gangs do not perform, on an average, the third part of the labour which any English mechanic or labourer does gladly and cheerfully. Their rations of food are wholesome and abundant, and their huts or barracks provided with every necessary. When sick, they have the best medical care, and whatever additional luxuries their state may require.' This should teach philanthropists, whose delight it is to have their fields of operation at a distance, to look nearer home for objects on whom to bestow their compassion and exercise their benevo lence. Passing the village of Penrith, the authoress soon found herself ascending the long range of the Blue Mountains.' 6 Among these lofty mountains, and in their shady recesses, the trees and shrubs grew in unchecked luxuriance, and yielded me many a new and beautiful flower. As we slowly wound up the steep ascent, and the folding hills narrowed the view behind us, the scene was most picturesque and striking. Far on before us we could see the white gleaming road still climbing higher and higher; gigantic crags, piled high overhead, were mingled with an endless variety of tree, shrub, and flower; and far below, from the depths of the ravine, the opposite side of the pass rose almost perpendicularly, till its upper trees seemed to cut against the bright unclouded sky.' The picture given of a country inn is anything but attractive, being, both in its internal arrangements and external accompaniments, well adapted to offend even an ordinary nicety of taste. The gigantic ant-hills, common to many parts of New South Wales, are great conical heaps of finely-worked earth, cemented into a hard mass, and from six to ten feet high, with no visible orifice outside; nor did I see a single ant about them, though I closely examined several. When cut open, they display numerous small cells, and the earth of which they are formed is so finely prepared by the little architects, that it is used by the settlers in the neighbourhood as plaster, and as cement for floors.' The road, in the main, was of the worst description, and sterility and monotony characterised the scenery as they advanced into the mountainous district. Near Mount Victoria, clustering richly around the shrubs, Mrs Meredith saw for the first time the native indigo of New South Wales. 'It is a delicate little climbing-plant, with slender stems, long, narrow, blunt leaves, and a profuse quantity of small violet-blue, pea-shaped flowers, growing in long sprays, and completely clothing any bush or fence where it flourishes.' By this road the produce of the interior is principally conveyed to Sydney; the apprehensions excited by the bush-rangers making it prudent for the farmers to travel in companies, similar in some respects to an African caravan. many others who have described them, she too leads her readers to form the lowest possible estimate of their moral and intellectual character. They are fond of dancing; their principal festival, at which this species of amusement is immoderately indulged in, being the Corrobbory, at which their doctors, or crodjies,' deliver them certain charms, which are supposed to possess the highest virtue. They prepare themselves elaborately for this important ceremony; full dress being painted nudity.' A fire is lighted, around which they dance; and while thus engaged, the tableau is represented as fearfully grand.' The following is but little calculated to inspire us with a very high idea of the aborigines. One of the aboriginal dances is called the "Kangaroo dance;" and one man, wearing a long tail, drops down on his hands and feet, pretending to graze, starting to look about, and mimicking the demeanour of the animal as nearly as possible; the others, in the character of dogs and hunters, performing their part of the play in a circle round him, at a very short distance.' Their wives are called 'gins;' and getting married is, with the men, equivalent to keeping a servant;' so that the bachelor, who has no wife or wives to drudge for him, is universally denominated a 'poor fellow. A wife with them leads but a miserable existence, being a slave in every social sense, and not even permitted to feed but at her husband's pleasure, and off the offal he may choose to fling her, although on her devolves the chief care of providing the materials for the repast.' The natives are not over-nice in their diet; their usual food consisting of kangaroos and opossums roasted whole, without any portion being rejected.' After the husband has 'gnawed' at the animal till he has gorged himself, it is then handed over his shoulder to his wife, who sits behind, and afterwards to the children; the whole family, after the repast, going to sleep around the fire. They are fond of children who have survived the perils of infancy;' but infanticide is nevertheless a common crime; and