occasional thought, and reflect with themselves upon the amount of good they might do to their fellow-countrymen, even in their graves, by following the example of the Duke of Portland."

•

LEVELLING UP.

To be a leveller is considered a very vile thing. "Leveller" used to be a nickname synonymous with "Revolutionist," Radical," ," "Republican," and other similar hard words. But every name has its day. Even Radicals have grown respectable, and are now admitted to Cabinets; and as for Republicans, so long as we have Americans for customers and for allies, we shall be ready enough to recognise them. The Republican Minister from America may be refused admittance to our Parliamentary openings because his instructions are, not to represent his country in a sword, tight breeches, and a tie-wig; but we rather think the sympathies of the public-on this occasion at least-are with the Leveller and the Republican. What a keen lecture Herr Sauertig could have read on this last diplomatic correspondence about dress. Whatever the new world's opinion may be, the notion still seems to prevail at the Courts of the Old World, that it is "the tailor makes the man."

But levelling is now, like Radicalism, assuming a somewhat more respectable appearance. There are few, if any, public workers now-a-days who are not levellers. The Queen and Prince Albert were levellers in promoting the Great Exhibition of all Nations. There they gave to the poorest man's idea, embodied in an invention, an equal chance with that of the richest. There they opened wide the treasures of art and industry to the whole people, without distinction. And the Turk and the Chinaman, the Russian and the Frenchman, were there entitled to the same rewards for inventive skill, with the Englishman and the American. The Council of the Society of Arts, under Prince Albert's presidency, have been carrying on the levelling process in other directions. They are promoting the establishment of Industrial Colleges for working people, and stimulating artistic and scientific instruction of the poorer classes in all ways. And in their Conference at the Society's rooms in the Adelphi, held the other day on the subject of strikes, they exhibited their disposition to proceed zealously with their work. Who ever before heard in England of workmen being summoned to discuss with their masters the questions of wages, profits, the causes of strikes, and such like? "Here's a revolution, an' we had but the trick to see it!"

But the highest lords have become levellers too. There are many amongst them who would thoroughly educate the whole people; and is not education the greatest leveller of all? They would train the poorest man to habits of self-respect, self-dependence, and self-help. Yes, these very lords, who, but a few centuries ago, went abroad in shirt of mail, breastplate, and barred helmet; or who, at home, fenced themselves about in loopholed turreted castles, guarded by moat and drawbridge; who regarded the men born on their estates as their veritable property, part of the estate, mere villeins who could be bought and sold,-these very lords, having thrown off their chain armour, pulled down their castle walls, filled up their moats, and levelled the turf down to their drawing-room windows, are now even proposing to admit their former serfs to the privileges of citizens, and to destroy the civil barriers which the wisdom of our ancestors had set up! Have they not already conceded to poor people the privilege of eating bread without paying a tax to them; and are they not proposing even to give those who pay taxes, of all sorts, a voice in the imposition and spending of them? Is not this levelling indeed ?

The clergy too are great levellers: they are building schools in all directions, and doing much to promote the general levelization of knowledge, and consequently of power. Indeed, the age is full of examples of the general spirit of levelling which is abroad. One need only take the familiar illustration of dress; though what we have said above shows that the old tradition in favour of "clothes" still lingers about the purlieus of the Court. But even the Queen and Prince Albert, in their daily wear, merely adopt the ordinary dress of common folks. Go back only a century or two, and see what a change has taken place. In the Stuarts' time rank distinguished itself by its externals; and by dress it displayed its high prerogatives. The nobleman declared his nobility by his plumed hat, his slashed doublet, his gay cloak, and his jewelled shoes. Kings wore purple, and princes ermine. The dresses of ladies of rank marked them out from the common ranks. All this is changed now. Bagmen wear as good coats as kings; Howell and James' shopmen are as well dressed as lords; and many women of the middle class wear as fine clothes as the Queen, the peeresses, and other ladies of the very highest rank. The shoe of the peasant galls the kibe of the courtier." The only real distinction which remains is education and manners. Wealth has ceased to form a distinctive feature; for there are railway contractors who were once navvies, and manufacturers who were once factory boys, whose wealth often far exceeds that of families of the oldest blood.

