pilgrim to toil his way alone. The poet has some touching lines on this idea-written in advanced age. They are entitled

FRIENDS ALL GONE!

"My friends of youth, manhood, and age, At length are all laid in the ground; An unit I stand on life's stage,

With nothing but vacancy round. I wander, bewilder'd and lost,

Without impulse, or interest, or view; And all hope of my heart is, at most, To soon bid the desert adieu."

After making some general remarks on the regret with which all men of the world must look back on the errors of their career, he gracefully, and we think piously, closes with this stanza

"But this derelict state of man's lot,

That fate to the aged ordains, Bids the heart turn its hopes where it ought, Nor seek worldly cure for its pains. Thus I turn from the past and the lost, Close the view my life's picture supplies,

And while penitent tears pay the cost, Blot the frolics of mirth from my eyes."

In speaking of this writer, we by no means desire to place him in any very high rank of his own delightful art. He was not born to figure among the "Dii majorum gentium." But he was a man of a decidedly poetic spirit, which even in the habitual distractions of a town life could not be kept down ; he was among the first, if not the first lyrical writer of his day; and though he may yield to some in richness, and others in fire, he has combined qualities which ought to transmit his name to the future generation.

In the same spirit are some fine lines on the Demolition of the Star-andGarter Tavern in Pall-Mall, a hotel in which many of the most showy coteries of his time had assembled. The extinction of Carlton House, at the same time, seemed to him ominous of the end of his intercourse with London life. The lines are remarkably

tender and graceful. He first alludes to the ruins of the hotel :

"Farewell for ever!-thus, then, falls at last

The roof where all my proudest days had past,

Where Mirth, enthroned in splendour, held her reign,

And royal voices echo'd still the strain; That roof, where minds with Life's high

polish stored,

Still graced the banquets of her glowing board;

Where Wit and Wisdom mingled grave and gay,

And Reason join'd in Fancy's brightest play.

Farewell, farewell! a sad memento lie, How Fame's lost lustre dims the sorrowing eye,

And bids the heart, long cheer'd by Fancy's beam,

Sink in sad languor o'er the fleeting dream. Again farewell! for ill my sight can bear Thy crumbling ruins, once so famed and fair."

In the Star-and- Garter Tavern, the chief fashionable clubs had their dinners, and among the rest the "Dilettanti," composed of the principal travelled noblemen and accomplished gentlemen of England. He then briefly touches on the overthrown palace of the prince, where he had passed so many delightful years:—

"Down falls the palace, too!-and now

I CLAIM no merit-my modesty is well known to all the world-but I merely mention the following facts, and leave an envious public to draw what conclusions it likes. At the re quest of the whole literary world I published a series of essays under the name of Hints to Authors, in which I endeavoured to obviate the difficulties that were usually supposed to attend original composition. I laid down rules for the attainment of all the beauties of style, whether elegant or sublime; and since the period of their appearance, it is, I flatter myself, impossible to be denied, that a very great change has taken place in the literature of my age and country. We have no "Waverley Novels" now, with their absurd adherence to nature and probabi lity-no "Gertrudes of Wyoming" with their sickening simplicity-nor "Mariners of England" with their disgusting vigour and vulgar enthusiasm. No, thanks to my infallible rules for the concoction of novels and poems, we have

and ! I do not mention names -but I think I can see in the number of my recent disciples the burly countenance of a Mrs and the bright soul-illumined eyes of a Lady

And yet only half my work is done. I shall not rest satisfied with my benevolent efforts till I have succeeded in making authorship universal-till there shall live no man, no woman, and very few children, who shall not have written a book. Oh! golden days of all-pervad ing taste and talent, when washerwomen shall be advertised for who can get up fine linen and romances,—and in short when my Hints (sold separately at half-a-guinea-see advertisement), instead of being restricted to a moiety of mankind, shall be addressed to the whole human race. In anticipation then of that happy period, let me proceed with so praiseworthy an undertaking, and macadamize the way to the very portal of the Temple of Fame.

But

first, as I have thought it right to sound in some small degree the trumpet of my own glory in announcing the success of my labours, let me also confess with shame and confusion of face, that there are some blinded and ignorant mortals on whom my advices

have positively no effect whatever. First among these is an individual, who, in defiance of every rule I laid down, has written a book called the "Interdict"- -a novel in three volumes

without any French or foreign language in it whatsoever, and, therefore, which has no pretensions to the genteel-full of genuine, natural, hearty humour, and, therefore, lays no claim to the facetious-in short, a work that seems to belong to a very different school from any of which I have yet taken notice and I therefore leave Mrs Steward to the congenial society of such people as Miss Ferrier and Miss Edgeworth.

