half an hour, or that even this portion of it was entirely elaborated in that brief sрасе? Poetry, with very extraordinary exceptions, is not thus hastily engendered. The witty Smith, of the 'Rejected Addresses,' once said of Samuel Rogers, that it was his custom to take to his bed, after writing a few verses of his exquisite poetry; have straw flung before his door, and his knocker muffled; and to inquiries after his health, the servant was directed to answer, 'As well as could be expected!' This figment of the distinguished humorist is not without its lesson.
How true is it, that 'one half of the world know nothing of how the other half exist?' How many, as we write, are among the world's stricken and forsaken! Ever and anon, melancholy examples transpire in the public prints, but more suffer, with heroic fortitude, in silence and in secret. We remember reading, some ten or twelve years ago, when 'Burking' was in vogue, an account of a woman in some town in Scotland, whose husband died, leaving herself and four children in poverty. After he was buried, she was in an agony of fear, lest his body should be stolen from the grave. She was too poor to pay for a guard to watch the grave, and she resolved to perform the fearful task herself. Her children, the youngest of which was an infant upon the breast, were unable to contribute in the least toward their maintenance, and she was obliged to support the family by washing clothes. Every day, for the space of six weeks after her husband's burial, did she discharge her duty to the living, by toiling at her laborious occupation from day-break to sunset, while her nights were spent in the church-yard, tending her husband's grave. Unawed by the superstitious terrors which the strongest mind could scarcely fortify itself against, in such a place; heedless of the drifting snow, which sometimes fell in wreaths around her, or chilling night damps, drenching rains, and howling winds, did this affectionate creature, seated on a tombstone, by the side of her husband's grave, with an infant at her bosom, maintain her solitary vigils for forty-two successive nights, at the close of a stormy autumn. Sometimes, she said, in delivering her simple narrative, she was kept at the washing-green till night was setting in, and then she came straight to the kirk-yard, leaped over the dyke, and sat down on the grave-stone, till her children brought her dry clothes and her supper. After changing her raiment, she sat down with her cloak about her, folded her baby in her bosom, and kept her dreary watch as well as she could, until it was time to resume her labors in the morning. Now does not this devoted wife and mother better deserve a monument, than many a hero, who is deified because he has slain his scores of thousands?
Here ensues a brief sketch, from an admirable Salmagundi in the last number of Blackwood, entitled, 'Reflections on Punch, Morals, and Manners.' For simple pathos, something kindred with the above, in its effect upon our mind, we know not when we have seen its superior. The scene is in that part of Devonshire which borders on the county of Somerset. A gentleman who had not seen his nurse for some years, happening to be in village where she lived, called on her, when the following conversation took place:
Nurse. 'Lor a massy, Sir! is it you? Well, sure, I be cruel glad to zee ye! How is mistress, and the young ladies{mdash}}and maister?'
Master. 'All well, nurse, and desire to be kindly remembered to you. You are quite stout, I am glad to see—and how is your husband?'
Nurse. 'My husband! Oh, mayhap, Sir, you ha'nt a heared the news?'
Master. 'The news! No. I hope he is not dead?'
Nurse. 'Oh no, Sir, but he's dark.'
Master. 'Dark? what, blind! How did that happen?'
Nurse. 'Why, there now, Sir, I'll tell ye all about it. One morning—'t is so long ago as last apple-picking—I was a-gitting up, and I waked Jahn, and told un 't was time vor he to be upping too. But he was always lazy of a morning: zo a muttered some 'at and snoozed round agin. Zo, arter a bit, I spoke to un agin. 'Jahn,' zays I, 'what be snoozing there vor?—git up.' 'Zo,' zays he, 'what's the use of getting up bevore 'tis light?' 'Oh,' zays I, 'tis n't light, is it? Thee 'st know what's behind the door. I'll zoon tell thee whether 'tis light or no, you lazy veller.' 'Then,' zays he, turning his head, 'why 'tis zo dark as pitch.' Now that did provoke me—I'll tell yer honor the truth—and I beginned to wallop un a bit. But—Lor a massy—God forgive me! in a minute the blid gushed to my heart—and gi'd me zitch a turn, that I was vit to drap! Vor, instead of putting