GOSSAMER.

THE NAUTILUS.

THE WHEAT-EAR.

EVENING WALK BY THE SEA SIDE.

2

3

     EMILY. And so at last we are really on our way!

     MRS. TALBOT. And perhaps enjoy our present journey the more, because it has been so long delayed.

     EMILY. My brother seems so happy! and poor old Dumplin looks so spruce it is quite a pleasure to see him. How far is it, Mamma?

     MRS. TALBOT. Only sixteen miles ; and I am sorry he cannot go the whole way on horseback, since he seems so delighted with it.

     EMILY. Mamma, may I ask why he cannot?

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     MRS. TALBOT. Because of the great expense of keeping two horses, one for him and another for the servant, at a place of public resort; where the rich, and those who follow the rich, either in emulation or for pecuniary advantage, have made the necessary articles of life so extravagantly dear, that persons of moderate fortune are obliged to give up frequenting them, even when their health may require it. The great encrease of expense at home is a matter of serious complaint, but at these places absolutely ruinous.

     EMILY. Oh but then I would go to some small private village by the sea, where those people that have so much money do not go.

     MRS. TALBOT. That has been tried, but without success. The merest hovel on the coast, which hangs out a little board by way of a sign, is as much the seat of imposition, as the splendid hotel at the most fashionable bathing town, and the only difference seems to be, that in infe-

5

 rior places a great deal is extorted for bad things, and at a considerable one for good things. And those who cannot afford the expense must make up their minds to stay at home. Just as the daughters of those whose mothers a few years ago were drawn by four horses, and whose grandmothers by six, are now glad to get into a stage coach.

     EMILY. But why, Mamma? Does not the earth bear the same crops it used to do, and as much?

     MRS. TALBOT. More, if we may believe all the improvements that have been made in agriculture, and rural economy of every sort.

     EMILY. And what is the reason of it then?

     MRS. TALBOT. The change of manners ; the accumulation of wealth, which has made a great difference in the value of money ; and wars, which have cost such immense summs to the nation.

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     EMILY. I don't understand it, I am sure—it seems all a contradiction.

     MRS. TALBOT. It is not necessary you should understand it yet awhile, my dear Emily, nor would I have you puzzle your poor little head about it for a great many years to come: yet it is necessary that children and young people should understand why those who would most gladly gratify them, are compelled to deny them many little enjoyments, that might a few years ago have been allowed to the children of persons in the middle rank of life without imprudence, or giving them an early bias towards indulgences, which as they grow up will probably be even more difficult of attainment than they are now. It is therefore very material, my dear Emily, that person in our situation, who cannot often go forth in search of remote pleasures, should acquire an early habit of finding them at home. And I have endeavoured to give you, and I hope have succeeded in giving you a taste for those

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 pure and innocent enjoyments that are always to be found, and which not only amuse the passing hours, but teach us,

To look thro' Nature up to Nature's God.

     But see, Emily, we are come to the foot of Mileford hill. It is so steep, that the poor horses would, I dare say, be very much obliged to us if we were to save them the labour of drawing us up.

     EMILY. Let us walk then, Mamma, I am sure I should like it a great deal the best.—Come, my dear George, we are going to walk up the hill—come and help us out.—Oh! how delightful it is to walk while the dew is yet on the ground!

     GEORGE. And see those fine cobwebs covered with dew-drops, like so many gloabes of silver—how the net work is spun from one of those furze bushed to be other!

     MRS. TALBOT. And webs of the same fine structure, perhaps a part of these, carry those minute spiders into the air, and

8

 that also weave the substance which sometimes is said to fall in showers, of which in the mornings and evenings of Autumn there are minute threads floating, that are sometimes felt against the face, and is called gossamer.

     GEORGE. Gossmer, you know, Emily, is a part of the harness of Queen Mab's chariot.

Her waggon spokes are made of spiders legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
The traces of the smallest spider's web.

     And that smallest is the insect of the gossamer, is it not, Mother?

     MRS. TALBOT. I believe so, and I think I can remember a Sonnet, which I will repeat to you as we slowely ascend the hill.

SONNET

TO THE INSECT OF THE GOSSAMER.

