Allow me before concluding this communication, one word in reply to E.D.’s observations on the “Cat and Fiddle.”  It is not impossible that some resemblance (though I am disposed to think it very trifling) may exist between the “tones of a flute” and those of “the human voice;” but I have yet to learn wherein consists the similarity of the notes of the clarinet and those of a “GOOSE;” neither do I imagine performers on the violin, (especially Italians,) will feel themselves obliged by E.D.’s comparison of their favourite instrument, to the vile squall of the feline race.  On the whole, I should feel more disposed to concur with him who “has been led away by a love of etymology” that the “Cat and Fiddle” is an “anomalous” sign, and that “no two objects in the world have less to do with each other than a cat and a violin,” than to adopt the opposite theories of E.D. or his predecessor, unless better supported than they are at present.  IOTA.

* * * * *

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

* * * * *

RECOLLECTIONS OF A WANDERER.

The Wreck.[1]

(For the Mirror.)

  All night the booming minute-gun
    Had pealed along the deep,
  And mournfully the rising sun
    Look’d o’er the tide-worn steep,
  A bark from India’s coral strand,
    Before the rushing blast,
  Had vailed her topsails to the sand
    And bowed her noble mast. 
  The Queenly ship! brave hearts had striven
    And true ones died with her! 
  We saw her mighty cable riven,
    Like floating gossamer! 
  We saw her proud flag struck that morn,
    A star once o’er the seas,
  Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn,
    And sadder things than these! 
                              MRS. HEMANS

Sweet romantic Cove of Torwich—­repository of my youth’s recollections!—­A mingled gust of feeling crosses over me, rainbow-like,—­fraught with the checkered remembrances of “life’s eventful history,” when I turn to the past, and glance over the scenes of my early life.

The Bay of Torwich, on the southern coast, unites in its fullest extent the singularly wild and picturesque, with the softer features of the landscape.  The bay consists of two headlands, about four miles apart.  On the eastern side a lofty range of rocky heights extends for a considerable way, almost equalling those of Dovor in sublimity, and juts out into the sea, on the assaults of which they seem to frown defiance, terminating in a bold headland.  The violence of the sea has caused extensive and picturesque excavations and caverns; and at the end of the cliff, two sharp rocks called the Needles, raised their heads at low water, connected by a low, sunken reef.  In a westerly gale these rocks were very dangerous to homeward-bound ships, and I have often sat with admiration in the heights above, watching the grotesque forms and silvery