Now, to illustrate the subject further, let us consider the advantages arising from this practical use of gravitation, and the losses attendant upon the neglect thereof.  First, then, he who has secured this friend in his pocket, may go when he pleases, and where he pleases, and how he pleases, either on foot or on horseback, by barouche or by boat, and he shall be respected and esteemed, and called sir, and made welcome in every season and in every place, and no one shall presume to say unto him, Why doest thou these things?

But a man that hath not this friend in his pocket, may not go when, where, and how he pleases, but when, where, and how he is directed by others.  Moreover he shall travel on foot, and perchance without shoes, and not have the benefit of a horse, barouche, or boat; and moreover he shall be called sirrah, and not sir; neither shall he be esteemed nor respected, nor made welcome; and they shall say unto him, “Don’t be troublesome, fellow; get out of the way, for thou hast no business here!”

The rich man shall be clothed in scarlet, and get whatsoever his heart desires; and the people shall give him the wall, and bow before him to the ground.  But the poor man shall be clad in rags, and walk in the dirt, regarded by no man; nor shall he even purchase to himself a name, though the composition thereof consist only of air!

This is the state of modern times—­such our modern friendship; and since, gentle reader, it is so, who, possessing one grain of common sense, would not duly attend to the theory of gravitation, by taking care of a friend while he has him, especially if he be so portable as to be placed in one’s pocket.

JACOBUS.

* * * * *

THE DREAM OF POESY.—­A FRAGMENT.

BY LEIGH CLIFFE,

Author of “Parga,” “Knights of Ritzberg,” &c.

(For the Mirror.)

  I had a vision fair and bright,
    And when I waken’d I was griev’d
  To own ’twas but a dream of night,
    And sigh’d to find my hopes deceivd. 
  But then o’er my fancy crept,
  Those who hail’d me while I slept. 
  There were those; of olden time,
  Milton, wond’rous, wild, sublime—­
  Chaucer, of the many tales;
  Spenser, soft as summer gales,
  With a mild and gracious mien
  Leading on his “Faery Queene.” 
  Shakspeare, child of fancy, stood
  Smiling in a mirthful mood,
  As tho’ he that moment spied
  The fairy folk by Bottom’s side,
  Or beheld by Herne’s old oak,
  Falstaff with his antler yoke. 
  Dryden, laurel-crown’d and hoary,
  Proudly stood in all his glory;
  Pope, as if his claims to speak
  Rested on the ancient Greek;
  And that prince of merry-men,
  Laughing, quaffing, “rare old Ben,”
  Whose quaint conceits, so gay, so wild,
  Have oft my heart from woe beguil’d,