the mother of a babe, when asked for her infant, will reply with the greatest possible coolness, I believe dingo patta'-that is, 'I believe the dog has eaten it.' They are exceedingly treacherous, and, in the main, cowardly. They have very imperfect notions of a beneficent Supreme Being; but have an idea of an evil spirit, which they denominate Yahoo,' the 'Devil-Devil,' of whom they live in the greatest terror, and have conceived the most grotesque imaginings. Their fondness for European clothing is well known, and I have heard many amusing instances of its display. One Wellington boot was sometimes worn, unaccompanied by any other article of apparel; and great were the pride and grandeur of him who could button his upper man in a dress coat, that alone being considered sufficient costume.' Each tribe has its own allotted territory, and wo be to him, if caught, who commits a trespass upon the domains of a neighbouring tribe, and this even when accompanying settlers on their journeys. Their idleness is wholly unconquerable; the utmost effort they ever make towards the formation of a residence being to raise a few slips of bark slantingly against a tree, under which they crawl during bad weather.' Bathurst, which is described as the last township on the up-country road,' did not find much favour in the eyes of Mrs Meredith. Her visit to it was, however, confessedly at an unfortunate period, being shortly after one of these tremendous and blasting droughts with which the interior of the country is sometimes visited, withering up every shrub and blade of grass, and strewing the upper country with the bones of famished cattle. Everything procurable was dear. A pound a-night was the price of accommodation for a The habits of the native (not aboriginal) servants, or, horse; and wheat was so high, that the flour in use as they are sometimes denominated, the currency,' in was adulterated with inferior grain. Once, during her opposition to the sterling' (the emigrants), are generesidence in the colony, wheat was as high as L.10, 10s. rally, in a moral point of view, of rather a low and dea-quarter in Sydney. The climate of Bathurst is un- praved order. The prevalence of drunkenness amongst pleasant. Situated in the midst of a vast plain, sur-them is astonishing, as it is deplorable. Age and sex rounded by mountains, the only breezes with which it make no difference; your dainty lady's-maid or pretty is visited are the hot winds' from the north-west, young nurse-girl is just as likely to be over-liberal in which, wherever they prevail, mark their course with her libations to Bacchus, as your groom or shoe-black; blasting and desolation. I have seen large tracts of and no threats, bribes, or punishments, avail to keep the cultivated land covered with luxuriant green crops of besotted creatures from the dram-bottle, if it be by any wheat, barley, or oats, just going into ear, scorched, means, or in any shape, accessible. I have known a feshrivelled, absolutely blackened by the heat, and fit for male servant drink camphorated spirits of wine, and nothing but to cut as bad litter.' suspect her of consuming a pint of hartshorn, its evident strength being no doubt too tempting. Eau-deCologne and lavender water I know they drink when Mrs Meredith dwells at some length upon the manners and peculiar characteristics of the natives. With ever these are left about, or anything else believed to contain spirit. The universality of this vice is dreadful to contemplate, and far worse to witness and endure.' Describing a farmhouse at which she alighted on her way back to Sydney, she says, "This universal addiction to drink, and consequent neglect of all industry and decency, are truly shocking. Here was a substantial farmhouse (sometimes performing in another character —a tavern-it is true), with the female inmates half drunk, and scarcely out of bed at 10 o'clock on a summer's morning; rooms unswept, beds unmade, and the whole establishment telling of plenty, sloth, and drunkenness.' The description of an emigrant settler's house affords a more pleasing picture, although the establishment is frequently the scene of the grossest incongruities-costliness and inconvenience, extravagance and discomfort, being often met with in intimate juxtaposi tion. Mrs Meredith's stay in Sydney comprehended an entire year; and she speaks of the winter months in terms of laudation. In October 1840 she sailed with her husband for the neighbouring colony of Van Diemen's Land, where they intended permanently to settle. We hope the result of her observations of the sister colony will also be given to the world. She is evidently a lady of education and refinement, and acquainted with the higher grades of life in her native country-England. Her book wants in arrangement; but the principal fault attributable to it is