as to strike us at the first glance, because of the many elements continually in contention, obscuring the action of those which were the subject of poetry in the preceding; but if we keep in mind the elements only of which poetry consisted, we should find that they had passed in after times into the rank of ordinary and practical thought. The energy of Tyrtaeus passed into a general feeling of pride in Greece, whilst in him it was the unyielding spirit of liberty, or death. The hatred of tyranny, and the defence of each individual's liberty, passed, with Socrates, into the exaltation of excellence and virtue, as a moral power in man, in contradistinction to position; and Aristophanes made it a common feeling by showing it, not as an exalted abstraction, but as a simple truth; another specimen of the descent of the finest poetry to live in social life. True, the goddesses must change their manners when they come amongst men, but they are no less goddesses. Many generations of them must blend in a similar manner with mankind, before the end be gained to which all improvement tends. The unformed thought is in the poet's soul, a full swelling ocean of enthusiasm; but when it has developed itself fully, and attained such a shape that the observative faculties can deal with it, the cause of all his enthusiasm acts as calmly and unconsciously as one of the most common instincts. We hear some men neglect the early poet, Homer, as a teller of tales, a chronicler of blows; but we do not consider that he is the first who saw the propriety and great importance, as well as the exciting interest, in a good description of human character. He sung the wrath of Achilles, and man was his study. The importance of this was long neglected, and Pope was honoured as one who had made a discovery, because, after much study, it had occurred to him. This portraying of human character is a striking feature of Homer, and the Greeks carried out the spirit by histories surpassing those of any other nation. Now it is not asserted that Homer taught them all this; by . no means. Homer spoke as a Greek; and it is only desired to shew that Greece was represented by him; that he expressed the spirit of the nation, and by expressing it, kept it in motion, and furthered its progress. According to the principles on which we set out, it would follow, when the poetical age had condensed into the practical, that in every nation a succession of characters would appear, poetical and practical, in turns, contradicting the stability of national characteristics. This, however, is no great difficulty; poets, or poetical people, remain still as they were; but the enthusiasm seldom, in a well formed mind, remains the same in detail on the same subject, unless it be a subject too high to make any sensible progress towards. When one subject has in time come down to every day life, another is ready to take its place; or the first will renew its position in relation to the mind, by assuming a higher ground. As an instance, we may refer again to the doctrines of the Greek philosophers, which, from the material in their history and mythology, rose to the rank of being in part expressions of universal truth. I take that age for many of these examples, because of its convenience. We have there the best history of any early period; and although the same laws have been in action with tenfold more energy and effect in modern times, their numbers, and their complicated movements, render them less capable of being brought conveniently forward as examples. From these examples we see that poetry is capable of rising and falling in the same nation, that it imbues ordinary life with its influence, and again takes a higher stand in the moral man, which mode of existence is also destined to share the fate of the former. It is like progress of every other kind, a suceession of risings and fallings; every step is a work done, a certain amount of ground gone over. Another example of the passage of the poetical to the practical, and the power and spirit which it infuses into the practical, is seen in still greater purity and simplicity in the Mahommedan religion. The oneness of God;-let there be one ruler, was the spirit which it breathed; and the same was carried out into practice, forming out of a lawless people, a system of government, which, in theory, is surpassed by none. The one idea formed a system beautifully representing unity, and the whole governed country seemed to say nothing but unity-unity. There was poetry in all its glow at the commencement of this nation, or rather system, although the verbal poetic utterance was not given. Poetry had fallen in the historical age of Egypt, but we inferred from their works that poetry had existed; and had we no records of Mahommedanism, we might there have traced the same source of their actions. A glow of feeling from some principle, boundless to the sight, is a spirit of poetry; when it bounds itself, it assumes the form of a physical, or moral duty, and shews itself in corresponding actions. For this reason we generally talk of poetry as a spirit, as a vague thing, as a mere feeling; and men of precision have considered it closely allied to weakness. Exactness may be found in a poet, as in other men; but there is