“No,” continued I, seeing the impression my words had produced upon him, “I despise thee, and defy thee, even as Hercules did Antaeus, as Sampson did Harapha, as Orlando did Ferragus.  ‘Bulk without spirit vast,’ I fear thee not; come on.”  So saying, I rushed onward to the Mountain, who arose from his seat to receive me.  The following passage from the Agonistes of Milton will give some idea of our encounter: 

    “As with the force of winds and water pent,
    When mountains tremble, these two massy pillars,
    With horrible convulsion to and fro,
    He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew
    The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder,
    Upon the heads of all who sat beneath.”

“Psha!” said Julia, blushing modestly, “can’t you let me go?” Sweet Julia, I had got her in my arms.

“But where,” said I, “is Mr. Tims?”

“Mr. who?” said she.

“The Man-Mountain.”

“Mr. Tims!—­Man-Mountain!” resumed Julia, with unfeigned surprise.  “I know of no such persons.  How jocular you are to-night—­not to say how ill-bred, for you have been asleep for the last five minutes!”

“Sweet, sweet Julia!”

A MODERN PYTHAGOREAN.

Blackwood’s Magazine.

* * * * *

SONG.

BY T. CAMPBELL.

    ’Tis now the hour—­’tis now the hour
      To bow at Beauty’s shrine;
    Now whilst, our hearts confess the power
      Of woman, wit, and wine;
    And beaming eyes look on so bright,
    Wit springs—­wine sparkles in their light.

    In such an hour—­in such an hour,
      In such an hour as this,
    While Pleasure’s fount throws up a shower
      Of social sprinkling bliss,
    Why does my bosom heave the sigh
    That mars delight?—­She is not by!

    There was an hour—­there was an hour
      When I indulged the spell
    That Love wound round me with a power
      Words vainly try to tell—­
    Though Love has fill’d my checker’d doom
    With fruits and thorns, and light and gloom—­

    Yet there’s an hour—­there’s still an hour
      Whose coming sunshine may
    Clear from the clouds that hang and lower
      My fortune’s future day;
    That hour of hours beloved will be,
    That hour that gives thee back to me!

New Monthly Magazine.

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

    “A snapper-up of unconsidered tifles.” 
        SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *