too obtained their attention, and they made considerable progress in the art of embalming the wild fruits of their native land, so that they might command cranberries and hindberries at all times and seasons. The stewpan was never off the fire, the skimmingcup was constantly in the milk, and a prudent serving man with a pony and a covered cart hung on springs, was a daily go-between them and an ingenious person who excelled in minced meats, custards, savoury patties, and other tasteful inventions, and had a shop in a town seven miles off. As they sat, and ate, and drank, and slept, and waked, and drank, and ate again, the folly of their elder cousins was a fruitful source of remark: they exclaimed against their vanity and want of taste, and wondered how they could think of laying out their dear deceased uncle's legacy on flounces, and frills, and feathers. Their cousins, however, to say the truth, were no less sharp in their remarks upon them: they called them their custard-cousins, and tossed all their feathers and fluttered their flounces when any one praised the delicacy of their desserts.

The three male cousins seemed to think of themselves alone; to them it was a matter of moonshine how their other relatives dissipated their legacies; at first they moved about, attended a horse-race here, or a cattle-market there, or a public sale in some other place, in short, wherever drink was flowing, there they were present; but continual intercourse with the cup at last made motion a source of uneasiness, or, at all events, induced them to regard it as a consumer of time which might be better employed; at last they settled resolutely down into confirmed topers, and lest their powers should be too much concentrated, they spread themselves over three inns, and each brother installed himself head of the public board and sole arbiter in all disputed matters regarding strong drink. It was of them that a north country wit said they were like and yet unlike all spendthrifts-" other folk ran through their fortunes, but these men's fortunes ran through them."

There was a singular coincidence regarding the final winding up and termination of the fortunes of these three families: almost at the same time was the last five pound note expended in the last new fashion; the last guinea laid out on comfits and custards, and the last crown spent in drink: almost on the same day they resolved to be wise and turn over a new leaf. The three elder cousins became skilful milliners and made a fortune, the second brother's daughters distinguished themselves in the pastry and desert line and waxed rich, and the three topers died quietly in old age, leaving ten thousand pounds amassed by dealing in cattle.

LINES.

Written on the recent visit of the Aborigines to Hobart Town.

They are come in their pride, but no helmet is gleaming,

On the dark brow'd race of their native land;

No lances are glittering, nor bright banners streaming-
O'er the warriors brave, of that gallant band.

They are come in their pride, but no war-cry is sounding,
With its woe-fraught note over hill and plain;

For the hearts of those dark ones, with gladness are bounding,
And bright songs of peace breathe loud in their strain.

They are come-they are come, and a boon they're imploring,
Oh! turn net away from their soul-felt pray'r,

But to high hopes of Heav'n, this lost race restoring

For yourselves gain mercy and pardon there.

SONG OF THE ABORIGINES.

Ye have called us from our desert home,
Where sunbeams bright are dancing;
And our rivers thro' those lone wild woods,
Like spears of light are glancing.

We come from each cloud-crested mountain,
From each stream and flow'ring plain;
And we raise the song, whilst native hills,
Are echoing back our strain.

And oh! if ever they have bless'd

With a home of peace and love,

you,

Then burst the clouds which veils the rays,

From pure wisdom's fount above.

For these lov'd scenes we know shall vanish,

Like the meteor of the sky,

And tho' our flow'rs are brightly smiling,

They but bloom awhile, and die..

But ye are heirs of a better land,

Where the spring knows no decay;

The night draws no veil o'er its splendour--
No cloud dims its azure day.

'Tis there the holy, redeemed in heart,

In radiant mansions dwell;

There angels singing to golden harps

Of the glories of Heav'n tell.

Ye say that your steps still are guided,
By the holy lamp of God;

There to light our torch, that we stray not--
From the paths where ye have trod.

Then will ye, oh! will ye deliver
This bright land, from error's reign;
And with glowing sparks of salvation,
Burst the links of sin's dark chain.

Then shall each mountain, vale and river,

Our glorious hopes proclaim,

Our winds shall breathe, and our waters roll--

Blessing the Christian's name.

And when to the judgment bar of Heav'n,
Ye shall lead our ransom'd band-
Ye shall mercy find, for ye brought us
When lost, to this promised land.

THE LAD OF GENIUS.

FRANCES.

Ferdinand Harwood was the son of honest parents, as most people are whose parents are not thieves: he was born, not to the inheritance of wealth, for his father and mother had none to leave him; nor to the inheritance of genius, it might be supposed, for his father and mother had quite as little of that as of wealth. But as some persons make shift to get wealth, though not born to it, so it sometimes happens that genius is the possession of the son though not of the father or mother. The father of Ferdinand occupied a small farm under a great man, whose name was Sir Arthur Bradley, Bart.; and it was at a very early age indeed that young Ferdinand knew that Sir Arthur's name was not Bart, but Bradley, and that bart meant baronet.

The poet Gray, speaks of "many a flower born to blush unseen," and all that kind of thing; but, for the most part, geniuses who have fathers and mothers, seldom blush unseen, if they blush at all. Young Ferdinand's genius was first discovered by his father and mother; by them it was first communicated to the parish clerk, who, happening to be a schoolmaster in a small way, was mightily pleased to reckon among his scholars so great a prodigy. As the youth grew up towards manhood he manifested still further proofs of his genius by his decidedly anti-agricultural propensities. The ordinary implements of husbandry were his utter aversion; no persuasion in the world could induce him to handle the plough or the spade, harrows were his abomination, and from scythes and sickles he turned away with undisguised disgust. His father was too amiable a man to horsewhip the lad, though he often said he did not know what the dickins would become of him if he did not learn to work. He loved the fields and the groves, for he would wander therein with a marvellous lackadaisicalness, making poetry while his mother was making puddings. So, in a short time, he became the talk of the village; and when he was sitting on a gate and reading Thompson's Seasons, the agricultural operatives would pass by gazing with astonishment at the wondrous youth who could find pleasure in reading; for it was a striking peculiarity of the lads of the village to think that they had read quite enough at school, and to regard reading for pleasure with as much astonishment as they would look upon amateur hedging and ditching.