the incessantly satirical vein which runs through every page of it. Much-perhaps too much of it is devoted to the description of the natural productions of the country; but the amount of zoological and botanical knowledge thereby conveyed cannot fail to be both interesting and instructive. The work is frequently relieved by sallies of lively humour, and with allusions which show a more than ordinary extent of information at the disposal of the writer. TOO LATE. "THE children of the earth,' says Miss Bremer, in one of her admirable novels, 'struggle against the sharp sword of suffering for many, many years: they livethey suffer they struggle. The sword is broken, and they fall powerlessly down-success reaches to them the goblet-they touch their lips to the purple edge, and die.' Every thoughtful and experienced reader may, on reflection, remember some friend, or friend's friends, to whom these remarks are applicable, for society is full of such instances; and even amidst the long record of those illustrious names that the world will not willingly let die,' there are but too many to whom the fair guerdon' they looked to as the reward of their laborious days' came indeed, but came too late the eye was dim, the ear was closed, the hand was cold, the heart still-all so worn and weary in the long pursuit, that fruition came too late, and could not bless. Three hundred years have not been able to diminish the fame of Torquato Tasso 'He with the glory round his furrowed brow, and yet the story of his life is an almost unvaried record of sorrow and suffering, of baffled hopes, of vain endeavour, of unmerited wrong. He was the son of Bernardo Tasso, a poet whose fame has been totally eclipsed by the superiority of his son; and gave indications, even from infancy, of the possession of an almost divine genius, which education and intimate companionship with the most celebrated men in Italy so developed and improved, that it was soon predicted of him that he would be the greatest poet of his age. When he was about twenty years of age, he was invited by Car dinal D'Este to reside with him at the court of his brother, Alphonso II., Duke of Ferrara, then the most brilliant in Italy, and adorned by the beauty of that Leonora who was destined to exert so powerful an influence over the future fortunes of the bard. For a time all went well with Tasso; his worst evil was poverty; and this, in the flush of youth and health, he could easily encounter. He was rich in glorious visions of future renown, and he lived in the presence of the fairest ladies of the land, whose smiles were the guerdon of his muse. Soon, however, the uncommon favour bestowed upon the bard excited the envy of the courtiers, while his widely-spreading fame awakened the jealousy of inferior poets; and their attacks upon his reputation excited the anger of Tasso, who had the proverbial irritability of the poetic temperament. His frequent complaints at length wearied the duke, who treated them with a haughty contempt the sensitive poet could ill submit to. He several times attempted to throw himself on the protection of other princes; but as the duke, on the plea of its careful preservation, retained possession of his 'Jerusalem Delivered,' he still returned to the court of Ferrara-the ladies Lucretia and Leonora as often interceding for him with their offended brother. It is not precisely known how the duke became aware of Tasso's passion for the lady Leonora ; but the knowledge certainly tended to confirm him in the belief that the poet was insane. He, a mere man of the world, occupied with his own importance, his naturally narrow mind unimproved by education, could not enter into the poet's anxieties regarding his poem and his fame; still less could he pardon the presumption he was guilty of in falling in love with a lady of royal birth, though her beauty, her talents, and her virtues, might well have warmed a heart far less susceptible than that of Tasso. From the friend and patron, he became the persecutor of the poet; he caused him to be confined in the hospital of St Anne, in the part appropriated to the reception of lunatics; and here, for several years, the unhappy Tasso found himself imprisoned in a dungeon, whose walls re-echoed to the groans and frantic cries of the lunatics in the adjoining cells. He who had lived in every luxury, and in constant companionship with the most beautiful women and the most talented men of the age-who delighted in the beauty of nature, and had a keen relish for all that was exquisite in art-whose mind was capable of the loftiest conceptions, and whose heart was alive to the purest affection-was 'cabined' in a cell which scarcely allowed him to stand upright. His person and dress were neglected his food was scanty and coarse-and he had no society save his keeper and his own sad