So magnificent a beginning could not adequately he pursued, and accordingly the following lines of the sonnet fall considerably in the scale of merit, and that is precisely the reason why we forbear presenting the whole composition to our readers.

Among our curious researches, we find some verses which a friend of ours, who is deeply read in Oriental literature, has translated from the Sanscrit language. The composition relates to the serious inconvenience which befel a loving couple, arising from a superabundance of nose, in the swain. Complaint.

The poet then proceeds to describe sundry contrivances, to which these unfortunate lovers resorted, in order to enjoy the wished-for kiss; they succeeded at last in their endeavours, but the appearance which they made at the moment was somewhat singular:

Sideways he kissed his Ourka dear!

His nose went far beyond her ear,
And seemed, perchance, to the beholder,
A sausage garnishing a shoulder!"

The ingenious Dr. Bowring, to whom the world of letters is so largely indebted for his translations from the unpronounceable languages, is, we believe, preparing for the press, a work on the poetry of the ancient Patagonians. Among the gems which are to adorn this collection, is a piece concerning the nose; we have made free with the composition, humbly trusting that the Doctor will not feel offended at a theft, meant solely in a kindly spirit toward him and his reputation. We give both the original and the version, by which means, those who are conversant with the old Patagonian idiom, will be able to judge of the spirit and fidelity of the translation.

"Oki Poki tiuzltlipochti

Ninni malthi xl zock

Xyeti polcht cucambo sogihti
Muzma lickoe zuglti hock."

"I poke the fire and yet it glows,

Far less than doth a certain nose;

The man must drink both Port and Hock,
Rum, Brandy, Gin, and other spirits."

Several things deserve attention in this specimen of Patagonian poetry. In the first place it clearly proves that the natives were acquainted with the use of the poker, and had some knowledge of German wines. Who the owner of the

singular nose was, neither the original poet nor the translator takes the trouble to tell us; we conclude the lines were written with the view that they should not go farther than a family circle, but, like many other attempts at verse made under similar professed intentions, they got a publicity beyond what was originally contemplated. What surprise us most are the excessive freedom and boldness of the translation. Our readers may possibly find a deficiency of rhythm in the words "hock and spirits." Still poetical license sanctions the practice of insufficient rhymes, and if we had the time and the will, we could adduce many examples from ancient and modern poets to justify the "hock

and spirits" of Doctor Bowring. Besides, some allowance ought to be made for the difficulties of rendering into so poor a language as the English, the spirit of so copious, energetic, and idiomatic a one as the Patagonian. We defy the most able linguist and consummate translator to render the full force and meaning of the following word into common English

xztpstxytshtphlafdbstnel

yet such words often occur in the unknown languages.

The acute and erudite Triglandius has published a Treatise on Noses, which we consider of immense utility, and therefore would advise our readers to procure it with all possible speed. We are not sure whether upon the whole it is so pleasant as our own writings on the subject, but still it deserves attention. Certainly he makes no mention of Dr. Bowring's translation, nor is there any illustrative anecdote, and this must be considered a sad oversight. The ancient Egyptians were not distinguished by eminent nasal organs, yet there is a tradition that the first architect of the Pyramids was remarkable for a colossal

nose.

Without recurring either to the classic or the unknown languages, our vernacular supplies us with excellent morsels of poetry dedicated to the nose. We doubt whether the public are acquainted with the following specimen, and therefore have ventured to insert it:

It is a strange oversight in the author of these lines to designate this very nosey person by the simple appellation of Ned. There are so many Neds in the world, that really one would be puzzled to assign this portentous nose to the rightful owner; we should advise the real Simon Pure to come forward and let us have a sight of it.

The facetious Mr. Theodore Hook has written an excellent song on the subject, which we are sorry we cannot insert here. The admirers of Shakspeare (a pretty considerable number) must remember that the great poet has devoted part of his amazing genius to the matter under consideration. Indeed, the celebrity of Bardolph's nose will endure as long as the name of the mighty bard himself, which we take to be a most venerable longevity. Stevens, Malone, Johnson, and other commentators of Shakspeare, are greatly to blame for not giving sufficient importance to Bardolph's “lantern in the poop." Every one is aware that the first duty and business of commentators (after abusing their predecessors) is to find ways and means of swelling the bulk of the work on which they comment, to double its size. How is it then that not even a single page is devoted to an erudite illustration and exposition of Bardolph's extraordinary feature-a feature, too, which used to serve the owner for such a splendid diversity of purposes. It is clearly proved that it was available in the capacity of a link to light Master Bardolph to the public houses. Now only conceive of what immense service this must have been at a time when no one dreamt of the discovery of gas; when London was so imperfectly illuminated as to render it specially perilous to walk about the streets in a dark night: then again this very peculiar lamp consumed no oil, but derived its nourishment from the pure spirits that presided at Bardolph's potations. There is a tradition in Andalusia, somewhat resembling the interesting account of Bardolph's nasal appendage; still it savours so strongly of the miraculous, that we are almost afraid to present it as deserving implicit faith. It is related that there lived a man at Carmona possessing a tremendous fiery nose. This person got into a rage, one night at supper, with his better half, and giving a kick to the table, extinguished the light. The wife, amidst the obscurity which per