Secondly, I wash my hands of Miss Ellen Pickering, whose " Squire" was written in defiance of all my rules, and whose "Fright" is also very different from the compositions of any of my disciples. Thirdly, I give notice, that I disclaim all connexion with a young person of the name of Max Wentworth, who talks like a gentleman without any apparent effort, and runs trippingly through his three volumes, as if he had cost no trouble to his author-a grievous fault; for, unless you toil and struggle, and let people see how horribly difficult you find it to invent or support your characters and conversation, who, do you think, will give you any credit for it?-Therefore, above all things, be as stiff in your style as you can-show that every sentence is the result of hard thinking, and that your work is actually the produce of sheer unassisted fancy, and has nothing to do with your knowledge of life or power of observation. Read -;-that's all. There is but one other preliminary I wish to mention before entering seriously upon my task; and that is, the infinite gratitude I owe to Mr Rowland Hill and the Penny Postage. One half of the letters I receive from parturient authors, would have lodged me very snugly in the Flect at the ancient rate; for there is this very great peculiarity in my correspondence, that the farther people live from civilized life, and the fewer opportunities they have had of mixing in society, the more prolific they are in novels of life and

manners. Thus I have had numerous applications for hints towards the completion of " Peeps into Almack's," "Devonshire House," and other works of that description, from cattle-dealers in the Orkneys. "Metternich, or the fate of Europe," was sent up to me from a street in Glasgow called the Gorbals, with a request that I would be kind enough to insert the names of some streets and palaces in Viennaand of the prime ministers of the various kingdoms with which Metternich had diplomatic relations. It was written in a gentle female hand, and was in most instances correctly spelt, unless where she had occasion to mention the names of any German towns, where she seemed always to have copied the medical guide of Dr Granville; and, in humble imitation of that liter ary Sangrado, to have spilt the consonants of the alphabet on them at hazard. Having now cleared my way, I proceed to the business of this paper. The style of writing most sure of success in the present day is evidently the Impressive. One must think in italics in order to be popular; for plain matter-of-fact narrative, and even attempts at humour, or pathos, have no chance against the thrilling school. People don't like to have their feelings gradually interested by the skilful developement of a character, or to be led on, step by step, to see the workings of some real human passion in people of real human flesh and blood-they prefer to have their feelings roused as by the bursting of a mine, and to have presented to them some combination of startling contras dictions, such as a most honourable and highly religious murderer-a cannibal studying for the church-or an atheist made Lord Mayor. Since this is the public taste, all that I have to do, is to enable any one who likes to gratify it to the utmost. And, luckily, there is not the slightest difficulty in attaining the foremost rank in that style of composition.

First, with regard to the subject, let it be what is commonly called low; let your personages be the frequenters of gin-shops and the refuse of jails, but animate them with as noble and elevating sentiments as you can. It would be nothing very amazing to introduce a young nobleman with the sentiments and manners of a pickpocket or a prize-fighter. Such instances are, unfortunately, not altogether unheard of in real life; but the triumph of your art will be to

reverse this state of things, and astonish the world with the presentment of some young Dutch Sam with the philanthropy of Howard, and the learning of Porson. Young ladies of every degree-the duke's daughter and the barber's-will consider the character delightfully natural and ins teresting; and ten to one the admiration will be warmest on the part of the high-born damsel. Perhaps the same profound ignorance that makes all the mysteries of high life so intensely fascinating to young ladies in country villages-to the wives of quiet respectable clergymen and unambitious squires has the same effect on Lady Belinda with regard to the heroes and heroines of bridewells and tap-rooms. If you could manage to lay your scene in Portsmouth dockyard, and fill your whole novel with convicts and nothing else, your fortune would be made. A benevolent parricide with chains on his legs would be a captivating subject, with a powerfully wrought description of an attempt to escape while the dockyard and ships in harbour had been hu manely set on fire. This, with a few scenes from the interior of the hulks, the friendships and hatreds that diver. sify those horrible depositaries of virtuous theft and praiseworthy homicide, would be sure to sell your book, if you would be particular in following my instructions as to style. Never name any thing, however small or unimportant, without a strong epithet. If your hero, for instance, asks in some moment of enthusiasm for a glass of gin, call it "the horrordarkened cup of that appalling beverage." He drank a jug of beer-" He revelled in the foam-covered liquid— he swallowed it wildly, furiouslypaused for breath-again sank his mouth, chin, nose into the gigantic tankard, and with a deep gulp of satisfaction, tossed the empty utensil into the fire, and with an appalling oath that shook the rafters of the crazy barn, shouted, 'Tis done, ha! ha! I've swigged it all-all-every drop, ha! ha!"" You see at once the picturesqueness of the latter mode of description; and yet you will observe, after all, that it expresses exactly the same event as the first miserable sentence, namely, the fact of his drinking some beer.

