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"Look a little more narrowly,' said my conductor.

"I put on my spectacles, and observing the man a little more diligently, above his forehead I could mark a thousand little twinkling shadows dancing the horn-pipe, little hornlets, and rudiments

of horn, of a soft and pappy consistence (for I handled some of them,) but which, like coral out of water, my guide infor med me would infallibly stiffen and grow rigid within a week or two from the expiration of his bachelorhood.

"Then I saw some horns strangely growing out behind, and my interpreter explained these to be married men, whose wives had conducted themselves with infinite propriety since the period of their marriage, but were thought to have antedated their good men's titles, by certain liberties they had indulged themselves in, prior to the ceremony. This kind of gentry wore their horns backwards, as has been said, in the fashion of the old pig-tails; and as there was nothing obtrusive or ostentatious in them, nobody took any notice of it."

I once more beg you, my good-feeling friend, Mr Taylor of Fleet-street, publisher of so many books of practical Piety, to peruse the above! Do you think it fit for your young female subscribers, sir? Is such loathsome ribaldry a pretty Christmas-box, or New-year's gift, for your town and country friends, think ye? is the picture of a cuckold a becoming frontispiece to the New Series? Now, you are shocked with that word. But what is a plain, and ugly dissyllable, in comparison with this laboured and clumsy strain of grossness and indecency? I do not believe the real Elia wrote this. It is liker the drunken drivelling of the "celebrated critic." But be it whose it may, it would disgust St Giles-as would the following brutality sicken Bartholomew's Hospital.

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"I was getting insensibly pleased with my friend's manner! !"

The Vision concludes thus,"He was going on at this rate, and I was getting insensibly pleased with my friend's manner, (I had been a little shy of him at first,) when the dream suddenly left me, vanishing-as Virgil speaksthrough the gate of Horn.

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"On a well-made road a horse will draw one ton, in a cart weighing about 7 cwt., or about 3000lb., at a rate of two miles an hour. On a rail-way of the best construction he will draw, at the same rate of travelling, about 15 tons; let us call this 30,000lb., for the convenience of baving round numbers; and on a canal

he will draw about 30 tons in a boat weighing 19 tons, or about 90,000lb. Hence, on a rail-way, the draught of a horse is ten times, and on a canal thirty times, as great as on a well-made road. Now, a rail-way costs about three times, and a canal about nine times, as much as a good road; and it is probable that the proportion to the original outlay. It is expense of keeping them in repair is in obvious, therefore, if rail-ways should come into general use, that the expense of transporting commodities will be about two-thirds less than on the best roads.

"With respect to the advantages of a rail-way over a canal, which is the question here principally at issue, we may observe, in the first place, that if a horse power effect three times as much on a canal as on a rail-way, the original cost and subsequent repairs of a canal are about three times as great; consequently, a canal will require about the same rates or dues to repay the proprietors as a rail-way. It must next be observed, that this comparison relates entirely to the transporting of goods at two miles an hour. Now it is easy to shew, that so long as horse power is employed on canals, and they are not sufficiently deep and broad to admit the application of steam, this rate of transporting goods cannot be increased without an increase of freight, which would entirely destroy their superiority over roads. We have seen that a horse will draw about 90,000lb. at the rate of two miles an

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But I must conclude somewhat hastily, my dear Mullion, for my nephew has just called, and we are going to cross the hills to Altrive. But be sure to get North to expose this dishonest humbug of a New Series.

Don't let him attempt to read any of it, in his present uncertain state of health. But let him merely see itopen it before him-let him hear the heavy rustling of the fat greasy leaves, and then let it drop, with a squelch upon the floor, and the old boy will know its whole character without more ado. It will thus speak for itself. Meanwhile, having determined not to suffer such an imposition, I have written a letter to the Õpium-Eater, and another to poor dear good Charles Lamb, demanding an explanation. I have also sent off a few lines to "Honest Allan," in case the Opium-Eater be dead. Indeed, I begin to fear that all three are defunct; and yet if it be so, it is certainly rather odd that I should not have heard of it. But you would be surprised to know how slow news travel hitherwards. Yesterday I had a visit from a man, who appear

