The poet’s adage, All the world’s a stage,

Has stood the test of each revolving age;

Another simile perhaps will bear,

’Tis a Stage Coach, where all must pay the fare;

Where each his entrance and his exit makes,

And o’er life’s rugged road his journey takes.

    Some unprotected must their tour perform,

And bide the pelting of the pitiless storm;

While others, free from elemental jars,

By fortune favour’d and propitious stars,

Secure from storms, enjoy their little hour,

Despise the whirlwind, and defy the shower.

    Such is our life — in sunshine or in shade,

From evil shelter’d, or by woe assay’d:

Whether we sit, like Niobe, all tears,

Or calmly sink into the vale of years;

With houseless, naked Edgar sleep on straw,

Or keep, like C?sar, subject worlds in awe —

To the same port our devious journeys tend,

Where airy hopes and sickening sorrows end;

Sunk every eye, and languid every breast,

Each wearied pilgrim sighs and sinks to rest.

E.

Among the writers of English novels, Henry Fielding holds the first rank; he was the novelist of nature, and has described some scenes which bear a strong resemblance to that which is here delineated. The artist, like the author, has taken truth for his guide, and given such characters as are familiar to all our minds. The scene is a country inn yard, at the time passengers are getting into a stage-coach, and an election procession passing in the back-ground. Nothing can be better described; we become of the party. The vulgar roar of our landlady is no less apparent than the grave, insinuating, imposing countenance of mine host. Boniface solemnly protests that a bill he is presenting to an old gentleman in a laced hat is extremely moderate. This does no............