SMALL, viewless acronaut, that by the line
Of Gossamer suspended, in mid air
Float'st on a sun-beam—Livi atom, where

Ends

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Ends they breeze-guided voyage? With what design
In æther dost thou launch thy form minute,
Mocking the eye? Alas! before the veil
Of denser clouds shall hide thee, the pursuit
Of the keen Swift may end thy fairy sail!
Thus on the golden thread that Fancy weaves
Buoyant, as Hope's illusive flattery breathes,
The young and visionary Poet leaves
Life's dull realities, while sevenfold wreaths
Of rainbow light around his head revolve.
Ah! soon at Sorrow's touch the radiant dreams disolve.

     EMILY. Explain one thing to me, if you please, Mamma.

     MRS. TALBOT. Let us sit down then a moment on this block of stone and rest ourselves, for to explain and walk up hill too is rather fatiguing.—Now put your question.

     EMILY. Why do you call the little spider an aeronout? I thought that meant a person who goes into the air in a balloon.

     MRS. TALBOT. The term was, I rather think, invented to signify those ad

10

 venturers who have learned to float in the air, by means of the air; for the reason the balloon rises is, that the air with which it is filled is lighter than the air we breathe, and which surrounds us. How ever, this little insect suspended on an imperceptible thread, and floating in the regions of boundless space, may not improperly be termed an aeronaut also.

     GEORGE. Mother, I have often thought how amazing the prospect must be from the gallery of one of those balloons, and have wished to go up in one.

     MRS. TALBOT. The prospect must be undoubtedly magnificent, but I much suspect that no young aeronaut is sufficiently at his ease to contemplate it with much calmness. So my dear George, however I honor your spirit of enterprize and enquiry, you must at present, I believe content yourself with such prospects, for example, as we can command from this hill.

     GEORGE. And indeed, Mother, it

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 might satisfy any one, for it is very beautiful.

     MRS. TALBOT. It is certainly; and it is difficult for any one, who has not been in more mountainour countries, to imagine any thing more lovely. Observe how the distant sea sparkles inthe bright beams of the ascending sun. And even from hence the sails of the fishing boats, returning with the morning tide, are distinctly seen.

     GEORGE. They look like little white feathers as they catch the light. There is a larger ship I can distinguish a great deal feather off, and beyond I can count many more—one, two, three—I dare say there are at least a dozen of them.

     MRS. TALBOT. My eyes do not so well assist me. Those ships, however, which you distinguish, are probably merchant ships sailing with convey, that is, a ship of war to fight, in case they should be attached by the enemy as they go down the Channcel. The man of business, or

12

 the patriot, glorying in the superiority which commerce gives to this small island over those countries, which in natural advantages are greatly superior, may look with unalloyed satisfaction at one of these fleets, sent with the natural produce of this country, or that which it imports from other quarters of the world, to the settlements beyond the Atlantic; but one on whom these considerations make less impression, than the domestic comforts and affections, is apt to reflect on the separation of families, and the many aching hearts which are left by those embarked in these vessels, who go, some as military men to garrison remote colonies, and some on mercantile adventures. But this is a speculation I will not now indulge—George, does the sea view, spangled as it now is with small white sails, bring nothing to your recollection that you have heard of?

     GEORGE. Let me consider a moment—Indeed I do not immediately remember any thing—

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     MRS. TALBOT. No little Poem that you once heard, and even learned to repeat and wrote out in your book, though I do not believe it is among those Emily has yet in her collection?

     GEORGE. Oh yes! I now recall it—the Nautilus—a little poem which my aunt gave me. But I never wrote it in the book I am filling now ; and you know when I came home Emily was ill, and did not learn any thing for a good while.

     EMILY. But you will let me have it now, Mamma?

     MRS. TALBOT. Assuredly I will; and as the horses, after they have reached the summit of the hill, must rest a few moments, we may have time to give Emily an account of it, and to recite your aunt's stanzas.

     Of the marine animal she celebrates there are several species; and the shells of those found in the Indian seas are large and beautiful. They are highly valued, and made into drinking cups set in gold

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 by the natives of some parts of India. The inhabitant is a limax, or sea snail. The nautilus or sailor of the Mediterranean is smaller, and has the singular property of spreading a little membrance like a sail abobe the surface of the water, and putting out other filaments which seem occasionally to serve him for oars. But the stanzas themselves tell all this; and when I saw the fishing boats looking at this distance not much larger than those little animals, these stanzas immediately occurred to me.

THE NAUTILUS.

WHERE southern suns and winds prevail,
And undulate the Summer seas;
The Nautilus expands his sail,
And scuds before the fresh'ning breeze.

