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appointment in his private ties and his public attachments-Milton, who has descended to an unthinking posterity, as possessing a mind, however elevated, at least austere and harsh, has, in one of his early Latin poems, expressed this sentiment with a melancholy and soft pathos, not often found in the golden and Platonic richness of his youthful effusions in his own language—

Vix sibi quisque parem de millibus invenit unum;
Aut si fors dederit tandem non aspera votis

Illum inopina dies-qua non speraveris hora
Surripit-eternum linquens in sæcula damnum.'*

"And who is there that hath not said to himself, if possessed for a short time of one heart, entirely resembling and responding to his own, -who has not said to himself daily and hourly,This cannot last!' Has he not felt a dim, unacknowledged dread of death? has he not, for the first time, shrunk from penetrating into the future? has he not become timorous and uneasy? is he not like the miser who journeys on a road begirt with a thousand perils, and who yet carries with him his all? Alas! there was a world of deep and true feeling in that expression, which, critically examined, is but a conceit. Love hath, indeed, made his best interpreter a sigh.'+

A. Say what we will of Lord Byron, and thinking men are cooling from the opinion first passed upon him, no poet hath touched upon more of the common and daily chords of our nature.

L. His merits have undoubtedly been erroneously ranked and analysed; but we will speak of him more at large when I come to my history; for I shall have to mention the effect produced on my mind by his poems, and the opinion I have formed of them now that the effect has passed away. Nothing seems to me more singular in the history of imitation than the extraordinary misconception which all Lord Byron's imitators incurred with respect to the strain they attempted to echo. The great characteristics of Lord Byron are vigour, nerve-the addressing at once the common feelings and earthly passions-never growing mawkish, never girlishly sentimental-never, despite all his digressions, encouraging the foliage to the prejudice of the fruit. What are the characteristics of all the imitators ?—they are weak-they whine-they address no common passion-they heap up gorgeous words-they make pyramids of flowers-they abjure vigour-they talk of appealing " to the few congenial minds"-they are proud of wearying you, and consider the want of interest the proof of a sublime genius. Byron, when he complains, is the hero who shows his wounds; his imitators are beggars in the street, who cry, "Look at these sores, Sir!" In the former case there is pathos, because there is admiration as well as pity; in the latter there is disgust, because there is at once contempt for the practised whine and the feigned disease. Α man who wishes now to succeed in poetry must be imbued deeply with

*Which may be thus prosaically translated:

"Scarce one in thousands meets a kindred heart;
Or if no harsh fate grant, at last, his dreams,
Comes Death; and in the least foreboded hour,
Bequeaths the breast an everlasting blank!"

+ Byron.

the spirit of this day, not that of the past. He must have caught the mighty inspiration which is breathing throughout the awakened and watchful world. With enthusiasm he must blend a common and plain sense; he must address the humours, the feelings, and the understandings of the middle as well as the higher orders; he must find an audience in Manchester and Liverpool. The aristocratic gloom, the lordly misanthropy, that Byron represented, have perished amid the action, the vividness, the life of these times. Instead of sentiment, let shrewd wit or determined energy be the vehicle; instead of the habits and moods of a few, let the great interests of the many be the theme. A. But, in this country, the aristocracy yet make the first class of readers into whose hands poetry falls; if they are not conciliated, the book does not become the fashion-if not the fashion, the middle orders will never read it.

L. But can this last?-can it even last long? Will there be no sagacious, no powerful critic, who will drag into notice what can fall only into a temporary neglect? I say temporary, for you must allow that whatever addresses the multitude through their feelings, or their everlasting interests, must be destined to immortality: the directors, the lovers of the multitude, glad of an authority, will perpetually recur to its pages-attention directed to them, fame follows. To prophecy whether or not, in these times, a rising author will become illustrious, let me inquire only, after satisfying me of his genius, how far he is the servant of Truth-how far he is willing to turn all his powers to her worship to come forth from his cherished moods of thought, from the strongholds of mannerism and style-let me see him disdain no species of composition that promotes her good, now daring the loftiest, now dignifying the lowest-let me see him versatile in the method, but the same in the purpose-let him go to every field for the garland or the harvest, but be there but one altar for all the produce! Such a man cannot fail of becoming great; through envy, through neglect, through hatred, through fortune, he will win his way; he will neither falter nor grow sick at heart; he will feel, in every privation, in every disappointment, the certainty of his reward; he will indulge enthusiasm, nor dread ridicule; he will brandish the blade of satire, nor fear the enmity he excites. By little and little, men will see in him who fights through all obstacles a champion and a leader. When a Principle is to be struggled for, on him they will turn their eyes; when a Prejudice is to be stormed, they will look to see his pennant wave the first above the breach. Amidst the sweeping and gathering deluge of ages, he shall be saved, for TRUTH is the indestructible and blessed Ark to which he hath confided his name!*

To be continued.

