mere worldly mind to understand; and that has preserved the hearts of our people sound at the core, when there were outward appearances of rottenness and corruption.

Mr President, if I were writing an article for Blackwood's Magazine, I could not indulge in a more digressive, excursive, and occasionally rotatory style, than that along whose involutions and gyrations I have for half an hour past been carried. Where's the harm? Palling long faces for any length of time, can do little good either to individuals or nations. The human mind, I maintain, is made capable of adapt ing itself, without moral or intellectual injury, to the most opposite moods most suddenly brought on; and genuine mirth may all at once wipe up the tears of too true misery. Unbecoming levity is not seen in the transition from one thought or feeling to another, but in the thought or feeling itself; and the merriment that reason allows, may often delight to assume the quaintest and most fantastic garb, and even wear motley" in the masquerade that at midnight dissolves away into real life. It is for this that I love your Magazine, sir; and, with your permission, I shall give you my opinion of the last Number.

Sir, your last Number is inimitable. Buoyant as a balloon, deep as a divingbell. Had I ever written a single syllable in the great periodical, modesty had made me mum, but silence becomes not a subscriber. A gib-cat, Shakespeare says, is the most melancholy of animals; but he could not, were he able to read, get through a page of Number 79, without feeling his gravity relax into a smile. My mother is a very grave woman, and, somehow or other, has long had a notion that Ebony is not the thing; but one evening last week, at tea, her sides began to shake, and her face to assume an expression altogether unaccountable. I thought, Mr President, that some crumbs of the short-bread had gone down her wrong throat, and threatened to cut short her days. All at once she burst out into a giggle, like a girl of sixteen; and then into a compressed gruff cough, and a continued succession of snorts, like an old horse of sixty, to the great alarm of me, her dutiful and affectionate son. "Oh! that Magazine will be the death of me, Michy!" And therewith she released VOL. XIV.

Ebony from his concealment, having, during three cups, sat upon him, till George Buchanan was black in the face, and staring like a Turk. On went her spectacles; and Blackwood, like a banner, was unfurled before the steam of the kettle. Her sharp, forward, acute, hook-nosed, covenanting countenance, fixed with a sort of slightly self-upbraiding smile of wonderment and delight, not free from a spice of devilry, on the wicked but cunning Maga-for so she considered La Pucelle-inspired me with emotions of the deepest filial reverence for my aged and honoured parent, and would make an excellent print. It is thus, Mr President, that the Magazine calls forth the best emotions of our nature, strengthens the domestic affections, and thereby the stability of the state.

Hoping, and indeed not doubting, that you will pardon this little fire-side picture, I proceed to give you my free and unbiassed opinion of No. 79. With the exception of the Royal Number, it is the best of any Magazine that has appeared since the invention of printing. What means that ingenuous blush of "maidenly shamefacedness" on the cheek of my beloved Christopher? Well, then, here is Taylor and Hessey, and I will sport Candide upon that Miscellany.

This, with some gentle violence done to the genius of the English language, may be called a respectable Magazine. Pygmalion calls it the "cream of periodical literature;" may I, without offence, call it the "milk and water?" Now, sir, milk and water is by no means a bad thing, except when on the turn, that is, sourish; and this, methinks, is rather sugary. I know little or nothing about the contributors, which I regret, as otherwise I might indulge in a little innocent personality. There seem to be a quorum of Cockneys among them, and that leavens the whole mass. They know little, and care less, about what is going on in the world, and keep chattering away fluently enough about various small matters, "great to little men," and sometimes in no disagreeable vein. The criticism of this Magazine is not below contempt, but exactly on a level with it; and its attempts to delineate manners, and so forth, most abortive. The writers seem all to have lived in lodgings, and to be distinguished rather by the smoothness, than the variety of their wear2 U

ing apparel. They sneer in an under tone at good society, yet without much bitterness, more like persons who have never been in it, than often kicked out of it, although symptoms of the latter predicament might be selected. A bang-up contributor or two, peradventure, figures away in white upper toggery and Belcher handkerchief, and throws his hat into the ring. But they are palpable pretenders; and must be the derision of Pierce Egan and Josh. Hudson. They talk about theatres, and are witty upon Liston's face; admire Miss Tree's singing, and analyze farces. Of general literature (with the exception of the Doctor) they know nothing, and all classical acquirements they despise. Few of them have been at a University, except on the top of a coach; and of those few, more than one, we believe, were plucked. Not unfrequently an ingenious, or at least smartish essay, is somehow or other got up, and we think that we remember having seen not a bad tale or two of the picturesque and pathetic. Puns prevail, but all poorish; and the play upon words is seldom happy. We suspect most of the contributors are costive from sedentary habits; and as it is well known, that derangements in the stomach and bowels deaden merriment, the dulness of their convivial merriment, although great, is not extraordinary. They are by no means a bad set of fellows in their way, yet we are not over-anxious for a letter of introduction to any of them; and if their Magazine be but so so, yet, all things con sidered, they deserve some credit for even their very indifferent success in a work so uncongenial with their usual habits and pursuits, the contributors being, as they inform us, young attorneys, solicitors, half-pay officers, quondam pedagogues, young men of genius of no profession, and anonymous correspondents in county-towns, such as Verax, Antipater, Vox et Preterea, Bowwow, and Louisa Mildmay.

