every thing. Wear any
coat, go any where, face any enemy thou'rt ordered, and have none of
those new-fangled notions about this general, or that army. Be a good
soldier, and a good comrade. Share thy kit and thy purse to the last
sous, for it will not only be generous in thee, but that so long as thou
hoardest not, thou'lt never be over eager for pillage. Mind these
things, and with a stout heart and a sharp sabre, Maurice, 'tu ira
loin.' Yes, I tell thee again, lad, 'tu ira loin'."

I give these three words as he said them, for they have rung in my ears
throughout all my life long. In moments of gratified ambition, in the
glorious triumph of success, they have sounded to me like the confirmed
predictions of one who foresaw my elevation, in less prosperous hours.
When fortune has looked dark and louring, they have been my comforter
and support, telling me not to be downcast or depressed, that the season
of sadness would soon pass away, and the road to fame and honor again
open before me.

"You really think so, Tronchon? You think that I shall be something
yet?'

"'Tu ira loin,' I say," repeated he emphatically, and with the air of an
oracle who would not suffer further interrogation. I therefore shook his
hand cordially, and set out to pay my visit to the general.

(_To be continued.)_

[From the London Eclectic Review.]

HAVE GREAT POETS BECOME IMPOSSIBLE?[18]

"Poetry is declining--poetry is being extinguished--poetry is extinct.
To talk of poetry now is eccentricity--to write it is absurdity--to
publish it is moonstruck madness." So the changes are rung. Now, it is
impossible to deny that what is called poetry has become a drug, a bore,
and nuisance, and that the name "Poet," as commonly applied, is at
present about the shabbiest in the literary calendar. But we are far
from believing that poetry is extinct. We entertain, on the contrary,
sanguine hopes of its near and glorious resurrection. Soon do we hope to
hear those tones of high melody, which are now like the echoes of
forgotten thunder:

"From land to land re-echoed solemnly,
Till silence become music."

We expect, about the very time, when the presumption against the
revivication of poetry shall have attained the appearance of absolute
certainty, to witness a Tenth Avatar of Genius--and to witness its
effect, too, upon the sapient personages who had been predicting that it
was forever departed.

But this, it seems, is "not a poet