weighty cares attending the consideration of the morrow. The rising beauty anxiously contemplates the to-morrow's ball, when her superior charms may eclipse those of her rivals in female elegance. The old maid is busily employed in preparing for the morrow's tea party and conversazione. On Saturday evening how does the village girl anticipate the admiration (bewitching charm!) with which her rustic friends will behold her new gown on the following morning. There are, besides, a few reflections concerning the morrow, which, in a rational mind, will never be suffered to lie dormant. Knowing the purpose for which we are born, and the utter impossibility of prolonging for a single moment our abode in this sublunary scene, that this short hour of existence will be in an instant followed by an overwhelming eternity, can we forget-rather should I ask, can we have another thought, but that. to-morrow we may die?

G. W.

ENOUGH.

RARA AVIS IN TERRIS.

O thou rarity! whence comest thou, and where art thou to be found? In groves and solitudes? No. In the crowded courts of kings? No. In the mansions of the wise? No; not even there! Thou art, then, an ignis fatuus, which leadest men through mire and bramble, through trouble and adversity, and, after all their labours, makest them not one tittle the wiser or the better. Happening one day, in conversation, to express a wish to have enough of something, I was asked, "What is enough?" This question, I confess, puzzled me exceedingly, and, acknowledging my inability to answer, I begged to be informed. The reply was, "A little more than we really possess." Rightly answered indeed. The opinion of mankind in general, appears to be a "little more, and then I shall be satisfied." How

infinite is this "little." It matters not that our wishes are accomplished far beyond our warmest anticipation; the very completion of one wish gives rise to two wants, so that we never can have enough.

"Fortuna multis dat minis satis nulli;”

Exactly as I said, no man has enough. We often, however, flatter ourselves with soon possessing it; but soon is an indefinite space of time, and a little an infinite quantity. A little is as unlimited as the desires of man; enough is as unattainable as the stone of the philosopher. A.

THE EDITOR'S SCRAP BOOK.

Nov. 10.-Fixed December the 8th as the day on which our first number was to make its welcome appearance.

16.-Received various communications, sealed, and duly directed. With lively anticipation opened, as the first packet, a tale by , entitled "Gertrude." The style is too much of the sing-song to merit a place in the "Hora Sarisburienses." This, however, seems cruel both to author and reader; for the gratification of the one, and the amusement of the other, we will, therefore, select two prominent stanzas. The assassination of Gertrude's Lord, Sir Roderick, is thus aptly described by the author:

"He bravely fought against the band,
Remembering his wife

And lovely infant; but low

He lays, depriv'd of life.”

The second stanza is finely descriptive of poor Gertrude's poignancy, on beholding Sir Roderick's corpse :

68 Ah! little did I think to see
My murder'd husband's bier;
Oh! father of this lovely child;

Oh! Roderick, Roderick dear!"

18.-Made a desperate effort to collect sufficient resolution to open a second paper. It was "A Sketch" of the interior of a farmer's house, which afforded "H" a shelter from a storm. Mem. Rather indignant that these lines should be thought worthy to be read on the page of the " Hora Sarisburienses

On either side the room, a door;

A green hearth rug, a cold stone floor;
Four candlesticks of solid brass,

Two long, two short; a weather glass;
A pair of bellows, without nose;
A toasting fork; a pair of shoes,
With leather strings; an old padlock;
A silver watch, which serv'd as clock;
Brass is the chain, one key of steel,
With half another, and a seal,
Its inside fill'd with sealing wax;
A hammer, gimblet, three tin tacks;
A wooden card-case stuff'd with notes,
Hydrometer, and three great coats;
A little table made of oak;

A woman's head which never spoke ;
A fiddle, warming pan, and bason,
(N. B. The fiddle had no case on ;)
Two dining tables; not a match;
A cupboard door without a latch;
Six apples, and a basket too;
Seven chairs, but neither new,
And of three sorts; muff'tees and hat;
A five-legg'd footman, called a cat."
There hang some gaiters on a chair,
Three at the least, (no, two-a pair ;)
A poker, fender, tongs, and stool;
Nine ashen sticks; a two-feet rule;

A bookcase, desk, and cupboard, stor'd
With what I know not, on my word;
Knives, gridiron, bacon-rack, and grate,
An inkstand, brush, and china plate;
Two guns, a pistol, musket too."

Editors We tire, so bid the sketch adieu.

Nov. 19.-Quite melancholy. After two hours' resolution opened a third paper, "On Cricket." Mem.-Was enchanted with the subject. Read it through twice, highly delighted, and present our best thanks to for this cheering contribution. Our acknowledgments are due for "Nascitur poeta,' ," "Nil novum," and for a translation by 'Latham.' Our melancholy is gradually subsiding.

24. Two o'clock.-Came home from a walk quite tired. Were presented with a copy of verses "On the death of General Wolfe," written by our very highly esteemed, though now absent friend, * * *. May he enjoy every gratification which academical honours and the firmest friendship can bestow. We, his schoolfellows, cordially wish him every happiness.

Nov. 25.-Received various communications, which are now under consideration. G. S., W., A Friend, E. M., are particularly thanked. We have too much regard for A. Y. to insert all his lines on "The Horse;" we will, however, give his two last :

"Horses are always found in all places,

But the swiftest are used for the races.'

We extract the following from some lines on a Lady's birth-day, by Harold :

"In all the scenes of life oh may'st thou share
As now, thy mother's love, thy father's care;
And while to them life passes fast away,
May these to thee grow stronger every day.
Dear may'st thou be to ev'ry sister's heart,
To thee each brother act a brother's part.

B

May discord never dwell within their breast,
But thou in them, and they in thee be blest.
May friendship round thee shed its brightest ray,
Thy bliss augment, or charm thy griefs away:
May'st thou be blest in virtue, peace, and love,
Till summon'd hence to happier realms above."

Nov. 26. We are obliged to A., and to D. W. "Hope" gives us encouragement. G. S. must accept our best thanks for his valuable communication.

Nov. 27, 28, 29.-No time to make annotations. Not a table in the room but was covered with letters and packets, from the simple couplet to the complete bundle. With deep regret, and not without considerable fear that we should meet the frowns of the fair, we committed" Cupid" to the flames: in less than a minute he had vanished in a cloud of smoke, we need hope never to return, lest he should amply repay our kindness. We expect the little gentleman is offended. We are grateful to G. W., 1 2 3, Harold, and W. P. In the second and future numbers, N. B. shall be remembered. Mem. Very tired.

30 Nov.-Rested.

Dec. 1.-Hail thou important month-thou that art to give birth to the first number of the "Horæ Sarisburienses." In one week more we are to see that number out. Oh, smile propitious on us! Clear away thy mists, and (what is more important) ours. Let thy eighth sun rise and shine in resplendent brilliancy, to light the way to our impatient. Pegasus. But to business. What, no letters! No articles to day! We shall surely be too late! Run you, and you, and I. We will all run! But whither? Stay! Let us sit down and write. Prose! Poetry! Essay! Elegy! have at you all!

7 o'clock.-Reviewed our labours of the day; had written but one essay, and, by mistake, with that lighted the candle. Composed nine lines, read them over twice. Burned them. First Editor, asleep! Second, dozing! Third, quite wild! Oh my head! my head! Dec. 7.-All ill.