says our poet, after a pause; I had well nigh forgot that.' reads his sublime requiem on the loss of the Royal George. And he "I am mistaken if this be not wonderfully grand, Mr Cowper,' says his ancient critic. But hark! our cuckoo clock. It must be regulated-you forget your duties, sir-Tiney must be put up, and' “You must just allow me, Mary, to give one puff of the bellows to the greenhouse embers. The air feels chilly to-night-my precious orange-tree.' And Mrs Unwin smiles over his fond care, as the gentleman walks off with the bellows under his arm. "And now is the stated hour of family worship. Sam and Hannah march forward in decent order. But I shall not attempt to describe the pious household rites, where the author of the Task is priest and worshipper. Affectionate goodnights,' close the scene. is the order of the evenings at Olney. And this "Cowper regulates the cuckoo clock; for though he has no alarum watch, or impending audience of Majesty, he lays many duties on himself, lowly, yet not ignoble; so about the same hour that the chancellor rolls off for Windsor, Cowper, also alert in duty, is penning his fair copy of the lace-workers' petition to parliament, or despatching one of his playful, affectionate epistles to his cousin, Lady Hesketh, or acknowledging the bounty of the benevolent Thornton to the poor of Olney. And now, body and mind refreshed, the blessings of the night remembered, and the labours of the day dedicated in short prayer and with fervent praise, and he is in his greenhouse study, chill though it be, for it is quiet and sequestered. See here, Fanny-our last picture. But so minutely has the poet described his favourite retreat that this sketch may be deemed superfluous labour. Yet this is and ever will be a cherished spot; for here many of his virtuous days were spent. Why pursue the theme farther," continued the curate, "you all know the simple tenor of his life : Thus did he travel on life's common way, The visitations to which his delicately-organized mind was liable, I put out of view. They were a mystery beyond his mortal beingfar beyond our limited human intelligence. And tell me now, my young friends, which, at the close of his memorable life, may be pronounced the best, and, by consequence, the happiest man of our Three Westminster Boys? Each was 'sprung of earth's first blood;' and though I do not assert that any one of the three is a faultless model, it is a fair question to ask, which has your suffrage? He who, by the force of his intellect and ambition, the hardihood and energy of his character, took his place at the head of the councils of this mighty empire,-he, the conqueror of so fair a portion of the East, who, by arms and policy, knit another mighty empire to this, -or he- the stricken deer,' who sought the shades, the arrow rankling in his side-who dwelt apart, in 'blest seclusion from a jarring world,' and who, as his sole memorial and trophy, has left us 'This single volume paramount.'" And Mr Dodsley lifted Sophia's small and elegant copy of Cowper's works, and gave it into the hand of the youth next him. An animated discussion now arose; and when Miss Harding collected the votes, she found the young gentlemen were equally divided between Hastings and Thurlow. The young ladies were, however, unanimous for Cowper; and the curate gave his suffrage with theirs, repeating, "Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, PRESTON MILLS* BY THE AUTHOR OF "CORN-LAW RHYMES," &c. THE day was fair, the cannon roared, Cold blew the bracing north, And Preston's mills by thousands poured Their little captives forth. All in their best they paced the street, All glad that they were free And sung a song with voices sweet- But from their lips the rose had fled, And still, as each passed by, I said, Flags waved, and men-a ghastly crew- While, hand in hand, and two by two, They moved-a living tide. * The painful picture which the eloquent author of "Corn-Law Rhymes" has here painted, is "taken from the life." Those who are acquainted with the state of our manufacturing towns will readily recognize its truth. May it have the effect of directing the attention of the benevolent to the dreadful condition of "Slaves at Home!"