Oft is a little squardon seen
Of mimie ships all rigg'd complete;
Fancy might think the fairy queen
Was sailing with her efin fleet.

With

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With how much beauty is design'd
Each channell'd bark of purest white !
With orient pearl each cabin lined,
Varying with every change of light.

While with his little slender oars,
His silken sail, and tapering mast,
The dauntlefs mariner explores
The dangers of the watery waste.

Prepared, should tempests rend the sky,
From Harm his fragile bark to keep,
He furls his sail, his oar lays by,
And seeks his safety in the deep,

Then safe on ocean's shelly bed,
He hears the storm above him roar;
Mid groves of coral glowing red,
Or rocks o'erhung with madrepore.

So let us catch life's favouring gale,
But if fate's adverse winds be rude,
Take calmly in th' adventurous sail,
And find repose in Solitude.

     EMILY. I like them very much, though I do not quite understand what Madrepore is; is it a sea weed?

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     MRS. TALBOT. It is a zoophyte; by which I understand is meant that link in the chain which unites the animal and vegetable kingdomes—Madrepore, Tubipore and Millipore are corals, the works of sea insects; and Madrepore, of which mention is made in these lines, has the appearance of a vegetable, in small plaited or indented cups not bigger than half a pea, closely adhering together, and often covers the sea rocks as mantles of ivy hand over those on land.

     EMILY. Oh ! now I comprehend—

     GEORGE. And I think I have seen stones, and large coarse shells, with something like what you describe browing upon them.

     MRS. TALBOT. I dare say you have—and perhaps we shall find some in our walks when we are on the coast. But our conversation has been long; and it is now time we proceed; a few miles father, George, and you and Dumpling part.

     GEORGE. I shall bear the separation

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 with great fortitude, Mother, for Dumplin will be taken good care of at home, and have good grass to run in; while, you know, I can make use of my legs to scramble up and down the rocks, and scamper on these pleasant green hills, like a mountaineer.

     MRS. TALBOT. Now, since we are a little refreshed and have looked about us, let us avail ourselves of this beautiful evening to take a walk :—whither shall we go, to the sea side or to the hills?

     EMILY. To the hills now, Mama, and the sea afterwards; because George has just been down to the sea, and says the tide will not be down these two hours; and therefore we cannot walk on the sands yet, and those stones between the cliffs and the sands to so hurt one's feet !

     MRS. TALBOT. Well then, from the back of the house we can immediately reach the down—and here is George coming just in time to accompany us.

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     GEORGE. Oh Mother, what a pleasant country this is in fine weather! I love the sea so much, that sometimes I think I shold like to live always upon it.

     MRS. TALBOT. But you would then see no country at all : the green hills, and the woods you love so much, you would never then enjoy; for when you happened to go on shore it would only be a port, you know, which is any thing but pleasant to any of the sense of a person accustomed to the pure air and pleasant scenes of the country.

     GEORGE. That is very true: I don't know that I should like to be a sailor, and to live the greatest part of my life in a ship; but I should like to be always within sight of the sea.

     MRS. TALBOT. And so should I, if with it the pleasures of a garden, and woods, and shrubberies could be enjoyed; but on the bold open coast on this side of England, that is impossible; for if the salt dews of the ocean are not, as many

19

 persons assert, injurious to vegatation, the south-west winds are so violent, that trees hardly ever attain any great size, and very early in Summer their leaves become brown and withered, and they lose their beauty.

     GEORGE. Well, one cannot have every thing. Now I will tell you, Mother, what I should like best-a cottage a little on the other side, where a garden might be sheltered, and yet on walking a few paces, the sea would be visible from the top of the hill.

     MRS. TALBOT. I always find occasion to admire your taste, George, but there are objections, I believ, to such a situation. Water, I fear, would be wanting, an article of the first necessity.

     GEORGE. I did not think of that, Mother. But there is, you told me, and indeed I read a good deal about it, an art called hydraulics, by which water can be raised to any height.

     MRS. TALBOT. Yes, there is such an

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 art or science, but the expense attending the necessary mechanism is so great, that your cottage would be provided with water, at a price that would build a palace; and after all, you would have probably a scanty and precarious supply.

     GEORGE. Well, then I must give up my cottage in the air, to be sure, Mother.