66

Our dwellings also exhibit the same levelling process. The noble now lives in a comfortable house, like many a well-to-do citizen; and the latter is enabled to purchase all the luxuries which make life pleasant to the former. Even the workman now enjoys household comforts which the richest noble could not purchase a few centuries ago. Look also at the movement in favour of improving the dwellings of the labouring classes, by which it is proposed to render them as wholesome, sweet, and comfortable as the lordliest palace; all tending towards the levelization of comfort. Difference of cost has come to be almost the only distinction.

It is the same in travelling. The railway and the steamboat, worked and directed by a few gallons of water, have proved the greatest of levellers. Formerly the prince travelled in a chariot with outriders, the noble in a clumsy sort of caravan, the gentleman and squire on horseback, the citizen in a stage-coach, and it took a fortnight to pass from Newcastle or Preston to the metropolis. The roads were full of deep ruts, and often haunted by highwaymen. Travelling was in those days a grave and serious adventure, before entering upon which a man was wont to make his will. Poorer people trudged on foot, with bundle on back; and the difficulty of travelling by the then roads was so great, as well as so costly, that the great mass of the people were confined to their own locality, as a limpet is fixed to a rock. But now the working man may travel twenty miles an hour at the rate of a penny a mile; far outstripping the speed of the royalest traveller of old. He is now carried along in the same train with the prince, the duke, and the member of Parliament. There is the same speed for all ranks, the only distinction being in price.

This steam-travelling is perhaps the most levelling of all our modern agencies. The very essence of ancient feudal authority was the power it possessed of binding men to the soil, and preventing intercourse as much as possible. Now the last vestige has gone, or is fast going. The last relic of the Middle Ages is departing,-and that by steam. All exclusive privileges are fast going,-if they have not already gone. In past times a man could not get his corn ground into flour without paying a tax to the noble: he was "thirled" to the lord's mill. Steammills, which give the power of motion without the lord's stream, have destroyed that exclusive privilege, and many

more.

To pass through any district or borough a toll or tax was usually levied for the benefit of the superior; that exclusive privilege too has departed, the railway disdains toll-bars.

All this levelling is inevitable: it cannot be helped; it is only Progress. There is not even any living noble who would desire to carry us back bodily to the old times. None of them would now think of travelling by postchaise when he can have the railway. The most ridiculous of them would not venture to doff his frock-coat and paletot and don his shirt of mail and iron helmet as a rebuke to the levelling spirit of the age! They do not dig out their moats, erect their drawbridges, and seclude themselves in turreted castles. No, no! they march with the age, levelling though it be. They accept the present, and endeavour to improve upon it.

But let us, in justification of the modern times in which we live, note the great characteristic of the levelling processes of this day, as compared with those of the past. It will be observed at once, that not one of them proceeds by pulling down. This is one mode of levelling-destructive levelling which it only needs ignorance and physical force enough easily to accomplish. No; the levelling of this day is all of the levelling-up character. The lord has lost nothing of his best power, while the mass of the people have been greatly elevated. The serf has been elevated into a freeman, the workman into a citizen. The lord is not the less respected because he does not wear a sword by his side, and a helmet on his head. He no longer signs his name with a cross, as his fathers did. He now finds that, to keep his place in the van of society, he must be more advanced in knowledge and in the highest culture of a man. He feels that if he is ever levelled down, it will be through lack of this power; and as all the world is advancing, he cannot afford to stand still. The levelling-up process is every day proceeding at a more rapid rate. The number of self-risen men, sprung from the ranks, is increasing, and must increase. They are growing up to the highest standards. And the mass too is advancing with education and knowledge, and they too must gradually become levelled up. No man can deplore this process of development; for in proportion to the number of true men, brave, self-helping, intelligent men, will be the true life, prosperity, and strength of the empire. And in this sense all good men must be levellers, not by pulling down, but by levelling up.