always a part of him which passes the finite, and which remains poetry till its infinitude ceases. Herein lies the universality of poetry, the endless explanations of a poet's word; it is an arrow on the wing, keeping. the original direction, moving forward, but not soon to cease. A poet does not make his poetry, it is already made for him; he puts the spirit into words. Nature is the poet, and the only poet. This is not the case merely in the sense that the poet is a portion of nature, but it is the case literally. In nature we see the poetry acted, and in poetry we have it clearly spoken; and although it has been said that the poet sees the future, and speaks it before other men, it is not that the spirit of h's visions has been in him only, but the quickest perception of them. "The gentle swains of famous Arcady" lived and acted the poetry of their times; and "the smooth enamelled green, where no print of step hath been," spoke of unsullied purity and peace to many a heart, before it spoke fully out in words. As we are not done with early times, let us look at what the poetry in them was. The poetry of Saturnian and Arcadian days, was in those days themselves; and the poetry of warlike periods, in those periods themselves; the pleasure of living in peace and liberty in the one, and the many varied ambitions of the warrior in the other. "The senses maddening play" gave the poetry to both; and the poet uses such words as can recall to us their feelings. His is not the part to make the poetry; except in so far as he exalts the real into the ideal, as otherwise we should hear of nothing but moral sentiments and social principles. Early times could not always use words in uttering their feelings. Egyptians, and other easterns, used great labour of the limbs; Mahommedans used the sword; later ages, in passing along the infinite line, remove further from physical expression; but the real spirit is the same, the arc is the same, although of a smaller circle. Another example of this we see in the types and shadows of the early scriptures, which, even when expressing the universal spirit found in later revelation, appeared in the strongest sectarian light, and have therefore been called by St. Paul," beggarly elements." [To be continued.] R. S. A SONG TO THE ABSENT. BY FREDERICK KEMPSTER. OH! wherefore hast thou, gentle girl, around me They tell me thou art grown regardless now Of hours once cherished--of our youth's delight,— They tell me there are flatterers bending o'er thee, They tell me thou art grown regardless now Of hours once cherished-of our youth's delight,-- ODD WANDERINGS; OR, THE TRAVELS OF AN ODD FELLOW. CHAPTER IV. I ARRIVED in London on the afternoon of a Tuesday, in the latter part of September. I obtained lodgings in Frederick Street, at the end of Grey's Inn Lane, and in the week following procured work in Bond Street. I believe I have not yet told what trade I was; but now, as I have got once more to work, I must inform my readers that I am an upholsterer, and that I was employed by Messrs. Merino, who had, at that time, an extensive establishment in Bond Street, and were employed by some of the principal merchants in London. I soon obtained the esteem and good-will of my employers by sobriety, diligence, and punctuality as to time. After being about four months in London, I, with two more men, was sent to a house in Dash Court, Chancery Lane, which we had partly to furnish and fit up for a London merchant. Mr. Pellan, a general merchant, had commenced business, in a small way, about twenty years prior to this; and by a close and steady perseverance, had amassed a small fortune. He had married after he had been about two years in business, and after one year of conjugal bliss, he became a father and a widower at the same time. He had married from pure love, and, therefore, respected the memory of his departed one so sincerely, as never to think of another. He devoted his days solely to trade, with a view of procuring a fortune for his daughter. Owing to the increase of his business and his fortune, he had removed from his house, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, to a much larger one in Dash Court, Chancery Lane. It was on this occasion that I had to attend, and superintend the furnishing of his house. On the second day Mr. Pellan came, with his daughter, to view our work. I was struck with her remarkable beauty; I felt as I had never felt before. A thrill of the most pleasing sensation passed through my frame when she spoke; her voice was like sweet music to me, and entranced my very soul. I returned home that night an altered man. During all my travels I had still cherished my first love, without a “wish or sigh for change.' Now, a lady above me in society was, by chance, thrown in my way, and at once made a conquest of my heart. She was about seventeen years of age, five feet five or six inches in height, slender in shape; her head was of the finest form, and her face such as any artist might choose to copy a Venus from. Her eyes were piercing, though rather light, but such as could send Cupid's shafts to the very core. eternal smile seemed to play about her lips. Her hair was of that flaxen kind which seems more congenial to our clime than that jet black, which