EARLY RISING:- I'LL PACK MY PORTMANTEAU."

"Promises, like pie-crusts, are made to be broken.”—ELEGANT EXTRACTS. THAT is not true. The proverb is a wicked proverb, and deserves to be thrust out from the collection for its wickedness, as do some others for their folly. To act up to the pernicious principle it inculcates, would tend directly to the disorganization of society. Yet there are certain matter-of-course promises which we are in the habit of making, with an implied understanding, on the parts both of promiser and promisee, that they will not be kept: we engage in them with just the same degree of sincerity which we exercise when writing to assure an utter stranger that we are his very humble and obedient servant. I shall not attempt to defend either the wisdom or the virtue of the practice: I merely state the fact: it is one of the polite usages of the world. We are requested to do some certain thing-to perform some extraordinary feat; by common courtesy we are bound to engage in the undertaking; the promise is of such a nature-so absurd, so wild, so nearly unaccomplishable—that no man, in his senses, would make it, with a serious intention of carrying it into effect; nor would any one, possessed of a grain of humanity, be so cruel as to insist upon its fulfilment. I will state, for instance, an extreme case. You live somewhere about St. James's. One day, in the depth of winter, you meet an old acquaintance, whose domicile-mark the season and the localities-is near the Zoological gardens, in the Regent's Park. You have not met for a long time before, and are, both, really delighted at the meeting. He can have no possible motive for insulting you, or for drawing you into a quarrel; yet, at parting, he, with a countenance expressive of nothing but good humour, shakes you by the hand, and says, I'm heartily glad we have met again: will you come and breakfast with me, AT NINE O'CLOCK to-morrow?" Now, if you could, for a moment, believe that the invitation, or the insult, (call it which you will, for, in such a case, the words would be synonymous,) were offered in sober seriousness, you would instantly take a review of your whole past life, and inquire of yourself what offence you had ever committed against that man in particular, or against society in general (of which he might arrogate to himself the right of becoming the avenger) to warrant him in meditating such an attack upon your peace and comfort: that done, the proper course to be pursued would be obvious. But, no; you, as a man of the world, are perfectly well aware that the "breakfast with me at nine,"-like the Spaniards' " may you live a thousand years," our own “ I hope you're well" to every person we meet, or, the " you'll always find me your friend" of the universe entire is a phrase totally devoid of meaning; you, therefore, cordially return your friend's and promise that grasp, 'll wait on him with pleasure: consequently, you don't go. The thing is well understood on both sides.

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But of all the promises which are made, notoriously, and for the express purpose of being broken, those relative to early rising, whether we make them to ourselves or to others, are the most common. As I address myself to the members of a community far advanced in civilization, I might spare myself the trouble (but that it is best, in all

cases of importance, to come to a distinct agreement upon terms) of defining early rising to be the act of getting out of one's bed at any hour before nine o'clock (A.M.) between Lady-day and Michaelmas, or before eleven (A.M.) from Michaelmas to Lady-day: and, for the same reason, I have insisted upon the A.M. as a protection against my being confounded with those ultra anti-matinals who adopt the P.M. throughout the winter portion of the year, and touch on the verge of mid-day during the summer. Again; by early rising I mean it in the sense of a constant practice: I do not call him an early riser who, once in his life, may have been forced out of his bed at eight o'clock, on a November morning, in consequence of his house having been on fire ever since seven; nor would I attach such a stigma to him who, in the sheer spirit of fool-hardiness and bravado should, for once-andaway, "awake, arise," even three or four hours earlier, in the same inclement season: I, myself, have done it! But the fact is, that the thing, as a constant practice, is impossible to one who is not " to the manner born;" he must be taught it, as a fish is taught to swim, from his earliest infancy; he must have enjoyed the advantage of the favourable coincidence of making his first appearance in the world at the very identical moment of day-break :-to acquire the habit of it ! as well might he study to acquire the habit of flying. The act, then, being impossible, it follows that all promises made to that end must be futile. I know it may be objected to me that chimneysweepers, dustmen, &c. are early risers; but this I would rather take to be a vulgar error than admit it as a fact: what proof can you adduce that they have yet been to-bed? For my own' part I am unwilling to think so uncharitably of human nature as to believe that any created being would force another to quit his bed at five o'clock, on a frosty morning, if he had once been in it. By the same rule, to what suspicions might not I be subjected in the mind of any one who may have seen me, in the month of June, enjoying the glorious spectacle of the rising sun! I see it before I retire to rest; whilst others, drones, sluggards, as they are, have been snoring in their beds since eleven o'clock of the previous night!

