and over-contentment with himself and others. He would not be · in character if he were not so fat as he is; for there is the greatest keeping in the boundless luxury of his imagination, and the pampered self-indulgence of his physical appetites. He enriches and nourishes his mind with jests, as he does his body with sack and sugar. He carves out his jokes as he would a capon or a haunch of venison, where there is cut and come again; and pours out upon them the oil of gladness. His tongue drops fatness, and in the hambers of his brain 'it snows of meat and drink.' He keeps up perpetual holiday and open house, and we live with him in a round of invitations to a rump and dozen. Yet we are not to suppose that he was a mere sensualist. All this is as much in imagination as in reality. His sensuality does not engross and stupify his other faculties, but 'ascends me into the brain, clears away all the dull crude vapors that environ it, and makes it full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes.' His imagination keeps up the ball after his senses have done with it. He seems to have even a greater enjoyment of the freedom from restraint, of good cheer, of his ease, of his vanity, in the ideal exaggerated description which he gives of them, than in fact. He never fails to enrich his discourse with allusions to eating and drinking; but we never see him at able. He carries his own larder about with him, and he is himself 'a tun of man.' His pulling out the bottle in the field of battle is a joke to show his contempt for glory accompanied with danger, his systematic adherence to his Epicurean philosophy in the most trying circumstances. Again, such is his deliberate exaggeration of his own vices, that it does not seem quite certain whether the account of his hostess's bill, found in his pocket, with such an out-of-the-way charge for capons and sack, with only one half-penny-worth of bread, was not put there by himself as a trick to humor the jest upon his favorite propensities, and as a conscious caricature of himself. He is represented as a liar, a braggart, a coward, a glutton, etc., and yet we are not offended, but delighted with him; for he is all these as much to amuse others as to gratify himself. He openly assumes all these characters to show the humorous part of them. The unrestrained indulgence of his own ease, appetites, and convenience, has neither inalice nor hypocrisy in it. In a word, he is an actor in himself almost as much as upon the stage, and we no more object to the

character of Falstaff in a moral point of view, than we should think of bringing an excellent comedian, who should represent him to the life, before one of the police offices.

Hazlitt.

The Raven.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door;
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber-door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore - -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me -filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating:
"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door —
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door;
This it is, and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I-"surely that is something at my window lattice
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed

he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door — Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, “art sure

no craven,

Ghastly, grim and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly

shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the Raven: "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door
Bir or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered-

Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown

before

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said: "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of "Never- nevermore."

But, the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

censer

Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels le hath sent thee

Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

--

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven: "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —

On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore Is there is there balm in Gilead?-tell me - tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven: "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or

devil!

By that heaven that bends above us- by that God we both ador
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore-
Casp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?"
Quoth the Raven: "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting

"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven: "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the

And

floor;

my soul from out the shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted never more!

Poe.

Death of Gawtrey the Coiner.

At both doors now were heard the sounds of voices. 'Open in the king's name, or expect no mercy!' 'Hist!' said Gawtrey. 'One way yet-the window- the rope.'

Morton opened the casement-Gawtrey uncoiled the rope. The dawn was breaking; it was light in the streets, but all seemed quiet without. The doors reeled and shook beneath the pressure of the pursuers. Gawtrey flung the rope across the street to the opposite