savours of an Italian origin. An During the time we were busy at Mr. Pellan's, I had frequently an opportunity of speaking with Miss Pellan, her father having entirely left everything to her taste, she was, therefore, present every day. Time went on, however; we finished the house, and I saw no more of Miss Pellan for several weeks. About five or six weeks afterwards, as I was walking in Hyde Park, on a Sunday afternoon, I met Miss Pellan, in company with an elderly lady, and she returned my salutation in passing with a smile so sweet, and a look so expressive, that I felt at once there was a reciprocity of feeling betwixt us. Two days after this I received an order from my employers to wait upon Mr. Pellan, as he required some alterations in his house. I set off immediately with a joyous heart, in anticipation of again beholding and conversing with one who had made so powerful and lasting an impression upon me. On arriving I was immediately sent to Miss Pellan's private room, where I found her, and the old lady I had seen in the park, and who, I now found, was her aunt. After a little conversation, Miss Pellan said, "I do not like this room at all, Mr. Beverley; it is too fiery-too gaudy; not, in fact, pretty, or neat, at all.” "It was precisely in accordance with your directions, Miss; butwas; I do not throw any blame upon you.” "Oh! I know it The fact was, the room was papered with scarlet, the window curtains were scarlet, and the whole appearance of the room was, as she expressed it-fiery. I therefore recommended light blue instead of scarlet, which would give the whole a most chaste appearance. The ladies instantly agreed with me, and then left the room. On the table I observed a portfolio containing drawings, as I supposed, for one or two were lying open. While admiring one of these, Miss Pellan came in, and I observed,"This is a beautiful little landscape." "Do you really think so?" she asked. "I do indeed. How like it is to nature! One would almost imagine that the child on the foreground was speaking to the dog, it seems so pleased. I presume, Miss, it is your own pencilling?" 'Why, yes, it is; but I am afraid it is not so good as you would wish to persuade Pray, Mr. Beverley, do you draw? You seem to look at it with the eye of a connoisseur." me. Yes, a little occasionally; that is-I try for mere pastime." "Oh! indeed! Well, since you sometimes draw, though it is for mere pastime, do oblige me by pencilling a little. As you have seen my productions, it is but fair I should see yours. Nay, I will have no excuse," she said, laughingly, as I attempted to get out of the predicament, which, unconsciously, I had stumbled into. "Now, I shall expect when I return, to find a picture," said Miss Pellan, and left the room. Now, here is a pretty mess I've got into," soliloquized I; but faint heart never won a fair lady." But-the subject, and that puzzled me for some time.. At length I went to work right earnestly, and accomplished, in a shorter time than I expected, a small piece. I made a representation of the room in which I then sat, with a male and female figure to represent Miss Pellan and myself; on the table, near which I stood, were the landscapes, on one of which the forefinger of my right hand rested. Miss Pellan stood at a little distance, and just behind her, peering over her shoulder, was a Cupid with his bow in hand, having just discharged an arrow which had pierced my left side. Shortly afterwards she entered the room; she took up the picture, and became aware in a moment of the subject; her face suddenly crimsoned, and she said, Mr. Beverley, I did not mean-that is "Madam, I hope I have not offended you. I assure you "Oh, no great offence; only" and she left the room without finishing the sentence. I saw her no more that day. To be brief, I improved the future opportunities I had of seeing her; in a week I was her accepted lover-in three months I was her husband. Heavens! what changes since that happy day. By becoming the husband of Miss Pellan I was raised at once to plenty-to riches; surrounded with every comfort, nay with luxuries. Little did I think at that moment of the awful changes that have since taken place. After being about three months married, and having conducted myself during that time with propriety, and attended regularly at the counting-house of my father-in-law, I gained his warm affection. But I now began to mix in company, to keep late hours, and to forget my attendance at the counting-house. The theatres and the gaming table became my constant resort, and at the end of six months from my wedding-day I had become a downright debauchee. My amiable wife was evidently suffering from my conduct, and my treatment, formerly so kind and gentle, had now become harsh and unmanly. Oh, ye husbands! if you would profit by the advice of one who has suffered the bitterest pangs of remorse, never, never forsake the domestic hearth in search of momentary joys or amusement. Be assured the day will come when you will wish to recall all those moments so spent. But the wish will be in vain! In spite of my better judgment I continued in my mad career for about four months longer, when one day, being heated with drink and out of money, I went to the countinghouse and demanded a sovereign