ch, and to check the ministry in the career of terrorism and
oppression upon which they had entered. Looking back upon these trials,
at this distance of time, one cannot but feel a conviction that the
fears of the Government and the nation were absurdly exaggerated. The
foundations of English society and British institutions were too firmly
fixed to be easily shaken, even when the whole continent of Europe was
convulsed from one end to the other. But the London Corresponding
Society still continued its efforts, till its secretary was tried and
convicted, and the society itself was suppressed, along with many other
similar associations, by an act of Parliament, called the Corresponding
Societies Bill, in 1799. Tooke's connection with it had ceased some time
before; in fact, it is more than doubtful if he had ever been a
thorough-going supporter of it in heart, or had any other object than
that of making political capital out of it, and of indulging his
belligerent proclivities. He died in 1812, at the age of seventy-six.

In 1777 there were seventeen regular newspapers published in London, of
which seven were daily, eight tri-weekly, one bi-weekly, and one weekly.
In 1778 appeared the first Sunday newspaper, under the title of
_Johnson's Sunday Monitor_.

We have now arrived at the threshold of a very important event--too
important, in fact, to be introduced at the end of an article, and which
we therefore reserve for our next number. That event is the birth of the
_Times_.

THE HOUSE IN THE LANE.

Warm and bright the sun is shining
On the farmhouse far away,
Like a pleasant picture lying
Bright before my gaze all day.

And I see the tall, gray chimney,
And the steep roof sloping down;
And far off the spires rise dimly
Of the old New Hampshire town.

And the little footpath creeping
Through the long grass to the door,
And the hopvine's tresses sweeping
The low roof and lintels o'er.

And the barn with loft and rafter,
Weather beaten, scarred, and wide--
And the tree I used to clamber,
With the well-sweep on one side.

And beyond that wide old farmyard,
And the bridge across the stream,
I can see the ancient orchard,
Where the russets thickly gleam,

And the birds sing just as sweetly,
In the branches knarled and low,
As when autumns there serenely
Walked a hundred years ago.

And upon the east are beaming
The salt