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[HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, born February 27, 1807, at Portland, Maine. Educated at Bowdoin College, Brunswick; has travelled much in Europe; is Professor of Modern Languages at Harvard University.]

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THE STARLING.-CAPTIVITY.

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THE STARLING.-CAPTIVITY.

(From the "Sentimental Journey.”)

[LAURENCE STERNE, born at Clonmel, November 24, 1713. Educated at Cambridge, took orders, and obtained the living of Sutton. Subsequently a prebend of York. Died in lodgings in Bond Street, March 18, 1768.]

AND as for the Bastille, the terror is in the word. Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastille is but another word for a tower, and a tower is but another word for a house you can't get out of. Mercy on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year; but with nine livres a day, and pen, and ink, and paper, and patience; albeit a man can't get out, he may do very well within, at least, for a month or six weeks, at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears, and he comes out a better and a wiser man than he went in.

I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard as I settled this account; and remember I walked down-stairs in no small triumph with the conceit of my reasoning. Beshrew the sombre pencil! said I, vauntingly, for I envy not its powers which paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified at the objects she has magnified herself and blackened: reduce them to their proper size and hue, she overlooks them.

"Tis true, said I, correcting the proposition, the Bastille is not an evil to be despised; but strip it of its towers, fill up the fosse, unbarricade the doors, call it simply a confinement, and suppose 'tis some tyrant of a distemper and not of a man which holds you in it, the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint.

I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained "it could not get out." I looked up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I went out without further attention. In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and looking up, I saw it was a starling, hung in a little cage. "I can't get out! I can't get out!" said the starling. I stood looking at the bird; and to every person who came through the passage, it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approached it, with the same lamentation of its captivity-"I can't get out," said the starling.

God help thee! said I; but I'll let thee out, cost what it will; so I turned about the cage to get the door. It was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces. I took both hands to it. The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it

as if impatient. I fear, poor creature, said I, I cannot set thee at liberty. "No," said the starling, "I can't get out; I can't get out." I vow I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember any incident in my life where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastille, and I heavily walked up-stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, said I, still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. 'Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change; no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chemic power turn thy sceptre into iron; with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent, grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion, and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.

The bird in his cage pursued me into my room. I sat down close by the table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of a confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me, I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. In thirty years the

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western breeze had not once fanned his blood; he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time, nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice; his children-but here my heart began to bleed, and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed. A little calendar of small sticks lay at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down, shook his head, and went on with his work of

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affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh: I saw the iron enter into his soul. I burst into tears-I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

I started up from my chair, and calling La Fleur, I bid him bespeak me a remise, and have it ready at the door of the hotel by nine in the morning.

"I'll go directly," said I, "myself to Monsieur the Duc de Choiseul."

Le Fleur would have put me to bed; but, not willing that he should see anything upon my cheek which would cost the honest fellow a heartache, I told him I would go to bed by myself; and bid him go do the same.

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[The Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY, M.A., born at Holne, on the borders of Dartmoor, June 12, 1819.

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Educated at King's College,

and Magdalen, Cambridge, at which latter place he took a first-class in classics and a second in mathematics. Rector of Eversley, which was bis first cure. He took a foremost part in all movements for the benefit of the working classes; was Professor of Modern History at Cambridge from 1860-1869. Died 1875.]

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WELCOME, Wild North-Easter!

Shame it is to see

Odes to every zephyr;
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-Easter!
O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day;
Jovial wind of winter,
Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds,
Crisp the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.

Fill the lake with wild-fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest,
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow-flakes
Off the curdled sky.

Hark! the brave North-Easter!
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow,
Who can override you ?-
Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast,
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-wind,
Breathe in lovers' sighs;
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften

Heart alike and pen?

"Tis the hard grey weather

Breeds hard Englishmen.

What's the soft South-Wester?

(Drawn by H. SANDERCOCK.)

"Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true-loves Out of all the seas:

But the black North-Easter,

Through the snow-storm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak

Seaward-round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,

Heralded by thee;
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come, and strong within us

Stir the Vikings' blood;
Bracing brain and sinew,
Blow, thou wind of God!

* Ry kind permission of Rev. Charles Kingsley, and Messrs. Macmillan and Co.

3-VOL. I.

LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.

[GEORGE COLMAN, the Younger. See Page 6.]

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HO has e'er been in London, | The doctor looked wise: "A slow fever," he said;
that overgrown place, Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed.
Has seen "Lodgings to
Let" stare him full in

the face;

Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known,

Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

Will Waddle, whose temper
was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was fat, he appeared like a ton,
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.

He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated,
But all the night long he felt fevered and heated;
And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.

"Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, "are humbugs! I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!"

Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed, E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed; So, calling his host, he said, "Sir, do you know, I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago?

"Look'e, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin,

"That with honest intentions you first took me in; But from the first night-and to say it I'm boldI've been so precious hot that I'm sure I caught cold."

Quoth the landlord, "Till now I ne'er had a dispute; I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot: In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven, And your bed is immediately over my oven."

Next night 'twas the same, and the next, and the "The oven!" says Will. Says the host, "Why next;

He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed; Week passed after week, till, by weekly succession, His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him,

this passion?

In that excellent bed died three people of fashion! Why so crusty, good sir?" "Zounds!" cried Will in a taking,

"Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking?"

Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer,

For his skin, like a lady's loose gown, hung "Well, I see you've been going away half a year!" about him;

He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny : "I have lost many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea."

"Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel," Will said,

"But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread."

THE HAPPY HEART.

[DECKER (date and place of birth unknown) was at first connected with Ben Jonson as a dramatist, but subsequently quarrelled with him. He is supposed to have died, after a life of poverty and irregularity, about the year 1628.]

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum. Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? bers?

O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed,
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face:
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

O sweet content! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears ?

O punishment!

Then he that patiently Want's burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace.
Honest labour bears a lovely face:
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny

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