hed by wealth or pedigree. When the new
member for Preston was introduced to him, he was in the act of taking
snuff, with his glove off. Mr. Hunt made a bow, not remarkable for its
graceful repose, at a distance--apprehensive, as it struck me, that the
acknowledgment would be that of a _noli me tangere_, exclusive. He
was agreeably disappointed: the Speaker gave him his ungloved hand at
once, in a manner almost cordial; and Mr. Hunt took his seat, evidently
pleased by the flattering courteousness of his reception.

I take it that the personal appearance of Mr. Hunt is too well known
to require description. He is, take him altogether, perhaps the finest
looking man in the House of Commons--tall, muscular, with a healthful,
sun-tinged, florid complexion, and a manly Hawthorn deportment--half
yeoman, half gentleman sportsman. To a close observer of the human face
divine, however, his features are wanting in energy of will and
fixedness of purpose. The brow is weak, and the eyes flittering and
restless; and the mouth is usually garnished with a cold simper, not
very compatible with that heart-born enthusiasm which precludes all
doubt of truth and sincerity.

* * * * *

TRUTH.

Friend, Truth is best of all. It is the bed
Where Virtue e'er must spring, till blast of doom;
Where every bright and budding thought is bred,
Where Hope doth gain its strength, and Love its bloom.

As white as Chastity is single Truth,
Like Wisdom calm, like Honour without end;
And Love doth lean on it, in age and youth,
And Courage is twice arm'd with Truth its friend.

Oh! who would face the blame of just men's eyes,
And bear the fame of falsehood all his days,
And wear out scorned life with useless lies,
Which still the shifting, quivering look betrays?

For what is Hope, if Truth be not its stay?
And what were Love, if Truth forsook it quite?
And what were all the Sky,--if Falsehood gray
Behind it like a Dream of Darkness lay,
Ready to quench its stars in endless, endless night?

_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

SCENE FROM "THE FROGS OF ARISTOPHANES"

_Translated in the Quarterly Review._

We are not at present breathing the air either of Christ Church meadow
or Trinity gardens; and if our version of a piece of mere pleasantry,
which involves nothing in it beyond a moment's laugh, should be so happy
as to sat