How delightfully must COWLEY have passed his latter days in the rural seclusion of Chertsey!  How he must have loved that earthly paradise—­his garden—­who could write thus for his epitaph: 

  From life’s superfluous cares enlarg’d,
  His debt of human toil discharg’d,
  Here COWLEY lies, beneath this shed,
  To ev’ry worldly interest dead;
  With decent poverty content;
  His hours of ease not idly spent;
  To fortune’s goods a foe profess’d,
  And, hating wealth, by all caress’d
  ’Tis sure he’s dead; for, lo! how small
  A spot of earth is now his all! 
  O! wish that earth may lightly lay,
  And ev’ry care be far away! 
  Bring flow’rs, the short-liv’d roses bring,
  To life deceased fit offering! 
  And sweets around the poet strow,
  Whilst yet with life his ashes glow.

Again: 

  Sweet shades, adieu! here let my dust remain,
  Covered with flowers, and free from noise and pain;
  Let evergreens the turfy tomb adorn,
  And roseate dews (the glory of the morn)
  My carpet deck; then let my soul possess
  The happier scenes of an eternal bliss.

Then, too, the delightful chapter Of Gardens which he addressed to the virtuous John Evelyn.

We quote these few illustrations of Cowley’s character from Mr. Felton’s very interesting volume “on the Portraits of English Authors on Gardening.”—­By the way, at page 100, in a Note, Mr. Felton makes a flattering reference to one of our earliest works, which we are happy to learn has not escaped his observation.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

ORIGIN OF PAUL “PRY.”

(By the Author.)

The idea of the character of Paul Pry was suggested by the following anecdote, related to me several years ago, by a beloved friend:—­An idle old lady, living in a narrow street, had passed so much of her time in watching the affairs of her neighbours, that she, at length, acquired the power of distinguishing the sound of every knocker within hearing.  It happened that she fell ill, and was, for several days, confined to her bed.  Unable to observe in person what was going on without, she stationed her maid at the window, as a substitute for the performance of that duty.  But Betty soon grew weary of the occupation:  she became careless in her reports—­impatient and tetchy when reprimanded for her negligence.

“Betty, what are you thinking about? don’t you hear a double knock at No. 9?  Who is it?”

“The first-floor lodger, Ma’am.”

“Betty!  Betty!—­I declare I must give you warning.  Why don’t you tell me what that knock is at No. 54!”

“Why, Lord!  Ma’am, it is only the baker, with pies.”

“Pies, Betty! what can they want with pies at 54?—­they had pies yesterday!”