The Sun.
London, England, 1852-09-01 00:00:00

and is entitled pretentiously " A Cornish Capitalist's
Hint for an Exchange —a rather large heading
for just four lines of doggrel, the head of a Mon-
ster on the legs of a Mannikin ! " The Life of
an Architect" is continued wiql further gabblings
by way of literary, theatrical, and artistic reminis-
cences. " A Family Trip to the Seaside " is ap-
propriate to the season, when the Smiths and
the Joneses are dabbling systematically in the
vicinage of bathing machines. A long contribution,
and one which will he universally accepted, by
those who read it, as a novelty, is the one headed
" The Saddlebags." Another describes the" Memoirs
of a Man of the World." Another reviews the
writing of Madame Dunoyer as among the " Popu-
lar French Authoresses" of the last century. Besides
the foregoing, the .Miscellany comprises a variety of
good natured notices of books recently published.

AINSWOILTH.
Another chapter of the reprint of " The Lanca-
shire Witches," from the pen of the editor, opens the
number of Ainsworth for September. Among the
poetical contributors to the mapzine two have ren-
dered themselves conspicuous, "E. E. M. K." and
" Nicholas Michell"—the latter by some touching
verses on " The Death of Wolfe," and the former by
some Yet more pathetic verses on " The Early Dead."
One expression in Mr. Michell's contribution we like
not—that of " warmed pity drops a teav"—rather too
matter-of• fact a method of telling ul that the heart
of Pity was " melted." The companion poem by
" E. E. M. K." runs as follows:

O life in youth, fair offspring of the sky !
Almost we gaze and dream such Should not dio.
'Stoop hoary age! aye, stoop, thy doom is known;
The grave awaits thee, earth but seeks her own,;
No gentle love, no tender pity may
Thy fated footstep on the journey stay ;
Swiftly for thee the harvest reaper nears,
Death claims the ripeness of thy mortal years,
But youth, glad youth! not thus we part with thee !
lope's holy rainbow spans thy destiny.
Albeit the roses from thy soft cheek fade,
Albeit the shadow on thy brow be laid,
'Tis but the mist that shrouds the mountain's crown,
'Tis but the shower that weighs the blossom down.
When o'er the roses of our May-day spring
Swept the chill winter with despoiling wing ?
When, 'mid the blushes of the early morn,
Of sultry day, was sudden midnight born ?
When the green wheat with harvest sickles full'd ?
The flower-drankt rill in icy bondage held ?
Yet ah I too oft, while summer blooms around,
Death's wintry frost-work at our hearth is found ;
The same false breeze that rocks a reffl3el flower,
Oft blights our beautiful in youth's strong hour;
The same false ray that tints the bud with bloom,
May crowd our hearth with shadows of the tomb.
Not so with us as with the bearded grain,
One measured sum of heat, of light, of rain;
Not so with us as with the vintage fruits,

The ruddy ripeness mounting from the roots,
One fated aspect for the final breath,
One certain season for the certain death.
Heaven's laws are wonders to our mortal ken—
' Be ready always, for ye know not when.'
'Tis not the surface that our fate bespeaks,
Ripeness may lie in infant eyes and cheeks;
Celestial hands, that gather for the skies,
Wait not the coming of autumnal dyes,
But oft will garner from the budding spring
Sweet fruit and riper than late seasons bring;
For, ah, alas! with man, the boon of time
May breed a poison o'er his manhood's prime;
'Time,' that perfection to earth's produce brings,
May steal the glory from an angel's wings."
Besides these effusions, the magazine contains a
variety of prose articles, most of them amusing,
and one, " The Haunted Well," very attractive in
character.