thoughts. It is no wonder, under the circumstances, that he peopled this frightful solitude with spirits, both good and bad: it is rather a matter of surprise that a mind so sensitive as his should still have retained its powers-that his heart should neither have broken in the strife, nor been hardened against all mankind. At length, at the repeated solicitations of many powerful princes, among whom were the pope and the Duke of Mantua, Tasso was liberated, and he immediately repaired to Mantua. But his health was impaired and his mind unsettled by his long confinement and privations: he wandered from Mantua to Rome, to Florence, and to Naples; then to Mantua again, staying a short time at each, until his restless and unhappy spirit urged him again to seek, in change of scene, that calm repose which exists only in the mind. During several years, while leading this desultory life, he was The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, fell heavily on the poor bard, who derived a precarious alike indifferent to honour or neglect. Already the hand of death is on my heart. Slighted and oppressed through years of suffering, the fame that might have solaced and prolonged my life is now of no avail. I am about to enter into another and a brighter world. The crown they offer me is but a faint type of the one that awaits me there.' And so it was: they who came to summon him to his coronation, found him in the sleep of death— they were too late. He was interred, on the day of his intended coronation, in the church of the monastery with great pomp; his laurel-crown being laid upon his coffin, and cardinals and princes bearing up his pall. In his person, Tasso was majestic; his manners were courtly and refined; his learning was extensive; his natural talents almost unequalled; his morals, for that age, were very pure, and he was always fearful of becoming profane or irreligious. It is perhaps too much to expect that minds like his should display, in conjunction with their finest attributes, the useful prudence that makes common men successful; yet, were it but possible, how much would they gain by the union! Tasso would have escaped most of his troubles by paying more attention to the every-day affairs of life; but would he then have written for all time? Nay, did not those very troubles, while they made him turn more eagerly to his beloved poetry for consolation, teach him lessons of virtue too true and too profound to have been inculcated amidst the splendid idleness of a dissolute court? Sweet are the uses of adversity' to noble natures like that of Tasso; it not only corrects, but elevates them; for, as one of his biographers beautifully observes, The very darkness that conceals from us the beauty of the earth, displays, to our upward gaze, the glory of the heavens.' As a last asylum, on the complete failure of his health, which was undermined by the restless spirit, as the scabbard is worn by the sword, he repaired to the monastery of St Onophrio at Rome, which, being in an elevated and retired situation, was equally favourable to the restoration of his health and the composure of his mind. Tasso, at the court of Alphonso, in the pride of youth, manliness, and talent, full of those lofty hopes which genius alone can inspire, and giving himself up to the passionate love of a beauty he could never hope to possess, even though his love was returned-Tasso, in his dungeon at St Anne's, separated from human society, yet holding converse with imaginary forms of angelic loveliness, or striving with equally imaginary demons, yet with an intellect that shone out above all the darkness that overshadowed it, even as a rainbow whose very splendour exists between the glory and the cloudTasso, in both these phases, has not so strong a claim upon our love, our admiration, and our pity, as Tasso in the last days of his eventful life, when he gave himself up entirely to the performance of the sacred duties of that religion which had been to him through life his protection, and was now his solace and reward. The monastery was so near to Rome, that the breeze of evening brought to the ears of the musing bard the hum of the thickly-peopled city; and he to whom all the changes of humanity were so painfully familiar, might well picture to himself the rush, the turmoil, and the strife, which, though softened by the distance through which he heard them, had their origin in the life-and-death struggle ever carried on by the human passions keeping their restless vigil in its streets. Yet these conflicting crowds-the oppressor and the op-ordinary talents surmounted all the formal barriers bepressed had one feeling in common, and that was reverence for the bard who had taken refuge among them. With all the eagerness of their national character, which enters earnestly into whatever subject addresses the mind through the medium of the senses, they prepared to attend his much-talked-of coronation in the Capitol, where the pope was to confer upon him the laurel of Dante and Petrarch-an honour that was to atone for all the wrongs he had suffered, all the neglect he had endured in the years gone by. Already, all that Rome had of noble, lovely, learned, or wealthy, was summoned to attend at, and swell the triumph of Tasso on the 25th of April 1595, when Pope Clement was to invest him with that glorious wreath, the emblem of immortality, purchased-oh, how often!