savage if she implores him to bring her a basin
or to hold her head. This change lasts only while
his poor stomach is overset. As soon as that
organ regains its normal condition, as soon as
the boat steams into the harbour, his love, his
tenderness, returns apace, and he is again
devoted.

Byron recognises the truth very clearly, when
ribing Don Juan's voyage after his separation
from his first love, the fair Julia:

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart
Or rather STOMACH, which attends
Beyond the best apothecary's art
The loss of love, the treachery of friends;

and again, further on, describing what stops
love:

But worst of all is nausea—or a pain
About the lower region of the bowels.
Love, who heroically breathes a vein,
Shrinks from the application of hot towels,
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,
Sea-sickness death.

Sambo, the nigger footman, made a mistake
in his theory, but not in his instinct, when he
refused to go and confess breaking the decanter
until his massa had had his dinner, because
by that time he would have eaten so much, that
his heart would be pitched up close to his mouth,
and therefore he would the more readily be
mollified. The fact was correct as to the improvement
of the temper from the filling of the
stomach; but the heart would remain in its usual
position.

Good temper, kindly feeling, universal
benevolence, are much influenced, as all will agree,
by the state of the digestion. It is the stomach
which digests; therefore it is the stomach which
is the organ of these emotions, and not the
heart.

If the heart be diseased or out of order, and if
the doctors be summoned, and by their remedies
cure or relieve the malady, no change whatever
can be seen in the moral feelings of the
patient before or after. But when the dyspeptic
patient who has had the blue devils, and has
shown a morose temper and dislike to everybody
and everything, has been set to rights by a little
medical discipline—a dose or two of blue pill
or a few draughts—he is restored to a genial
temper, and become serene and happy.

From the days of the fatted calf, down to
the present time, how do we welcome the long-
lost son, the unexpected old schoolfellow, the
returned hero? By a feast! And the universal
way to cultivate the best affections is to feed
them well.

There will be a considerable difficulty in
overcoming the long-established prejudice on this
point, and we must await the further enlightenment
of the world, satisfied that in the end the
truth will prevail. Poets especially will rebel
against the organic change which ought to follow
when the doctrine is fully recognised: as it will
not be so easy for them to get rhyme for stomach
as for heart; and, though both are equally parts
of the frame, there will be, for a time, a sort
of repugnance on their part to bring forward as
poetical stock, what they will be pleased to call
a more animal and a less sentimental view of the
matter. One comfort is, that the fact will
remain, and that it does not much matter what
designation may be given to it. The man who
fancies he is clasping to his heart the long-lost
love or the returned child, when in point of fact
he really holds the beloved object to his stomach,
will not have made any very wide mistake, as
the map of the two organs will show that they
are situated within an inch of each other.

CASTLE AND COTTAGE.
i.

THERE stands a castle by the sea,
With an ancient keep and turrets throe,
And in it dwells a lady rare,
Rich and lovely, with golden hair,
By the wild waves plashing wearily.

In it dwells a baron bold,
Gallant and young, with store of gold,
Store of all that man can crave
To cheer his pathway to the grave,
By the wild waves plashing wearily.

The lady bright is kind and good,
The paragon of womanhood;
And her wedded lord is leal and sure,
Beloved alike of rich and poor,
By the wild waves plashing wearily.

There dwells a fisher on the strand,
In a little cot with a rood of land,
With his bonnie wife, and girls and boys
That climb to his knee with a pleasant noise,
By the wild waves plashing cheerily.

And the lady of the castle sighs
When she meets the fisherwife's gladdening eyes,
And wishes that Heaven to bless her life
Had made her mother as well as wife,
By the wild waves plashing cheerily.

The lord of the castle, riding home
O'er the hard sea sand where the breakers foam,
Oft sees the fisher, his labour done,
Sit with his wife in the glint o' the sun,
By the wild waves plashing cheerily.

Sit with his wife, and his boys and girls,
Dandling the youngest with golden curls,
And turns his envious eyes aside,
Ami wfll-nigh weeps for all his pride,
By the wild waves plashing wearily.