spirit than that which ought to inspire a disciple of the divine art, and led him to adopt a species of pipe which cannot be correctly denominated pastoral. A taste for these indulgences led him to the metropolis, where some time ago he wrote his great work called the " Pleasures of Hops," with a few additional lines "To the Poles," to make it complete. We cannot consider him to be a servile imitator of Campbell-whose harp he delighteth to honour. Hear how he celebrates the plant to which he is so devotedly attached.

"But grant that Beauty and the courtly throng
Thrive and look gay on hyson and souchong;
What fills the panting peasant's humbler veins,
His frame refreshes, and his strength sustains,
Cheers him at morn, at noon renews his fires,
At eve enlivens, and at night inspires?
Immortal Hops! to you the peasant owes
Exalted rapture, exquisite repose

With you, contented on the rack he writhes,
And laughs alike at taxes and at tithes ;

Nor cares what crown is lost, whose pension stops,
But rests his hope, heart, happiness, on Hops!'

The "Lines to the Poles," commencing

"Ten thousand Poles are pointing to the sun,

Though Captain Parry sought in vain for one,"

will be inserted in the ten-thousandth edition. Our poet is the Parry of his art, and returns from his Polar expedition with similar triumphs-discovering in fact that there is nothing new to be discovered upon the subject. He is moreover the author of various unfinished memoirs of eminent persons who happen to be utterly unknown; and is at present, we hear, engaged upon two important works, the "Lives of the most celebrated Hackney-coachmen," from the time of Phaeton, and the "Fugitive Poetry of the Metropolitan Street-minstrels." In the compilation of this last he has had the valuable assistance of the great Mr. Pitt, (Seven Dials.)

ROBERT MONTGAMMON RY. Had Walker and Johnson compressed every syllable of their two dictionaries into one emphatic and impossible word, it would have failed to express our admiration of the brilliant light that has here risen upon the world. But to the infamy of the age be it spoken, a party, amounting to nineteen-twentieths of the community, has been hired to laugh at his several immortal poems; and a corrupt, licentious, and assassin-like press-a press which has already ruined the reputation of Mr. Hunt as a statesman, and which did such incalculable mischief, a little time ago, to Mr. Isaac Solomons-has poured the phials of its wrath upon the growing flame of his genius. Some of them have attempted to prove that his sublimest passages were nonsense; and even went so far as to insinuate that he is inferior to Milton! The best answer to attacks so atrociously malignant, was to publish another immortal poem; and, having celebrated Satan, to celebrate himself in a strain equally sublime. From this volcano of genius, which is called "Oxford-Street, a Poem," we select a spark or two to illumine our pages with.

"What makes the glory of a mighty land,'

But streets like this-long, populous, and grand?
Oh! wondrous Avenue! the pride of town,
(St. Giles' thy cradle, and Hyde Park thy crown!)
That thou from Oxford hast derived a name,
Heightens thy honours and exalts thy fame;
Oxford, alike for minstrel and M.P.
Renown'd o'er all-for Inglis and for me!
Two Roberts rule in Oxford, both sublime;
He represents its reason-I its rhyme;
And thus within one city's precincts lurk
A bard like Milton, and a sage like Burke.
All in my fate a hidden grandeur see,
And swear a future Bishop buds in me.
The Cantabs meet me in a wondering mass,
And think of Satan' as they see me pass.

The very children rush to read my rhyme,
(The school edition) for the thousandth time.
"But Oxford-street-far richer than the Strand
In gay bazaars and panoramas grand-
How sweet on summer-afternoons to stroll,
And feast with nods and smiles my feverish soul!
To meet the Reverend This, the Dean of That,
And stop the carriaged Dowager to chat :
To hear my praises whisper'd by the proud,
And feel the worship of the wondering crowd:
To pass some bookseller's-some man of taste-
And see his window with my volume graced !
(Unless perchance my startled glance should fall
On one mark'd "ninepence" at a shabby stall.)
"Such are its gay delights; but ah! how soon
The steps of Night have track'd the heels of Noon!
Clouds o'er the sunny air have flung their pall,
And glide in gloom, like lawyers at a ball;
Hark! peals of thunder shake the growling ground;
The old Pantheon's palsied at the sound;

Its portico, with palpitations odd,

Salutes the new Bazaar-which seems to nod.

