Among the poetry is "the African Mier-Vark," or Ant-eater, by Mr. Pringle, and "the Deadly Nightshade," a sweetly touching ballad, dated from Florence; "the Vulture of the Alps" is of similar character; and we are much pleased with some lines on Birds, by Barry Cornwall, one set of which we copy, the best prose papers being too long for extract: TO A WOUNDED SINGING BIRD.

why a you not vark, Tom?' and stood over him so long that I saw, with some mortification, the book irrecoverably stitch'd up in the cushion never to be retriev'd till the cushion is worn to pieces.

Wise old aard-vark.

Wise old aard-vark.