In the next place, be very particular in your descriptions of scenery. Whenever you have occasion to introduce the moon, do it in blank verse,

like other pendulums, left him to swing while the hands in front were gaining ground at every move; Dundas, who feared no one, and had a lively word for all, sometimes mingling with the circle; for a moment throwing in his easy jest, and easily bearing its return, doubtless amused by the sense that he was the possessor of power, while they were but nibblers at the hook. There too was Jenkinson, with the profound brow that seemed surcharged with the secrets of an empire; silent, if not sullen, and returning their salutations as cautiously as if a bow were a betrayal. There too, on his two huge legs, was the Duke of Norfolk, in his gray coat and black cape. Fluttering round and among those groups, was to be seen the individual to whom we have alluded a man of remarkably expressive features, with a determined and even a stern air, which, however, frequently relaxed into a smile of the liveliest hilarity—his dress rather neglige, yet always that of a gentleman; his step alert, and evidently formed by the drill; and the whole man bearing evidence of one who had acquired the art of using his limbs on the parade of the Horse Guards. This was Charles Morris, the Whig Apollo, the volunteer laureate of the Opposition, of whomsoever it might be composed; the head of the Beefsteak Club, and the leader of pleasantry wherever he appeared.

We shall now give some specimens of those flowers, or gems, or by whatever graceful nomenclature they are best to be described, which the bard offered upon the shrine of the muses. We are perfectly aware that Captain Morris has been charged with humiliating his talents to occasional productions, the reverse of honourable to his taste; but, without defending these errors, it is only fair to remember that the extravagances of early life are not always to imply culpability in age; that nothing is more common than to find obscure and vicious writers seeking security for their offences, by the protection of some well-known name; and above all, that in the present collection-which, formed and authenticated as it is by the writer himself, is entitled to be considered as the only one by which he thought fit to represent his feelings, his merits, or his talents-he has not given a syllable to the public, which the

most refined delicacy could wish expunged.

The

Lyric poetry has never been a favourite with England, or it has been only a tolerated favourite. National talents every where have a strong connexion with the national temperament. English emotion is deep, powerful, and permanent. Our taste, perhaps, looking too much on the gloomy side of things, loves the force that is to be acquired by perpetual struggle of either mind or body. The labours of that political life, which involves all the higher ranks of English minds like a perpetual tempest, gives a certain portion of that vigour which is the fruit of toiling against the tempest. The effect of climate and manners is universally stamped upon national poetry. French are the first of chansoniers. In the toils and terrors of their Revolution, they began to be poets; but their vigour has died away in peace, and they are now again chansoniers, and no more. All the great poets of Italy rose in the time of her republican and warlike struggles. Dante was the creature of revolution; Petrarch was a brilliant, though softer, emanation from that public flame which blazed out in Rienzi; and even the pompous and glittering chivalry of Tasso found its existence, like the horse and olive of the rival deities of Athens, in the struggles for national supremacy. But the lyric poetry of later Italy is Horatian, and, like the verses of Horace, if it shows the elegance of courts, it betrays the polished debility of the national mind.

These volumes contain some exquisite Lyrics, charming developments of sensibility, and polished forms of thought. But our selections shall be chiefly from the more strongly marked portion of the work-sketches, sometimes of the ludicrous, sometimes of the natural, sometimes almost bacchanalian; but at all times exhibiting the easy pleasantry of a poet, and the keen knowledge of a man of the world. The chief fault of those songs lies in their desultory nature; but, without binding ourselves to quote the whole of any one of them, we shall quote merely those stanzas which please us best, and seem to give the happiest impression of the writer. Here is a song for that plague of London life, a day in the "gloomy month of November:".

Thus going together, we still keep our ground,

And to-morrow, thank Fortune! are sure to come round.

"Then, as to the matter that makes up this ball,

We're all spirit, with us 'tis no matter at all;

If 'tis life, keep it up-and if dust, as they tell,

Why, before it flies off, let us sprinkle it well.

"Some say that by water or fire it steers, Talk of atoms and essences, orbits and spheres ;

But, let Newton, Descartes, and old Ptolemy doze,

As we push round our bottle's the way the world goes.

"Then as to its age, let it be what you please,

Either Heathen or Turkish, Gentoo or
Chinese;

It golden, or silver, or iron may be ;
If it is but well temper'd, 'tis metal for

me.

"Then, on subjects where fools are as wise as the sage,

When we've one we can fathom, why should we engage?

Since Wit cannot clear it, why puzzle our souls?

Let Time clear the riddle, while we clear the bowls."

In the captain's early day, Whiggism was the fashion. All the nobility were Whig; with the exception of the few immediately about the person of the king, and the still fewer who sincerely adhered to Pitt. All the women of fashion were Whigs, at least all the fashionable were; for there is a line between the rank which entitles to fashion, and the taste which confers its renown. The great minister, who alone kept all the Whigs at bay, was the object of universal assault. On his lofty crest every weapon of party poured a perpetual shower. The powerful lance of Fox, the sullen though feebler missiles of the Greys, Courtneys, Wyndhams, and all the second rank of Opposition; the sparkling shafts of Sheridan, as pungent as they were polished; and the light arrows of pleasantry launched from the hundred hands of the more nameless party-all fell on him, aud all fell in vain. He wore that armour which nothing could penetrate; and,

D