with a sample of his eloquent and glowing style. The following is a little jeu d'esprit in his happiest manner;-the excellence of which will justify us in transcribing it at length.

"A CRITIQUE ON PUNCH.-The amusements of the modern multitude have little association with the rare and resplendent relics of the olden time. Sophocles and Æschylus have come down to us in fragments; Menander has perished; Plautus and Terence are consecrated only to the stentorian rhetoricians of Westminster and Dr. Valpy; John Bale is buried in black letter; Decker, and Massinger, and Marlow, and even Shakspeare, have been consigned, O cruel fate! to the suet-sheltering stupidity of Warburton's cook. But Punch is entire-fresh in the bloom of youth and vigour speaking the same universal language that he ever spokethe true transmitter of a foolish face' through all ages-the indivisible and imperishable inheritor of the interests of all time'the only citizen of the world-the wandering Jew' who has put a girdle round the earth'-the immortal who has outlived his posterity, and who stands in the retrospective and prospective relations of ancestor and descendant of the mimetic art. The foundations of empires, the glories of governments, the dynasties of despots, the embattlements of imperial cities, have perished; languages have lapsed into oblivion; arts have been swallowed up in the unartificial attributes of mortality; Herculaneum has been buried, and Babylon is a sand-pit--but Punch is still among us, and O! we will cherish him.

"And well may we cherish a hero of such versatile and vivacious vitality. His is the courage that knows no craven qualms-his is the honour that feels a stain as a wound'-his is the fortitude that fights, not for fame and fortune, but for life and liberty-his is the gallantry that is ready to throw down the gauntlet with a gladsome and generous championship-his is the domestic love which clings to the chosen of his bosom with a rare fidelity, but that mingles the majesty of the man with the softness of the suitor, and that kisses off the tear while it bestows the blow. The struggles of his lot are of no common order. The course of his chaste and confiding love is crossed by a crabbed churl;-he is driven to desperation; but his sincere and ingenuous spirit is not subdued; he looks upon the scowling sky, hears the tempest from afar, bares his forehead to the lightning's flash, bides the pelting of the pitiless storm,' and yet he sings as the lark at Heaven's gate, and the note of his exultation is heard, with its delighting and delighted carol, while the last minister of the laws is about to perpetrate his cruel injustice, and the great enemy of mankind is whispering in his ear the unutterable thoughts of woe, and darkness, and death, and demoniacal de

struction.

"The character of Punch is unquestionably a creation of the days of chivalry. He is the bold and beautiful knight-errant of ordinary life. He goes forth in his confident career of courageous curiosity, to deliver distressed damsels from husbands and giants—

to redress the inequalities of the law-to defy all the powers of darkness to resist the great tempter, even unto the death. His staff is more mighty than the sword of Orlando-the lance of Godfrey is a puny reed in its comparison. He lives in an atmosphere of assault-his birth-place is the abode of the torrent and the cataract -his home is the whirlpool and the volcano-his elastic spirit rebounds from every attack of evil with an enterprizing and elevated alacrity. He is the only universal conqueror, for he equally triumphs over a cuckold and a constable, a bull-dog and a bully, a hector and a hangman, a scolding wife, and the devil. He triumphs-O! he triumphs, in his singleness of purpose, and his recklessness of will. He triumphs by the magnanimity of his mirth, and the firmness of his fist. He is the living emblem of a contented and confiding spirit, struggling, sans peur et sans reproche,' with the cold and calculating opposition of worldly cunning and satanic malignity. He fights against no mortal engines,' but still he triumphs. O! there is an earthquake under his feet, and the soil heaves with a tremulous impatience, and the seas rush from their beds, and the air is darkened, and the vulture screams, and the palaces and the temples rock with a wide-spreading and all-involving fury; but he stands erect amidst the convulsion, creeps out of the ruins, sings his song of gladness in the desert, claps his hands with a tremulous and triumphant delight, rushes through the mist that the genius of evil has spread around him. He comes once more into the breeze and the sunshine the world rejoices in his prosperity-and all is happiness."

For Criticism in the Fine Arts we are abundantly prepared. As these things are generally arranged you must be quite aware that the painter is his own critic, and that it as usual for a great master to hire a puffer, as to employ a drudge to set his pallet. We can, however, supply two or three very impartial, and, if necessary, growling critics, who charge five guineas a sheet if they praise because, in that case, they get an invitation to the painter's dejeuné,-and six guineas if they cut him up. The terms, you will agree, are very just and moderate. We have many specimens ;-but the following unpublished sample denotes the talent and reputation of our first hand in this branch:

"ON PANORAMAS.-Experienced as I have been, during the last thirty years, in every thing that pertains to Literature, Science, and Art;-honoured as I am by the acquaintance, by the patronage, by the friendship of so many distinguished persons in those branches; -having contributed in various ways to the illustration, to the decoration, and to the classification of many subjects of literary and artistical research;-being myself a member of several eminent societies in this metropolis; and holding an extensive correspondence in various parts of the United Kingdom, of Europe, of the world— I think myself qualified to write on Panoramas."

