Each was actutated by his own motives. The person on the box, was going to attend the funeral, and be present at the reading of the will, of an old relation. Behind, sat an odd-looking and eccentric old gentleman, who was going up to town, to receive his dividends in person; and close beside him sat an ugly-looking fellow, in hand-cuffs, whom an attending constable described as a notorious house-breaker, under conveyance to the county gaol. I, for my part, was on my way to school, and the recollections of the past, and the prospects of the future, were, I make no doubt, clearly depicted on my countenance. In short, whether I turned my attention to the young and thoughtless traveller, who, regardless of his money, and unwilling that a few paltry pence should delay him a moment, hastily throws down his toll, with◄ out waiting for the change; or to the close-fisted curmudgeon, who, grudging the payment, and thinking the collector nearly allied to a rogue, for demanding what is just, scatters his halfpence, to give him the trouble of collecting them; or to the courteous gentleman, who, suffering his money to drop lightly into the hand of the mistress of the gate, without abusing her for not having it open at the instant;—I have often whiled away many a half-hour's ride, with long and amusing trains of reflection. To the high, the low, the good, the bad, the grave, the gay, to all—this portal opens wide; and poverty, which too often bounds the wishes of the poor, is no barrier here. To how few things can this latter observation apply, in this refined age, when the luxuries of the rich so far exceed the comforts of the poor. It now remains for me only to observe, that in like manner as a turnpike-gate is emblematical of our entering and passage through life, so does it point out to us the good and bad purposes which lead to the payment of the toll, inasmuch as that one pays it when on the road to riches and honor, whilst to another it is the avant-courier of penury, or the unheeded prognostic of disgrace. Moreover, as our actions here are very frequently influenced by the capricious will of fortune, which baffles our best endeavors, and frustrates our fondest hopes, let us stedfastly look forward to the end our journey, and keeping

one sole object in view, account the passage through this life, but as a preparation for a better and more perfect state of existence hereafter.

G. WENTWORTH.

TO A LADY'S WAIST-RIBBON.

Jan. 25, 1829.

It often has been thine to hold
One that is gentle, good, and dear—
Who 'tis, by me, may not be told;

But, ah! her name I'll cherish here.

Thou now art mine (by theft 'tis true,
But, therefore, valu'd not the less ;)
May she who first thy value knew
Be ever blest with happiness.

With her how fast gay hours have sped,
The like I may not know again;
Those hours from mem'ry ne'er have fled,
May such ne'er give her bosom pain.

I shall not soon that spot forget
Where I the treasure found perchance;

Few thither may presume to get;

This, too, my prize may well enhance.

But, oh! there is a cause untold,

From whence thou dost a value take-
(I crave her pardon, if too bold,)
I value thee, for Fanny's sake.

AMICUS.

STANZAS, BY LATHAM.

The sun revives the flowrets' bloom,
That bends beneath the rain;
The tempest spent, calm rides the bark
Upon th' unrippled main.

But ah! when sorrow sears the heart
And weighs it down with pain,
What cheering ray can then awake
The soul to joys again?

The playful stream, the woodland vale,
No longer charm the mind;

The scenes which form'd its bliss before,
Leave but regret behind.

The morning wakes with brightest ray,
Yet sadness with it brings;

No time can dissipate the cloud
Which sorrow o'er it flings.

"Tis false-E'en then has nature deign'd
A soothing balm to lend :
In kind compassion to our woes
She gave the heart—a friend.

TO LATHAM,

ON RECEIVING A LETTER FROM HIM.

It is thy hand-I know its cyphers well— And, as the seal I break, a magic spell Seems round me spread, as if to make the scroll, For thy dear sake, thrice welcome to my

soul.

We owe to Cadmus* this expressive art, Whereby, in absence, the o'erflowing heart Outpours, in mutual converse, all it feels; Its sorrows, joys, affections, hopes, reveals; By which, uncheck'd by distance, seas or time, We burst all bounds, and pass from clime to clime. Matchless inventor! he from all mankind

Can undisputed claim a grateful mind,

But who so well in thanks sincere can bend,
As he who knows life's dearest boon-a friend?
A friend!-there's magic in the word, or why
Does
my thrill'd bosom beat with ecstasy ?
My ear, enchanted, list? and this my heart,
Charm'd as to new existence, quickly start?
Whence comes it else, that my enraptur'd thought
Is, with redoubled, warmer, fervor fraught?
Or, why does fancy, from all sorrow free,
Transported, changeless, Latham, turn to thee?

Oh! what to mortal man has yet been giv'n,
So unlike all of earth, so like to Heav'n,
As that blest state where two, of kindred mould,
Free from all cold suspicion, love t' unfold,
Without restraint, the all each bosom knows,
Its wishes, hopes, pursuits, enjoyments, woes?
No selfish passion cools the joys they feel;
No chill'd misgiving bids them aught conceal;
No jealous envy steels their hearts with fear,
The bliss of both, to both alike is dear.
Should fate from one withhold her fav'ring smile,
There is who will for him that grief beguile,
Or should she waft him to a prosp❜rous shore,
The friend who shares it, doubles all his store.

Such, Latham, thou.-I have known hours of care, Bitter and deep-but none thou would'st not share.

"The noble art to Cadmus owes its rise
Of painting words, and speaking to the eyes."

From thee my sorrows call'd no alter'd look ;
Who'er besides was cold, thy friendship took
Fresh strength, fresh vigor from the griefs I knew,
Thine ev'ry feeling sprung to life anew!
Unheeded then, thy own more happy lot;
Thy hopes, thy dearest pleasures all forgot;
As though 'twas dearer to that heart of thine
To share in sorrows that distracted mine,
Than, unaffected by my lot, to live
Possess'd of ev'ry bliss this life can give.
What were my many faults to thee?—a theme
For kind advice-best proof of thy esteem:
Advice how kindly giv'n!—if censure came,
Or slander's whispers dar'd assail my name,
Freely would'st thou my character defend
With all the fervor of a faithful friend:
And when, perchance, thou praise of me hast heard,
How hast thou, anxious, hung on ev'ry word,
E'en till thine eyes in thankful brightness shone,
As though such praises were, in part, thine own.

If brighter scenes were mine (for oft on me

Would fortune smile, whilst dark she frown'd on thee,)
Thy kindred bosom would awhile forego
The pang of sorrow and the sting of woe,

Lest else the joys I fondly counted mine

Should feel a moment's check from woes like thine.

The world, my Latham, does not know thy worth : But I well know, that if this spacious earth Does (as who says she does not?) haply hold, One who is cast in friendship's truest mould, Whose ev'ry deed by nicest honor moves, Whose title to my heart affection proves ; Affection, time, nor envy e'er can make One tittle less-which fortune cannot shakeThat friend, I trust, 'twill oft be mine to seeI'm sure that friend exists-he lives in thee.

Then come what will, with such a friend as thou I shall but smile, if fortune clouds her brow: