But it were endless to go on selecting thus. In Shakspeare there is a moral melody that seems to reach the mind, besides that which strikes upon the ear, defying all rules, and distancing all imitation. Harmony follows upon every chord he touches; every subject is equally within his grasp; and therefore it is in his works alone that the echo comes to the ear as intelligible and clear from a moral as from a descriptive subject. The last of the three quotations will exemplify this.

In general this principle will apply only to such subjects as come within the bounds of strict imitation, either of sound or motion, if indeed the latter is not included in the former. It is a dangerous figure to be wielded by unskilful hands, and, except when under the guidance of a master-spirit, the charm may be powerful only to the destruction of the user. Perhaps, after all, in English, ludicrous poetry is its safest ground; and as I have not yet given a specimen of the power of imitation to produce laughter, I do not think I can conclude better than by selecting from the Rejected Addresses the following illustration of that very hard word and useful figure, the Greek onomatopœia, or, in plain English, of the sound imitating the sense-or nonsense, as it may be. Thus Yamen's tumble from the higher to the lower regions is described:

"To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,
And he fell, and he fell

To the regions of hell;

Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,
And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock
Like a pebble in Carisbrook well!"

THE DAYS OF YORE.

I.

THEY were gallant days of old,

When the minstrel struck his lyre, And the spirits of the bold

Waxed bolder at his fire,

As he swept the golden harp-strings along!
And in woman's eye the light

Flash'd more lovely and more bright,
As she felt the kindling might

Of his song!

II.

They were gentle days of yore,
When, next to Heaven above,
Man bent him to adore,

At the shrine of woman's love,

And the proudest of the land was her slave! And her chastening influence stole,

With its still unfelt control,

Like a charm upon the soul

Of the brave !

III.

They were peaceful days of yore,
When the peasant at his plough

Had no murmur on his lip,

And no gloom upon his brow,
And content was the blessing of his home :-
Ere the troubler's busy wile,

And the traitor's tongue of guile,
'Mongst the loyal of our isle

Dared to come!

IV.

They were merry days of yore,

When maids and swains were gay,

And Toil his task gave o'er

On each rustic holiday,

For the tabor, and the dance, and the song:
And the proud of blood and birth

Thought it robb'd not from his worth
To grace the honest mirth

Of the throng.

V.

They were noble days of yore,
When, for king and father-land,
If danger near'd our shore

Forth flash'd the ready brand,
And the terror-stricken foe fled away!
When like her island-rock,
Unmoved by tempest's shock,
Britain's glory seem'd to mock
At decay!

VI.

They were happy days of yore,
Ere yet the scoffer came
On our cherish'd faith to pour

Contempt, and scorn, and shame,

And to undermine our isle's surest trust!
When we dream'd not of the foe

Whose foul and traitor-blow

Would dash our altars low

In the dust!

VII.

In a dark and evil day

Our later lot is cast;

A happy rest have they

Who slumber with the Past!

We would not give their blessed souls the pain,

Could we yet arrest their doom,—

To call them from the tomb

To a time of tears and gloom
Back again!

SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A BOOK-CASE.

You will observe that this letter is written on loose square pieces of paper, on only one side. This will to your observing mind at once inform you that I am at last arrived at the region so distinguished for gyps and mathematics. I arrived here last evening, and found the rooms bearing evident signs of that attention for which bed-makers are remarkable; and after a cold ride the comforts of a blazing fire made me overlook all the inconveniences of my quarters. I could not, however, help observing that the furniture was in none of the best order, particularly an old bookcase which occupied a corner of the room, and, as far as appearances went, must have occupied it for the last twenty years; for its crazy condition indicated, as physicians say, that its state was too delicate to bear removal. I retired to bed about half-past ten. My bedroom is six feet square and twelve high. These proportions, you will observe, would render any apartment commodious enough, but would make it still more so, if the only window in the room were not a round hole (glazed, of course) looking into the top of a cloister; so that you require a candle at all hours of the day to see your hand. I had scarcely composed myself to rest, when I was awakened by a slight noise, and, to my horror and surprise, I beheld the bookcase above-mentioned gliding into my room with indescribable facility. As the bookcase was seven feet long, I will leave to your mathematical head to determine how it managed to introduce itself; and when

you have satisfied yourself on this point, to determine how it was enabled, in a creaking voice, to address to me the following tale :

"However undeserving notice I may now appear, time was when I was selected as the most elegant article in the first upholsterer's in Cambridge, by the Honourable Mr. Dilletant, who came up to the University with a reputation for an unrivalled taste in the belles lettres. I groan when I think what a figure I then cut. I was painted a most delicate and successful imitation of maple; I was ornamented with glass doors, and pink silk lining; but, oh, what was the delicacy of the lining to my contents! Anacreon in the most elegant kid; Moore's Loves of the Angels, exquisitely bound, with a design of Cupids executed in gold; Rogers' poems on costly vellum, with the most highly-finished illustrations—and such margin! What would the writer of the Orestes not have given for it?—

'Summi plenâ jam margine libri

Scriptus et in tergo necdum finitus Orestes.'

No heavy folios to press me with their weight; all light, light as their contents. The only prose works allowed were works of sentiment in post octavo. Those were high and palmy days indeed. But another state of existence was doomed for me. The Honourable Mr. Dilletant could not bless Cambridge for ever, and though he persevered till he was plucked four times, he at last left the University with honest indignation, and gave vent to his excited feelings in a pamphlet on the studies of the University; wherein he stated that the standard of learning was not sufficiently high, nor the discipline sufficiently strict, and proposed dismissing Greek and Latin and introducing Arabic and Sanscrit