KOIT AND AMMARIC.

A LEGEND FROM ESTHLAND.

AND Wanna Issa sat in his house, and thought upon what he might do to make the earth more glorious than it was before. Wanna Issa thought that he would best bring this about by confiding a part of his duties to the young Koit, his son, and the lovely maiden Ammaric, his fosterchild.

So he called them to him, and they stood before him, a handsome and well-favoured pair.

Like a

Koit was a lusty and tall youth, with a ruddy countenance and flashing eye. Of Wanna Issa's sons, none was more fleet to execute his father's commands. stout young tree, he stood in the forest of the gods independent and hale. But Koit was like other youths, he loved; and the object of his love was Ammaric, the lovely maiden. And he stood in the presence of Wanna Issa, and looked reverently to the ground before the allpowerful.

And Ammaric also came and stood meekly before the

dread father of all. She held down her head until he spoke.

Then said the great, the omnipotent Wanna Issa, the maker of all things :-"Koit and Ammaric, well beloved of me for your goodness and obedience: see! I will commit to you a great charge, that ye may know I love ye as ye deserve. Behold the sun that makes glad the heart of man by its light. Till now I have held it up by my power: ye shall be the guardians of it now. Thou, Koit, shall conduct it through the giddy height of the heavens to the night season, and thou, Ammaric, shalt receive it into thy keeping when it is weary and resteth. See, children! Wanna Issa loves you, and would make you powerful and responsible. Go, both of you, do that which is confided to you with your minds and your hearts, and ever confide in the goodness of Wanna Issa."

And Koit answered and said :-" Father Issa, great and glorified, good and confiding art thou: may all recognize thy authority and thy glory! See, Koit's hands are ready to do that which thou givest him to do; Koit's feet are ready for the chace of enemies and for the message of peace! He thanketh thee, O Wanna Issa, for the trust."

And Koit departed to do that which was appointed him, a young, earnest man, he went to exalt Light, where all men might behold and rejoice in it, and love it with their souls.

།

And Ammaric said to Wanna Issa :-" Great father of the universe! Is not Ammaric too low for this mighty trust? What good can she do, and what strength hath she. Behold, she is thankful, and rejoiceth; but she is too humble, surely, for these things, so great and high!" Then said Wanna Issa :- My child! hath not Koit power given him to carry this great light upward? and I will give thee the same. See, this sun is the light of Truth and Justice, that men yearn after in the night-time. Be it Koit's duty to devote his power to elevating the light of Truth, so that it may warm every man's bosom with its strong and life-giving ray. But be thine the no less important labour of receiving Truth from the hands of the youth Koit, and softening its rays down so that every man may wish it to come ever back to earth. Truth is so powerful that it would burn up every thing with its singleness of purpose, if there be no gentler power to cool down its ray, and make it comprehensible to the heart of man. Be that thy portion, gentle Ammaric; and that thou wilt do it faithfully, I know."

And Ammaric inclined her head, and quitted the presence of Wanna Issa.

And so things went on for days and days. Koit elevated the beneficent sun to the extreme height of the heavens, and guided it, as a child guides a blind man, carefully down its steep incline, and Ammaric received it from Koit's hands at eventide.

But when it was passed from Koit to Ammaric, their hands joined, and his pressure told to her the story of his love. And gentle Ammaric blushed, and her blush reflected on the hurrying cloud forms the evening red men love to gaze upon, as well when old and weary of life, as when young and enthusiastic. In that blush is heaven pictured, and that blush reconciles mankind to the loss of the sun, and the setting in of night.

Now Wanna Issa, the all-seeing, beheld the blush, and rejoiced in his heart, and summoned the young pair to his presence, and said to them :-" Koit and Ammaric, faithfully have ye done your duty. Ye love one another; be ye one."