     MRS. TALBOT. Cottages, and castles too, George, are often built with great pleasure in the air; but when reason is called in, our beautiful fabries tumble to the ground, and we are under the necessity of being content with a very small part of all the fine things our fancy furnished us with.

     EMILY. And is it not the same thing, Mamma, in regard to people? You said, I remember, one day, that one evil of those books which Miss Levingstone is so fond of reading, was, that the authors represented such characters as did not exist in the world, and that made young people

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 who read them discontented with those that really live in the world.

     MRS. TALBOT. I believe I did say something like that, Emily ; but those characters are often drawn to show us what we should be. And if instead of expecting to find perfect characters in others, each person endeavoured to correct his or her own faults, the personages of real life would oftener than they do approach those that novelists describe as perfect. It is very rare that any one is called upon to exert all the heroism, which is often given in these books to the principal characters ; but it is in every one's power to think justly, and act with integrity and firmness, and at least to command themselves.

     GEORGE. I don't know whether any persons are in the world like those that are called Heroes and Heroines in those books, but I hope there are none so wicked and so follish, as some of the other characters. I took up a book the other day which lay on the counter at Ellis's, while

22

 he was looking out some paper, and there was a character in it of a Sir Something Somebody, for all the people had titles, that seemed so wicked, as to be quite out of all probability; and if any such man was really in the world he would be forced to leave society, for nobody would be found to keep company with him.

     MRS. TALBOT. I do not know what character you mean, or what book you allude to, as indeed I read but few books of that description now, I cannot, therefore, judge how far your idea is, or ought to be just; but I am afraid it too often happens, that those we call the World worship circumstance rather than character; and that few have resolution to shun vice and folly if they are covered by the trappings of fortune. Shakspeare, the great observer of men and manners, says with too much truth—

Thro' tatter'd clothes small vices do appear,
Robes and furr'd gowns hide all : plate sine with gold,
And the strong lance of justice harmless breaks;
Arm it in rags, a pigmy's spear doth pierce it.

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 But we are getting into a grave and satyrizing vein. It is better, methings, to admire the setting Sun sinking beneath the horizon, while all those magnificent clouds tinged with hues of crimson, gold and purple, such as no human art can give the faintest description of, change their hues as he recedes.

     EMILY. Yes, and it is better, Mamma, for us to talk of animals and birds. You told me, I remember, that these pieces of turf which seem cut away from the rest, and look parched and brown, covered holes that had been made to take Wheat-ears, and that great numbers are caught on these downs. Now tell me how that is contrived.

     MRS. TALBOT. Come, George, let us sit down on this mass of something, which I doubt wheather to call a large stone brought hither, or a number of stones cemented together by art, and which was formerly part of a beacon where signals were lighted. This high mound of turf that

24

 surrounds it will shelter us a little from the ruffing sea wind; and while you give Emily the history of the Wheat-ear in prose, I think I can put it into verse.

     GEORGE. But Mother, your verse will be so much better than my prose, that I am sure Emily, as well as I, would rather sit still and silent, while you compose.

     MRS. TALBOT. Only tell her how the birds are caught.

     GEORGE. Why you see, Emily, these square pieces of turf—stay, I can take one out—these square pieces of turf are cut, and the eather under them, six or seven inches deep; then the piece is laid across the hole, so, and makes a sort of cave; a wire or horse hair with a noose in it is fixed within, and the Wheat-ears are so follish as to be afraid of the least appearance of storm or darkness, so that every shadow drives them into these holes, and they run their silly heads into the nooses and are caught.

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     EMILY. And do they breed here in England?

     GEORGE. Yes, I believe so; the book I have says, they are seen at all times of the year in some countries, while in others they are not known at all; but the great numbers, for they are caught by dozens and dozens to eat, being reckoned very good, do not appear till some time in August; and now they are almost out of searson, and you see the traps are not set. Their nests are made under stones, or pieces of rock, among rough ground, but these nests are not often found; and therefore some people have supposed, as the greatest number of them are seen about these Susex downs, which you know are, except some part of Kent, the nearest of any part of England to the coast of France, that they come from thence to breed, and go back again in Winter, because like many other birds, they would fare but badly here, for there are no insects at that time to feed them, and they live on flies, gnats and

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 worms. But my Mother, I know, has finished her verses.

