member present, save mine own self, as by duty bound. A deplorable falling away from the cause. Whereof more hereafter.

The Record here breaks off. The society probably did not proceed farther, but died on the spot, of a complication of Innocent Jocularity and Sister Rumble, and was buried tacitly, with the fair Ruth Mumford for its chief mourner. The other papers are in verse, and a reading of them will certainly persuade the reviewers that they were premature in applying the designation of "Quaker Poetry" to foregone lays and lyrics. The first is a genuine brown study after nature; the second a hint how Peace ought not to be proclaimed.

SONNET.

BY R. M.

How sweet thus clad, in Autumn's mellow Tone,
With serious Eye, the russet Scene to view!

No Verdure decks the Forest, save alone

The sad green Holly, and the olive Yew.
The Skies, no longer of a garish Blue,

Subdued to Dove-like Tints, and soft as Wool,
Reflected show their slaty Shades anew

In the drab Waters of the clayey Pool.
Meanwhile yon Cottage Maiden wends to School,
In Garb of Chocolate so neatly drest,

And Bonnet puce, fit object for the Tool,
And chasten'd Pigments, of our Brother West;
Yea, all is silent, sober, calm, and cool,

Save gaudy Robin with his crimson Breast.

LINES

ON THE CELEBRATION OF PEACE.

BY DORCAS DOVE.

AND is it thus ye welcome Peace!
From mouths of forty-pounding Bores?
Oh cease, exploding Cannons, cease!
Lest Peace, affrighted, shun our shores!

Not so the quiet Queen should come;
But like a Nurse to still our Fears,
With Shoes of List, demurely dumb,
And Wool or Cotton in her Ears!

She asks for no triumphal Arch;

No Steeples for their ropy Tongues; Down, Drumsticks, down, She needs no March, Or blasted Trumps from brazen Lungs.

She wants no Noise of mobbing Throats
To tell that She is drawing nigh:

Why this Parade of scarlet Coats,

When War has closed his bloodshot Eye?

Returning to Domestic Loves,

When War has ceased with all its Ills, Captains should come like sucking Doves, With Olive Branches in their Bills.

No need there is of vulgar Shout,

Bells, Cannons, Trumpets, Fife and Drum, And Soldiers marching all about,

To let us know that Peace is come.

O mild should be the Signs, and meek,
Sweet Peace's Advent to proclaim!
Silence her noiseless Foot should speak,
And Echo should repeat the same.

Lo! where the Soldier walks, alas!

With Scars received on foreign Grounds; Shall we consume in coloured Glass

The Oil that should be pour'd in Wounds?

Will Squibs enliven Orphan's Woes?
Or Crackers cheer the Widow's Tale ?

Sketches on the Road.

THE MORNING CALL,

I CANNOT conceive any prospect more agreeable to a weary traveller than the approach to Bedfordshire. Each valley reminds him of Sleepy Hollow, the fleecy clouds seem like blankets, the lakes and ponds are clean sheets; the setting sun looks like a warming-pan. He dreams of dreams to come. His travellingcap transforms to a night-cap, the coach lining feels softlier squabbed; the guard's horn plays "Lullaby." Every flower by the road-side is a poppy. Each jolt of the coach is but a drowsy stumble up stairs. The lady opposite is the chamber-maid; the gentleman beside her is Boots. He slides into imaginary slippers ; he winks and nods flirtingly at Sleep, so soon to be his own. Although the wheels may be rattling into vigilant Wakefield, it appears to him to be sleepy Ware, with its great Bed, a whole County of Down, spread "all before him where to choose his place of rest."

It was in a similar mood, after a long dusty droughty dogday's journey, that I entered the Dolphin, at Bedhampton. I nodded in at the door, winked at the lights, blinked at the company in the coffee-room, yawned for a glass of negus, swallowed it with my eyes shut, as though it had been "a pint of nappy," surrendered my boots, clutched a candlestick, and blundered, slipshod, up the stairs to number nine,

Blessed be the man, says Sancho Panza, who first invented

sleep: and blessed be heaven that he did not take out a patent, and keep his discovery to himself. My clothes dropped off me: I saw through a drowsy haze the likeness of a four-poster: "Great Nature's second course

fell to without a long grace!

was spread before me;—and I

Here's a body-there's a bed!

There's pillow-here's a head!
There's a curtain-here's a light!

There's a puff-and so Good Night!

It would have been gross improvidence to waste inore words on the occasion; for I was to be roused up again at four o'clock the next morning, to proceed by the early coach. I determined, therefore, to do as much sleep within the interval as I could; and in a minute, short measure, I was with that mandarin, Morpheus, in his Land of Nod.

How intensely we sleep when we are fatigued! Some as sound as tops, others as fast as churches. For my own part I must have slept as fast as a Cathedral,—as fast as Young Rapid wished his father to slumber,-nay as fast as the French veteran who dreams over again the whole Russian campaign while dozing in his sentry-box. I must have slept as fast as a fast post-coach in my four-poster-or rather I must have slept "like winkin'," for I seemed hardly to have closed my eyes, when a voice cried แ Sleep no more! ”

It was that of Boots, calling and knocking at the door, whilst through the keyhole a ray of candlelight darted into my chamber.

"Who's there?"

"It's me, your honour, I humbly ax pardon-but somehow I've oversleeped rayself, and the coach be gone by !"