I own or rather own'd-two stages,
And I would give the meager wages

Of a whole life of dizziness,

Spent amid rattling wheels, and horses-
Snorting, upsets, profane discourses—
If I could but from fate recall
That hour, remember'd above all;
Though then the poorest among paupers,
Taking my kicks along with coppers.

And something too that very common is-
I thought, were difficulties fewer,
And I as single woman might woo her,

I would have taken her to the Domine's
And stuck, like well girt saddle, unto her,
I was not such a hair-brain'd spark as
To like to risk my bones in darkness.

Of all his stable boys what might
I do 'gainst pitchfork, whip and bludgeon?
They drove me in the yard outright,
Naked, forlorn, and captive gudgeon.
I never learnt, and cannot tell
What went with poor MEHITABEL;
I hear'd she cross'd into the city-
And led bad courses- 'twas a pity.
If it had been a lord who thus
Within his barn had made a fuss,
Her spouse had thought it no greater sin-
But for the waiter at the inn!

He call'd me naughty names and swore -
And you shall bear what he did more.

There's in the rottenness of sin

Something that shines like lightning-wood;

And people to suspect begin

Whatever is not understood.
The devil had put it in the head
Of What-d'ye call, that in his bed,
His wife was not; he undertook

To ferret her out at twelve o'clock

Or it might be an angel came
And told him, 'twas a burning shame-
But toward the barn his steps were led;

He searched, and found her where he sought,
Pummel'd, abus'd and curst her;

Me too, up in the hayloft, caught

ΣΙ.

Fetch out the cow!' and out they fetched her;
A Bergen Cow, black, blind and scraggy;
Who, if she had been turn'd adrift,
None, but for pity, would have catched her;
Lame, partly bare and partly shaggy.

I had no time for pray'r or shrift,
While on her back they made a shift
To fasten me; they tied my feet
Under her paunch, with my own garters,
While on her bony hinder-quarters
The rascals splic'd my naked seat.
They put each horn in either fist
Tightly secur'd by hempen twist;
Then to the cow's tail tied a kettle,
Well lin'd with pitch and resin, which

'Hiatus valde deflendus" Let us beg that if any one of our readers, any old friend of the author of 'Bilvansnort,' has a copy of the remaining half of the poem, that he will oblige us with it at the meetest vantage of the time.' It will be carefully preserved and promptly returned, after it shall have fulfilled its office.

MORE TALK WITH MR. MOTH. — We have only one wish ungratified in relation to Mr. MоTH; and that is, that he would somehow or other manage to detain our obliging correspondent, who so faithfully transcribes his conversations, a little longer, on each occasion of their interviews. The result, we are sure, could not be unwelcome to the reporter, and we can answer for its cordial reception at the hands of our readers:

A few days after my last conversation with friend MоTH, I popped in upon him; one drizzly Sunday afternoon, when the world and the welkin presented, as CARLYLE would say, the most meeserable' aspect of wo-begone forlornness; 't was indeed a suicidal day; such as swells the London bills of mortality to a fearful enumeration; when the heavy hanging clouds suggested immediately to any sad soul, gazing from the dim parlor windows, fatal ideas of ropes and silk handkerchiefs, and the overflowing gutters seemed to woo one to a wet death; while the murky fog, saturated with the exhalations of reeky chimneys, demanded the full strength of a man's Christian principles to combat the conception of charcoal fumes and asphyxia. Life was reduced to its very lowest terms; one could not eye the dismal heavens and think of existence without muttering to himself:

IF I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

Which none but fools would keep; a breath thou art,
Servile to all the skyey influences.'

I had waked in the morning with a head-ache; swallowed my coffee with contempt; smoked a pipe with disgust; listened to a dull doctrinal sermon, with most

intense inattention; gone through the usual dinner ceremony, with immense lack of appetite; tried for the tenth time to understand The Sphinx' of poetic EMERSON; grinned gloomily over the Editorial Table of the KNICKERBOCKER; nodded over the North-American; gone dead asleep over the Democratic;' and finally rushed from stupid and aldermanic dreams into the drenched and dirty streets, in very despair of contentment with any thing or any person on earth, or in heaven.

At this wretched juncture I passed by MUNROE's shop; and wet as I was, dull as I felt severe and savage, moist and miserable - without hope and without umbrella, I dived into MоTH's door-way, tumbled up the three damp flights of weary stairs; and knocked surlily at the door of Mr. MoтI. At the second summons, MoтH came. ''Enter! its grandeur overwhelms thee not!'

he exclaimed, with a Childe Harold-ic quotation.

I obeyed, and found that my worthy friend had risen from his Homer' to let me in. He appeared glad to greet me; and I could not but feel flattered that he condescended to ask me to sit even in presence of

The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle.'

'Well,' thought I, 'here is after all a gleam of sunshine; here shines out a scrap of poetry, even amid the prosaic misery of a Boston Sunday. To think that a being should be found upon such a day, in such a season, under such circumstances, depressed by such dismal neighborhood, amid such sights and sounds, reading HOMER!'