A sudden ague spreads through all the land,
And shakes the bow in Paganini's hand.
Blue gleams the light along the shivering shops,
And on the crowd that 'neath each gateway stops.
Umbrellas now are idle, cabs are vain,

And coaches scarce shut out the soaking rain.
But I have I no shelter from the storm,

That mars my curls-my snowy collar's form?

O Heaven!-but lo! a carriage-there's my trust;
Its crest, a mitre !-Providence is just."

F. C. C. THE PADDINGTON SHEPHERDESS. Our fair Initialist, who is, in fact, a milkmaid, though fancifully designated a shepherdess, is another star added to the "galaxy" of female genius. Her name has not accurately transpired-Felicia Cecilia, we are sure of; but whether the third is Clutterbuck or Crackenthorpe remains for the present a mystery. She is the author of the beautiful "Lines on Rowland's celebrated Kalydor," which are so frequently quoted in the newspapers. To those who would object, that the merit of that admirable invention is not decidedly of a pastoral nature, and therefore not a theme for a shepherdess, we would observe, that shepherdesses in former ages did not live at Paddington. Our protegée has more expansive notions of poetry; her perception seems intuitive; and she talks of Castaly as if she had a cottage upon its banks. We can perceive in her style the dawn of a new Arcadian age. From the preface to her poems, now in the press, we extract a passage, that describes the manner in which the light of song first broke upon the dark silence of her existence :

"In my 'Narrative of a Tour round the Regent's Park,'-which, notwithstanding the weight of my pails, I have a thousand times performed-I have entered into the spirit of poetry, by explaining how useless it is to explain it, and by describing the impossibility of description. It came upon me I know not how, but just as the grass grows that sows itself. I was milking, one fine April morning-it happened to be the first of the monthwhen upon looking up, the old familiar scene around me had suddenly changed. I at first fancied that the View of Cows before me had transported me in imagination to the Isle of Wight; but a more enchanting idea succeeded. I saw that Parnassus, in the disguise of Primrose-hill, was inviting me to ascend; the canal seemed the bright waters of Castaly; the noise of the Paddington-stages resembled the buzz of a myriad voices welcoming my approach; the eagles and hyenas in the Park were as mute as if they were listening to Orpheus; the animal that stood beside me seemed no longer a red cow, but a milk-white lamb, and I myself was transformed into Una. This trance must have lasted some time, for the milk had 'changed,' as well as myself, ere I returned home.

From that moment I became inspired. I felt that my being was that of a star-in the milky way. In proportion as I became poetical, I grew unfit for any thing else. I often caught myself entering two chalks' instead of one, and confounding-in spite of frequent intercourse-the cow with the pump. My first poem, written on the occasion I have described, I am willing to part with to any publisher who may be anxious to treat for it. I begin to fear there is a want of enthusiasm with respect to purchasing, and agree with Dryden, that—

'Glorious beauty isn't to be sold.' "

We have only space for a pastoral, which will, we are sure, justify the eulogy we have pronounced, and bespeak a favourable reception for the forthcoming volume.

"I LIVE upon Paddington-green;
What course is so varied as mine?

Through the Park where the bears may be seen,
I pass every morning at nine.

I've a smile from the Omnibus sparks

But I scarcely award it a thank,

When I gaze on the cluster of clerks
That ride every day to the Bank.
Young Collins's fancy I strike,

He vows that he dreams about me;
I've as much curds and whey as I like,
And I always have cream in my tea.
Each evening his flute is in tune

They press me to have him-but ah!
They know not my heart's in the moon,
That my soul is in love with a star.

To one upon Helicon's brink,

How little such pleasure avails!

On Cowper and Cowley I think,

And my spirit-leaps over the pails!"

