PROSE POEMS.

N many of the prose works of our modern authors there are to be found specimens

of accidental versification and unintentionally measured strains, as well as passages of such a nature as to lead to the supposition that a certain degree of rhythmical writing and rugged blank verse had been sought after. It would be difficult, however, to collect examples of this; but in the writings of Charles Dickens we find two excellent illustrations. The first is from the "Old Curiosity Shop," where the funeral of Little Nell is described:

"And now the bell-
The bell she had so often heard by night
And day, and listened to with solemn
Pleasure, almost as a living voice-
Rung its remorseful toll for her, so young,
So beautiful, so good. Decrepit age,
And vigorous life, and blooming youth, and
Helpless infancy, poured forth-on crutches,
In the pride of strength and health, in the full

Blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life—
To gather round her tomb. Old men were there,
Whose eyes were dim and senses failing;

Grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago
And still been old; the deaf, the blind, the lame,
The palsied, the living dead in many

Shapes and forms; to see the closing of that
Early grave. What was the death it would shut
In, to that which still could crawl and creep
Above it? Along the crowded path they
Bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen
Snow that covered it, whose days on earth had
Been as fleeting. Under that porch where she
Had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought

Her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, And the old church received her in its quiet shade." Again, some will no doubt be surprised to recognise in the next example the Song of the Kettle from the "Cricket on the Hearth"-evidently an unintentional outburst on the part of the author, in which the lines not only preserve their symmetry, but also rhyme with each other:

"It's a dark night, sang the kettle, and the rotten leaves are lying by the way;

And above, all is mist and darkness, and below, all is mire and clay;
And there is only one relief in all the sad and murky air,
And I don't know that it is one, for it's nothing but a glare
Of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together
Set a brand upon the clouds for being guilty of such weather;
And the widest open country is a long dull streak of black;
And there's hoarfrost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track ;

And the ice it isn't water, and the water isn't free;

And you couldn't say that anything is what it ought to be ;
But he's coming, coming, coming!

Our friends across the Atlantic, however, have a peculiar way of their own in regard to poetical prose, in which they travesty some of the best poems in the English language in a very amusing way. Yankee philology has been a source of much discussion in many periodicals—their peculiar goahead idiosyncrasies finding vent in the concoction of new phrases and words which are not only apt but very expressive. This is not the place to enter into any lengthened discussion on the point, but by way of introduction to the peculiar prose poems which have been produced in the States, we may refer shortly to the "high-falutin'" style of their metaphors and similes. This tendency has often. been noticed in respect to American literature, and readers of Mark Twain, Artemus Ward, and other writers, will easily remember many instances of these curiosities, in which are produced the effects of wit by twisting a phrase from its figurative to its literal meaning. For example, we are told of a man who made a hat for the head of a discourse, and a shoe for the foot of a mountain. We learn of a gentleman who sat down on the

S

spur of the moment; of a young lady who fainted at a bare idea, who wore spectacles over her naked eyes, who refused to sit in the lap of luxury, blushing at the mention of the lapse of ages (forgetting that lapse is not the plural of lap), and who would not sit on the sea-shore lest her waist might be encircled by an arm of the sea. Among others may be noted "the hook and line with which a fisherman caught a cold; the hammer which broke up a meeting; a fluke from the anchor of hope; one of the spurs of the Rocky Mountains; a hinge from the gates of death; a story which melted a heart of oak; buttons from a coat of paint; spectacles for the eyes of a potato; braces for a shoulder of mutton; dye for the beard of an oyster; ear-rings for an ear of corn; cheese from the milk of human kindness; butter from the cream of a joke, and eggs from a nest of thieves."

Of these Prose Poems we limit ourselves to the following selection:

A RAVENING REVERIE.

Once upon a midnight stormy a lone bachelor attorney pondered many a curious volume of his heart's forgotten lore; while he nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping-rapping at his chamber-door. ""Tis the spirits," and he started,

Then there came a clatter,

"rapping at my chamber-door. Oh, for help! I am frightened sore!" Then into his chamber flitting (not even one permitting him to fly into the closet or to get behind the door), came the ghosts of fond hearts broken (with many a ring and other token), and they sat them down beside him, on the dusty, book-strewn floor-sat amidst the volumes of most venerable lore. Quoth the lawyer, "What a bore! It must be something serious; this is certainly mysterious, quite an advent of the spirits -resurrection con amore. But I understand them mostly!"—here there came a rap so ghostly, that he could no more dissemble as he had done heretofore, and his face grew pale and paler, as he started for the doordown he fell upon the floor. clatter, and his teeth began to chatter, as the spirits. gathered round him, and accused him very sore, how with gladsome face all smiling. and with winning words beguiling, he had charmed away the senses of fair maidens by the score; and each lass had fondly fancied 'twas her he did adore. Quoth the lawyer, "Never more!" Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, for the answer, strange enough, quite a relevancy bore; they began a noisy rapping-sort of spiritual clapping, which the lawyer thought would be but a fashionable encore-and again, as if his soul in that word he would outpour, did he groan out, "Never more ! Presently his soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer-"Oh, oh!" said he, "sweet spirits, your forgiveness I implore; on my knees to every ghostess, who to love has played the hostess, I will recant the many faithless things I swore! Will you promise then to leave me?" here he pointed to the door. Rapped the

יי !