Their September Number, sir, is pretty fairish; some of your worst have not been ten times better. "Sea Roamers, Old Johnny Wolgar," is written in a strain of unfortunate exaggeration, but is a vivid picturesque description, and manifestly the work of a man of no mean talents. It is a great deal too long; but R. A. is one of their best men; and should he ever quarrel with them, which is probable, he would be

no disgrace to your own Invincibles. Nuga Critice, No. I., is by the ingenious Elia, but is no great shakes. It contains one choice passage. "I have dwelt longer upon what I conceive the merits of these poems, because I have been hurt by the wantonness, (I wish I could call it by a gentler name,) with which a favourite critic of our day takes every occasion of insulting the memory of Sir Philip Sydney." Hazlitt and Sir Philip Sydney, Moll of Wapping and Mary Queen of Scots! Pygmalion can by no means allow that Sir Philip was a gentleman. Admirable judge of manners and morals! "I cannot think, (says simple Elia,) with Mr Hazlitt, that Sir Philip Sydney was that opprobrious thing, &c. The age is not yet ripe for a defence of Sir Philip Sydney by Charles Lamb, of the India-House, against William Hazlitt, "the gallant of Southampton-row." Walking Stewart," by the late Opium-eater! Mercy on us! is the English opium-eater dead? We take it much amiss that he never told us of his illness. We are equally at a loss to conjecture why his friends did not invite us to his funeral. The air of Cockaigne must have killed him, accustomed to breathe a purer atmosphere on the mountains. It was always distressing to us to think of that swan surrounded by geese, and we are happy that he is dead. May we meet in another and a better Magazine. The smallest article belonging to the deceased, is valuable to those who knew his fine and powerful genius; he lived upon ether and opium, while his new friends got stupified on tobacco and beer.

The three next articles-nihil-nothing.

A third Letter to the Dramatists of the Day. We lay the lives of a cat against that of a butterfly, that this German is a Paddy. Had ODoherty not lived, John Lacy had never been born. We do not mean to insinuate that the Adjutant begot him; for this is clearly the older man of the two; but Morgan made him a Magaziner, and John would fain be six feet high. It won't do-it won't indecd. Mr Lacy is not a member of the Free and Easy. If his breeches don't sit easier than his banter, ye gods, how he must straddle!

Sir Henry Heron, BY NALLA. Allan Cunnyngham is a man of genius, and,

what is better still, an honest, independent man. May he prosper in all his undertakings. All his Tales have great merit; most of them are too long. This one begins beautifully, but there is no end to it; and unless he corrects this fault of prolixity, we shall really begin to get angry with him. He writes as if anxious to make out a sheet. Messrs Taylor and Hessey can easily remedy this. Pay him more for half a sheet than a whole one, and Allan will delight all his readers that have either heart, soul, or imagination. His fine, wild, rich, imaginative stories, full of rivers, and glens, and all the emblazonry of Scotland, have indeed fallen into strange neighbourhood; and we would rather than a hundred oysters hear one of them read aloud by a Cockney ore rotundo. Allan is a monster in this Magazine, and must be stared at as a strange fowl by the Tomtits.

Charles Duke of Orleans. Early French Poets. This belongs to a series of articles, all of them curious and interesting. The translations are remarkable for elegance and fidelity.

"The Doomed Man," is a long, and, in some parts, impressive sea-story. The Report of Music, nobody ever read; and the " Drama" is done by a pert dunce, who considers admittance to the green-room the highest human honour, and writes like a person that would marry an inferior actress.