I have confessed that, once, in the sheer spirit of bravado, I, myself, rose, (or promised to rise) at that ignominious period of the night, known, or rather heard of, by the term "four in the morning." My folly deserved a severe punishment, which, indeed, it received in its own consequences; but since I have lately been informed that " a good-natured friend" is of opinion that it merits the additional chastisement of public exposure, I will (to spare him the pain of bestowing it upon me,) inflict the lash with my own hand. That done, I trust that even my friend-for one's friends are usually the most difficult to satisfy in such cases-will admit it as a sufficient expiation of my offence.

last Christmas holidays, very aware that those who save through George Frede

I am

I had the pleasure of spending the agreeably, with a family, at Bristol. have heard nothing of the Bristolians, rick Cooke's satire on them,* will be amazed at any one's venturing to

"There are not two bricks in your accursed town," said the tragedian, cemented with the blood of an African."

but are

bring together, in the same sentence, three such words as ". agreeably," "Bristol," and "pleasure;" but I declare it, on my own knowledge, that there is in that city, one family, which for good sense, good-humour, pleasantry and kindness, is not to be out-done by any in Great Britain. "The blood of an African," indeed! There is not onę amongst them, not excepting the ladies, no, nor even excepting Miss Adelaide herself (albeit she sweeten her coffee after the French fashion,) who would not relinquish the use of sugar for ever, rather than connive at the suffering of one poor negro. The family I allude to are the Norringtons. As a rigid recorder, I speak only to what I positively know: there may be others of equal value.

Having an appointment of some importance, for the eighth of January, in London, I had settled that my visit should terminate on Twelfth-night. On the morning of that festive occasion I had not yet resolved on any particular mode of conveyance to town; when, walking along Broad Street, my attention was brought to the subject by the various coach-advertisements which were posted on the walls. The "Highflyer" announced its departure at three in the afternoon-a rational hour; the " Magnet" at ten in the morning-somewhat of the earliest; whilst the "Wonder" was advertised to start every morning at five precisely!!!—a glaring impossibility. We know, that in our enterprising country, adventures are sometimes undertaken, in the spirit of competition, which are entirely out of the common course of things: thus, one man will sell a bottle of blacking for nine-pence, with the charitable intention of ruining his neighbour (so think the worthy Public) who has the audacity to charge his at a shilling the intrinsic value of the commodity being, in either case, a fraction less than five farthings. Such a manoeuvre, however, is tolerable; but the attempt to ruin a respectable vehicle, professing to set out on its journey at the reputable hour of three in the afternoon, by pretending to start a coach at five o'clock in the morning, was an imposition" tolerable" only in Dogberry's sense of the wordit was "not to be endured." And then, the downright absurdity of the undertaking!-for admitting that the proprietors might prevail on some poor idiot to act as coachman, where were they to entrap a dozen mad people for passengers? We often experience an irresistible impulse to interfere, in some matter, simply because it happens to be no business of our's; and the case in question being, clearly, no affair of mine, I resolved to inquire into it. I went into the coach-office, expecting to be told, in answer to my very first question, that the advertisement was altogether a ruse de guerre. "So, Sir," said I, to the book-keeper, London, at five in the morning?"

"you start a coach, to

“Yes, Sir,” replied he,--and with the most perfect nonchalance! "You understand me? At five?in the MORNING?" rejoined I, with an emphasis sufficiently expressive of doubt.

"Yes, Sir; five to a minute-two minutes later you'll lose your place."

This exceeded all my notions of human impudence. It was evident I had here an extraordinary mine to work, so I determined upon digging into it a few fathoms deeper.

"And would you, now, venture to book a place for me?"

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