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We are a foul animal poisoned in all its springs and motivations, a beast of snarling ferity that parades itself in silks and calleth itself an angel, while gnawing upon cattle, seizing upon fowls, ransacking the earth and the seas, clawing our neighbor to provide for ourselves small trinkets to lay in our nests where we curl in bloated slumber.

There is a savor of the like ferity and sweetness in this poem.

Thus writes Edmund Spenser, the author of the "Fa�rie Queen," a man not famous for his ferity.

To burn the bones of the King of Edom for lime seems no irrational ferity: but to store the back volumes of Mr Bottomley's "John Bull" a passionate prodigality.'

To burn the bones of the king of Edom for lime,# seems no irrational ferity; but to drink of the ashes of dead relations,$ a passionate prodigality.