vaded the room, observed a fiery globular spark buoyed in the air, and with great promptitude applied the candlestick to it. Lo! what was her astonishment when she discovered that she had lighted the candle at her irascible husband's nose! Probably it was this same individual, of whom it has been said that his friends made it a common practice to use his olfactory organ to light their cigars. But independent of these extraordinary uses, for which some noses have been available, we perceive in daily life the multifarious services they render to mankind. Now let us calmly ask how would snuff-takers indulge their taste without noses? Again, what would be the use of pocket handkerchiefs? Would John Farina, the immortal inventor of eau-de-Cologne, have realised a fortune? And what would become of the whole tribe of perfumers? nay, even the very existence of odoriferous flowers would be useless; the rose itself would lose half its merit, and then of course one half of the poetry on the rose would be lost to the world. With just reason does the Persian poet, Saadi, exclaim—

"Oh! Queen of flowers! lovely rose!

What wouldst thou be without the nose?"

But if any thing else were necessary to prove the genius and poetry of the nose, we have but to recur to the figurative expressions which we find even in familiar parlance. Now observe," He pokes his nose every where." Can any thing be more appropriate to designate a meddling intruder—a curious Paul Pry: again, "I smell a rat;" what strong meaning is there in that humble metaphorical phrase! But examples are endless.

The sarcasm and shrewdness clearly perceptible in the Lord Chancellor's nose, plainly foretold that some day or other the possessor of that enviable organ would arrive at an exalted station. The genius of the nose does not merely apply to the highest walks of intellect, but embraces a wide range in the dominion of talent. Thus the nose is equally advantageous to the mathematician and the poet-the philosopher and the warrior-the statesman and the artist. In our own days the benevolent Owen of Lanark has given a peculiar nosey turn to philanthropy; and every one who sees our friend Pickersgill, will not feel surprised to find him an artist of first-rate talents, if they merely observe his nose. In fine, if any thing else were wanting to convince us of the dignity of the nose, we have but to survey ourself in the glass, and every remaining doubt is dissipated at once.

ADIEU TO SCOTLAND.

LAND of my soul! what meet farewell
Shall trembling lips like mine address thee?
Such struggling thoughts my bosom swell
That words I scarce can find to bless thee!
Fame to thy sons of noble race!
Joy to thy maids of matchless grace!
Peace to my father's dwelling place,
And health to all who love thee!

What child of thine may hope to find,
Amid the climes where Fate shall lead him,
The virtues that he leaves behind,

Thy truth, thy honour, and thy freedom?
They shun the blood-stained soil of France,
In Rome they sleep in death-like trance—
Helvetia's mountains knew them once,
And for thy sake-I'll love her!

Yet there, even there-thy heath-clad hill,

Thy clear brown steams-the woods that line them,

Thy fairy lakes shall haunt me still,

And mock the lands that would outshine them.

In vain shall Alps invade the sky,

And rivers roll majestic by,

And mightier lakes expanded lie-
Like thine, I cannot love them!

Sounds too there are-as all have known,-
Upon the soul resistless stealing,

From voice of friends, the mingled tone
Of Scotia's music-mirth and feeling!
Oh Italy! thy matchless art

A moment's rapture may impart,
Like these, it ne'er can reach the heart
From infancy that lov'd them!

There is a spot, a darling spot,

Whose charms no other scene can borrow,
Whose smiles can cheer the darkest lot,
Can double joy, and lighten sorrow.
Through marble halls I'll coldly roam,
Unenvious of the princely dome,
And from their state, my lowly Home!
Still more I'll learn to love thee.

But for that friend who guides my way,
That tie which Death alone can sever;

Unable or to go, or stay,

My heart would linger on for ever.

But duty calls, the sail is set,

And eyes with friendly tears are wet-
Adieu, adieu! Oh! ne'er forget,
Till I return, to love me!

NOTES ON ROME, ALBANO, AND TIVOLI.

FROM A TRAVELLER'S JOURNAL.

"THE religion of Italy may be termed a Service of the Saints, and of these the Virgin takes precedence; for which reason, according to the principle of

a potiori fit denominatio,

the popular devotion should be called, not a Christian, but a Madonna creed.

"In the miraculous hut at Loretto are still sold as relics ashes from the hearth at which it is said the Virgin dressed the food of the infant Jesus; and no present is more gratifying to an Italian girl than a rosary consecrated at the Virgin's chapel in that sanctified locality. Few churches contain less than a dozen images or pictures of the Madonna, of whom engravings, casts, or carvings, may be found, not only in every house, but in almost every room throughout Italy. To some of these rude designs are attached popular songs, or rather lyric airs, of which the following liberal translation is a characteristic specimen :