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pose advantage to passers by from ings in safety, without these pitiful that attitude especially with black imitations.)

Vox facunda Solonis

coats-Lamp-lighters-alarm occa- In one respect, and with this I consioned by their thuribulum-benevo- clude, London has as yet unrivalled lent provision for cats and dogs-bar- advantages. To persons who are curows containing ditto on the pavement rious to study the fates of heroes to -provocative of appetite Jews ready the last, remembering that to strip you to the skin, or clothe you at any price or cram your pockets with open pen-knives and oranges (bad neighbours) on your own terms. White horse cellar, enlevement of young women (struggling in vain, to go to Fulham,) to Hammersmith or Brentford.

I hope I have now said enough, to put you in decent humour with the narrow, unparallel, misleading, greasy streets of Paris, with all the accessories of cabriolets, puddles, and pontoons, by day, and the parade of sentinels and gend'armes by night, the "mille pericula sævæ urbis," against which no carte de sureté will protect you. (By the way, old Gonsalvi set up that sort of thing at Rome last winter, together with a squad of saucy douaniers. Poor man! he might have been too happy to wear his red stock

Respicere ad long jussit spatia ultima


To such a philosophically-constitu→ ted mind,

Εκείνην την τελευ]αιαν ιδειν Ημεράν επισκοπουλία, a lodging in the Old Bailey offers decided advantages. He may there see the elements of tragedy, working di tos at Qoßov about every six weeks. There are several good houses just opposite to that well-known rendezvous of the luckless orator; that Anabathron from which none descends; that Pnyz (truly such) where he makes probably his first speech, and very certainly his last-here literally

Mors ultima linea rerum.

Modern English Ballads,

Envited by

Morgan ODoherty, LL.D.

No. I.

C. B.

[**** The Ensign was evidently much affected on the defeat of his countryman. It was remarked, that for some days after the event, he went to bed bare-footed, and rose fasting. But on the occasion of Spring's triumphant entry, he was peculiarly dejected, and refused to look at it, which called forth the following ballad. It will be often imitated by modern poets, both in Spain and Germany.

Pon te a tancard de brounstout, dexa la suipa de strongsuig
Melancholico Odorti, veras al galopin Tomspring, &c.

It bears a great resemblance to the bridal of Andalla, p. 129, in Lockart's Spanish Ballads; and the succeeding one on poor Thurtell may, more remotely, remind the sentimental reader of his "Lament for Celin," originally published in this Magazine.]

RISE up, rise


up, my Morgan, lay the foaming tankard down, Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

From gay shin-bone and cleaver hard the marrowy notes are flowing,

And the Jew's-harp's twang sings out slap-bang, 'twixt the cow-horn's lordly blowing;

And greasy caps from butchers' heads are tossing everywhere,

And the bunch of fives of England's knight wags proudly in the air.
Rise up, rise up, my Morgan, lay the foaming tankard down,
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

Arise, arise, my Morgan, I see Tom Winter's mug,

He bends him to the Fancy coves with a nod so smart and smug;
Through all the land of great Cockaigne, or Thames's lordly river,
Shook champion's fist more stout than his, more knock-me-downish never.
Yon Belcher twisted round his neck of azure, mix'd with white,
I guess was tied upon the stakes the morning of the fight.
Rise up, rise up, my Morgan, lay the foaming tankard down,
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

What aileth thee, my Morgan? what makes thine eyes look down?
Why stay you from the window far, nor gaze with all the town?
I've heard thee swear in hexameter, and sure you swore the truth,
That Thomas Spring was quite the king of the fist-beshaking youth.
Now with a Peer he rideth here, and Lord Deerhurst's horses go
Beneath old England's champion, to the tune of Yo, heave ho!
Then rise, oh rise, my Morgan, lay the foaming tankard down,
You may here through the window-sash come gaze with all the town.

The Irish Ensign rose not up, nor laid his tankard down,
Nor came he to the window to gaze with all the town;
But though his lip dwelt on the pot, in vain his gullet tried,
He could not, at a single draught, empty the tankard wide.
About a pint and a half he drank before the noise grew nigh,
When the last half-pint received a tear slow dropping from his eye.
No, no, he sighs, bid me not rise, nor lay my tankard down,
To gaze on Thomas Winter with all the gazing town.

Why rise ye not, my Morgan, nor lay your tankard down?
Why gaze ye not, my Morgan, with all the gazing town?

Hear, hear the cheering, how it swells, and how the people cry,

He stops at Cribb's, the ex-champion's shop ;-why sit you still, oh! why? "At Cribb's good shop let Tom Spring stop, in him shall I discover

The black-eyed youth that beat the lad who cross'd the water over?

I will not rise with weary eyes, nor lay my tankard down,

To gaze on Langan's conqueror, with all the gazing town.'

* Mr Lockhart's Spanish ballad, "The Bridal of Andalla," of which Mr ODoherty has indited an imitation, runs thus. The Lament of Celin we have not room for. A prose article on Thurtell next month.

“Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ;

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing,

And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing,

And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere.