-Editor of The Amulet. YANKEE COURTSHIP* AFTER my sleigh-ride last winter, and the slippery trick I was served by Patty Bean, nobody would suspect me of hankering after the women again in a hurry. To hear me jump and swear, and rail out against the whole feminine gender, you would have taken it for granted that I should never so much as look at one of them again to all eternity. O, but I was wicked! Tear out their eyes, says I; blame their skins, and torment their hearts; finally, I took an oath, that if I ever meddled, or had any thing to do with them again, I might be hung and choked. But swearing off from women, and then going into a meetinghouse choke full of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday clothes and clean faces, is like swearing off from liquor and going into a grog-shop-it's all smoke. I held out and kept firm to my oath for three whole Sundays— forenoons, afternoons, and intermissions complete. On the fourth, there were strong symptoms of a change of weather. A chap about my size was seen on the way to the meeting house, with a new patent hat on; his head hung by the ears upon a shirt-collar; his cravat had a pudding in it, and branched out in front into a doublebow knot. He carried a straight back and a stiff neck, as a man ought to do when he has his best clothes on; and every time he spit, he sprang his body forward like a jack-knife, in order to shoot clear of the ruffles. Squire Jones's pew is next but two to mine, and when I stand up to prayers, and take my coat-tail under my arm, and turn my back to the minister, I naturally look right straight at Sally Jones. Now Sally has got a face not to be grinned at in a fog. Indeed, as regards beauty, some folks think she can pull an even yoke with Patty Bean. For my part, I think there is not much boot between them. Any how, they are so nigh matched that they have hated and despised each other, like rank poison, ever since they were school girls. Squire Jones had got his evening fire on, and set himself down to reading the great Bible, when he heard a rap at his door. "Walk in. Well, John, how der do? Get out, Pompey."—" Pretty well, I thank ye, Squire, and how do you do?"—"Why so as to be crawling -ye ugly beast, will ye hold your yop? Haul up a chair and sit down, John." * This amusing sketch originally appeared in a New England newspaper, but we are indebted for our knowledge of it to "Chambers' Edinburgh Journal." "How do you do, Mrs Jones ?"—" O, middlin'; how's yer marm? Don't forget the mat there, Mr Beedle." This put me in mind that I had been off soundings several times in the long muddy lane; and my boots were in a sweet pickle. It was now old captain Jones's turn, the grandfather. Being roused from a doze, by the bustle and racket, he opened both his eyes, at first with wonder and astonishment. At last he began to halloo so loud that you might hear him a mile; for he takes it for granted that every body is just exactly as deaf as he is. "Who is it? I say, who in the world is it?" Mrs Jones going close to his ear, screamed out, "It's Johnny Beedle."-" Ho, Johnny Beedle, I remember he was one summer at the siege of Boston.""No, no, father, bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that's been dead and gone this twenty year."-" Ho; but where does he come from?"" Daown taown."-" And what does he follow for a livin'?" And he did not stop asking questions, after this sort, till all the particulars of the Beedle family were published and proclaimed in Mrs Jones's last screech. He then sunk back into his doze again. The dog stretched himself before one handiron; the cat squat down upon the other. Silence came on by degrees like a calm snow storm, till nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping tune with a sappy yellow-birch forestiek. Sally sat up prim, as if she were pinned to the chair-back-her hands crossed genteelly upon her lap, and her eyes looking straight into the fire. Mammy Jones tried to straighten herself too, and laid her hands across in her lap; but they would not lie still. It was full twenty-four hours since they had done any work, and they were out of patience with keeping Sunday. Do what she would to keep them quiet, they would bounce up now and then, and go through the motions in spite of the fourth commandment. For my part, I sat looking very much like a fool. The more I tried to say something, the more my tongue stuck fast. I put my right leg over the left, and said "hem." Then I changed, and put the left over the right. It was no use the silence kept coming on thicker and thicker. The drops of sweat began to crawl all over me. I got my eye upon my hat, hanging on a peg, on the road to the door-and then I eyed the door. At this moment, the old captain all at once sung out, "Johnny Beedle !" It sounded like a clap of thunder, and I started right up on end. 66 Johnny Beedle, you'll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did, if yer live to the age of Methusaler. He would toss up his drumstick, and while it was whirlin' in the air, take off a gill er rum, and then ketch it as it come down, without losin' a stroke in the tune. What d'ye think of that, ha? But skull your chair round, close er long side o' me, so yer can hear. Now, what have |