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He held it a humiliation to be ill, and never complained or alluded to his own sufferings. He died on the 24th December 1839, aged 65. Lady Blessington said, “If James Smith had not been a witty man, he must have been a great man.’ His extensive information and refined manners, joined to an inexhaustible fund of liveliness and humour, and a happy uniform temper, rendered him a fascinating companion. The writings of such a man give but a faint idea of the original; yet in his own walk of literature James Smith has few superiors. Anstey comes most directly into competition with him; yet it may be safely said that the ‘Rejected Addresses’ will live as long as the ‘New Bath Guide.” The surviving partner of this literary duumvirate —the most constant and interesting, perhaps, since that of Beaumont and Fletcher, and more affectionate from the relationship of the parties—has distinguished himself by his novels and historical romances, and by his generosity to various literary men. Mr Horace Smith has also written some copies of verses, one of which, the Address to the Mummy, is a felicitous compound of fact, humour, and sentiment, forcibly and originally expressed.

The Theatre.—By the Rev. G. C. [Crabbe.]

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
Our long wax candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start:
To see red Phoebus through the gallery pane
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,
While gradual parties fill our widened pit,
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.
What various swains our motley walls contain'
Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at the gallery door,
With pence twice five, they want but twopence more,
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,

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And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs. Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk, But talk their minds, we wish they'd mind their talk; Big worded bullies, who by quarrels live, | Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they'd even axe St Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten wo.

| John Richard William Alexander Dwyer

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes. Emanuel Jennings i. his youngest boy Up as a corn cutter—a safe employ;

In Holywell Street, St Pancras, he was bred
(At number twenty-seven, it is said),
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's head.
He would have bound him to some shop in town,
But with a premium he could not come down:
Pat was the urchin's name, a red-haired youth,
Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.
Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe,
The muse shall tell an accident she saw.
Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat ;
But, leaning £o. Jennings lost his hat;
Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
And spurned the one, to settle in the two.
How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door
Two shillings for what cost when new but four !
Or till half price, to save his shilling, wait,
And gain his hat again at half-past eight!
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,
John Mullins whispers, Take my handkerchief.
Thank you, cries Pat, but one won't make a line;
Take mine, cried Wilson; and, cried Stokes, take mine.
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue,
Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.
George Green below, with palpitating hand,
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band;
Upsoars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeigned,
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained,
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat. * *

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As chaos which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise,
When light first flashed upon her eyes:
So London's sons in nightcap woke,
In bedgown woke her dames,
For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,
“The playhouse is in flames.’
And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane:
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,
A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell:

The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,
The Ticket Porters’ house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson's hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide
Across the Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne;
And daisy white and hoary thorn,
In borrowed lustre seemed to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,
As from a lofty altar rise;
It seemed that nations did conspire,
To offer to the god of fire
Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summoned firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all.
Starting from short and broken snoose,
Each sought his ponderous hobnailed shoes;
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next in crimson dyed,
His nether bulk embraced;
Then jacket thick of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.
The engines thundered through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced. * *

E'en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed;
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo “Heads below !”
Nor notice give at all:
The firemen, terrified, are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,
For fear the roof should fall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Whitford, keep near the walls'
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down in thunder falls

An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Concealed them from the astonished crowd.
At length the mist awhile was cleared,
When lo! amid the wreck upreared,
Gradual a moving head appeared,
And Eagle firemen knew
'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew.
Loud shouted all in signs of wo,
“A Muggins to the rescue, ho!'
And poured the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled .# in vain,
For rallying but to fall again,
He tottered, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman's soul was all on fire)
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire
Served but to share his grave!
"Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
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Where Muggins broke before.
But sulphury stench and boiling drench
Destroying sight, o'erwhelmed him quite;

He sunk to rise no more.
Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
“Whitford and Mitford ply your pumps;
You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps;
Why are you in such doleful dumps?
A fireman, and afraid of bumps 1
What are they feared on 1 fools—’od rot 'em "
Were the last words of Higginbottom. * *

The Upas in Marybone Lane. [By JAMEs SM1th.]

|A tree grew in Java, whose pestilent rind
A venom distilled of the deadliest kind;

| The Dutch sent their felons its juices to draw,

And who returned safe, pleaded pardon by law.

| Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale,

Advancing from windward to 'scape the death-gale; How few the reward of their victory earned

|For ninety-nine perished for one who returned.

| Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer,

Removed it through Holland, and planted it here;

|'Tis now a stock-plant of the genus wolf's-bane,
And one of them blossoms in Marybone Lane.

The house that surrounds it stands first in the row,
Two doors at right angles swing open below;
And the children of misery daily steal in,
| And the poison they draw they denominate Gin.

There enter the prude, and the reprobate boy, The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy, | The serving-maid slim, and the serving-man stout, They quickly steal in, and they slowly reel out.

| Surcharged with the venom, some walk forth erect,

Apparently baffling its deadly effect;

| But, sooner or later, the reckoning arrives, And ninety-nine perish for one who survives.