THE NEW BAYLY.-This may appear an outré and antipoetical designation, but it is necessary, in order to distinguish our present subject from the Old Bayly, with whom he has been frequently confounded. The history of this "swan and shadow," that always "float double," is curious; the swan sings, and the shadow echoes (if the metaphor will allow us to say so), till one hardly knows which is which. In fact, the original Bayly is a swan with two necks-a sort of double-barrelled Bayly. He writes twenty-seven stanzas "To my First Cousin ;" and the other replies, with precisely the same number "To my Hundred-andfirst Cousin." One produces a "Neglected Child;" the other is instantly delivered of a "Deserted Child." The first celebrates "The Soldier's Smile;" the second immediately immortalizes "The Sailor's Tear." O. B. writes "We Met;" N. B. is close at his heels with "We Parted." The world, when one comes in view, looks as naturally for the other as for rain after St. Swithin, or bad wine after a tavern-dinner. It consents to patronize both, on the principle of "love me, love my dog." There is no such thing as having Prince Hal without Poins, or Johnson without Boswell. The "butterfly" goes gamboling upon the air, and the "bluebottle" comes buzzing behind. If one announces that he will ascend in a balloon, the other undertakes to come down in the parachute. In some shape or other, we are sure to have the echo-the same, with a differWe quote, by way of example, a stanza or two from their mutual forthcoming works, called "London Bridge Ballads."

ence.

Mr. Bayly, No. 1 (the swan), opens thus :

"I stood upon New London Bridge,

The scene was fair to see;

And yet the pomp that pleas'd the crowd
No lustre had for me.

For by me shone a richer gem

Than aught beneath the throne

A gentle heart that heaved with love,

For me for me alone!"

Mr. Bayly, No. 2 (the shadow), echoes in the following strain :

"I stood upon the Iron Bridge,

The royal group to see;

And as the King pass'd underneath,
Methought he look'd at me.

Fair ladies, lords, and noble knights,
They thought not of the throne;

The eyes of court and crowd were fix'd

On me-on me alone!"

We leave the learned to say which is most entitled to immortality; but we do say that No. 1, (which is famous for taking care of itself,) should, upon every song-writing occasion, keep as far from No. 2 as possible. It is not a little odd that some poets will not know what a convenient distance means, but persist in following the steps of another, like Mephistophiles or a dun. As it is, the First Bayly is as bad-off as the "unfortunate" damsel of the same family in the song. In fact, his own ghost is perambulating the town: his fame has a fetchhis muse has a double! He is a haunted poet !

BEN JOHNSON, THE BRICKLAYER BARD.-At the head and front of the list of the Great Untaught, may be ranked the unpolished diamond now for the first time introduced to fame. The following account of his marriage with immortal verse is given in a letter, which bears his mark, and which, as he cannot write, was dictated to an amanuensis:

My Litterary propencity lize at the Dore of westminstir abby, ware i went won sundy to Sea the tooms: their I percev'd in Kapitle letters the wurds-o Rare ben jonson -the ignorant pepel haven left out the h, nott Nowing ow to spel: this beeing my name, and awhare that it was not rare butt rarther commun, i inkwired of the husher of mr Rhods's akademy (who rites this) hoo the rare Ben was-and lurned from hymn that he was a famus devine who had ritten a dickshunary-but we Err'd afturwards, wat at wunce opined my Eyes, from won of the Pupels, that he was the grate orthur of Komus and Othellow, and had Flurish'd as a riter in the rain of Richard cur de lion. this filled my mind with kurioscity to here Moore, wen I was toll'd that this Rare ben was, like meself, who boar the same appleation, the Sun of a briclayer! Gess my joy and sirprize at Such a coinsydence-I risolv'd to pursu that Parth wich provydense had So misteryusly pointed owt-i couldnt wurk for thinken ov it-the noose I had herd was alwas at my ear, and i assended the Ladder, but nott with a Furm step. Wen i began to Right I found sum diffyculty from nott beeing abel-my eydears offten ockured to me wen aloan, and I was oblijed to thro doun my trouil and run up the town to my frend the Husher every time a Thort Kame, to putt it on papir-in this dilemmer my jenius hit upun an exellent higherogliphick skeme, or new Moad of riting, of wich i am the pattentea-I yused a dott thus (•) for a Star, and a long stroke for a sunbeme, and as the same immige is repeted over and over agane in Moddern poetry, my plan ansers unkomanly well."