Why, Mullion, has not the above stuffabout rail-roads previously appeared in all the newspapers in the kingdom? And in newspapers only should such stuff appear. Now, would you believe it, after my lucid analysis of this ninny Number, of which Namby Pamby, Esq. must be the editor, that it is puffed like a soap-bubble, in the

The advertising scribe therein says, that the New Series" has a more worldly character" than the Old London; and the publishers have also paid for an advertisement in the New Times, declaring that there is an entire change in the Editorship, and a vast

airy columns of the Morning Chron. ?ed with his wife and two children, but who was assuredly a bachelor last Spring, and whose marriage I have not, up to this blessed hour, heard of through any other channel. Mrs T. sends her love, and I am, my dear Mullion, yours affectionately,


accession of new strength. Number One gives the lie to his own proprietor with the most unblushing effrontery; for does he not declare that a few jaded asses have merely been displaced by an equal number of fresh cuddies ?— For our own parts, we pity the poor Lion's Head, as he used to call himself; for his braying brethren have discovered the deceit the hide-royal has been with some difficulty drawn off, it having become entangled about his ears; and the disconsolate donkey has been turned out to thistle in the suburbs.

Information such as this, could not have been communicated to the public, without a new series-half-a-crown a Number was too low a price! and the balaam-box would otherwise have burst. Towards the conclusion of this affair, I see a most elegant compliment to America. What wide knowledge of the New world is here exhibited!



THIS is a volume that Christopher let them pass,) do you wish to give himself ought to have reviewed-its a small earnest graceful gift to some beauty and accomplishments would dearly-beloved one, then thank us have softened the natural and acquired for the happy hint, and with a kiss, acerbity of his disposition,-and tin- or, if that be not yet permissible, at ged his intellectual countenance with least with a smile of severest suavity, a fine glow of moral sentiment. We almost equal to one of the Basia of think, even now, that we see the snell Joannes Secundus, lay the Literary elderly gentleman taking somewhat Souvenir upon her tender lap, with a superciliously the Literary Souvenir very few words, which it would be into his long sinewy chalk-stoned fin- impertinent in us to particularize; gers (North's hand is quite Miltonic), only be sure "you breathe them not those fingers that have been the death far from her delicate auricle;" and of many an able-bodied quarto, and with a low, a deep, and pleading tone, whose lightest touch sends a trem- like the knight who won the bright bling twelvemo to Tartarus-we think, and beauteous Genevieve. It is a hunI say, even now, that we see Him dred to one that you are a married clutching a copy of the Souvenir, as if man in six weeks or two months; nay, about to pronounce not only sentence if it be a "large paper copy," one flesh of death, but also to carry it into im- will ye be before the new moon. mediate effect, without hope of pardon, respite, or commutation,-when, lo and behold! his rigorous and vigorous physiognomy relaxes and expands into a smile, "celestial rosy red, Jove's proper hue,"-his eyes beam with philanthropic fire, as if he were a very benevolent Howard,-his very nose curls with kindness-a peculiar and appropriate expression belonging to each nostril,-to the right friendship, to the left (that nearest the heart,) love; his small, thin, gentlemanly ears, so antithetical to those long crisp concerns upon a Cockney, seem just to stir that one beautiful lock of silver that comes waving over his lofty temples, there is in his short sharp shrill cough something singularly hearty, approbative, and urbane,-and as he changes his seat upon that venerable chair, whose bright brass studs, undimmed by years, shine like stars scattered over a black leathern firmament, the good old man shews the satisfaction of his soul by the whamlet of his body; and it is plain to the whole world that the book in hand is worth two in the bush, and destined for a third edition. What a picture!

What pleasant Pagan was it that, thousands of years agone, said, that "gifts were powerful over affection ?" It is hard to know when a young Christian gentleman is fairly entitled to give something more than words, looks, sighs, to a young Christian lady. We believe that nothing like a general rule could be laid down, safe to be acted upon; but, provided nothing exceedingly unfortunate had occurred, surely, surely, about the beginning of a new year, the austerest moralist would allow a touch-be it almost accidental-a pressure of the hand as unaccountably as unintentionally meeting the hand-a-a-a kiss. Well, well, if that sweet name startle, call it a Literary Souvenir-for, by any other name, it will taste as sweet-yes, our fair subscribers, let it be a Literary Souvenir bound in the whitest, purest, most unstained lamb, whose fragrance is felt over the whole library, and preserves the immortal spirit breathing there from trouble and decay.