They cautious advance with slouched bonnet and hat,
They enter at this door, they go out at that ;
Some bear off their burden with riotous glee,
But most sink in sleep at the foot of the tree.

Tax, Chancellor Wan, the Batavian to thwart, This compound of crime at a sovereign a quart; Let gin fetch per bottle the price of champagne, And hew down the Upas in Marybone Lane.

Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Erhibition. [By Horace Smith.]

| And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous !

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dumby ;
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune;
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon.
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect—
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either pyramid that bears his name :

Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by IIomer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade—
Then say, what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played
Perhaps thou wert a priest—if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled,

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :

Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after § primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develope, if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green;
Or was it then so old, that history's pages
Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent, incommunicative elf!
Art sworn to secrecy then keep thy vows;
But prithee tell us something of thyself;
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house;
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,
What hast thou seen—what strange adventures num-
bered

Since first thy form was in this box extended,
We have, above ground, seen some strange muta-
tions;
The Roman empire has begun and ended,
New worlds have risen—we have lost old nations,
And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,
And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold:
A heart has throbb’d beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled:
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that
face
What was thy name and station, age and race?

Statue of flesh—immortal of the dead
Imperishable type of evanescence
Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecayed within our presence,
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning,
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its
warning.

Why should this worthless tegument endure,
#. undying guest be lost for ever?
Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure
In living virtue, that, when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom."

+ originally published in the New Monthly Magazine.

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Professor Wilson. | He was born in the year 1788, in the town of Paisley, where his father had carried on business, and attained to opulence as a manufacturer. At the age of thirteen, the poet was entered of Glasgow univer| sity, whence in due time he was transferred to | Magdalene college, Oxford. Here he carried off the Newdigate prize from a vast number of competitors

for the best English poem of fifty lines. Mr Wilson was distinguished in these youthful years by his | fine athletic frame, and a face at once handsome and expressive of genius. A noted capacity for knowledge and remarkable literary powers were at the same time united to a singular taste for | gymnastic exercises and rural sports. After four years' residence at Oxford, the poet, purchased a

small but beautiful estate, named Elleray, on the

banks of the lake Windermere, where he went to reside. He married—built a house and a yacht— enjoyed himself among the magnificent scenery of

the lakes—wrote poetry—and cultivated the society of wordsworth. These must have been happy days.

With youth, robust health, fortune, and an exhaust

less imagination, Wilson must, in such a spot, have

been blest even up to the dreams of a poet. Some

reverses however came, and, after entering himself of the Scottish bar, he sought and obtained his | moral philosophy chair. He connected himself also with Blackwood's Magazine, and in this miscellany poured forth the riches of his fancy, learning, and taste—displaying also the peculiarities of his

sanguine and impetuous temperament. The most valuable of these contributions have been collected and published (1842) in three volumes, under the title

of The Recreations of Christopher North. The criticisms on poetry understood to be from the pen of | Wilson, are often highly eloquent, and conceived in a truly kindred spirit. A series of papers on Spenser and Homer are equally remarkable for their discrimination and imaginative luxuriance. In reference to these ‘golden spoils’ of criticism, Mr Hallam has characterised the professor as ‘a living writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius,

whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters. The poetical works of Wilson have been collected in two volumes. They consist of the Isle of Palms (1812), the City of the Plague (1816), and several smaller pieces. The broad humour and satire of some of his prose papers form a contrast to the deli

cacy and tenderness of his acknowledged writings—

particularly his poetry. He has an outer and an inner man—one shrewd, bitter, observant, and full of untamed energy; the other calm, graceful, and meditative—“all conscience and tender heart.” He deals generally in extremes, and the prevailing defect of his poetry is its uniform sweetness and feminine softness of character. “Almost the only passions,’ says Jeffrey, “with which his poetry is conversant, are the gentler sympathies of our nature— tender compassion, confiding affection, and guiltless sorrow. From all these there results, along with a most touching and tranquillising sweetness, a certain monotony and languor, which, to those who read poetry for amusement merely, will be apt to appear

like dulness, and must be felt as a defect by all who

have been used to the variety, rapidity, and energy of the popular poetry of the day.’ Some of the scenes in the City of the Plague are, however, exquisitely drawn, and his descriptions of lake and mountain scenery, though idealised by his imagination, are not unworthy of Wordsworth. The prose descriptions of Wilson have obscured his poetical, because in the former he gives the reins to his fancy, and, while