But they said:"Great and good father! let us continue the good work as we have begun it. Let us be the everlasting bride and bridegroom, and the evening red will continue for evermore, until Truth is acknowledged

and known all over the world, and when it need no longer be hidden away in the depths of darkness."

And Wanna Issa said,-"Let it be so!" And it is so.

THE LAST MOMENTS OF BEETHOVEN.

He had but one happy moment in his life, and that moment killed him.

He lived in poverty, driven into solitude by the contempt of the world, and by the natural bent of a disposition rendered harsh, almost savage, by the injustice of his contemporaries. But he wrote the sublimest music that ever man or angel dreamed. He spoke to mankind in his divine language, and they disdained to listen to him. He spoke to them as Nature speaks in the celestial harmony of the winds, the waves, the singing of the birds amid the woods. Beethoven was a prophet, and his utterance was from God.

And yet was his talent so disregarded, that he was destined more than once to suffer the bitterest agony of the poet, the artist, the musician. He doubted his own genius.

Haydn himself could find for him no better praise than in saying, "He is a clever pianist."

Thus was it said of Géricault, "He blends his colours well;" and thus of Goethe, "He has a tolerable style, and he commits no faults in orthography."

Beethoven had but one friend, and that friend was Hummel. But poverty and injustice had irritated him, and he was sometimes unjust himself. He quarrelled with Hummel, and for a long time they ceased to meet. To crown his misfortunes, he became completely deaf.

Then Beethoven retired to Baden, where he lived, isolated and sad, in a small house that scarcely sufficed for his necessities. There his only pleasure was in wandering amid the green alleys of a beautiful forest in the neighbourhood of the town. Alone with the birds and the wild flowers, he would then suffer himself to give scope to his genius, to compose his marvellous symphonies, to approach the gates of heaven with melodious accents, and to speak aloud to angels that language which was too beautiful for human ears, and which human ears had failed to comprehend.

But in the midst of his solitary dreaming, a letter arrived which brought him back, despite himself, to the affairs of the world, where new griefs awaited him.

A nephew whom he had brought up, and to whom he was attached by the good offices which he had himself performed for the youth, wrote to implore his uncle's presence at Vienna. He had become implicated in some disastrous business, from which his elder relative alone could release him.

Beethoven set off upon his journey, and, compelled by the necessity of economy, accomplished part of the distance on foot. One evening he stopped before the gate of a small, mean-looking house, and solicited shelter. He had already several leagues to traverse before reaching Vienna, and his strength would not enable him to continue any longer on the road.

They received him with hospitality; he partook of their supper, and then was installed in the master's chair by the fireside.

When the table was cleared, the father of the family arose and opened an old clavecin. The three sons took each a violin, and the mother and daughter occupied themselves in some domestic work.

The father gave the key-note, and all four began playing with that unity and precision, that innate genius, which is peculiar only to the people of Germany. It seemed

that they were deeply interested in what they played, for their whole souls were in the instruments. The two women desisted from their occupation to listen, and their gentle countenances expressed the emotions of their hearts.

To observe all this was the only share that Beethoven could take in what was passing, for he did not hear a single note. He could only judge of their performance from the movements of the executants, and the fire that animated their features.

When they had finished, they shook each other's hands warmly, as if to congratulate themselves on a community of happiness, and the young girl threw herself weeping into her mother's arms. Then they appeared to consult together; they resumed their instruments; they commenced again. This time their enthusiasm reached its height; their eyes were filled with tears, and the colour mounted to their cheeks.

My friends," said Beethoven, "I am very unhappy that I can take no part in the delight which you experience, for I also love music; but, as you see, I am so deaf that I cannot hear any sound. Let me read this music which produces in you such sweet and lively emotions."

He took the paper in his hand, his eyes grew dim, his breath came short and fast; then he dropped the music, and burst into tears.