Such, sir, are the contents of Taylor and Hessey for September. You seem drowsy, Mr President; but make no painful efforts to keep your eyes open; for I love to harangue before you when you are in a state of repose. The politics of this Magazine are most contemptible-not that the summary of events is badly written-on the contrary, the compiler is an able man. But I speak of the spirit that runs through the whole concern. The writers are, with rare exceptions, lowborn, underbred radicals, who feel awkward at the existence of gentlemen, persons of any condition, lords, ladies, and so forth. A "House of Lords," a building absolutely full of nobles, is not to be got over at all; and, in short, a dull disconcerted Whiggism whines and whimpers through the work, afraid to speak out, yet muttering against ministers, either for doing or not doing something or other, God knows what-so that we often long to

lug the disloyal lout from his lair, shake him by the neck, and ask him either to tell us what he means in the English or Cockney tongue, or to keep his mouth shut for a twelvemonth. This sulky, sneaking, snivelling style of political discussion, is more than people of any party can well put up with in a free country. There were never before known such ambiguous fellows; and it looks as if they had not courage to bray aloud their political Balaam, lest they might thereby incur the risk of offending half a score of Tory subscribers, for whose sakes alone they preserve a semblance of respect for the old sacred institutions of the land. From anything that ever appeared in the Magazine, there would be no ground for concluding, that the Christian religion is the religion of England, or that she possesses an established church.

Mr President, you have been told, sir, I presume, that the ancient cry "personality," is still kept up against us, and we are called upon to deny it. We shall do no such thing. But, on the contrary, we shall take and tear into pieces, with the most unrelenting personality, every scamp that attacks church, king, or ourselves. None of your mean, malicious, cowardly, obscure hints, in this Magazine-God forbid!-but the open, plain charge, which he who runs may read; and proof accumulated on proof, till the culprit is buried under a mass of evidence. No honest man shall ever be so much as laughed at by us, if we see reason to think that our ridicule annoys him; and as a proof of our sincerity, we request any such, whom we may have occasionally quizzed, just to write us a letter to that effect, and never more shall they be named in Maga. But there are some few score scribbling scoundrels in this world, whom we shall yet farther scarify. Nothing will it avail them, when bound and bleeding, to cry out to the crowd, "Did you ever see such personality?" The crowd will perfectly agree with their view of the case, and sooth them by loudly declaring, at each whack of the thong, that the punishment is personal. But who will attempt a rescue? Not a soul. A few skulking accomplices may scowl among the crowd, bite the thumb like assassins, and in pot-houses plot and plan revenge; but the boldest among them is no match

for the most diminutive of our printer's devils.

But, sir, after all, we are the idols of a people's love. The great difficulty with us is to prevent the nation at large from falling down and worshipping us, who are but mortal like itself. We are far from wishing to see anything of the sort; such enthusiasm may be carried beyond the bounds of propriety and good taste; and I am sure, Mr North, that you are the last man in the world to encourage such excesses, which are indeed inconsistent with the sound sense and strong passion of the British character.

Mr President, Sir John Cox Hippes ley and Dr Mason Good (the translator of Lucretius?) have been lately attacking the tread-mills; and John Bull has joined his forces. Do not you agree with these three distinguished philanthropists, that men should not use women with cruelty, if they can prevent it? Let the males tread away -but find a gentler exercise for the females. No strong or weak-bodied he-fellow of a pickpocket or purloiner is a proper object of compassion, except just as he is going to be hanged; and if he sweat on the tread-mill to the utmost wish of Hamlet himself, wrench his instep, sprain his ankle, dislocate his knee, and bring his back to the lumbago, there can be no question whatever, that

"A wiser and a better man, He'll rise to-morrow morn." But even although no amendment in his morals be visible, is there not a satisfaction in knowing that he is on the Tread-Mill, battered and blistered to a most painful degree, and ineffectually damning the keeper of the Brixton, and the inventive spirit of the age? But this argument does not apply to females; anything like needless cruelty to any woman is too shocking and abhorrent from every British feeling, to be long practised in the shape of a legal enactment; and if the cruelty be accompanied (as in this case it is) with indecent, disgusting, and degrading circumstances, it is still more odious.

Mr President, Poetry is a drug. Were we ourselves poets, we should see the Public at the devil, rather than see her tossing aside a volume of ours, as if it were a last year's newspaper, or a Number of the Liberal. No

doubt, our poetry would be most excellent, at once amusing and instructive; but the great gaping widemouthed reading public, will not suf fer a man of the brightest parts to cram down her throat an epic, dramatic, or didactic poem. She will not bolt it; it is known she won't; and when the old lady gets obstinate, ra ther than attempt to lead or drive her, it is wisdom to dislodge an ass from a chosen position, or persuade a porker to trip along with alacrity to the scalding-tub. Sometimes, to be sure, she relaxes her muscles as if about to swallow, and approaches a quarto with the apparent purpose of pawing it; but no-more prim than the primrose, our Dowager recovers her self-possession, and purses up her mouth as if you were about unwarrantably to salute her, and, retrograding to an ottoman, returns to the perusal of Quentin Durward, or the Cook's Oracle.