preserving the general outline and distinctive fea- ||

tures of the landscape, adds a number of subsidiary

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Magdalene. How bright and fair that afternoon returns o When last we parted! Even now I feel no Its dewy freshness in my soul! Sweet breezelo That hymning like a spirit up the lake, o Came through the tall pines on yon little isle or Across to us upon the vernal shore * With a kind friendly greeting. Frankfort blest The unseen musician floating through the air, M. And smiling, said, “Wild harper of the hill! To So mayst thou play thy ditty when once more of This lake I do revisit.” As he spoke, on to Away died the music in the firmament, on to And unto silence left our parting hour. No breeze will ever steal from nature's heartoo So sweet again to me. o Whate'er my doom, o. It cannot be unhappy. God hath given me o The boon of resignation: I could die, o Though doubtless human fears would cross my soul, {. even now ; yet if it be ordained That I return unto my native valley, And live with Frankfort there, why should I fear To say I might be happy—happier far o Than1deserve to be sweet Rydal lake! o Am I again to visit thee! to hear o Thy glad waves murmuring all around my soul? sabel. Methinks I see us in a cheerful group Walking along the margin of the bay, Where our lone summer-house—

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Where joy was felt like sadness, and our grief

A melancholy pleasant to be borne. *

Hath the green linnet built her nest this spring

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In her own rose-bush near the
Bright solitary bird 1 she oft will miss

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Her human friends: our orchard now must be
A wilderness of sweets, by none beloved.
Isabel. Oneblessed week would soon restore its beauty,
Were we at home. Nature can work no wrong.
The very weeds how lovely 1 the confusion
Doth k of breezes, sunshine, and the dew.
Magd. I hear the murmuring of a thousand bees
In that bright odorous honeysuckle wall
That once enclosed the happiest family
That ever lived beneath the blessed skies.
Where is that family now? O Isabel,
I feel my soul descending to the grave,
And all these loveliest rural images
Fade, like waves breaking on a dreary shore 1
Isabel. Even now I see a stream of sunshine bathing
The bright moss-roses round our parlour window!
Oh! were we sitting in that room once more!
Magd. 'Twould seem inhuman to be happy there,
And both my parents dead. How could I walk
On what I used to call my father's walk,
He in his gravel or look upon that tree,
Each year so full of blossoms or of fruit,
Planted by my mother, and her holy name
Graven on its stem by mine own infant hands!

A Sleeping Child.

Art thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on our earth?
Does human blood with life imbue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue
That stray along thy forehead fair, -
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doomed to death;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent?
Or art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream?

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
Whence burst those gleams of ecstacy 1
That light of dreaming soul appears
To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye!
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy or error dim
The glory of the seraphim ;

Oh! vision fairl that I could be
Again as young, as pure as thee!
Wain wish! the rainbow's radiant form
May view, but cannot brave the storm:
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird .# Paradise,
And years, so fate hath ordered, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.
Fair was that face as break of dawn,
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn
Like a thin veil that half-concealed
The light of soul, and half-revealed.
While thy hushed heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eyelash moved with thought,
And things we dream, but ne'er can .
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek,
Such summer-clouds as travel light,
When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright;
Till thou awok'st—then to thine eye
Thy whole heart leapt in ecstacyl
And lovely is that heart of thine,
Or sure these eyes could never shine
With such a wild, yet bashful glee,
Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!

- Highlands.

Address to a Wild Deer.

Magnificent creature! so stately and bright!
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight;
For what hath the child of the desert to dread,
Wafting up his own mountains that far beaming head;
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale I
Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful!—hail!
Hail! idol divine !—whom nature hath borne
O'er a hundred hill tops since the mists of the morn,
Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and
moor,
As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore:
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free,
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee,
Up! up to yon cliffs like a king to his throne!
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone—
A throne which the eagle is glad to resign
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine.
that the bright heather springs up in love of thy
reast,
Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest;
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers lie still!—
Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight,
Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height,
One moment—thou bright apparition—delay !
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day.

His voyage is o'er—as if struck by a spell,
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell;
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast,
In the midst of his pastime enamoured of rest.
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race—
A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place—
A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven—
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven.

Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee:
Magnificent prison enclosing the free;
With rock wall-encircled—with precipice crowned—
Which, awoke by the sun, thoucanst clear at a bound.
"Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep
One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep;
And close to that covert, as clear to the skies
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies,
Where the creature at rest can his image behold,
Looking up through the radiance as bright and as bold.

Yes: fierce looks thy nature e'en hushed in repose—
In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes,
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar,
With a haughty defiance to come to the war.
No outrage is war to a creature like thee;
The buglehorn fills thy wild spirit with #. -
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind,
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.
In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death,
In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath—
In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar—
In the cliff that once trod, must be trodden no more—
Thy trust—'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign:
—But what if the stag on the mountain be slain?
On the brink of the rock—lo! he standeth at bay,
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day—
While the hunter and hound in their terror retreat
From the death that is spurned from his furious feet;
And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies,
As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.

Lines written in a Lonely Burial Ground in the

How mournfully this burial ground
Sleeps 'mid old Ocean's solemn sound,
Who rolls his bright and sunny waves
All round these deaf and silent graves! 435

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