—with a lifetime of suffering. The eve was come: to-morrow, said the people, there will be a holiday-to-morrow, said the literati, there will be a triumph-to-morrow, said the gay beauty and the proud noble, there will be an assembly where I may display myself-to-morrow, said the pope, I shall crown the greatest poet of the age with the laureate wreath, and my name shall go down to posterity with his-to-morrow, said the bard, as he lay pale and fever-wasted on his narrow couch, listening to the last notes of the vesper service chanted by the monks of St Onophrio-to-morrow I shall be There are few things more mysterious and capricious than the way in which genius manifests itself. In fact, there is no calculating upon its advent; for it is sometimes hereditary in families, while elsewhere it appears unexpectedly, like a rare plant that unaccountably springs up, among the simple flowers of the field, from some wind-borne seed. Where it is hereditary, the clever father is often greatly surpassed by the extraordinary son, as in the case of the two Tassos and the two Mozarts; for though the elder Mozart was a good musician, it is through his son's fame that he is now remembered. Seldom, indeed, have talents so precocious as those of Wolfgang Mozart ripened into such perfection as his maturer years displayed; in him 'the child was father to the man.' From his sixth to his twelfth year, his father carried him in succession to the most splendid courts of Europe; and everywhere his extrahind which rank, riches, and worldly prejudice intrench themselves against adventurers! Kings and princes were interested and amused; queens and princesses were delighted; musical professors and dilletanti were surprised, puzzled, and, in spite of their prejudices, pleased. At Vienna, the most cold and stately of European courts, the infant genius was called upon to exhibit his talents before that haughty and celebrated empress, Maria Theresa, and her sons, Joseph and Leopold, who were successively Emperors of Austria. Here also were her daughters the archduchesses, and among them, pre-eminent in beauty, was Maria Antoinette, afterwards the too celebrated queen of France. Unabashed by the rank, undazzled by the beauty of his audience, the boy-musician gave himself up to the inspiration of his art, and became absorbed and entranced by what enchanted his auditors-a listening circle, fit subject for the pencil of some master who had power to seize upon and transfer to his canvass the mutable expression of each face. The majesty of rank, of beauty, and of genius, had never finer representatives than in the persons of Maria Theresa, Maria Antoinette, and Mozart, whose petite figure, pale face, and large luminous eyes, sufficiently indicated his sensitive temperament. When the musician had concluded, he passed before the circle to receive the compliments and gifts they were prepared to confer upon him. The floor was smooth and polished, and the boy slipped; his courtsword caught between his legs, and he would have fallen, had not Maria Antoinette, with the quick impulse of genuine kindness, sprung from her seat, and caught him by the arm. Mozart regained his footing, and placed himself at arm's length from the archduchess, whose pure and brilliant complexion was heightened both by the suddenness of her action and the impulse that had prompted it. 'You are very beautiful,' said the boy, looking into her kind, bright eyes; and when I am a man I will marry you.' The brow of the empress-mother darkened, and the smile that the boy's simplicity called forth on the faces of those present passed rapidly away. In early manhood Mozart repaired to Paris, as to a field where he might display his talents, and win his way to fortune and to fame. The archduchess who had been so kind to him at Vienna, was now the wife of Louis XVI.; she was queen of France, loveliest where all were lovely, gayest where all were gay. For her amusement talent was kept in constant requisition; for her gratification riches were scattered without restraint. Her smile conferred happiness, her frown brought disgrace; her caprice was the fashion, her will was law; apparently, she was the most favoured of the daughters of the earth. Meanwhile Mozart, who had thought to sun himself