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delivered an inflammatory discourse beneath
the folds of the “ red” flag, and to the huge (
delight of all the mobocracy.
On Monday evening, a large meeting of
the friends of Mr. Van Buren and Free Soil
came of! in the Park. Mr. John Van Buren
and other speakers addressed the assembly.
Fire-works and music enlivened the occasion,
and added to the “great commotion—motion—
motion” of the hour.
But I am exceedingly tired of scribbling,
and my fire has long since stept out. So,
good night. FLIT.
(Eclectic of tDit.
POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN,
There, in a lonely rcom, from bailiffs mug,
The Muse found Screggins stretched beneath a rug.
Goldsmith.
Poetry and poverty begin with the same
letter, and, in more respects than one, are “as
like each other as two P’s.” Nine tailors
are the making of a man, but not so the nine
Muses. Their votaries are notoriously only
water-drinkers, eating mutton cold, and dwel
ling in attics. Look at the miserable lives
and deaths recorded of the poets. “ Butler,”
says Mr. D’lsraeli, “lived in a cellar, and
Goldsmith in a deserted village. Savage ran
wild —Chatterton was carried on St Augus
tine’s back like a young gipsy ; and his half
starved Rowley always said heigho, when he
heard of gammon and spinach. Gray’s days
were ode-ious, and Gay’s gaiety was fabu
lous. Falconer was shipwrecked. Homer
was a blind beggar, and Pope raised a sub
scription for him, and went snacks. Crabbe
found himself in the poor-house, Spenser
couldn’t afford a great-coat, and Milton was
led up and down by his daughters, to save
the expense of a dog.”
It seems all but impossible to be a poet, in
easy circumstances. Pope has shown how
verses are written by Ladies of Quality—and
what execrable rhymes Sir Richard Black
more composed in his chariot! In a hay
cart he might have sung like a Burns.
As the editors of magazines and annuals
(save one) well know, the truly poetical con
tributions which can be inserted, are not
those which come post free, on rose-colored
tinted paper, scented with musk, and sealed
with fancy wax. The real article arrives by
post, unpaid, sealed with rosin, or possibly
with a dab of pitch or cobbler’s wax, bearing
the impression of a half-penny, or more fre
quently of a button—the paper is dingy and
scant —the hand-writing has evidently come
to the author by nature —there are trips in the
spelling, and Priscian is a little scratched or
so —but a rill of the true Castalian runs
through the whole composition, though its
fountain-head was a broken tea-cup, instead
of a silver standish. A few years ago, I
used to be favored with numerous poems for
insertion, which bore the signature of Fitz-
Norman; the crest on the seal had probably
descended from the Conquest, and the pack
ets were invariably delivered by a Patago
nian footman in green and gold. The author
was evidently rich, and the verses were as
palpably poor; they were declined, with the
usual answer to correspondents who do not
answer, and the communications ceased —as
I thought for ever, hut I was deceived; a
few days back one of the dirtiest and ragged
est of street urchins delivered a soiled whity
brown packet, closed with a wafer, which
bore the impress of a thimble. The paper
had more the odour of tobacco than of rose
leaves, and the writing appeared to have been
perpetrated with a skewer dipped in coffee
grounds; but the old signature of Fitz-Nor
man had the honor to be my “very humble
servant,” at the foot of the letter. It was
too certain that he had fallen from affluence
to indigence, but the adversity which had
wrought such a change upon the writing im
plements, had, as usual, improved his poetry.
The neat crow-quill never traced on the super
fine Bath paper any thing so unaffected as
the following:—
STANZAS.
WRITTEN under the fear of bailiffs.
Alas ! of all the noxious things
That wait upon the poor,
Most cruel is that Felon-Fear
That haunts the “ Debtor’s Door!”
Saint Sepulchre’s begins to toll,
The Sheriffs seek the cell;
So I expect their officers,
And tremble at the bell!
I look for beer, and yet I quake
With fright at every tap ;
And dread a double-knock, for oh!
I’ve not a single rap !
IL 2¥&IE A& ¥ ®ABg ¥¥ 1.
SONNET,
WRITTEN IN A WORK-HOUSE.
