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prose. Southey has justly observed on this
point, that, "although it is in verse that the
most consummate skill in composition is to be
looked for, and all the artifice of language
displayed, yet it is in verse only that we throw
off the yoke of the world, and are as it were
privileged to utter our deepest and holiest feel-
ings." What multitudes in this day benefit by
this privilege! Hence the number of metrical
volumes which have no other value than that
of personal note-books, and, are probably
read only by their writers, or glanced at only
by their reviewers to be ridiculed. There is
some cruelty in this, though the treatment is
natural, for by worldly men the feelings
themselves which such verses register are
generally received with derision. Yet, as Southey
again remarks, in respect to such feelings,
"poetry may be called the salt of the earth;
for we express in it, and receive in it
sentiments for which, were it not in this permitted
medium, the usages of the world would neither
allow utterance nor acceptance." Verse, then,
even in these days when prose is in the
ascendant, has its vocation; and its use is of a
beneficent character, good in its primary
exercise, and good in the influence which it exerts
on others, in the first place on the friends and
acquaintance of the metrical amateur, and in
the next, perhaps, on the world beyond. None,
indeed, can tell, as Southey has asserted, how
much more selfish, how much worse we should
have been in all moral and intellectual respects,
had it not been for the unnoticed and
unsuspected influence of this preservative. Much
even, he says, of that poetry, which is in its
composition worthless, or absolutely bad,
contributes to this good. Surely, this consideration
alone is a sufficient Apology for Verse.

               TOM BUTLER.


ABOUT three years later, when I am out
on some foray through the streets, a large
hand claps me on the back, and a larger
voice sings ont cheerily, "Halloa, my boy,
this you!" For the moment, I could not
recollect; but having only a limited round
of acquaintances, memory in a second laid
its finger  upon the noble, chivalrous, valiant,
and gallant Tom. Not much changed in
his face, though his nose had grown more
aquiline, but a great deal in his clothes.
He was arrayed in a superb blue frock coat,
with gold down the front, a crimson sash,
and golden oyster shells on his shoulders;
in fact, he was an officer, and this he called
his undress. "Well, who'd have thought
it?" he said; "and how have you been?
Do you remember the licking I gave the
Frenchman? Now we can go at them in
the regular way, and no one can stop us.

Come, where are you going?" We walked,
and he told me all his adventures. I think
now what a really good-natured and quite
a chivalrous fellow he was, and how few of
his cloth would be inclined, to "be bothered"
with a boy. He told me how the "poor
governor had gone under at last, and was
buried in the English burying-ground.
He never liked me; and the poor old duffer
was shamed into getting me this. It
only cost him a letter, but faith it costs me
a deal. That don't matter, so long as it

The renewing of this acquaintance brought
some delightful days. He graciously said
he would make a point of coming to see
"my people," who received him with
distinction, though he did not know how
often I had been warned against his
company. His ready off-hand manner, his loud
laugh, his stories, his honest good humour,
at once established him as a favourite. He
came to dine very often; he had influence
with the head of the house, and could make
what he pleasedin reference to
me. But poor Simpson, our governess, he,
so to speak, floored.her do  Her he could, indeed,
persuade to do what he pleased. Her heart,
never before invaded by the sweet seduction
of the gentle passion, and which, at most,
had but a severe and intellectual communion
with Lindley Murray and Mr. Mangnall,
was now literally burst into by the gallant
Tom. He was very good-natured to her.
He was so amusing. He used to sing, too,
in a rude way; but like such inharmonious
songsters was passionately fond of the art.
He was always interposing between me and
retribution or ruin. As this pleasant friendship
was renewed, an event occurred which
seemed to me to combine extraordinary
dramatic significance; and the circumstances
were these:

One morning there was an astonishing
commotion. Up on the Mont Blanc of our
house we heard betimes strange sounds and
scufflings towards the Grand Mulets below.
Scouts at the window, half dressed scouts,
too, hanging out, reported with delight,
"That there was a horse walking up and
down." This was always an incident of
surprise and speculation, much as would
be the entry of such an object on the stage.
There were presently agitated descendings
and rustlings. Miss Simpson abandoned
her sentry-box and musket, our vigilant
maid did the same, and the whole barrack,
with a true and amazing instinct, that
anticipated logic or information, inferred that
something of vast importance had taken