reader of whatsoever relates to humanity, and aware what small and indifferent things are its least dignified infirmities compared with its powers and affections, will not be sorry to have any ill-taste taken out of the mouth of his imagination on this subject by a passage from one of the earliest of them-supposed by some to have been Homer himself—in which the glorious old Greek, whoever he was, celebrates the birth of Apollo, and makes heaven and earth, the goddesses, the trees, the green meadows, and the incarnation of the spirit of sunshine, contribute to render it beautiful. We quote the version of Mr. Elton, as better even than Chapman's, only wishing that he had said "prevailing," or some more potent word of that sort, instead of "valiant," as the latter has come to mear a very ordinary sort of strength and heartiness, compared with that of the divine archer. As to apologising for this final exaltation of our subject of the Monthly Nurse (which is a name that the "sage and serious" Homer would not have scrupled to give to Diana herself, who was at once the moon and midwife of the ancient world), we shall no more think of doing it, than we should of blushing for the very moonlight when it sheds its beams on the bed of some newly-blessed mother, and combines thoughts of angels with her cradle.

"As the feet

Of the birth-speeding goddess touched the isle,
The labour seized Latona, and the hour
Was come. Around a palm-tree's stem she threw
Her linked arms, and pressed her bowed knees
On the soft meadow. Earth beneath her smiled,
And Phoebus leaped to light. The goddesses
Screamed in their joy. There, oh, thou archer god!
Those goddesses imbathed thee in fair streams
With chaste and pure immersion; swathing thee
With new-wove mantle, white, of delicate folds,
Clasped with a golden belt. His mother's milk
Fed not Apollo of the golden sword;

But Themis with immortal hands infused
Nectar and bland ambrosia. Then rejoiced
Latona, that her boy had sprung to light,
Valiant, and bearer of the bow; but when,

Oh, Phœbus! thou hadst tasted with thy lips
Ambrosial food, the golden swathes no more
Withheld thee, panting; nor could bands restrain:
But every ligament was snapt in scorn.

Straight did Apollo stand in heaven, and face

Th' immortals. 'Give me,' cried the boy, 'a harp

And bending bow; and let me prophesy

To mortal man th' unerring will of Jove.'

Far-darting Phoebus of the flowing hair

Down from the broad-tracked mountain passed, and all
Those goddesses looked on in ravished awe,

And all the Delian isle was heaped with gold,

So gladdened by his presence the fair son
Of Jove and of Latona. For he chose
That island as his home o'er every isle

Or continent, and loved it as his soul.
It flourished like a mountain, when its top

Is hid with flowering blossoms of a wood."

How

What a mixture of force and beauty is in these pictures! affecting is the graceful patience of the mother, and the gentle beauty of the landscape! And how noble, Apollo's suddenly "standing in heaven;" and his descent down the mountain, striking the goddesses with awe, and showering golden light on the island, which from that day forth flourishes out of the sea, like his own luxuriant head of hair, or some woody mountain-top in blossom!

Yet the birth of the commonest human being is an event hardly less divine, if we think of all that he is destined to suffer and enjoy, and of his own immortal hopes. Here is a charming passage from Beaumont, which comes more home to us than these out-of-door maternities of the Pagan heaven, with all their beauty. A daughter is attended in child-birth by her mother, who has warranted a betrothment not yet sanctioned by the father :

Violanta. Mother, I'd not offend you: might not Gerrard
Steal in, and see me in the evening?

You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her

without her tongue.

As You LIKE IT.

TAVERN HEADS.

BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD.

IN the suburbs of this vast metropolis (but in what quarter it behoves me not to set down) stands a house of entertainment which, in common with many others, is dignified with the name of "The Castle." Underneath the portico-too mean, I have often thought, for the building-might be seen, in gilt letters on a chocolate ground, "CHARLOTTE CHATHAM, Licensed Dealer in Wines and Spirits ;" and on the front of the house, in type almost as large as the posters of the patent theatres, (can I say more?) the droughty inquirer is set at ease as to the particular tap he is about to imbibe.

Of the late Mr. Chatham-the worthy host (for all hosts are of prescriptive right, worthy)-the less, perhaps, that is said, the better; not that much good might not be said of the deceased, but that, being so, however much was said could do him very little good, and I have no right to prejudice vested interests. Of his facetiæ and fur cap, then, I shall speak absolutely nothing.

Mrs. Chatham-the Landlady-of whom I shall have more to say hereafter than it is my present hint to speak, was formerly well known to the frequenters of one of the many "Three Tuns" in this city, as Charlotte Lovage, the good-looking, well-behaved, and assiduous only daughter of Stephen Lovage, the landlord.

People may talk as much and as vainly as they please of the folly of indulging sentiment; but I contend-in the words of that most pleasing of all literature, newspaper advertisements--"no family ought to be without it;" least of all, the younger branches. "The Three Tuns" was hardly the place, and Mr. Lovage was hardly the person, to afford time and opportunity for the indulgence of that luxury in the bosom of Miss Charlotte, and she was coaxed and convinced, and argued and threatened, into a marriage with Chatham, before she had taken into account one tenth of the awfully solemn considerations which some of our modern lady-writers* consider indispensable,

Miss Martineau and Mrs. Jameson, passim.

P