SUSPIRIA.
(By a Disappointed Sportsman.)
The plane's broad plates of weather-beaten gold
Lie shrunk and sodden in the miry way,
Never around the dappled trunk to play
Again with tricksy beams, and breezes bold.
Night swathes the sober light in thickening fold,
Like a grey moth, webb'd in a prison grey,
And the wan willow to the dying day
Gleams like despair, unsolaced and untold.
Now from the village tow'r the bells begin
Their sad-soul'd chiming, as a sullen boy
Wails on in wantonness. Oh, to greet again
Thames's bright Strand, his theatre-studded joy,
The postman's frequent rap, the newsboy's din,
The constant cab, the ever-circling train.
"In the So-called Nineteenth Century."—When giving three Bishops a little touching up in Mr. Kkowles's Nineteenth Century, why does the playful Professor always write "à priori" instead of "a priori?" As no one would accuse Mr. Huxley of falling into a "clerical error," the explanation must be that he had nothing to do with it, or didn't know any better, or his printer would have it so, or the Printer's Devil possessed him, or Bathybius got loose and played the mischief with the type. Perhaps it is we who are wrong, if so, we ask has it anything to do with the new accent which is to be used in the pronunciation of Latin? A trifling matter—but for a Professor so "acute" such an accent may be considered a "grave" mistake.