Oh, blessed ease! no more of heaven I ask:
The overseer is gone—that vandal elf—
And hemp, unpick’d, may go and hang itself,
While I, untask’d, except with Cowper’s Task,
In blessed literary leisure bask,
And lose the workhouse, saving in the works
Of Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Sheridans, and Burkes;
Eat prose and drink of the Castalian flask ;
The themes of Locke, the anecdotes of Spence,
The humorous of Gay, the Grave of Blair —
Unlearned toil, unletter’d labors hence!
But, hark ! I hear the master on the stair
And Thomson’s Castle, that of Indolence,
Must be to me a castle in the air.
SONNET.
A SOMNAMBULIST.
” A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.”—Byron.
Methought—for Fancy is the strangest gadder
When sleep all homely mundane ties hath riven;
Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder,
With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven :
Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding seven,
When I set foot upon that long one-pair;
And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven,
Nor yet of landing-place became aware ;
Step after step in endless flight seem’d there;
But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still,
To gain that blessed haven from all care,
Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill,
When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair —
Tramp—tramp—tramp—tramp—upon the Brixton
Mill! Hood's Own.
©nr Bowl of JjJundj.
JOHN BULL’S LAST BARGAIN
PRICE 1,100,000!
We may treat ourselves to a tremendous
flourish of the trump of glory. We have
added another sprig of laurel to our planta
tion ; a sprig cut by British sword from the
Bush. We have—let the world ring with
the glad tidings!—we have beaten the Kaffirs.
But you cannot break even such miserable
bits of human pottery without gold and sil
ver. They can only be hammered to bits by
£s. and. There is still the bill to pay for the
damages.
The head of the interesting person that dec
orates these triumphant lines is the faithful
portrait (see Doctor Pritchard,) of a Kaffir
biped. There is no doubt that such an in
dividual —though not exactly the person we
would invite to share with us our muffin and
a hand at whist—is of touching interest at
Exeter Hall. Nevertheless, we fear that the
uncultivated reader will hold that any num
ber of such heads (with even the most liber
al allowance for taking a quantity,) must he
dear at the price of one million, one hundred
thousand pounds!
Nevertheless, such is the sum to be paid
by John Bull for thrashing the Kaffirs; for
making them promise to he loyal subjects to
Queen Victoria, until they shall deem it
profitable again to rebel! We wound up the
late Session of Parliament with an increased
debt of two millions ; and more than half the
money is thrown away upon powder and shot
wherewith to kill and subdue a horde of sav
ages. Let it not be forgotten that henceforth
we pay an annual interest of thirty-seven
thousand pounds for the chains of the Kaffirs.
Thirty-seven thousand pounds a year!
The schoolmaster, says the proverb, is a
broad. Well, then, Punch proposes to set
him the following sum :—“ If it takes thirty
seven thousand a-vear to kill and conquer
a certain number of Kaffirs, how much less
than the same sum will educate the like num
ber of destitute British children Surely one
little English boy at school, is worth twenty
Kaffirs in the Bush.
1 i
A REPUBLICAN MYTH.
We take the following from the French
newspapers:—
“ A young purang-outang has lately been
brought to the Garden of Plants, and is the
object of almost universal curiosity. The
animal is only six months old, but has all the
appearance of a child aged three years, of a
grave and reflecting character. He is at the
same time very affectionate, shaking hands
kindly, but with a certain Arabian solemnity,
with the keepers. He feeds delicately, tak
ing roast meat, wine, chocolate, and even li
queurs. Being very susceptible of the cold,
he sleeps between a large cat and a rough
coated dog , and wraps them both, as well as
himself, in a blanket. Jn the daytime he is
dressed in a red-coloured blouse and white pan
taloons.”
