In 1777 there were seventeen regular newspapers published in London, of which seven were daily, eight tri-weekly, one bi-weekly, and one weekly. In 1778 appeared the first Sunday newspaper, under the title of _Johnson's Sunday Monitor_. We have now arrived at the threshold of a very important event--too important, in fact, to be introduced at the end of an article, and which we therefore reserve for our next number. That event is the birth of the _Times_. THE HOUSE IN THE LANE. Warm and bright the sun is shining On the farmhouse far away, Like a pleasant picture lying Bright before my gaze all day. And I see the tall, gray chimney, And the steep roof sloping down; And far off the spires rise dimly Of the old New Hampshire town. And the little footpath creeping Through the long grass to the door, And the hopvine's tresses sweeping The low roof and lintels o'er. And the barn with loft and rafter, Weather beaten, scarred, and wide-- And the tree I used to clamber, With the well-sweep on one side. And beyond that wide old farmyard, And the bridge across the stream, I can see the ancient orchard, Where the russets thickly gleam, And the birds sing just as sweetly, In the branches knarled and low, As when autumns there serenely Walked a hundred years ago. And upon the east are beaming The salt meadows to the sea, Or the hillside pastures, dreaming Of October pleasantly. On the west, like lanterns glimmer Thick the ears of corn to-day, That I sowed along each furrow, Singing as I went, last May. So it hangs, that vision tender, Over all my loss and pain, Where the maples flame their splendor By the old house in the lane. And, beside the warm south window, At this very hour of day, Where the sunbeams love to linger, With her knitting dropped away, She is sitting--mother--mother, With your pale and patient face, Where the frosted hairs forever Shed their sad and tender grace. Are you thinking of that morning Your last kisses faltered down, When the summer sun was dawning O'er the old New Hampshire town? For my country, in her anguish, Came betwixt us mightily: 'Save me, or, my son, I perish!' Was her dread appeal to me. Youth and strength and life made answer: When that cry of bitter stress Woke the hills of old New Hampshire, Could I give my country less? And not when the battle's thunder, Crashed along our ranks its power-- And not now, though fiercer hunger Drains my life-springs at this hour-- Would I fainter make the answer, Or the offering less complete, That I laid, in old New Hampshire, Joyful at my country's feet! Though your boy has borne, dear mother, Watching by that window low, Through the long, slow hours this hunger It would break your heart to know.