These peasants had been playing the allegretto of Beethoven's symphony in A.

The whole family surrounded him, with signs of curiosity and surprise.

For some moments his convulsive sobs impeded his utterance; then he raised his head, and said, "I am Beethoven."

And they uncovered their heads, and bent before him in respectful silence. Beethoven extended his hands to them, and they pressed them, kissed, wept over them; for they knew that they had amongst them a man who was greater than a king.

Beethoven held out his arms and embraced them all,the father, the mother, the young girl, and her three brothers.

All at once he rose up, and sitting down to the clavecin, signed to the young men to take up their violins, and himself performed the piano part of this chef-d'œuvre. The performers were alike inspired; never was music more divine or better executed. Half the night passed away thus, and the peasants listened. Those were the last accents of the swan.

The father compelled him to accept his own bed; but during the night Beethoven was restless and fevered. He rose; he needed air; he went forth with naked feet into the country. All nature was exhaling a majestic harmony: the winds sighed through the branches of the trees, and moaned along the avenues and glades of the wood. He remained some hours wandering thus amid the cool dews of the early morning; but when he returned to the house, he was seized with an icy chill. They sent to Vienna for a physician; dropsy on the chest was found to have declared itself, and in two days, despite every care and skill, the doctor said that Beethoven must die.

And, in truth, life was every instant ebbing fast from him.

As he lay upon his bed, pale and suffering, a man entered. It was Hummel-Hummel, his old and only friend. He had heard of the illness of Beethoven, and he came to him with succour and money. But it was too late: Beethoven was speechless; and a grateful smile was all that he had to bestow upon his friend.

Hummel bent towards him, and, by the aid of an acoustic instrument, enabled Beethoven to hear a few words of his compassion and regret.

Beethoven seemed reanimated, his eyes shone, he

struggled for utterance, and gasped, "Is it not true, Hummel, that I have some talent after all?”

These were his last words. His eyes grew fixed; his mouth fell open, and his spirit passed away.

They buried him in the little cemetery of Dobling.

PAPER FROM WOOD.

The small market value of soft-wooded trees is such as to render them scarcely worth attention among planters, except under peculiar circumstances. When willows, or limes, or poplars, or sycamores, or any such species are felled, they are in so little demand that after a small quantity of the best has been taken for the turner, toyman, or butcher, the rest may go as firewood. There is now, however, some prospect of their coming into consumption on a large scale in an unexpected manner, for which, if anticipations are realized, we shall have to thank the Great Exhibition of 1851. It appears that at a late meeting of the French Society for the Encouragement of National Industry, a paper was read explaining how such wood may be converted into paper. The bark is taken off, and the wood is reduced into shavings; the shavings are then cut very thin; they are next placed in water for six or eight days, dried, and afterwards reduced to the finest powder possible by a corn-mill. This powder is mixed with rags, which serve to prepare the pulp of paper, and the ordinary operation of paper making is proceeded with. All white woods, such as the poplar, the lime, and the willow, are suitable for the purpose, but the discoverer ascribes a good deal of his success to the quality of the water he employed-that of the little river Doller, which runs near Mulhausen. For the first experiment he employed the wood of the aspen. No doubt can exist that wood may be made into paper, provided it can be reduced into threads or particles fine enough for the purpose. For what is flax or hemp except wood, whose fibres are readily separable? There is no difference between the wood of hemp and of willow, or other soft trees, than such as arises from the greater cohesiveness of the threads of the latter, or from greater toughness, which is not a difference of importance in paper-making, for the weakest wood is stronger than cotton dross, now so largely used in all paper-mills. The only question is, can the cohesiveness of the fibres be overcome, or does the substance produced by grinding into pulp, either when used alone or mixed with other pulp, present a material fit for paper? We apprehend that it does. The Mulhausen experiment is reported to have been made with timber. Suppose that the newly-cut branches of poplars, limes, and willows had been macerated for a fortnight, cut into suitable lengths, and then put into a tearing (not grinding) mill, where they could be worked with water, we suspect that good pulp (or at least "half stuff") would have been obtained without a preliminary reduction of the wood into shavings, and an after-process of grinding.-Gardeners' Chronicle,