from Mr. Pellan. He refused, and upbraided me; telling me that I would be the death of his daughter. His refusal and his language He called me a villain, and ordered me out. In my madness I struck The next moment I was felled to the ground. maddened me. him! CHAPTER V. My interview with Mr. Pellan had been witnessed by one of his porters, and when the man saw what was going on he had gradually drawn nearer, and when he beheld me strike the old gentleman, he immediately sprung forward and dealt a blow that would have levelled with the ground a stronger man than me at that moment. It was three days after this occurrence before I recovered the proper use of my senses, and I found then, for the first time, that I was the inmate of a hospital. To such a state of physical debility had I been reduced through dissipation, that it was nearly three months before I was able to leave that asylum. During the third week of my confinement the surgeon that attended me brought the following note : 6 SIR Wednesday night. "THAMES STREET, FRIDAY MORNING. "I have to inform you that the daughter of Mr. Pellan died in childbed on "Mr. Pellan desires me to enclose five pounds, and to state that he hopes never more to see or hear from you. "I am, &c. "The "THOMAS INKHORN." The cool, laconic, and studied style of this note galled me not a little. daughter of Mr. Pellan!" Why not Mrs. Beverley. But no! Mr. Inkhorn, the senior clerk in Mr. Pellan's establishment, wished to shew his contempt of one whom he previously had to look upon as an employer. After my recovery I was again thrown upon the wide world, again compelled to search for employment. I could not return to my old employers, my fall had been too sudden and too great, and I could not brook the idea of again mixing with those who knew me. Work is often ill to find in London, and though I husbanded with great care the five pounds I had received from Mr. Pellan, I was soon reduced to the last shilling, without the slightest prospect of employment, or any other means whereby I might replenish my finances. I was now reduced lower than I had ever been before Wandering one night melancholy and dejected along Great Surrey Street, in com pany with another "unfortunate," our ears were suddenly arrested by the cry of "fire, fire." We followed the sound, and soon reached the scene of conflagration, which was in Union Street, Friar Street. It was between one and two o'clock in the morning when the fire was first discovered, and we arrived amongst the first after the discovery. The fire had broken out in the lower part of the house, so that the escape of the inhabitants in the upper stories was entirely cut off, except by boldly rushing through the flames. Whilst we were looking on, a young girl suddenly appeared at one of the windows in the upper story, where she wrung her hands and shrieked in despair. A single engine had only arrived, and the flames were rapidly gaining ground. In a moment after the girl appeared, my friend sprung from my side, dipped a handkerchief in the tub of the engine, tied it round his mouth, and with the speed and courage of a wild Indian dashed through the flames, and in a few minutes was seen at the window with the girl. In a minute both were lost. A thrill of horror ran through the whole crowd,-a sudden silence succeeded the hitherto deafening noise, for no one dared to speak. Suddenly, however, the noble hero was seen issuing from the burning building, like Æneas of old, bearing on his shoulders from the flames of Troy the old Anchises, for in his arms he held the now senseless girl, and he himself would have fallen but for the assistance rendered him. A burst of applause issued from the lips of all present. The girl was found to be uninjured, and her brave deliverer had his face and clothes only slightly singed. By this time two or three more engines had arrived, and the fiery element was ultimately subdued. The name of the person, who had rendered such timely assistance in saving the life of a fellow mortal, was John Hall, a native, I believe, of Manchester, and a member of the Independent Order. My friend in two days afterwards received a present of two pounds ten shillings, and on the following day he and I quitted modern Babylon, where for weeks we had suffered the greatest privations. I had read and heard much of London, but all I had read and heard fell short in giving me a just conception of this vast, this mighty city. Its monuments-its buildings -its bridges, are beautiful,-stupendous; but its immense population-its endless streets-its crowded thoroughfares at all times, and the regularity with which the people move to and fro, like the currents of two mighty rivers, each following its own individual and separate course; as well as the immense number of carriages, hackney coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and carts that are perpetually running through the streets, strike the stranger with wonder and surprise. I felt my heart beat lighter than it had done for some time as we proceeded along Oxford Street on our way to Oxford, to which place we bent our steps. We slept at Maidenhead on the first night, and reached Oxford on the following day. Here I had the first opportunity of seeing anything of Odd Fellowship. During |