This mess of cracked ice, stones and bread,
Of sweetness savours not a bit,
And yet, my friends, I’m satisfied,
For lo! I—I—invented it!
Frederic Ridgely Torrence.
THE BRITISH VISITOR
ARRIV’D, at last, Niagara to scan,
He walks erect and feels himself a man;
Surveys the cataract with a “critic’s eye,”