A PORTUGUESE VISIT OF CONDOLENCE. A tale is told of an unfortunate English ambassador getting into an absurd scrape on one of these mournful occasions, when he wished to take the opportunity of complying with established Portuguese customs. A native family of his acquaintance was plunged into deep grief at the loss of one of its chief members. The ambassador determined on offering his compliments and condolence in the true Portuguese style. He informed himself exactly as to what was expected of him, and thus having had his different minute interrogatories answered sufficiently and satisfactorily, he "rendered" himself (as the French say) at the house of the bereaved family, quite confident of

playing his part to perfection; but, alas! he knew not the precise spot in which was to be placed the representative of the regrets of those attached survivors who wept his departed friend; and being bewildered by the sudden transition from bright daylight to the artificially-darkened apartment, and unable to distinguish one object from another, he deliberately marched up to a large porcelain Chinese monster of some sort, taking it for the chief mourner, to which he made the most profound and sympathising bows with a ludicrously lugubrious air. He then groped his way to the first chair he could find, sat down (unluckily, with his back to the whole assembled company), rose, bowed again respectfully to the grinning idol, and having thus complimented it, feeling before him, he sought the door. There were others that grinned besides the Chinese monster. The chief mourner and the rest of the sorrowing company could not, maugre all their efforts, resist the inclination to laugh which this singular mistake awakened, and ere long in the chamber of woe nothing was heard but a half-suppressed giggle, occasionally among the male spectators, verging on a guffaw, till the poor ambassador, discovering his error, rushed far faster away than he had come.-Lady Wortley's Visit to Portugal and Madeira.

WHEN HOPE IS DEAD. WHEN Hope is dead, and buried deep, Would vain desires might perish too! Ah! would that they could calmly sleep, Nor unavailing tears renew!

But still they sigh, and sigh in vain,

Though clipp'd their wings and blanch'd their bloom; Wishes like restless ghosts remain,

And fondly hover round Hope's tomb !

ELEANOR DARBY.

ENGLISH LOVE OF SPORT.

The love of sport is a feeling inherent in most Englishmen, and whether in the chase, or with the rod or gun, they far excel all other nations. In fact, the definition of this feeling cannot be understood by many foreigners. We are frequently ridiculed for fox-hunting. "What for all dis people, dis horses, dis many dog? dis leetle (how you call him?) dis 'fox' for to catch ha! you eat dis creature; he vary fat and fine?" This is a foreigner's notion of the chase; he hunts for the pot; and by Englishmen alone is the glorious feeling shared of true, fair, and manly sport. The character of the nation is beautifully displayed in all our rules for hunting, shooting, fishing, fighting, &c.; a feeling of fair play pervades every amusement. Who would shoot a hare in form? who would net a trout stream? who would hit a mau when down? A Frenchman would do all these things, and might be no bad fellow after all. It would be his way of doing it. His notion would be to make use of an advantage when an opportunity offered. He would think it folly to give the hare a chance of running when he could shoot her sitting; he would make an excellent dish of all the trout he could snare; and as to hitting his man when down, he would think it madness to allow him to get up again until he had put him hors de combat by jumping on him. Their notions of sporting and ours, then, widely differ; they take every advantage, while we give every advantage; they delight in the certainty of killing, while our pleasure consists in the chance of the animal escaping.—Baker's Rifle and Hound in Ceylon.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

THE ballads of Bon Gaultier,* have recently sprung into a popularity which they did not enjoy when they first made their appearance in Tait's Magazine, some eight or ten years ago. They owe this partly to the extremely clever and humorous illustrations of Doyle, partly also to the interest which has recently been excited about Professor Ayton and his writings, but chiefly to the genuine merits of the ballads themselves.