Gentle reader! and all readers of our Maga are gentle as the sweet South, that breathes upon a bank of violets, giving and stealing odours, (these are not the ipsissima verba, but

It is so long since we have written an article, that we have entirely forgotten how to begin-and instead of driving away tooth and nail, according to the sensible rules laid down in that useful work "The Contributor," here have we been sitting at our oval table, about the size of a shield, for up

• The Literary Souvenir; or, Cabinet of Poetry and Romance. Edited by Alaric A. Watts. Hurst, Robinson, and Co. London; and Constable, Edinburgh. 1824. † See Dr Jamieson.

without expense, which, as we said before, is to us a matter of no moment,— but also without trouble, which is a matter of the greatest moment to every enlightened and virtuous epicurean. The petty and paltry details of housekeeping are mortal to Mind and its Productions, and above all, the single article of coals. The eternal laying-in of coals, and discharging of those mean printed coal-accounts, is fatal to the contributor. But, on the other hand, there is nothing too much to be expected from the periodical author, whose domestic arrangements are all carried into effect, as if by the agency of unseen and fairy hands,-who sits at a table that absolutely produces the viands that adorn it-who lies down to sleep in a bed for ever made and unmade in kaleidos copic change of form, but by what chambermaid no tongue can tell ;who wears breeches shaped by a "Great Unknown" Tailor, whose bill is discharged in the clouds ;-who walks in shoes glittering to the total eclipse of Day and Martin, "dark with excessive bright," yet shoe-black seeth never,and who, familiar as he is with the affairs of empires, never to his knowledge saw the face of a tax-gatherer, and will probably go to his grave ignorant of the inspector of window-lights.

There now-that was one of the narrowest escapes ever book had in the world. My dear Watts, you must know that our ink-holder is a dolphin, bestrid by a Cupid, who has unfished Amphion. Into the jaws of this dolphin, ever and anon plunges the pen of the present writer; and two minutes ago, just as I was about to begin a new paragraph, by an unlucky flourish, I upset the heir-apparent to the French throne, who forthwith vomited forth his whole chapter of contents over the board of green cloth. There were the two copies (large and small-paper) of the Literary Souvenir within a hair'sbreadth of the inundation.-We durst not draw our breath in that tribulation. We saw in the stream of ink, "the torrent's smoothness ere it dash below ;" we feared to stretch out a saving hand, lest the motion should bring down the inky avalanche. All is safe, not a single spot-and we go on to write from the main current of the stream on the table; for the intrusion of a servant with a cloth is odious, and to wipe up ink with paper, is a hell upon earth.

Few or none of our good poets are now publishing. This is, therefore,

wards of two hours, and yet there does not appear to be a page of Pica. But who the deuce cares? Not I. You know well that our sole motive in committing to paper one single syllable, is our own delight, or, if you choose to add, the delight of the world at large. We love to linger over an article for hours, days, weeks, months-if we did not abhor all exaggeration, we would say years, lustres, centuries. On one article yet unfinished, we were occasionally employed, so at least it seemed to us, and every man is the best, indeed only judge of his own feelings, for many centuries. We distinctly remember sketching a plan of it before the flood, and we appeal for the truth of this to Mr Montgomery and Mr Cornwall. Indeed, a sight of the manuscript would convert the most bigotted unbeliever. Such characters! Above all, what prodigious double-w's, formidable ells, and furious-looking Z's. Several of the latter would make Leigh Hunt give up the ghost in his yellow breeches. But we shall leave instructions in our will to our greatgrandson how to finish off this article with effect for the first Number of our New Series.

