“Shakspeare’s _great ignorance_ of geography is not more conspicuous in any instance than in this, where he supposes Tunis and Naples to have been at such an immeasurable distance from each other.” It does not seem to me that the passage warrants the supposition of such an opinion on the part of Shakspeare. It is obviously a mere hyperbole in jest. It is not credible that such a writer could be so ignorant, and where other evidences of it appear in the course of his works, it is more rational (when they cannot be explained away as in the present instance) to ascribe them to typographical confusion, or the liberties of ignorant copyists, &c. To the passage complained of, Sebastian himself answers, “What stuff is this? How say you? ’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis; So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions There is some space.” * * * * * “HATH NOT THY ROSE A CANKER.” BY MRS. LOIS B. ADAMS. Pressed with the weight of morning dews, Its slender stalk the rose was bending, And red and white in changing hues Upon its cheek were sweetly blending: But underneath the leaflets bright, By blushing beauty hid from sight, Enamored with its fragrance rare, The canker worm was feasting there. O! thou who in thy youthful days Ambition’s wreaths art proudly twining, And fondly hoping worldly praise Will cheer thine after years declining, Beware, lest every tempting rose That in Ambition’s pathway grows, Conceal beneath its semblance fair The lurking canker of despair. And thou who in thine early morn For sin the paths of truth art leaving, Remember, though no pointed thorn May pierce the garland thou art weaving, Yet every bud whence flowrets bloom Shall its own living sweets entomb; For deep the canker worm of care Is feasting on its vitals there. Thou too, the beautiful and bright, At Pleasure’s shrine devoutly kneeling, Dost thou not see the fatal blight Across thy roseate chaplet stealing? Time hath not touched with fingers cold Those glossy leaves of beauty’s mould, And yet each bud and blossom gay Is marked for slow but sure decay. O! ye who sigh for flowers that bloom In one eternal spring of gladness, Where beauty finds no darkened tomb, And joy hath never dreamed of sadness; Elysian fields are yours to roam Where groves of fadeless pleasures bloom O! linger not where sorrow’s tears May blight the cherished hopes of years. * * * * * TO A SWALLOW THAT DROPPED ON DECK DURING A STORM AT SEA. BY WILLIAM FALCONER.