'Ha!' said I, 'old MELESIGENES? Can you read him, while 'CHANNING'S Poems' lie uncut on your table?'

'Yes; i'faith; 't is perfect luxury to think how one can escape from the nonsense of to-day, by wandering into the sense and wisdom of antiquity. Here is FELTON'S 'Homer,' which MUNROE has dropped upon my table, and I have spent a whole happy morning in looking at the curious learning of the noter.'

You think well then of the Professor's new edition?'

·

"Tis excellent,' answered MOTH. FELTON is an admirable scholar; and his judgment is even superior to his scholar-ship -except on one point. He is a perfect Pagan with regard to HOMER's identity. He talks of Homeric Poems;' ballads of HOMER'Songs attributed to HOMER,' and so on. Now, for my own part, I am a perfect Unitarian as regards HOMER. One man wrote these immortal lines; one man conceived them; one man composed 'em. It makes me mad to hear clever scholars talk of the Iliad' as a book of ballads, as if 't were a mere collection, like PERCY'S Reliques, or my friend LONGFELLOW's Estray.' How ridiculous an idea it is, that in those old times, before printing, before Reviews, before blue-stocking ladies and elegant critics existed, that some clever gentleman should have looked into the old Magazines and periodicals of the day, and made a collection of the stray scraps of poesy, thawed 'em down into a congruous mass, knocked out the absurdities here and there; mended the rhythm, re-touched the characters, amplified the descriptions, embellished the rough sketch, and of the loose, rude fragments of the day, made an immortal, indestructible, orderly and perfect Iliad.'

I could not but agree with my friend that the creed of HORACE and MACENAS, and the literati of their day, was a more sensible one than the German faith which now prevails; the poor theory, spawned of doubt and distrust, under the influence of Teutonic beer; that HOMER's eternal song was the rifaciamento of some Athenian MACPHERSON.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. — Hear our friend and correspondent, 'THE DOCTOR,' in a pregnant paper which he has sent us at a late hour, and which he entitles The Aristocrat, the Radical, and the Indefinite: Every calling has its bright side, its advantages and hindrances, its pros and cons. A country doctor sees all sorts of people; high and low, good and bad; while the city practitioners are classified, as are their patients. The rich have their doctors; the poor have theirs. Not that men of medical science do not descend into the low places, and feed and cure the poor. Our profession is a sacred phalanx; it is no humbug. Nevertheless, we catch the spirit of the age; to live in the world, we permit many things to be done to us, as do all sorts of good men who cure and teach the world, which we disapprove of. We humor the sick to cure them; we humor society to cure it. We country doctors see all sorts of people, and know all phases of human nature. We see ladies without their curls, and bald pates without their wigs; men and women as they are; for when people are sick they try to be sincere and honest. Whatever be the motive, whether to get up a little sum on the credit side of the account, or to enjoy the comfort of being free from all shows, it is foreign to my object to determine. It is enough to say, that our profession see men and women as they are; and on this account, profiting by my large experience, I purpose to classify the men of my country as I know them, sick and well, at home and in the street.

'Three seems to be one of the favored numbers in the works of nature. There are three classes of men: the Aristocrats, the Radicals and the Indefinites. The last make a very large proportion of the men of our generation.

THE ARISTOCRAT is not proud; he is very often the humblest man in the town, because he knows what is due to himself. He steps aside to let people pass him, and is polite and modest, because he is a man of delicate nerve, and nice sense of what is proper and right. He is content to be a high, generous, noble being; bearing in his body the blood of generations, unsullied by a single dishonor. Mr. BROWNSON, with all his deep radicalism once, in his education, slumped into this fact; that races of men are susceptible of improvement by inheritance; that there is something in blood; that qualities of mind are transmitted from father to son; that a man may take pride in noble descent; and that the chances are altogether in favor of those who come from a good stock. It surely is true of animals; why not of men? Let not this discommode you, my poor struggling brother; for you-you, I say-must be the founder of a stock, the ancestor of heroes in the battle of life. The real aristocrat is a modest, thoughtful, delicately-organized mortal, who cannot bear the rough-and-tumble of every day life. He keeps out of the way of men, and lives apart from the masses, because his tastes and feelings are refined to a painful degree. He often laments his own want of adaptation to his times, especially in this country, and wishes he had been born of poor and pious parents. The true aristocrat is often poor, and in situations that gall him to the quick. He had rather die than beg. His high blood is often a curse to him, in this republic; but he cannot help it. The blood does many things the man disapproves, by an inexorable necessity. This is our first class.

Next comes THE RADICAL; a man of strong natural sense, conscious of something wrong in the state of things about him, and feeling anxious every thing should be right. Not reasoning so much as feeling, more ready to force himself out of his dilemma than to philosophize about it, he attacks the lion in his den, and rejoices in

a contest where there can be in his opinion but one issue. His watchword is Freedom; and to show his love of liberty, he runs into license. If he be inclined to polemics, in his hatred of Calvinism he runs into Universalism; to show his republican spirit he becomes an Agrarian; and in his war with monopolies he takes it for granted that every rich man got his money by some kind of fraud. But he is honest and sincere, and means right, whatever be his extravagance. We will let him off easy. He creates a laugh by his oddity, and says many useful things by chance.