The above is a very fair specimen of the
political satire of our neighbours. It is, how
ever, so delicate that without the aid of
Punch—- the hasty reader may fail to see the
deep meaning enshrined in it. Punch will
endeavor to pluck out the heart of the mys-
tery. The ourang-outang then—it cannot be
doubted —is Louis-Napoleon :heis a very
young republican, scarcely six months old;
but has the “appearance” of a “grave re
flecting ” politician of maturer time. He is
“ very affectionate, shaking hands kindly ”
with the Communists. “He feeds delicate
ly ” and takes wine. His cupboard and cel
lar, when he sailed to invade Boulogne, leave
no doubt of the circumstance. Being sus
ceptible of cold, he seeks for a warm place
between a cat and a dog. In other words,
Louis-Napolf.on, for a snug berth, is willing
to avail himself of extreme parties. The red
coloured blouse is, of course, a significant
compliment to the Republique Rouge.
&£U)sp})cr Analects.
HIGHLY INTERESTING..
Friend Fitzgerald: The following epistle
or letter of Publius Lentullus, was stated to
have been taken from the public records at
Rome, by Buonaparte, at the time he rifled
that city of many valuable manuscripts. The
publication of it will, it is presumed, be grat
ifying to most, if not to all of your readers,
and perhaps may be new to some, as it is
several years since it first appeared in the
newspapers of this country. It is the testi
mony of a heathen, a bitter enemy to the
Christian religion, who gives a laconic and
beautiful account of the most extraordinary
personage ever recorded in sacred or profane
history. It was written at the lime and on
the spot where Jesus Christ commenced his
public ministry and the author was himself
an actor on that theatre, where the Son of
God was pleased to authenticate his divine
mission, by an awful display of his miracu
lous power, in raising the dead and healing
all manner of diseases. It also furnishes an
awful memento, to modern infidels, that out
of their own mouths shall unbelievers be
judged; while the humblest penitent may re
joice with joy unspeakable and full of glory,
at the overwhelming mass of evidence, which
is accumulating from age to age, that heath
ens are compelled to testify to the authentici
ty of sacred writ and that the outpouring of
the spirit of God, in these our days, sheds a
lustre on his word, astonishing to the friends
and confounding to the enemies of the Cross.
The poisoned arrows, with which the ene
mies of Christianity have hitherto pursued
her, grow blunt in the impious warfare, and
the arm of the infidel, upraised for her exter
mination, is unstrung amid the hosannas and
pceans of joy, sung by the thousands pressing
into the kingdom of Heaven, in the four quar
ters of the globe. O! that men would praise
the Lord for his goodness and for His won
derful works to the children of men,
“An extract from the Roman Senate—lt
being the usual custom of the Roman Govern
ours to advise the senate and people of such
material things, as happened in their respec
tive provinces, Publius Lentullus, being Pres
ident, in the days of Tiberias Caesar, the Em
peror, wrote the following epistle to the Sen
ate, concerning the description of the person
of Jesus Christ :
“Conscript Farlhers—There appeared in
these our days, a man of great virtue, named
Jesus Christ, who is yet living among us,
and of the Gentiles is accepted for a prophet
of truth : but his own disciples, call him, the
Son of God. He raiseth the dead and cureth
all manner of diseases, a man of stature some
what tall and comely, with a very reverend
countenance, such as the beholders may both
love and fear; his hair of the color ©f a fil
bert, fully ripe, plain to his ears, whence
downward it is more orient of color, some
what curling and waving about his shoulders;
in the midst of his head is a seam or partition
of his hair, after the manner of the Nazarites;
his forehead plain and delicate, his face with
out spot or wrinkle, beautified with a come
ly red; his nose and mouth exactly formed,
his beard thick, the color of his hair, not of
any great length, but forked—in reproving,
terrible—in admonishing, courteous, in speak
ing, very modest and wise—in proportion of
body, well shaped. None have seen him
laugh ; hut many have seen him weep—a
man for his singular beauty, surpassing the ■
children of men.”— City Item.
LOLA MONTEZ.
This bold, handsome, and adventurous dan
seuse, in whose history there is so much of
romantic incident, is again the subject of
newspaper paragraphs. We are told :
“She has for several months past been oc
cupying the chateau at Pregny, on the north
shore of the Lake of Geneva, known as the
chateau de L’Emperatrice, from having been
the residence of the Empress Josephine, and
subsequently also of Queen Hortense—and
where she is duly awaiting the arrival of the
ex-King of Bavaria. She has fitted up the
chateau with exquisite taste, and now passes
her days in quiet and contrast with the strange
scenes of her eventful life. Much of her
time is spent upon the lake, and in command
of heT little yacht, ‘ Le Corsair,’ manned by
a crew of youthful volunteers from some of
the best families in Geneva. She takes great
pleasure in showing hospitality to those among
her fiiends who find out her retreat, but far
more—and to her credit be it said —in the ex
ercise of almost unbounded charity to the poor
in her neighborhood, by whom she is much
beloved.”
