distance a well known manger standing at the foot of a pole, which supports the pendent fac-simile of some mis-shapen beast of the forest, or bird of the air, or else a weather-beaten portrait of the Marquis of Granby, or of the hero of the Nile.

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Our traveller has alighted, and as all good travellers ought, has seen rosinante well taken care of; as well indeed, as a stable, neither wind nor water-tight, will allow-pronouncing it most emphatically a wretched place for the poor dumb beast." He has passed through the kitchen, occupied by a motley group of rustic wassailers enjoying the comfort of a Christmas block, pipes and porter, and has settled himself in the undisputed possession of an elbow chair of the age of Queen Elizabeth, before a good fire, in a snug back parlour.

For a brief reign he "is now monarch of all he surveys." Like the inmate of an enchanted castle, he has only to touch the talismanic ring suspended beside his chair, and a plump cherry-cheek damsel, with quilled cap and snow-white apron, appears to know his commands, and run on his errands. The choicest viands of the larder are cheerfully spread before him— "yes, sir—immediately, sir”- -answers every request; and ere he can half express a want, the whole household is in a bustle to satisfy it. What comfort equal to that of an inn! So said our hero, as he composed himself for the enjoyment of a quiet cigar, after having done due justice to mine host's ham and chicken. But sublunary bliss is short. He must depart. The tintinnabulary summons is repeated, and in walks Mr. Boniface himself, the master conjuror, and with his long bill dissolves the charm. It is no longer, in Mr. Bull's opinion, an enchanted castle, but a confoundedly expensive place. Rosinante is saddled, and indulging in the solitary comfort of grumbling, John rides away, without even saying "good bye."

"Home! sweet home!" he ejaculates, generously forgetting the extravagant charges of mine host, in the pleasing anticipation of his own fireside. And who will not acknowledge that real comfort dwells at an Englishman's fireside! I am no traveller; but I am told the French have no Englishman's fireside. Pardon the bull, gentle reader; upon my honour, I am not Irish, and yet I am not able to substitute a better word. Pri'thee then, be content with this Irish reason for the absence of comfort from the French vocabulary.

Who has not seen, felt, and enjoyed the happiness of a family circle round a well furnished tea table, with bubbling urn, smoking toast, smiling faces, harmless jests, and a cheerful hostess? Without-the pelting of the pitiless storm; withinthe serenity of peace and plenty; for nothing enhances more the value of the blessing than the contrast which the war of elements abroad presents: and who, that has witnessed such a scene as the above, is ignorant of the meaning of the word comfort? Well, Mr. Bull has arrived at just such a home-just such a scene. Some two or three flaxen-headed urchins have welcomed his return, and had a kiss of papa, and are orderly seated by mamma's direction, round the table. Even puss claims a share in the serenity of this moment, and elevated upon the footstool, indulges with half shut eyes the luxury of a waking dream. The father's eyes wander with delight round the living circle; and he cannot help whispering to himself, "here is a vast deal more comfort than at the inn." It looks, too, more durable; but comfort is perpetually liable to accidents: a brimful saucer in Emily's little hand loses its equilibrium, deluges the table, spoils the new frock, and sets mamma scolding. "Alas, alas," cries papa, who had just commenced reading the newspaper, "there is no comfort where there are children."

Well, then, we will seek a seclusion where infant sorrow never raised its baby cry-whence peace never fled from childhood's troubles. What a sweet retirement it is! what a neatly papered and well curtained abode! Surely here no child will be permitted to spill her tea, and banish comfort from the scene. It would seem, too, that the fair like comfort, as well as Mr. Bull. Four staid and matronly dames have seated themselves in council-we are inclined to suspect they are all the incumbents of single blessedness-they are met for the comfort of a little friendly chat-births, deaths, and marriages, the topics. Broken vows and broken hearts, lowly whispered tales of mystery, and currently reported facts, are kindly and innocently discussed; not a discordant opinion ruffles the debate, while the Chinese infusion "waits on each." But see, the scene has shifted! the spotted pack (not of harriers, gentle reader) has displaced the tea service, and whist, with all its honours, has assumed the sovereignty. If the English language furnished a superlative to comfort, this would be the appropriate moment for its application. Such a

placid self-satisfied quietude of pleasure rests on every face— such a certainty is felt by all of their interest in the favours of the blind goddess! After a few deals, however, comfort becomes fidgety and discontented with her company-one lady ventures to complain of her partner's play-"she plays horridly." Madam Fortune, too, is accused of peeping from under her bandage and not distributing her favours impartially. In short, Miss Evelina Crust will play no longer with such provoking ill luck; especially as one of the ladies has thrice revoked! Her chair is ordered, and Miss takes her leave in a pet. The servant, who saw her into the chair, confidently affirmed that no such thing as comfort accompanied her, and the ladies remaining are painfully convinced that she has not left it with them. So that notwithstanding every accommodation, comfort has taken flight again.