Perhaps our living poets are on an average gainers by this universal rejection of their addresses. No man can now laugh at his rival. Envy, jealousy, hatred, and all uncharitable ness, are or ought to be extinct among the sons of song. There is no spoiled child in the family; and the austere mother turns as deaf a brace of ears to William Wordsworth, as to Leigh Hunt. Bards may continue to count their fingers, but there is no use in tagging syllables to their tips; and what was formerly called inspiration, passes now for impertinence, idiotism, or a blameable ignorance of the world in a grown-up man. There are still many crimes which may be committed with impunity, and even with eclat; but the highest character for abilities and integrity, will not avail a man now-a-days against a volume of verses clearly brought home to him; and should he be an incorrigible offender, he must expect to lose caste, and be come Cockney.

Things going on at this rate will soon be as they should be, for although we are advocates for the mitigation of punishment in most criminal cases, yet the utmost extremity of the law should occasionally be enforced; and there are enormities on which even the benevolent Mrs Fry would wish to see inflicted banishment to Cockaigne, a punishment infinitely worse than death. It is certainly rather disreputable to be a poet, and we have

be wanting to express the exultation which I feel at this moment in the hatred of the enemies of Blackwood's Magazine. From pallid and quivering lips yell forth your curses; let execrations gurgle in your gullets, distended with the rising gorge of your blackest bile; belch out your bitter blackguardism lest you burst; clench your fists till your fretted palms are pierced with the jagged edge of nails bitten in impotent desperation; stamp unclean beasts with cloven feet on the fetid flags of your sty till the mire mounts to your mouths; fall down fainting in foamy fury, and with horrible distortion of features, that render your faces hideous as your hearts, mumble maledictions upon us, ye evil epileptics! Our feet is upon your necks; you may howl, but rise shall you never; your fangs shall not pierce the leather of our shoe. Why that mad brandishing of tails, ye serpent-crew, against fetters of fire? O sinful idiots! Beelzebub was a Cockney, and Moloch was a radical; but what are ye but a small, pitiful fry of fiends, shrimps in iniquity, mere adderlings, cockneycockatrices, of whom a million would not make one great boa constrictor !

long observed, that to be taxed with so being, in company, is an insult which few tempers can stomach. "I a poet, sir! I rise to say it is false!" And on such occasions, unless a man be as meek as Mr Brougham himself, nothing seems left for it but an ap peal to arms. If the party accused be merely a bachelor, it matters little; but if he have a spouse and progeny, it is melancholy to think how an imputation made, perhaps, in a moment of unguarded hilarity, may render the one a widow, and the others orphans. Indeed, people should consider well before they bring any such serious accusation against the character of any man living under the same government and the same laws, children too of the same native soil. To a rich man, or even a poor one who has good connections, the charge may prove innocuous; but what if it go forth against the fifth son of a small landed proprietor, who has his bread to bake and his beer to brew? Why, the young man is ruined at the very outset of life, and years, ay, long wretched years, may crawl along over his head, before he is cautiously admitted into some honest employment. God knows, Mr President, that no such young man can lay his ruin at your door. On the contrary, have you not, often and often again, stept between them and destruction, assured the jealous old Public that no poets were they,-convinced her that she was grievously mistaken in the character of the writings laid before her, that they were surely prose, and that these sons of honest men were no shame to their parentage, and guilt less of that offence, as the babe unborn. Depend upon it, my dear sir, that humanity is one of the brightest jewels in your crown, and that, when all the rancour of party is buried, ample justice will be done to that rare union of tenderness and determina tion, of softness and severity successfully exerted, which class you among the greatest benefactors of your species, Numa, Draco, Lycurgus, Alfred, and Jeremy Bentham.

Mr President, we have our enemies, and we rejoice in it. Were the Eng lish language more numerous a thousand-fold than it absolutely is, were there a hundred adjectives for one, and no such thing as a feeble expletive in the vast vocabulary, words would still

O North, North-for I can call you by the cold name of Mr President no more-let us indulge with gusto in one gaffaw-HA- -HA-HAHA-HA-HA-HA!!!!!!! A mighty army approach against us! Music! Why, each regiment must have a band. Marrow-bones and cleavers, by all that is crashing and sonorous! Hark the hurdy-gurdies! Lo! the advanced guard! By the immortal spirit of John Gilpin, there comes the cavalry! If the riders give point with their swords as they do with their toes, how irresistible the onset! These are the Hampstead Heavy Dragoons, headed by Hunt. You may ken YellowBreeches by the tail-feather of the cock-pheasant sticking in his bonnet. See how he is rising in his profession! Daylight gleams between the saddle and his bounding bottom. Wave, Cockaigne, all thy banners wave!" And charge with all thy chivalry!

Now, North, let us give the Nelson war-cry-"Death or Westminster Abbey!" Up with your crutch, on your shelty; let me up behind you, for he carries double; and, if you can cut off Yellow-Breeches from the main body, the day's our own.