in her smile, met with nothing but difficulties; his character was essentially that of genius-grave, tender, earnest; he could not conform to the heartless frivolities of the Parisian character, and his music was not popular. Indifference, neglect, contempt, and poverty, were the portion of the young composer in the very place where he had indulged so bright a day-dream of distinction, and he resolved on returning to his native land. Even there he was not at first successful; his long residence in Italy had influenced his style-he was as much too gay and ornate for the grave Germans, as he had been too pure and grave for the gay Parisians. He was disappointed; and as his occupation led him into the society of actors, artists, authors, composers, and their admirers, he was fast tending to dissipation. The misplaced love of Tasso was the cause of much of his suffering; a wiser affection preserved Mozart from the corrupting influences to which his public life exposed him. He became attached to Constance Weber, an actress, who had youth, beauty, and talent, and the far richer and more enduring charms of a temper that was sweet and firm, and a prudence and modesty seldom found in one of her profession. Her friends opposed their union, on the ground of Mozart's poverty and want of station in society-objections the young musician firmly resolved on removing. Fortunately for him, the Elector of Bavaria, at this critical moment, desired him to compose an opera for the theatre at Munich. He seized the opportunity, and wrought with all the enthusiastic energy of his nature, for his heart was in the work. It was his celebrated opera of Idomeneus, and Constance Weber was to play the principal character; her idea was thus, as it were, ever before him; and the whole of the music is said to be characterised by such grace, tenderness, and beauty, as only a man of genius in love, and trembling between hope and fear, could have produced. When first represented, it was received with unbounded applause, and its success so far established his reputation, and brightened his prospects, that Constance became his wife. From this time he devoted himself to his profession with steady and increasing industry; but the envy and opposition so generally attendant on superior genius fell to his lot: the profits derived from his works were uncertain, and his whole income was insufficient to maintain his family. Though settled at Vienna, and enjoying the favour of the emperor, he was obliged to toil daily for the bread of his little household; while the cabals of rival composers formed a source of misery to his too sensitive mind. He became, like Tasso, the victim of nervous apprehensions, and might probably have manifested decided symptoms of insanity, but for the soothing tenderness of his wife. She not only managed their affairs with the utmost prudence, but she exerted all her powers to cheer and support the mind of Mozart. She read to him the night through, unconscious of fatigue; she entered into his hopes; she reasoned away his unfounded fears; she had The laws of wifehood charactered in gold and thus, through their gloomy and fitful fortunes, she was ever to him as a star of hope, brightest when all else was dark. Among his latest works was his Zauberflötte, or Magic Flute, which became widely popular from the first moment of its appearance; yet from this opera he did not derive the smallest profit: he had just completed the score of it, when a theatrical manager, reduced to extreme distress by a succession of misfortunes, came to implore his assistance: the generous but improvident composer immediately gave him the score of the opera, which subsequently, by its success, relieved all his difficulties. Yet at this score, so freely given to one in distress, he had worked, for a considerable period, for sixteen and eighteen hours a-day; and if we consider the exhausting nature of his employment, and the corroding anxieties of a pecuniary nature which still beset him, we cannot wonder that he was becoming prematurely old, and a prey to the most painful nervous disorders. Conscious of his failing powers, yet unwilling to admit that he was the self-devoted martyr to his art, he fancied that his enemies had found means to administer to him the famous aqua Toffano, and that he was perishing, by slow degrees, through that subtle poison. This idea was strengthened by the appearance of a stranger, who came to order the celebrated Requiem, and, despite the reasonings of his wife and the raillery of his friends, he gave himself up to the belief that it was for his own funeral the Requiem was ordered, and that the stranger had calculated the day of his decease. It was liberally paid for, and the daily wants of his family rendered the money acceptable; but Constance would gladly have dissuaded him from the