the world below.
Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?
Is that blue light the moon's, or tomb-fire's gleam,
By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,
The old deserted church of Hazeldean,
Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,
Till Teviot's waters rolled their bones away?
Their feeble voices from the stream they raise-
'Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,
Why didst thou quit the peasant's simple lot?
Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,
The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie,
And Teviot's stream that long has murmured by?
And we-when death so long has closed our eyes,
How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,
And bear our mouldering bones across the main,
From vales that knew our lives devoid of stain?
Rash youth, beware! thy home-bred virtues save,
And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave.'

In 1811, Leyden accompanied the governorgeneral to Java. 'His spirit of romantic adventure,' says Scott, 'led him literally to rush upon death; for, with another volunteer who

attended the expedition, he threw himself into the surf, in order to be the first Briton of the expedition who should set foot upon Java. When the success of the well-concerted movements of the invaders had given them possession of the town of Batavia, Leyden displayed the same ill-omened precipitation, in his haste to examine a library, or rather a warehouse of books. The apartment had not been regularly ventilated, and either from this circumstance, or already affected by the fatal sickness peculiar to Batavia, Leyden, when he left the place, had a fit of shivering, and declared the atmosphere was enough to give any mortal a fever. The presage was too just he took his bed, and died in three days (August 28, 1811), on the eve of the battle which gave Java to the British empire.' The Poetical Remains of Leyden were published in 1819, with a Memoir of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton. Sir John Malcolm and Sir Walter Scott both honoured his memory with notices of his life and genius. The Great Minstrel has also alluded to his untimely death in his Lord of the Isles:

Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore
Still rings to Corrievreckan's roar,
And lonely Colonsay;

Scenes sung by him who sings no more,
His bright and brief career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quenched is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour :
A distant and a deadly shore

Has Leyden's cold remains.

The allusion here is to a ballad by Leyden, entitled The Mermaid, the scene of which is laid at Corrievreckan, and which was published with another, The Cout of Keeldar, in the Border Minstrelsy. His longest poem is his Scenes of Infancy, descriptive of his native vale of Teviot. His versification is soft and musical; he is an elegant rather than a forcible poet. His ballad strains are greatly superior to his Scenes of Infancy (1803). Sir Walter Scott has praised the opening of The Mermaid, as exhibiting a power of numbers which, for mere melody of sound, has seldom been excelled in English poetry.

Sonnet on the Sabbath Morning.

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,

That slowly wakes while all the fields are still;
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;
And echo answers softer from the hill;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The rooks float silent by in airy drove ;
The sun a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove
Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move :
So smiled the day when the first morn arose !*

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin.

Slave of the dark and dirty mine!

What vanity has brought thee here?

Jeffrey considered (Edinburgh Review, 1805) that Grahame borrowed the opening description in his Sabbath from the above sonnet by Leyden. The images are common to poetry, besides being congenial to Scottish habits and feelings.

How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear
For twilight converse, arm in arm ;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear
When mirth and music wont to cheer.
By Cherical's dark wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave !

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!
The perished bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy played,

Revives no more in after-time.
Far from my sacred natal clime,
I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.
Slave of the mine! thy yellow light

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.

A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widowed heart to cheer: Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine;

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!

I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!

I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart; the grave,

Dark and untimely, met my view-
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays tipt with death was borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey;

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay !

From the Mermaid'

On Jura's heath how sweetly swell
The murmurs of the mountain bee!
How softly mourns the writhed shell
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea!

But softer floating o'er the deep,

The mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsay.

Aloft the purple pennons wave,

As, parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars, the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore.

In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay: For her he chid the flagging sail,

The lovely maid of Colonsay.

'And raise,' he cried, 'the song of love,
The maiden sung with tearful smile,
When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove,
We left afar the lonely isle!

"When on this ring of ruby red

Shall die," she said, "the crimson hue, Know that thy favourite fair is dead,

Or proves to thee and love untrue.'

Now, lightly poised, the rising oar

Disperses wide the foamy spray, And echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, Resounds the song of Colonsay:

'Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowy seas,

Before my love, sweet western gale!

'Where the wave is tinged with red, And the russet sea-leaves grow, Mariners, with prudent dread,

Shun the shelving reefs below.

'As you pass through Jura's sound,

Bend your course by Scarba's shore; Shun, O shun, the gulf profound,

Where Corrievreckan's surges roar !

"If from that unbottomed deep,

With wrinkled form and wreathed train, O'er the verge of Scarba's steep,

The sea-snake heave his snowy mane,

'Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils,
Sea-green sisters of the main,
And in the gulf where ocean boils,
The unwieldy wallowing monster chain.

'Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowed seas,

Before my love, sweet western gale!'

Thus all to soothe the chieftain's woe, Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow,

He seemed her parting sigh to hear.

The lonely deck he paces o'er,

Impatient for the rising day,

And still from Crinan's moonlight shore, He turns his eyes to Colonsay.

The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, That streaks with foam the ocean green; While forward still the rowers urge

Their course, a female form was seen.

That sea-maid's form, of pearly light, Was whiter than the downy spray, And round her bosom, heaving bright, Her glossy yellow ringlets play.

Borne on a foamy crested wave,

She reached amain the bounding prow, Then clasping fast the chieftain brave,

She, plunging, sought the deep below.

Ah! long beside thy feignèd bier,
The monks the prayer of death shall say;
And long for thee, the fruitless tear,

Shall weep the maid of Colonsay !

But downward like a powerless corse,
The eddying waves the chieftain bear;
He only heard the moaning hoarse
Of waters murmuring in his ear.

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Rings from the motley tortoise-shell, While moonbeams o'er the watery plain Seem trembling in its fitful swell.' Proud swells her heart! she deems at last To lure him with her silver tongue, And, as the shelving rocks she passed,

She raised her voice, and sweetly sung.

In softer, sweeter strains she sung,
Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay,
When light to land the chieftain sprung,
To hail the maid of Colonsay.

O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell,
And sadly sink remote at sea!
So sadly mourns the writhed shell
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea.

And ever as the year returns,
The charm-bound sailors know the day;
For sadly still the Mermaid mourns
The lovely chief of Colonsay.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE, a young poet, who has accomplished more by the example of his life than by his writings, was a native of Nottingham, where he was born on the 21st of August 1785. His father was a butcher-an 'ungentle craft,' which, however, has had the honour of giving to England one of its most distinguished churchmen, Cardinal Wolsey, and the two poets, Akenside and White. Henry was a rhymer and a student from his earliest years. He assisted at his father's business for some time, but in his fourteenth year was put apprentice to a stocking-weaver. Disliking, as he said, 'the thought of spending seven years of his life in shining and folding up stockings, he wanted something to occupy his brain, and he felt that he should be wretched if he continued longer at this trade, or indeed in anything except one of the learned professions.' He was at length placed in an attorney's office, and applying

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