     MRS. TALBOT. I have—but it is necessary, as George has so well related the history of the Wheat-ear, or Cul-blane, or at least as much as is known of it, to tell you, that this place where we sit, and which is one of those they much frequent, is one of those circulat trenches, in the midst of which a pile of stone was raised, and on them a fire was made, to give notice of the approach of an enemy. Since the art of war has been otherwise conducted, the same artifice is often used by smugglers, whose comrades on shore make these signals to warn them of danger, in landing their contraband cargos. This, you may perhaps recollect, George, I once explained to you, when you were reading a poem by Mr. Crowe, called Lewesdon Hill, celebrating an high hill in Dorsetshire, where among other circumstances, he mentions a place called Burton.

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Thee, Burton, and thy lofty cliff, where oft
The nightly blaze is kindled; farther seen
Than erst was that love-tended cresset hung
Beside the Hellespont. Yet not like that,
Inviting to the hospitable arms
Of beauty and youth, but lighted up, the sign
Of danger, and of ambush'd foe to warn
The stealth approaching vessel, homeward bound
From Havre, or the Norman isles.

     EMILY. But that is not verse.

     GEORGE. Yes it is; it is blank verse : the same as Milton's Paradise Lost, you know, and the Task, and a great many other poems we have read parts of.

     EMILY. But what I mean is, that it is not in measure, in rhyme.

     MRS. TALBOT. In measure, certainly, but not in rhyme, and that is what distinguishes it from heroic verse of ten syllables, where the lines rhyme to each other, or rhyme alternately—as in that sort of verse in which elegies are usually written. But we will discuss this another time.—Here are my rhymes, which if

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 George can make them out, written with a pencil, he will read to us.

THE WHEAT-EAR.

FROM that deep shelter'd solitude,
Where in some quarry wild and rude,
Your feather'd mother reared her brood,
         Why, pilgrim, did you brave
The upland winds so leak and keen,
To seek these hills?—whose slopes between
Wide stretch'd in grey expanse is seen,
         The Ocean's toiling wave?

Did instinct bid you linger here,
That broad and restless Ocean near,
And wait, till with the waning year
         Those northern gales arise,
Which, from the tall cliff's ragged side
Shall give your soft light plumes to glide,
Across the channel's refluent tide,
         To seek more favoring skies?

Alas! and has not instinct said
That luxury's toils for you are laid,
And that by groundless fears betray'd
         You ne'er perhaps may know
Those regions, where the embowering vine
Loves round the luscious fig to twine,
and mild the Suns of Winter shine,
         And flowers perennial blow

To

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To take you, shepherd boys prepare
The hollow turf, the wiry snare,
Of those weak terrors well aware,
         That bid you vainly dread
The shadows floating o'er the downs,
Or murmuring gale, that round the stones
Of some old beacon, as it moans,
         Scarce moves the thisle's head.

And if a cloud obscure the Sun
With faint and fluttering heart you run,
And to the pitfall you should shun
         Resort in trembling haste;
While, on that dewy cloud so high,
The lark, sweet minstrel of the sky,
Sings in the morning's beamy eye,
         And bathes his spotted breast.

Ah! simple bird, resembling you
Are those, that with distorted view
Thro' life seom selfish end pursue,
         With low inglorious aim;
They sink in blank oblivious night,
While minds superior dare the light,
And high on honor's glorious height
         Aspire to endless fame!

     EMILY. Oh, Mamma! I shall at last have birds in my collection, as well as plants and animals.

30

     MRS. TALBOT. I hope so; I know your aunt is adding to your nubmers, and will bring, or perhaps send them.

     EMILY. I hope she will come soon, we shall then be quite happy.

     MRS. TALBOT. But let us not lose the intermediate time. Our stay here will not be very long; many interruptions will occur from the necessity we shall be under of associating now and then with such acquaintance as we shall meet here : the weather is at this season usually variable; we shall lose some days by storms, or heavy rain; therefore it is wise to take advantage of every interval to enjoy the sea. I see that the tide is now sufficiently down to allow us to escape the stones, of which Emily expresses such apprehension, and which are undoubtedly very uneasy to the feet. The evening is still bright and lovely—and as we walk, I think I can add to your little book, by describing in measure—

31

AN EVENING WALK BY THE SEA SIDE.

'Tis pleasant to wander along on the sand,
Beneath the high cliff that is hallowed in caves;
When the fisher has put off his boat from the land,
And the prawn-catcher wades thro' the short rippling waves.

While fast run before us the sandling and plover,
Intent on the crabs and the sand-eels to feed,
And here on a rock which the tide will soon cover,
We'll find us a seat that is tapestried with weed.

