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the last year.
for the last two years, is in the number reason to believe that no one has been admitof meteors (some of them of a large its social and political machinery, as Lady
ted so uoreservedly to inspect the interior of size): of 121, no less than 95 appear- Morgan; her amusing deliveations of France ed in the evenings of July, August, and having procured for her a inore complete in
timacy and confidence abroad, than have September, the three bottest months in been enjoyed by other Travellers. It is
It may, therefore, be therefore'with much satisfaction that we noinferred, that they are generated by will contain the observations collected by
tice the announcement of a work, which heat in an atmosphere highly charged this distinguished Lady during her two years with electric matter.
absence from England. NAUTICAL IMPROVEMENT.
TO DESTROY CATERPILLARS. We congratulate the public on the A gardener at Glasgow practise a application of a simple mecbanical ap- mode of destroying caterpillars, which paratus to impel boats, instead of oars. he discovered by accident. A piece of It consists of the machinery of steam- woollen rag had been blown by the vessels, but the moving power is the wind into a current bush, and when tahand applied to a windlass. Boats ken out was found covered by these were first used on this principle with leaf-devouring insects. He immediate
Whit. Monday, between ly placed peices of woollen cloth in erLondoo and Greenwich. The labour ery bush in his garden, and found next is much less than that of oars, and the day that the caterpillars had universalimpulse of the boat through the water ly taken to them for shelter. In this much increased in swiftness.
way he destroys many thousands every LADY MORGAN.
morning. Among the numerous Travellers who have visited Italy since the restoratiou, we have
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ;
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Thou watı hest the last oozings hours by hours.
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosey bue;
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies :
Hedge crickets sing; and now with treble soft
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies
By John Keats. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To swell the goord, and plump the hazel shelis
By Joanna Baillie,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Backward coil'd and crouching low,
Doth power in measured verses dwell, All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound, The giddy scamper round and round, With leap, and jerk, and high curvel, And many a whirling somerset, (Permitted by the modern Muse Expression technical to use,) These mock the deftest rhymester's skill, But poor in art, though rich in will.
The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limband sinew strains To do what costs thee little pains, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requites him oft with plaudits loud; But, stopped the while thy wanton play, Applauses, too, thy feats repay ; For then beneath some urchin's hand, With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, While many a stroke of fundness glides Along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy pur; As timing well the equal sound, 'Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose : While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But, not alone by cottage fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire ; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfettered fancy, Ay Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles with altered air To see thee clinb his elbow chair, Or, strugling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. The widow'd dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still but cheerless shade of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a lettered page; son bare hearth for thee lets fall
inded cork or paper ball,
Nor ehides thee on thy wieked watch
Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss,
Nor when thy span of life is past,
By Thomas Meere, Esq. • A temple to Friendship,' said Laura, enchanted,
• I'll build in this garden, the thought is divine !" Her temple was built, and she only now wanted
An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor who set down before her,
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the Friendship she meant O never!' she cried, 'could I think of enshrining
An image whose looks are so joyless and dim; But yon little god upon roses reclining,
We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him.' So the bargain was struck, with the little God laden
She joyfully flew to ber shrine in the grove. *Farewel, said the sculptor, you're pot the first inaiden
Why came but for Friendship and took away Lore!' * From Popular National Airs, just published.