One delightful feeling accompanies us now in all that we write for our dear ly beloved Maga, that is, the feeling not only of the most devoted, but of the most disinterested attachment. It is a subject of just wonder and astonishment to us, how we could ever have submitted to any other remuneration for our articles, incomparable as most of them undoubtedly were, than the delight of being delightful. What was thirty guineas a-sheet to us? No more than so much waste paper. As a proof of this, we have at this moment (if indeed the rats have not eaten them) a great many (we forget how many, but certainly near a score) of our worthy Publisher's cheques on his banker, the least of which would pay an ordinary family's annual butcher's bill, lying in an old crazy escritoire, near the slates, without a lock, which was twisted off by one of the children. An accidental or designed dozen of Madeira—an occasional five-gallon cask of Jamaica-an East-Indian hump, once a-week a goose or turkey, and now and then a few hares, are all that we now accept from either North or Ebony; these, indeed, we accept willingly-and thus our lar, der and our cellar are as superbly furnished as any in Edinburgh, not only


no more clumsy battalion-men be admitted into the corps d'elites-and, above all, that be his bulk or bearing what it will, there shall be no drafts made directly from the awkward squad. Of course, all Cockneys are excluded, unless indeed there should seem need for a brace of trumpets, in which case Leigh Hunt, whose powers of puffing are known, might be admitted, chiefly on account of the reviews, and any other chicken-breasted Ludgate lad, who might also perhaps, if required, operate upon the serpent or trombone.

Let us change the image, metaphor, or figure of speech, (all of which, by the way, have ever seemed to us one and the same thing, in rerum naturâ,) and return to the ordinary language of human life.

just the very precise nick of time for such a publication as the Literary Souvenir. First-rate poems of large dimensions, like Kehama, Madoc, Lady of the Lake, Marmion, and above all, the Excursion, "wallowing unwieldy enormous in its gait," are not coming out upon the public like absolute periodicals, as in years past. Some of our best poets are dead-all are dumb. Now, we are sorry for this, upon the whole, and wish to have some poetry. Does a day ever pass over a poet's head, in which he does not see visions and dream dreams? Perhaps he is indisposed to sit down to a great immortal work-but is in a fit key for a song, hymn, ballad, elegy, epigram, epithalamium, or, as our late friend Pirie would have said, Epicedium. Off then with a charming little piece, glowing from the mint of Nature. A separate volume is a serious business. But send the first-rate trifle to Ebony, or the New Monthly, (as you have a soul to be saved, beware the London, or you will be led into a New Series of mean misfortunes,) or much rather to the next year's Literary Souvenir. The truth is, that there is by " much too little" brotherhood among our bards. They are either too jealous or too selfish. Each bard is too broadly on his own bottom-too much the cock of his own walk. How beautiful it would be to see them all playing into each other's hands! Hours of Leisure need not be hours of Idleness; and then what pretty tall fellows would they all look, dressed rank and file, in the light-infantry company of Fugitive Poetry!

Now, all that is necessary is, that

The excellent editor is well known in the world of letters, and possesses no ordinary share of poetical genius. He is prodigiously improved within these few years, both in power and expression; and some of his best pieces are extremely beautiful. Mr Watts writes with much elegance and simplicity, and we like his compositions for their entire freedom from that spirit of exaggeration, and that simulated passionateness, so rife in Cockneydom. He writes sincerely; and his sincerity has been felt; for we scarcely remember any instance of so unostentatious a writer as he is, and, without any boast of originality, acquiring so much popular favour in so short a time. Some of the very best pieces in the Souvenir are from his own pen-and it gives us pleasure to quote the following very touching and pathetic stanzas:


By Alaric A. Watts.

Fare thee well, thou first and fairest!

Fare thee well, thou best and dearest !-BURNS.

My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes

When first I clasp'd thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries ;-
For I thought of all that I had borne, as I bent me down to kiss
Thy cherry lip and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss!

I turn'd to many a wither'd hope,-to years of grief and pain ;-
And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flash'd o'er my boding brain ;-
I thought of friends grown worse than cold, of persecuting foes,-
And I ask'd of Heaven, if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose!

I gazed upon thy quiet face—half blinded by my tears

Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears,—
Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them,
As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them.

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