And the tall tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air;

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down,

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

"Arise, arise, Xarifa, I see Andalla's face,

He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace,
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquiver
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never.
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow of azure mix'd with white,
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night;
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.


A loud Lament is heard in town-a voice of sad complaining-
The sorrow Whig is high and big, and there is no restraining.
The great Lord Mayor, in civic chair, weeps thick as skeins of cotton,
And wipes his eyes with huckaback, sold by his own begotten.
Alas, says he, thy thread of life is snapt by sheers of Clothor
And a winding sheet, a yard-yard-wide, enwraps thee, O, my brother!
Howl, buff and blue! of that dear crew, whose brows the patriot myrtle
Shades, for Harmodius Thistlewood! Howl, howl for Whig Jack Thurtell!

The doves and rooks who meet at Brooks', sob loudly, fast, and faster,
And shake in skin as rattlingly as they ere shook the castor.
O, by the box of Charley Fox, and by his unpaid wagers,
Shame 'tis, they swear, for hangman cocks to hang our truest stagers;
What if he cut the fellow's throat in fashion debonnaire, sir,
Tis only like our own Whig case, a bit the worse for wear,
What if, after swallowing brains and blood, he ate pork chops like turtle,
Sure, don't we swallow anything? Alas! for Whig Jack Thurtell!


Lord Byron, gentleman is he, who writes for good Don Juan,
Huzzaed when my Lord Castlereagh achieved his life's undoing.
No Tory bard, that we have heard, so savage was or silly,

As to crow o'er cut-throat Whitbread Sam, or cut-throat Sam Romilly.
We laugh at them-they sigh with us-we hate them sow and farrow-
Yet now their groans will fly from them as thick as flights of arrow,
Which Mr Gray, in ode would say, through the dark air do hurtle,—
Moaning in concert with ourselves-Alas! for Whig Jack Thurtell!

He was a Whig-a true, true Whig-all property he hated
In funds or land, in purse or hand,-tithed, salaried, or estated.
When he saw a fob, he itch'd to rob, the genuine whiggish feeling;
No matter what kind was the job, fraud, larceny, cheating, stealing.
Were he a peer our proud career he'd rule in mansion upper,

In the Lower House, behind him Brougham would amble on the crupper,
Like Bennet Grey, or Scarlet J. he'd wield the poleaxe curtal

(My rhymes are out) 'gainst Ministers! Alas! for Whig Jack Thurtell!

"What aileth thee, Xarifa, what makes thine eyes look down?
Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town?
I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth,
Andalla rides without a peer, among all Grenada's youth.
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow;
Then rise, oh rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Unseen here, through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town."-

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down,
Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town ;-
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove,
And though her needle press'd the silk, no flower Xarifa wove;
One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh-
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye.
"No-no," she sighs" bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down,
To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town.'

"Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down?

Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town?

Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry.

He stops at Zara's palace-gate-why sit ye still-oh why ?"

"At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover

The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover?
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down,
gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town."


THIS book was originally announced to the public, if we mistake not, under the title of " The Youth of Reginald Dalton;" and we wish that title had been preserved, for it properly expresses the real aim and object of the work. The author, whoever he may be, is a man of a singularly powerful and original mind, widely versed in literature and book-knowledge, and keenly observant of human nature, as displayed on the stage of the world. There is a force and vigour in his style of thinking and writing, not excelled by any man of this age; and often, too, an elegance, a gracefulness, and a beauty, that come charmingly in among his more force ful delineations, and shew that he could, if he would, be equally effect ive in the touching and pathetic. He pours out all his thoughts, feelings, observations, remarks, fancies, whims, caprices, follies, sarcasms, and jocularities, with the same easy, we had almost said careless, spirit of lavish profusion. He seldom remains long on one key, but he strikes it strongly, till the corresponding chord in the heart vibrates to its centre. He rarely seems anxious to work up any effect, but seizes the main interest of the feeling or incident which he is dealing with; and having brought it out boldly, he proceeds forthwith on his career, and hurries forwards with a free, and sometimes impatient consciousness of strength, among new scenes, new emotions, and new characters. Accordingly, he is never wearisome nor languid; never exhausts a passion either in himself, the agents in his history, or his readers, but, by a constant succession of various feelings spring ing out of each other, keeps the scene busy, and the imagination on the alert, infusing life, spirit, bustle, and vivacity throughout the work during its whole progress, and almost always becoming, when he ceases to be impressive and impassioned, excessively amusing and entertaining, and when he leaves the deeper feelings of our nature, almost always glancing over the surface of life with a truly engaging spirit of youthful elasticity, and a beaming freshness of youthful enjoy ment that inspires cheerful sympathy, and makes one in love with the every