By the instrumentality of the parish clerk, and the parson to

boot, the fame of Ferdinand reached the hall, and became known to Sir Arthur Bradley, who, though no genius himself, was a great admirer of genius in others. Sir Arthur was more than astonished, that a young man who was born in a village, and had never been at college, could write verses; for Sir Arthur himself had been at college upwards of three years, and notwithstanding all the mathematics, port, and morning prayers that he had undergone there, he could not write six lines of poetry for the life of him. In an evil hour, it happened that Sir Arthur expressed a wish to see some of that wonderful stuff called poetry, which had been fabricated by Ferdinand Harwood, as he swung upon gates, or strolled through copses. So the parson told the clerk, and the clerk told Ferdinand's father, and Ferdinand's father told Ferdinand's mother, and Ferdinand's mother told Ferdinand's self-who forthwith set about mending his pens, and ruling his paper, making as much fuss with the purity and neatness of his manuscript as a Jewish Rabbi when transcribing the Pentateuch. In a few days the transcription was completed; and then the difficulty was how to convey the precious treasure to the sublime and awful hands of the great and mighty baronet. It was mentioned to the clerk, by whom it was conveyed to the parson, by whom it was communicated to the baronet, that young Ferdinand Harwood had transcribed a poem, which he was anxious to lay at the feet of Sir Arthur Bradley.

As the baronet was now committed as a patron of genius, what could he do better in the way of patronage, than give the genius a dinner? An invitation was sent accordingly; and then did Ferdinand, the poet, scarcely know whether he stood upon his head or upon his heels For a while he doubted whether he was destined to dine at the baronet's own table, or in the housekeeper's room. It was a marvellous thing for him to wear his Sunday clothes on any other day than Sunday, and still more marvellous for him to wear gloves on any day; therefore when he found himself on the way to the hall with his Sunday clothes upon his back, and a pair of new gloves on his hands, which stuck out on either side of him like the fins of a frightened fish, he was overwhelmed with astonishment, and thought that if any of the agricultural operatives should meet him in this guise they would think him mad. A terrible bumping of his heart gave him notice that he was approaching the mansion; and while he was hesitating whether he should enter by the principal or by a side entrance, a servant appeared on the steps of the front door, to usher in Mr. Ferdinand Harwood. When the young gentleman heard his name, for the first time in his life, loudly and seriously announced as Mister Ferdinand Harwood, the blood rose to his cheeks, and he proudly thought to himself, what a fine thing it is to be a man of genius!

When the drawing-room door was opened for him, he was almost afraid to enter it, for the carpet looked too fine to tread upon, and the chairs by far too elegant to sit down on. The voice of Sir

Arthur Bradley encouraged the youth; and, after the first shock was over, and when he saw with his own eyes that persons were actually sitting on these very fine chairs, and were apparently insensible to the awful beauty of the furniture, he, also, at Sir Arthur's invitation, seated himself. Having thus deposited himself, he was next at a loss what to do with his fingers and his eyes; and having looked at the rest of the company, to see how they managed these matters, he found them all so variously employed, that he knew not which to select as a model. As to the matter of his tongue, he felt as though it were under an enchantment, and whether it cleaved to the roof of his mouth, or whether in his fright he had swallowed it, he could scarcely tell. From this state of perplexity he was in time relieved, but only to undergo still greater perplexities; for the dining-room posed him more than the drawing-room had, and he felt very much as one of the uninitiated would have felt had he by stealth introduced himself among the adepts of the heathen mysteries. But when he had taken a glass or two of wine, he felt the inspiration of initiation coming upon him, and he was no longer a stranger; and when Sir Arthur Bradley talked of poetry, Ferdinand Harwood's countenance brightened up, his tongue was loosened, and he discoursed most eloquently concerning Thomson's Seasons and Young's Night Thoughts.

The visit, gratifying as it was, to the literary ambition of Ferdinand, and to the honest pride of his parents, was not the most propitious event that could have happened to Ferdinand, for it set him upon making comparisons, and comparisons are odious. He compared the sanded floor of his father's cottage with the carpeted rooms of the hall; he compared the splendid sideboard in Sir Arthur's dining-room, with the little corner-cupboard which contained his cottage crockery; he looked up to the cottage ceilingit was not far to look,-and there, instead of Grecian lamps, he saw pendent flitches of unclassical bacon; he compared the unceremonious table of his paternal home with the well-appointed table of the baronet; he compared bacon and cabbage with turbot, venison, and such like diet, and gave the preference to the latter. In the next place, all the neighbours thought him proud of having dined at the baronet's house, and they endeavoured to mortify him and his parents, by making sneering remarks about genius, and by expressing their wonder that Ferdinand was not brought up to something. But his mother said—and I love her for saying so, though she was wrong-his mother said, "With his talents he may do anything." So said the parish clerk, so said the parson, so said Sir Arthur Bradley. The worst of those talents with which a man can do anything is, that they are at the same time the talents with which the owner does nothing. Thus it proved with Ferdinand Harwood; for in process of time his father and mother died, and left him sole and undisputed heir to all their possessions.

Now came upon him the perplexities of business: he had some