The ballads are, however, the work of several hands. Of the selection published by Orr and Co. containing fifty-three pieces, thirty-two were written by Professor Ayton, and these are by far the cleverest in the book; sixteen were contributed by Mr. Theodore Martin, a barrister, the husband of Helen Faucitt; four were the joint production of these two writers; and one, entitled The Death of Space, was the production of Mr. John Leech, the caricaturist.

It is not saying too much to aver, that the parodies and jeux d'esprit, of which the ballads mainly consist, are by far the best things of their kind that have appeared since the publication of the Rejected Addresses, by the Brothers Smith. The imitations given in the style of Tennyson, Bulwer, and Macaulay, are quite inimitable.

[PRICE 1d.

'Tis them's the boys as knows the vorld, 'tis them as knows mankind,

Any one who takes the trouble to look over an old file of Tait's Magazine, will find that Bon Gaultier was a very frequent contributor to that publication, between the years 1841 and 1845. The first articles which appeared, were a series of clever caricatures of modern noveliststhat upon Harrison Ainsworth's Thieves' Literature, then very much in vogue, was very piquant. The Death of Duval, written by Mr. Martin, originally appeared in that article as also did The Confession, The Nutty Blowen, The Faker's New Toast, by Nimming Ned, and other ballads written in a lower style, full of thieves' Latin, but which have not (excepting only The Death of Duval), been republished in the recent collection. few stanzas from The Faker's New Toast:

Here are a

And would have picked his pocket too, if Fortune (vot is blind)

Had not, to spite their genius, stuck them in a false position, Vere they can only write about, not execute their mission, Like a trump.

The Book of Ballads. Edited by Bon Gaultier. Illustrated by Alfred Crowquill and Richard Doyle. Orr and Co.

'Tis ve as sets the fashion now: Jack Sheppard is the go,
And every word of Nix my Dolls the finest ladies know;
And ven a man his fortin 'd make, vy, vot d'ye think his vay?
He does vot ve vere used to do-he goes to Botany Bay,
Like a trump.

Then fill your glasses, jolly pals, vy should they be neglected
As does their best to helewate the line as ve's selected?
To them as makes the cracksman's life the subject of their
story,

To Ainsworth, and to Bullvig, and to Reynolds be the glory,
Jolly trumps!

The December number of Tait for 1841 contains a review of an imaginary annual, The Topaz for 1842, which contains many "palpable hits." Of the ten pieces given in this review, only three are reproduced in the edited collection,-The Cadi's Daughter, The Sonnet to Britain, and The Broken Pitcher, from the Spanish. Some clever caricatures of Thieves' Literature, both prose and verse, are also given. There is a very smart piece of versification entitled Evening, by Sir E. L. Cheveley, a most ludicrous mixture of romance and common-place, which ought certainly not to be omitted in the next edition of Bon Gaultier. It is too long for extract here, but we give a portion of a prose tale from the imaginary Topaz, entitled The Flying Dutchman, a Tale of the Sea, by Thomas Pierce Pewk, Captain of the barque Swiftsure, Union Canal. The prose of Bon Gaultier, it will be seen, is as good as his verse:

"We were in the midst of the storm-tossed Atlantic. A heavy simoom, blowing N.E. by S. brought in the huge tropical billows mast-high from the Gulf of Labrador, and awoke old ocean, roaring in its fury, from its unfathomable depths. No moon was visible among the hurricane rack of the sky-even the pole-star, sole magnet of the mariner's path, was buried in the murky obscurity of the tempest; nor was it possible to see which way the ship was steering, except by the long track of livid flame which followed in the wake of the bow, or when, at times, some huge leviathan leapt up from the water beside us, and descending with the vehemence of a rock hurled from heaven, drove up a shower of aquatic splinters, like a burst of liquid lava from the sea. All the sails which usually decorated the majestic masts of