Napoleon's Roman bed at Malmaison was without curtains, and his arms were hung on the walls of the chamber. * * * * * LINES WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY OVER THE BROCKEN. BY S.T. COLERIDGE. ---------------------------- I moved on With low and languid thought, for I had found That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms Where the eye vainly wanders, nor beholds One spot with which the heart associates Holy remembrances of child or friend, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name Of our adored country. _O thou Queen, Thou delegated Deity of Earth, Oh "dear, dear" England, how my longing eyes Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs!_ Sweet native isle, This heart was proud, yea, mine eyes swam with tears To think of thee; and all the goodly view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills Floated away, like a departing dream, Feeble and dim. _Amulet for_ 1829. We wish a few more of the tourists who are picking their way over the continent, would illustrate their books of travels with such noble sentiments as are contained in these few lines--instead of the querulous whinings about cheap and dear living, the miseries of our climate, and a thousand other ills of the _malade imaginaire_. * * * * * Madame De Souza used to say that "cleanliness is the excellence of the poor." * * * * * The Gatherer. A snapper up of unconsidered trifles. Shakspeare. * * * * * RUSSIA AND TURKEY. (_To the Editor of the Mirror_.) The following intelligence from the seat of war, though premature in some respects, and _not quite_ new in others, may be acceptable to your readers, from A.A.A. ALPHABETICAL ALLITERATION.