application necessary to its completion in the given time: still, though he grew more feeble every day, he continued to compose with unremitting zeal, as if fearful that life would barely last till his work was done. In the meantime, the emperor, having heard of his illness and his anxieties, appointed him chapel-master of St Stephens, a situation which at once secured him an easy competence, and freed him from the rivalry of his jealous competitors. The friend who hastened to communicate to Mozart the good fortune that had at last arrived, found him in bed, busy on the score of the Requiem: at the announcement of his new appointment a faint smile passed over his pale face; but when he looked on his beloved wife, so soon to be a desolate widow, surrounded by helpless orphans, the smile passed from his face as a wintry sunbeam leaves the snow-covered landscape, and he replied, It is too late!' In a few days the magnificent Requiem, whose composition had, as it were, wrung the very life-drops from the heart of Mozart, was performed in the unconscious presence of the now mute composer: often since has it been heard at the funerals of the mighty and the celebrated throughout the cities of civilised Europe; and thousands, as if penetrated by one feeling, swayed by one impulse, have bowed their heads to weep, overcome by the solemn grandeur of its harmony. His works are daily becoming more appreciated, and more widely-spread, and form an imperishable monument to his memory. Had he lived to enjoy the competence that awaited him, he might have produced yet nobler works; but he perished in the very meridian of life, his genius not exhausted, but crushed by the heavy hand of necessity. Like too many of the gifted ones of the earth, his fellow-men did not know how divine a spirit animated his clay till he parted from among them, and the knowledge came too late. for those about them, and with every manifestation of sufficient confidence in their own powers of pleasing or of making their way. These parties, you observe, are at once at home from the moment they pop their noses into the bus, or rather into the little world. Right for the highest places they steer their course; and if they do tread on their neighbours' toes, convert their persons into stepping-stones or ladders, or elbow them a bit, a hurried apology mends the matter, and on they press, till their object be obtained. Such a one knows everything, and is ready to impart information upon every subject. He commands- talks big'-is condescending humour pleases. He dearly loves a jest; and the quiet gentleman in the corner is not unfrequently the subject of a sly quiz. To children he is particularly kind; patting their heads, kissing their cheeks, and asking innumerable questions. He is also very gallant, and ladies are the objects of his especial regard. He jokes with them, laughs, talks nonsense, and assists them in and out. In fact, he is the spirit which directs for a short space the actions and the passions of this mimic world; and when he 'quits the stage,' society there is left with a blank indeed. SPECULATIONS ON OMNIBUSES. DESPITE the conveniences which omnibuses offer, and the reasonable charges which are made for a journey in this class of vehicles, now of so general use, they are regarded by many persons rather in the light of neces--and sets all matters right or wrong, just as his sary evils than of a positive good. Their slow progress may be advanced as one reason for this apparent anomaly. Perhaps others are to be found in their unpleasant jolting, and the dreadful rumbling noise which invades the ear and distracts the head, or the uncomfortableness of thirteen fat insides in hot weather, or one solitary victim in cold. I have, nevertheless, been accustomed to forget all such inconveniences, and even to regard omnibuses as pleasant subjects of speculation. One of these vehicles appears to me as a little world, and the passage in it from beginning to end as a type of that outer one which we inhabit its varied changes, characters, personages, and feelings our entrance into, and exit from it. When I succeed in viewing it in this light, all the tedium and unpleasantness of a journey disappears, and I quit my seat at last, and emerge into the street, somewhat entertained, if not much improved. The inhabitant of this little world (that is, the omnibus), in like manner with the inhabitant of the great, sometimes enters upon his brief career in the midst of friends, sometimes alone. In the former case, the thread of his existence is woven into a tissue of smiles and sunshine, every occurrence assumes a pleasing and favourable aspect, and care is banished to the winds. The motto of such a one seems to be, to enjoy life while he may, and, with but a few intervals of rest, his enjoyment lasts until the termination of