day world. It is evident that the volumes are written by one who, in the strength and prime of manhood, has not yet lost the animation and lightheartedness of youth. There is nothing young in the opinions, the reflections, the views of human life, when the writer addresses himself se riously and solemnly to the stronger and permanent principles of action in our nature, but there is much that is delightfully juvenile-puerile, if you will-in the by-play, the under-plot, the inferior incidents, and the depict ing of the various auxiliary characters, and the gravest and most formal personage that ever wore gown or wig, at bar, in pulpit, or in bench, must surely relax the sternness of his physiognomy at many of the ludicrous details of occurrences in stage-coaches, college-rows, gaudeamuses, and snug parties of well-educated wine-bibbers, and erudite devourers of the fat of the land, that permeate the book almost from beginning to end, and alternate most effectively with matters of very serious import, namely, with the sorrows of fatherly affection, the desolation of blasted hope, the agonies of repentant dissipation and prodigality, the cleaving curse of folly, the agonies and transports of baffled or requited love, and all the host of undistinguishable passions that often storm the soul of youth, and crowd into a few years as much delight and as much despair as is afterwards enjoyed or suffered between twenty and the tomb.

Now, it is pretty obvious, that in a book written on such principles, and by such an author, various faults of considerable magnitude, and of no unfrequent recurrence, will be found. For, in the first place, it is not always possible to escape in good time from the extreme levity, and the joyful absurdities of reckless boyhood or youth; and in indulging, con amore, in such strains of description, a writer, with a keen sense of the frolicsome, the ludicrous, and the piquant, must be in perpetual danger of offending, either by the untimely introduction of such mirthful topics, or by their undue prolongation, or by a certain spice" of them remaining behind, even after a serious, solemn, or affecting appeal has been made to the better and higher

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Reginald Dalton. By the Author of Valerius and Adam Blair. 3 vols. W. Blackwood, Edinburgh, and T. Cadell, London. 1824.

feelings. This, we think, frequently happens throughout these volumes. The current of deeper emotion is too often checked or diverted; and although the book may not, on that account, be a less true picture of human life, nevertheless we expect human life, in all its varieties, to be something different, in a work of imagination, from what it is in reality. This author occasionally destroys his most complete and powerful illusions, as if he did so, either on purpose to startle and perplex, or because he himself really felt less at the time, than the readers, over whom his genius prevailed, and were more indifferent than they ever could be to the beings of his own creation.

But farther-the humour-the wit -the fun and frolic-the grotesque and the ludicrous-are sometimes not only out of place, but not very good in themselves, or if very good, yet not of a kind precisely which one is in the habit of meeting with in handsomely printed works in three thick volumes. Ever and anon our author waxeth facetious on other authors alive and merry like himself, deals out little biting and pinching quips modest, right and left, apparently without malice or meditation, but in mere gaieté du cœur. When he is in such moods, whatever comes uppermost, out it goes, so that more than once we thought we were reading this Magazine, and that Reginald Dalton was no other than Christopher North, in the gown of an under-graduate. Per haps the names of about twenty living persons of eminence occur in a work which is one of mere fiction, and it is impossible to tell how strange is the effect of these flesh-and-blood gentle men dining or drinking, or sitting on coach-boxes, or being introduced to Reginald Dalton and his fellow-phantoms. Instead of throwing an air of reality, and truth, and good faith over the narrative, it breaks the spell most teazingly, and more than once we have laid down our volume with a " says a frown to a smile," rather angry at being bammed and trotted by this capricious, wayward, and incurable quizzer.

To be done, for the present, with our enumeration of faults, we must take the liberty of hinting to this author, that, in the midst of his powerful, eloquent, and idiomatic English, he, too often, lets slip words, phrases,

epithets, and modes of expression, that border upon the coarse and vulgargrate upon the ear at least, if not upon the mind, and occasionally impair, in some measure, the beauty of his most overwhelming or exquisite descriptions. Perhaps something of this is unavoidable in a style so natural, bold, and flowing; but the tendency to it may at least be controlled; and if we are offended by such maculæ in his next work, we shall present him with a list of those in the present, some of which he will be surprised at and correct, while probably he will suffer others to remain, that they may furnish matter for philological criticism to the "influential" writers in the New Monthly, and other periodical lights of our southern hemisphere.

The purpose of this original and powerful writer, is to paint a bold portrait of the youth of a well-born, well-educated Englishman. He is not to place him in any very conspicuous or commanding situation, to bring over, and around him, the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war, to envelope him in the light of genius, or to endow him with the power and privilege of exalted rank, but to shew him, as a youth of good birth, fair prospects, excellent talents, strong feelings, and then to let him take his choice for good or for evil among the causes for ever at work to shape out our destiny. Perhaps there rarely ever existed one individual, of any strong powers of thinking and feeling, the history of whose youth would not, in many respects, be extremely interesting. Independent of the workings of heart and spirit, and the formation and fluctuation of character, it would probably exhibit not a few impressive and interesting, perhaps striking and remarkable incidents, either in itself, or intimately connected with it, or with the fates and fortunes of other families. Accordingly, Reginald Dalton is represented as the son of a country rector, and we are first made acquainted with him, while yet living under the loving tuition of his father, a widower, whose heart was wholly bound up in Reginald, his only son. During half of the first volume, we become so far acquainted with this retired ecclesiastic, and his concerns, as to feel no ordinary interest both in him and Reginald. We learn that an ample and

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