as it cools, hardens into solid and impenetrable _rock_; whereas the hot ashes of Vesuvius overwhelmed Pompeii, and consequently it is much less difficult to clear. [2] "Witness," said my friend, "the bracelets which I am now wearing; they are modelled from a pair found in Pompeii." These were made of gold, quite in the fashion of the present day; beautifully chased, but by no means of an uncommon pattern. * * * * * THE CONVICT'S DREAM. _(For the Mirror.)_ "A wreck of crime upon his stony bed." R. MONTGOMERY. He who would learn the true remorse for crime Should watch (when slumbers innocence, and guilt Or wakes in sleepless pain, or dreams of blood) The convict stretched on his reposeless bed. Then conscience plays th' accusing angel; Spectres of murder'd victims flit before His eyes, with soul-appalling vividness; Hideous phantasma shadow o'er his mind; Guilt, incubus-like, sits on his soul With leaden weight,--types of the pangs of hell. His memory to the scene of blood reverts; He hears the echo of his victims' cry, Whose agonizing eyes again are fixed Upon his face, pleading for mercy. See! how he writhes in speechless agony! As morning dew-drops on the face of nature, So hangs upon his brow the clammy sweat. Each feature of his face, each limb, each nerve, Distorted with remorse and agony, Is fraught with nature's speechless eloquence, And is a faithful witness to his sin. It is not _all_ a dream, but memory holds Before the sleeper's eyes her magic glass, In which he sees the image of the past. _Huddersfield_. S.J. * * * * * ANTICIPATION. _(For the Mirror.)_ 'Twixt the appointment and the day Ages seem to roll away-- Lingering doubts and cares arise, Fancy glows with sweet surmise; Now a hope--and now a fear, First a smile--and then a tear; But that day may never come, Death may seal thine earthly doom. Or that day may prove unkind, Thine anticipation blind! The best pleasure thou wilt know May be to brood upon thy woe: Wailing happy days gone by, When fancied pleasures mock'd thine eye: Days that never shall return. Mortal, then, this lesson learn-- Struggle not against thy fate, For thy last day hath its date! It is written in the skies, And a guardian angel cries, Dream no more of earthly joys, They are fleeting, fickle toys. CYMBELINE. * * * * * THE TOPOGRAPHER * * * * * ROAD BOOK OF SCOTLAND.