But here among THE INDEFINITES is baser stuff; the worst kind of radicalism. Here are the men that make the word Reform' a censure and a nuisance. The Indefinites hate every body that is better off than themselves; they hate the exclusives, because they are shut out; the rich, because they are poor; the men in office, because they themselves are out. We call them 'Indefinites' because they do not know what they want. They have no love of freedom, like the true and honesthearted radical; no great impulses after a better general state of things; but are bound up in themselves, and growl and snarl at their own ill-fortune. When they get into power, they are tyrants; when they become rich, they are miserly; and when admitted to the higher circles, they become the most exclusive of the exclusives. You will find these men in all reform movements, muddling the pure stream of philanthropy by the low position they take, by their nature; the depths to which they sink by their own specific gravity. They talk the most and do the least. They love the bounty given to new recruits, and, by a skilful change of position, are ever on the eve of actual service. Their manner of fighting is to retire to an upper room, and from the windows thereof set on their dogs to bite passengers. The Indefinite is a man of no principles; he too unsettled to have any. He is a radical if he is poor; and when he becomes rich, he tries to be an aristocrat. He thinks he can do this by putting on a pompous air, and setting up a carriage, and maltreating his servants, as if they were dogs. He does not know that a man is only born to aristocracy; that it is a work like the formation of the diamond, which can't be imitated. The New-Haven professor is said to have made black diamonds; as 'CUFFEE' has come the nearest to being an imitative aristocrat. See him in his high cravat and brassheaded cane! His boots shine like silver; he walks majestically and looks solemn in vain. Alas! poor fellow, he 'can't come it.' It is a failure. It can't be done! 'These classes will embrace all the men of our country. Don't be alarmed, Mr. Democrat; we are republican to the back-bone. There are long lines of ancestry

in our country; there are men who can trace their descent back for many hundred years, through generations of men who have occupied high stations in civil and social life. The chances are that these men will be high-minded. It seems to me that we real democrats do not make allowance enough for their natural condition; and we often use them roughly, not considering that there are strong natural propensities and tastes, which are inherited. I have ever found the true aristocrat the gentlest of gentlemen, the most modest, humble, retiring class, of any in my walk. It is the counterfeit aristocrat that makes the term odious. This counterfeit is the Indefinite become rich. LORD! how he pays 'em off! He remembers that he was once tyrannized over by his master when he was an apprentice, or a stable-boy, and his blood boils to revenge his wrongs. No matter whom he hits, so he makes somebody smart. Perhaps he moves into the country, selecting a village where few can exceed him in wealth. Here he is a grandee at once; for the people love his money, and love to be paid for their work in cash, and will permit a good deal of insolence from fools, if

they pay well for it. They call him ''Squire' or 'Capting' forthwith, and this tickles him. He sinks the tailor, and looks with contempt upon mechanics. Ten years ago he sat cross-legged, or stood behind a counter and tied up quarter-pounds of tea. He aspires at influence, and thinks it not impossible he may be put up for Congress. Here he is mistaken. Here you touch the people in a tender point. They will do any thing for him but put him in office. They know him too well for that. They despise him too deeply to make him a real ''Squire' or 'Capting.' They had rather call him so than make him so.

'The radical is an angel of light in comparison with one of this class. There is some honesty in him, if he is in error. He means right, if he acts wrong. There are deep wrongs in society; every body knows it. Who doubts that a good deal of what is called 'refinement' is as rotten as punk? Who doubts that women are poorly paid for their labor? that labor of all kinds is not regarded with respect to its utility? By what philosophy is the occupation of the farmer a lower calling than that of a retail merchant? Why is the mechanic in a low grade? for he is, practically. Nobody of any sense will pretend to support the justice of the fact, and most will deny it to be a fact; and yet to be a mechanic is to shut one's-self out of the best society.' The radical establishes himself upon a few unanswerable questions like the foregoing, and complains and groans. He is an honest fellow, for there are wrongs that are only to be helped by the general progress of the world. These are the exponents of a sinful, struggling world; these inequalities and this injustice. GOD help the Right! Keep moving, talking, writing; keep their rights before the people; their right to education, to happiness, to peace, to respect; their right to be great in labor and toil; respectable in poverty, and honest in rags; temperate in abundance; prudent in power; humble in high stations, contented in low places; no more proud and cringing, but ever wearing the front of a true man, accountable to God.' LET us hope, reader, that you will admire as we do the quaint and beautiful thoughts contained in the passages which ensue, taken from · The Lover's Melancholy,' by JOHN FORD, one of the most felicitous of England's elder dramaOur attention has been called to it by a correspondent, who has been reminded of it by the admirable paper in our last number upon Tropical Ornithology, by an esteemed friend and correspondent, JOHN ESAIAS Warren, Esq., of Troy :

tists.