THE FICTITIOUS AND THE REAL.
It is certain that the constant simulation of
infirmities on the stage sometimes leads to real
sufferings of the same kind, and even to death.
Moliere, the comedian, died in Paris, in 1673,
while acting the character of a sick man in
La Malade Imaginaire; the same part also
proved fatal to the actor who succeeded him.
Mr. Bond, the translator of Buchanan’s histo
ry, so yielded himself up to the force and im
petuosity of his imagination, when acting the
character of Lusignan in the tragedy of Zara,
that on the discovery of his daughter, he
fainted away, and soon closed his eves in
death.
Plinv relates a story of an actor who imi
tated tne gout so naturally as at length to
bring that disorder upon him; and Madame
Clarion, the celebrated French actress, ac
counted for her prematurely growing old in
appearance by the influences of the grief and
distresses with which she had been constant
ly overwhelmed on the stage. This cele
brated woman had her life protracted far be
yond the usual period of existence, and in the
eighty-first year of her age she delighted
John Kemble, who paid her a complimentary
visit, with a most energetic recitation of one
of the scenes of “ Phcedra.”
CRITICISM*
The following scrap of satire is from the
Boston Post. We recommend it to the atten
tion of some of our contemporaries, and we
shall, in all humility, strive to profit by it our
selves :
“A small crowd gathered before a window
recently to admire the figure of a cat, which
was there as if for public inspection. Nearly
every one was delighted with its likeness to
life. ‘ But still,’ said Augustus, ‘there are
faults in it; it is far from perfect; observe
the defect in the foreshortening of the paw,
now; and the expression of the eye, too, is
bad; besides, the mouth is too far down under
the chin, while the whiskers look as if they
were coming out of her ears. It is too short,
too’ —but, as if to obviate this defect, the
figure stretched itself and rolled over in the
sun. ‘ltis a cat, I vow,’ said a bystander.
4 It is alive,’ shouted an urchin, clapping his
hands. 4 Why, it’s only a cat, arter all,’ said
Mrs. Partington, as she surveyed it through
her specs: but Augustus moved on, disap
pointed that nature had fallen so far short of
his idea of perfection in the manufacture of
cats.”
“ I’LL SIGN THE PLEDGE.”
The following beautiful and touching story
was related by Dr. Schnebly, of Maryland,
at a recent meeting held in New York to hear
the experience of twenty reformed drunkards
A drunkard, who had run through his pro
perty, returned one night to his unfurnished
home. He entered his empty hall—anguish
was gnawing at his heart-strings, and lan
guage is inadequate to express his agony as
he entered his wife’s apartment, and there be
held the victims of his appetite, his lovely
wife and darling child. Morose and sullen,
he seated himself without a word; he could
not speak, he could not look upon them. —
The mother said to the little angel by her
side, 4 Come, my child, it is time to go to bed;’
and that little babe, as she was wont, knelt
by her mother’s lap, and gazing wistfully into
the face of her suffering parent, like a piece
of chiselled statuary, slowly repeating her
nightly orison; and when she had finished,
the child, (but four years of age,) said to her
mother, ‘Dear ma, may I not offer up one
more prayer V 4 Yes, yes, my sweet pet,
pray.’ And she lifted up her tiny hands,
closed her eyes, and prayed: ‘O God! spare,
oh spare my dear papa!’ That prayer was
wafted with electric rapidity to the throne of
God. It was heard on high —it was heard on
earth. The responsive ‘Amen’ burst from
the father’s lips, and his heart of stone be
came a heart of flesh. Wife and child were
both clasped to his bosom, and in penitence
he said, 4 My child, you have saved your fa
ther from the grave of a drunkard. I*ll sign
the pledge.’
189