What, then, is this evanescent quality comfort, which a breath may destroy, an infant drown in a cup of tea? What is this "ignis fatuus" of life-the Englishman's idol, the Frenchman's nonentity which is so perpetually eluding our grasp, and the pursuit of which we cannot relinquish? It is an absence from pain and disquietude of every kind, mental and bodily-a pleasurable sensation derived from hope and agreeable prospects -a quiet resting upon our oars in the sea of life-a peaceable enjoyment of a calm without the apprehension of a storm. These are its constituents, whether found in England or in Ind -wherever these are concentrated the reality exists; even in France, without a word to characterize it. Fortunately too for

human happiness they do unite and blend in a thousand different shades, and in every varied state. The peasant enjoys the comfort of his homely cot, the peer of his splendid hall and gilded coach. The casual interruptions to which the accidents of life expose it are transitory; but of such vital importance does every human heart esteem it, that misery the most extreme can alone permanently extinguish it. We will therefore venture to hope that, by this time, little Emily is pardoned; that Miss Evelina, repenting of her folly, has forgotten her ill luck; and that the respectable Mr. Bull is again enjoying the luxury and comfort of his English fireside. And if we have not already wearied the patience, and infringed upon the comfort of the reader, we would just add, that this valued guest seldom disappears unbidden, and that by the exercise of a little patience and for

bearance, her company and favour may usually be secured. deed it is more frequently from such petty accidents and caprices as the above, that comfort suffers interruption; and if we attentively notice the chequered scenery of life, it will be obvious that the greater sorrows and calamities of human nature make less havoc with our happiness, peace, and serenity, than those little and apparently insignificant annoyances, which frequently, if not always, result from a captious temper, or an ill-regulated mind.

Z.

THE YEAR.

APRIL.

COME, gentle reader, into the fields again, "for lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers cover the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land," the trees are leafing and the shrubs are blossoming; then come, reader, and if what we have already written has tempted you forth, you will answer our "call to the fields" joyously; albeit the summons is not the blast of the bugle or the halloo of the hunter. Our joys of the field differ widely from the animal gratification of the chase; they are the enjoyment of the soul, an enjoyment to which no pleasure of sense can be compared.

The most beautiful season of the year has arrived; every one that goes abroad, must be a naturalist; all is harmony and joy, and beauty reigns supreme. The vernal occurrences are become so numerous, that it is as difficult now to select the most conspicuous, as in winter to find any variety of appearance.

It is during this month that the migration of birds is brought expressly under our notice, by the arrival of those which rear their broods in this country, and retire to the south in winter. We mentioned the chiff-chaff and the stone curlew, in March; during the whole of this month these "guests of summer" come in immense numbers; every day brings some fresh visitants, they are arriving all day; night does not stop them, they are in motion

in the hours of darkness, and we find fresh visitants to hail us at the return of every dawn. In the very beginning of the month come the corncrake and the quail, and then the wryneck, who is followed in a few days by the cuckoo; these all betake themselves to the fields and copses, far from the busy haunts of man. Soon after, our gardens are filled with a numerous train of warblers; the nightingale, blackcap, and willow wren, the redstart and pettychaps, the two whitethroats and the tree sparrow. Then comes the swallow tribe-the bank swallow seeks the sandpits; the chimney swallow and martin claim the immediate protection of man, and with full confidence in his generosity place their domiciles under his roof. With these, the wheatear whinchat and stonechat arrive, and locate themselves on our barren heaths and waste ground; the tree pipit, shrike, and woodwren, establish themselves in the fields; and the turtle-dove is heard uttering her prolonged and sad cooings from the depths of our plantations. Later in the month, the grasshopper, the reed and the sedge warblers arrive and fill our marshes and meadows, and the yellow wagtail is seen busy on the margin of the river. At the end of this month, and the beginning of the next, come the swift to our steeples and ruins, the night-jar to our solitudes, and the spotted flycatcher to share with the swallows the walls of our houses. These are the principal of our summer migrators; others there are, whose visits are irregular, as the hoopoe and the crossbills, and some, as the crane and the storks, have retired before the progress of cultivation, and become "Rare aves in terris.”

We ought to have mentioned some hawks, which are birds of passage; they are the honey buzzard, the rough-legged buzzard, the hobby, and the merlin, but they have no stated periods of

return.

The periodical migrations of the feathered tribes, and their regular returns, have always excited the surprise and admiration of those who have attended to the subject, from the earliest period to the present time. It is noticed in the Scriptures by the prophet Jeremiah, who reproaches the people of God with being more unreasonable than the feathered race. Among the Greeks, Hesiod, Aristophanes, and Aristotle mention it expressly, and it is indirectly noticed in Horace. Pliny and all the writers on natural history among the Romans speak of it; and in modern times it has engaged the attention of every naturalist. We must