Bright gleam the white sails in the slant rays of even,
And stud as with silver the broad level main,
While glowing clouds float on the fair face of Heaven,
And the mirror-like water reflects them again.

How various the shades of marine vegetation,
Thrown here the rough flints and the pebbles among,
The feather'd conferva of deepest carnation,
The dark purple slake and the olive sea thong.

While Flora herself unreluctantly mingles
Her garlands with those that the Nereids have worn,
For the yellow horned poppy springs up on the shingles,
And convolvulas rival the rays of the morn.

But

32

But now to retire from the rock we have warning,
Already the water encircles our seat,
And slowly the tide of the evening returning,
The moon beams reflects in the waves at our feet.

Ah! wheather as now the mild Summer sea flowing,
Scarce wrinkles the sands as it murmurs on shore,
Or fierce wintry whirlwinds impetuously blowing
Bid high maddening surges resistlessly roar;

That Power, which can put the wide waters in motion,
Then bid the vast billows repose at His word;
Fills the mind with deep reverence, while Earth, Air, and Ocean,
Alike of the universe speak him the Lord.

     GEORGE. I think, Mother, you make verses more easily, and better than ever. Why these are what is called extempore.

     MRS. TALBOT. Not entirely so, for they cost me near an hour, but they are on a simple subject, and one with which I am well acquainted. On a subject more abstruse, I should not compose with equal facility. But you know, George, there are in Italy, and the Southern

33

 Provinces of France, and I believe also in Spain, person, who on any given subject will recite many hundred stanzas of perfectly good rhymes, which they have never written, or even run over in their own minds.

     GEORGE. I remember having read accounts of them, and that they are called Improvisatori.

     MRS. TALBOT. I do not imagine it to be so difficult to do this in the language they compose in, as it would be in English; but to return for a moment to those verses you have just heard.—Do you understand them?

     GEORGE. Yes, I think I do, tolerably well—Plovers and Sandlings are, I suppose, sea birds—those which we actually see on the sands at a little distance.

     MRS. TALBOT. Birds that live on sea insects.—I know not whether those are the proper names of the birds which I mean to describe, but they are the names usually given to them; I rather

34

 think, Sanderling or Sand-piper, is the name of one of them, tho' the fishermen call them Sandlings.

     EMILY. And what is the sea-thong?

     MRS. TALBOT. This long weed, which looks not unlike a dark plaited ribbon. Conferva is the red branched weed, of which there are many varieities—and these dark purple weeds are called slake. There are names to all the fuci, or sea-weeds.—The other plants are familiar to you.—I have shown you a drawing of the chelcidonium, the horned sea-poppy, and here is a specimen of it, still in flower; you see on breaking a part of its stalk, there is a yellow juice exudes from it, just as it does from the celendine, of which it is a species. The convolvulus soldinella is more rare, but extremely beautiful, and grows in some places almost close to the sea, among the sand. There also grows the eryngium maritimum, the sea eryngium, of which the poorer people on the sea coast make pies.

35

 And I have sometimes found the sea peas, which are said to have supplied whole parishes with food, in a scarcity of corn.

     EMILY. But you did not name them, Mamma?

     MRS. TALBOT. I could not enumerate them all in so short an essay.

     EMILY. One question more, Mamma—I don't quite comprehend what you mean by the Nereids.

     MRS. TALBOT. Your brother will explain it—but he is looking for shells, of which there are none on this coast that are worth gathering as being at all eurious.—So I will tell you, that there are in the heathen mythology divinities presiding over the different elements. Of water, the rivers have each their imaginary god; and thus you know, Grey, in the Ode oin the distant Prospect of Eton College, addresses the ideal God of the Thames—

"Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
"Full many a sportive race."

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     And the Naiads preside over the smaller brooks and streams. The Nereids are Sea Nymphs, attendant on Neptune, the God of the Sea, and his Queen Amphitrite.

     EMILY. Now I comprehend.—But all these imaginary people are difficult to remember.

     MRS. TALBOT. You cannot, however, understand poetry without knowing the heathen mythology; for tho' it is not so often alluded to in modern poetry as it formerly was, yet there are frequent references to these beings that were once supposed to direct and animate the operations of nature. It is growing late, and I am fatigued.—Come, my dear children, let us return to our lodgings.—This has not been an unpleasant, nor I hope an unprofitable day.