his journey (in his case probably abrupt), when he makes his exit, as he made his entrance, in the midst of smiles. The career of him who enters alone assumes a more varied aspect. He is probably at first abashed, and requires some time to become familiarised with his position. After a period, he takes a stealthy glance at his opposite neighbour, and, apparently emboldened at discovering that that neighbour is but an ordinary being like himself, takes a peep at the next, and the next, until he musters up sufficient courage to turn boldly round and look in the face of the parties immediately to the right and to the left of him. He is now either satisfied or dissatisfied with his scrutiny; emboldened, or continues abashed. If satisfied, he gradually forms acquaintances, which continue through his stay-acquaintances which are fortunate, as far as circumstances will admit-and in the end they part with mutual esteem and regret. If he be dissatisfied with his scrutiny, he retires within himself, and holds no more communion than is absolutely necessary with those around him. If he be both satisfied and emboldened, he probably takes a leading part in the several matters which transpire while the connexion between himself and his companion exists; he passes his opinion freely; criticises, laughs, jokes, and does a thousand other things, which at once show that he is pleased with himself, his position, and those about him. If he continue, as he entered, abashed, he probably remains unnoticed to the end, or so rarely offering a remark, and so modestly, that attention is excited when he does venture upon making one. Some, either abashed or uninterested in what is passing around, observe a continued taciturnity throughout, too intent upon their own affairs to take any concern respecting their neighbours', or too sluggish to be awakened by any circumstances into a state of activity. But there are others-master-spirits of their little age-who at once plunge in medias res, without any thought or care Other shades of character observable abroad are also to be met with within the narrow precincts of an omnibus. We have, for example, the obliging gentleman. He is anxious to ascertain where you are to be set down, that he might inform the conductor, or ready to accommodate some child under age with a seat on his knee. There is also always abundant room for another passenger in the omnibus, in the opinion of the obliging gentleman, although the 'thirteen' are already seated. The surly gentleman is of course the individual antipodes of this personage. In his estimation the vehicle is always too full; and though at the elbow of the conductor, he is above being the 'mouth-piece' of any one. The man who makes the most of his time is also frequently encountered. He is either reading a book, a letter, or writing some memorandum. The man that is always in haste is continually desirous of knowing if the next is his street. He has his sixpence between his fingers as soon as he adjusts himself in his seat. The fidgetty gentleman is each moment anxious to know why there are so many stoppages, applying to his watch incessantly to ascertain the time. He is ever calling to the conductor to 'go on.' The selfish gentleman is he who lets down the pane of glass at his neighbour's back, but keeps up that at his own. He is generally in search of the best seat in the omnibus, shifting his place as the opportunity offers. The consequential gentleman carries a fashionable cane, puts his feet on the opposite seat, no matter although nearly in a lady's lap, and talks in a loud and pompous manner. The omnibus is evidently too small for him. The fop is a variety of the same species, but is more tawdrily dressed, and seems to pay attention to none of his companions but those of the other sex who are pretty. On the side of that sex, we have occasionally the coquette; she enters freely into conversation with the gentlemen, and, when quitting, extends her hand to one at the door to assist her out: the spinster, avoiding every stray glance, and looking solemn if by chance encountering one. She becomes exceedingly uncomfortable if there be a young female relative at her side, and one of the varieties 'fop' in the vehicle. These are a few of the characters common alike to our little and our great world. The general progress of events, too, are not dissimilar. Individuals appear and disappear, vacancies occur and are filled, in precisely the same manner in both. The destination of each is also different in the one, as is their destiny in the other. Some proceed one way, some another. Some likewise perform the allotted journey, others only a portion. Some, as it were, depart in the early period of their career, others at the latest stage. Some are regretted, some not; some favoured, some not. Frequent and unexpected recog |