We proceed to our Poetical Stock, which is very considerable. Of Odes, we have an immense assortment, in which the Pindarics abound;-but the age is grown too frivolous for this elevated and learned species of composition. The same remark, we fear, must apply even to a greater variety of University Prize Poems, all written upon the same classical model of correctness and regularity. We sometimes tell the authors of these productions that they must infuse a little wildness into them to make them saleable;-and we have a joke in our establishment, that it is only necessary to read the first line of each couplet to understand its meaning, and that if we find lands," we shall be sure to meet with "hands”—that "bowers" receive “ showers ”—that "earth" is certain to beget “birth”—and that "air" must unquestionably be followed by "fair." You are welcome to look over the whole heap-and as an inducement we beg to inform you, in confidence, that money is no object with this race of authors ;-that their great ambition is to be in print;-and that, in their case, the Editor of a Magazine may receive a gratuity for the occupation of his columns, rather than pay a douceur for the exercise of their genius. To a new concern this must certainly be a considerable advantage.

66

Of Descriptive Poems we have a sweet composition on Winter," beginning "All Hail." The author being somewhat straitened for a great coat, through the lengthened severity of the season, would contribute this at a reasonable price. In the Pastoral Line we have a very tender piece composed in the Regent's Park, on the 2d of April, commencing thus, in irregular measure:

r

"How beautiful the country doth appear
At this time of the year."

We are really bewildered amidst the riches of our poetical department, and know not how to choose out a pattern-card that may give you an idea of the beauty of the colours, and the fineness of the texture, of these commodities. We have not only gentlemen disposed to contribute in styles which are perfectly new and untried ;-but we boast a larger number who will do you any thing in the way of Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, Milman, or Barry Cornwall, to the life. Epics of course are out of your way;-but we have several splendid ones that would cut up nicely as "Specimens of an Unpublished Poem," and as for tragedies, ours is the common receptacle for all those exquisite pieces which the ignorance of the Managers daily rejects;-and of which the authors would have no objection to sell any single scene, ad valorem—which might make a pretty variety as a " Dramatic Sketch." In a word,

we can promise you an inexhaustible supply of every sort of poetry;-for all our writers agree that they do not know what is come to the booksellers. Since "The Martyr of Antioch" appeared, they blow their fingers by instinct, when a poem is named, as if some one of the fraternity had thrust his digitals into the kitchen fire.

Hoping the honour of your orders, which we shall be proud to execute with all punctuality and dispatch,

We remain,
Sir,

Your humble Servants to command,

Leadenhall-street, April 21, 1823.

PAPERSTAIN and Co.

RIPPERDA.

Ripperda's Palace, in Mequinez. RIPPERDA and JOSEPHA, sitting on a couch.

Ripperda. My poor Josepha-leave me to my fate-
Go to thy mother; on thy bended knee

Bewail thy fault, marry some honest man,

Or seek a convent's safety and oblivion.

Josepha. No: I will follow thee-to death, Ripperda—

Abjure my kindred, and all holy vows

Breath'd from my cradle. I have wed thy fame,

And I will yet pursue it, though it lead me

To reprobation. Thy friends are my friends,

Thy country my country, thy Gods my Gods!

Ripperda. Wretched enthusiast! thou art very young,
And I am creeping to the sleepy shade

Of feeble age-a flash before it dies,

And then my light goes out. Who, poor Josepha,
Will prop thee when I fall?-Perchance some Moor
May woo thee for his harem:-oh! 'tis sickening.

Josepha. And let him woo, and learn to be despised.
No; we have many days for peace and love
In this fair clime; for here no prying slaves
Of dull morality will blame our choice:
Here, my Ripperda, will we taste all pleasures

That passionate souls may know-by shaded fountains
Will we dream out the day; and when the light breeze
Brushes the dews of eve, my soft guitar,

And answering voice, shall wake the well-known airs
Of sweet Castile; or haply, if thine ear

Delight in Moorish notes, the mellow flute
Shall breathe its wildness o'er our silent courts,
While dancing girls shall flit before thy vision;
Till thy Josepha lead thee to the couch

Of her unshackled love.

Ripperda.

There are no chords

Of tenderness in this untunable frame.
My days of dalliance all are gone, Josepha;
Their dim remembrance palls upon my soul:
One master-passion preys upon me now-

Hate, thickening hate.-(Ripperda rises.)-I have no place for love.

Josepha, (following Ripperda.) O, now you're growing wild-prithee be gentle.

Ripperda. Am I come here to herd with these barbarians; Have I foresworn all memory of glory,

Real, substantial glory, when high minds
Bow'd to my bidding-stoop I now to sway
These poor machines, most ignorant and abas'd,
And all to copy their voluptuous joy?

I am sunk low enough-but great revenge
Let me behold thee nigh, then, if thou lead
To infamy, and death, and hell, march on.

Josepha. Soft, soft-this frenzy shakes you.
Ripperda. Let me once grapple with thy power in arms,
Perfidious Philip, weak, drivelling tyrant,-

I make no vows-but if this Moorish blade
Carve not thy name from Afric's bloody shores,
Wither this arm, perish this hateful trunk—
Impale me here, or hang me up to rot,
Mad Muley, for a most perfidious renegade.
Josepha. Come to your rest; to-morrow is a day
Of feverish trial.

Ripperda.

What are forms, Josepha ?
Have I not now abjur'd my early faith,
And sear❜d my conscience o'er, to hear the tale
Of the impostor Arab, with sage looks

And mean prostrations; think you I shall shrink

At the old Mufti's beard? or feel a qualm

When the believers' shouts shall rend the air
For my most damn'd conversion?

ENTER JERONYMO.

How now, why stay'd you?

Have you procur'd the gold? what say they of me?
Heard you the mountaineers whisper regrets

For the great duke? or know they where I am
And curse the apostate?-say on-say on.

Jeron. My lord, I have the gold. None, that I learn,