Our poet soon neglected building to build the lofty rhyme, of which we shall give a brief specimen from his numerous MSS. in the form of a dedicatory sonnet to the " Association for the Encouragement of Literature;" an association established upon the liberal principle of paying all the profits of his work to the author, if-after paying every body else there happen to be any left.

Sagacius boddy, childrin of rephorm,

most saje filanthropists, and paytriots pure,
Ye Litterary howards, bent to Kure

all litterary ils, all strife and storm-
To sheeld from publishers (a vishus swarm)
the moddest Kredulous orther; ye who, shure
That jeniuses by Thousands nou endure
Deep rongs in silence, fele yure busums warm;

Who mete, and Tork, do All things butt subscribe,

To bring nu jems to lite and show them fare;
To tern our bards to cresuses, and bribe
With Prophits, that now vannish, heavn knose ware !
O great encurrigers, to Yew come i;

To Yew must jenius cling-the Rest refeuse to Buy."

Not merely with all our heart, but with all our ink, were it necessary, would we second this appeal. We know of no candidate whom the Society could more auspiciously commence its labours with. But our mediation is useless. The MS. volume, from which the above is an extract, was, we are informed, submitted to a general meeting of the Association, referred to a committee of taste, and finally accepted, after a violent opposition on the part of one or two of the members, poets of repute, who considered the style of the writer an imitation of their own. Our author, then, has the honour of being the first of the unlettered illustrious whom it is the object of this admirable Association to introduce to the notice of the world. And now let us honestly state that our motive for inserting these gems of the illiterate literati, was simply to bring them under the patronizing eye of the Association. We submit our Gallery of the Great Uneducated to the committee of connoisseurs. We are convinced that, notwithstanding the extraordinary acceleration given to the march of minstrelsy by the institution of the Society-notwithstanding that, by the last returns, writers were discovered to form an infinitely larger portion of the population than readers, and that, instead of an association to encourage, we may shortly want a Society for the Discouragement of Literature-it would be impossible to find any objects more entitled to the fraternal solicitude of the Encouragement Committee. A fellow-feeling ought to make them wondrous kind. They are links in the same. golden chain of genius; and, in fact, they have all equal claims, as far as we can see, to be elected members of the society. Thus, what with its own directors, and the select band which we now recommend to its patronage, the list of the Association-or, as it may more aptly be termed, the Literary Refuge for the Destitute must be pronounced complete. What a cloud of crowned candidates what a rush of the renowned rejected-what an army of ill-used authors, may be imagined at the first opening of the doors! What a group for Cruikshank !

But our "minutes," like those of Time, must “hasten to their end." Innumerable letters, even while we write, are pouring in upon us. All of them contain offers of services, which we can never hope to repay. The writers of some of these are willing to take the whole poetical department of the Magazine to themselves; others invite themselves to breakfast, and promise to read a few hundred verses, which they think, &c.; some are surprised that we should call Wordsworth and Byron great poets, and ask us what we think of "the enclosed;" others assure us that their contributions have never been published, and offer to give us "unexceptionable references" as to originality, &c. One young lady (at boarding-school, near Clapham) is deterred from publishing by a generous determination not to injure the popularity of Mrs. Hemans; another intimates, that if there is any particular publisher we wish to favour, she will immediately send him all she has ever written; but begs, in the mean time, that fifty pounds may be forwarded, "as under." We wish them a pension and an immortality a-piece; and, in the mean time, recommend them all to the Association. May it do for them what another Association did for the Catholics; and may every attic, under the reformed system of literature, return, at least, two members to the parliament of poetry.