rule; and the exception may occur in one class as well as another. A king is but a man with a hereditary title. A nobleman is only one of the House of Peers. To be a knight or alderman--above all, to desire being either, is confessedly a vulgar thing. The king made Walter Scott a baronet, but not all the power of the Three Estates could make another “Author of Waverley.” Princes, heroes, are often commonplace people, and sometimes the reverse; Hamlet was not a vulgar character, neither was Don Quixote. To be an author, to be a painter, one of the many, is nothing. It is a trick, it is a trade. Nay, to be a member of the Royal Academy, or a Fellow of the Royal Society, is but a vulgar distinction. But to be a Virgil, a Milton, a Raphael, a Claude, is what falls to the lot of humanity but once. I do not think those were vulgar people, though, for any thing I know to the contrary, the First Lord of the Bedchamber may be a very vulgar man. Such are pretty much my notions with regard to vulgarity.--_Hazlitt’s Table-Talk._ WINTER COMES. Winter comes with screech and wail, Piercing blast and thundering gale; Far from frozen climes he brings Sleet and snow, and blanching things. He has trod the North Pole round, Long in icy fetters bound; Swept by Greenland’s frigid shore, Where the western billows roar-- Roamed o’er Lapland’s ice-bound plains, Where chaotic darkness reigns; Rested on that land of woe Where the Russian captives go; Land where men of royal race, Exiled by some tyrant base, Pined in suffering, died in grief, No fond hand to bring relief-- No bright eyes to shed one tear O’er their cold and lonely bier; Dying far from wife and child In Siberia’s stormy wild. Winter comes--his footsteps tread O’er the ocean’s rugged bed; As a ruthless conqueror he Sends his storms from sea to sea; Pity ne’er hath seized his breast, Sighs do ne’er disturb his rest-- Shrieks that boom along the wave, And mark the seaman’s wat’ry grave, Fail to touch his icy soul, Fail to stop the billow’s roll. When enthroned as ocean’s king, Spirits of his triumphs sing, Drinking to his sovereign power In the fearful midnight hour, From those remnants of the dead That round ocean’s depths are spread.