"April 1st, 1829.-I have just seen him again, after a lapse of five years, and his name is Abraham Ironsides. Good God! How he grinned at me! I am now convinced it is no phantasma, like that of the Essex grazier, who for ten years saw a cow's head follow him wherever he went. Even when my eyes are shut, I see the fiend dancing before them in a sea of blue vapour. Is he a vampire? A being from the world of shadows, a seeming mass of rotund flesh only-or a real conglomeration of animal substance? Will he again cross my aching sight? Will he —”

Here the manuscript abruptly terminated, and a sudden jolt of the Omnibus pitching me into the stomach of Mr. Coloquintida, the great brewer of Brentford, I found I had only been dreaming about "quiet lodgings," in my way down to Paradise Cottage at Turnham Green, where I had taken a back bed-room for the summer months, for the benefit of a mouthful of fresh air, and of which I was then going to take possession for the first time. P*. Q*.

TITLED AUTHOR S.

No. II.

NARRATIVE OF AN ASCENT OF MONT BLANC IN AUGUST 1830.

By the Hon. E. B. Wilbraham.

A MAN with but three ideas in his head (provided they be of a good quality), shall not walk from Piccadilly to Putney, without observing something which he may afterwards relate so as to amuse others. This world, and its infinite inhabitants, are a vast storehouse of novelties in perpetual change; and it is only those who move along in total physical or mental blindness, that cannot see and describe them. If, however, our said walk from Piccadilly to Putney be capable (as we maintain it is) of yielding matter of amusement, à fortiori must a walk from Chamouni to the summit of Mont Blanc have that capability, and in a much higher degree; therefore we are warranted in saying that Mr. Wilbraham's little narrative of his ascent will gratify whoever takes the trouble of reading it. It is short, unpretending, and, we have no doubt, faithful; just such an account as a plain, sensible man would give, in a letter to a friend, of the feat he had performed. Of the wisdom of performing the feat itself, merely for the sake of being able to say so, we must beg leave to entertain very grave doubts. Great pain, great labour, and great danger, when they are undergone only to scramble up a great mountain, and slide down again, look exceedingly like great absurdities, and Mr. Wilbraham himself seems to have been pretty much of the same opinion, after it was all over; for he says, in conclusion, “I should most earnestly advise no one to attempt the ascent of Mont Blanc." We cannot help thinking this must have been written while he was confined to his room at Chamouni, with his "face much swelled, and the skin turned black and wrinkled, which after a few days, peeled off."" My eyes," he adds, "scarcely suffered at all, and that only for a day or two; but had I not worn green spectacles, I firmly believe I should have been blinded, for nothing can give an idea of the dazzling brilliancy of the snow." The noble ambition of enlarging the boundaries of knowledge (as in the case of Saussure's ascent), can alone command sympathy for the sufferings endured, or admiration of the intrepidity displayed, in such undertakings. When they are performed for a whim, let what may happen, we shrug our shoulders, and say, the man has paid dear enough for his whistle.

LINES WRITTEN AT GRANADA, IN THE YEAR 1820.
By the Hon. Hobart Cradock.

These verses have had the benefit of more than the Horatian precept; and though they now appear in the Keepsake, it is clear they were never written for it. They are spirited and elegant; and contain some passages that are poetical. Take the following as one specimen :

But, men of Greece, remember ever,
He who a tyrant's chain would sever,
He who would free his land of birth,
Must live for her alone,

And six feet of his native earth,

Be welcome as her throne.

Byron would not have been ashamed of these lines, especially the thought in the last two: and both Rokeby and Marmion have many less effective ones than the following, descriptive of the fall of Granada :

Assail'd without and torn within,

And scathed by Christian and by kin-
At least it was not dull decay

That eat a canker'd heart away.

It was not luxury's lazy hand

That sign'd thy doom and scoop'd thy grave;
But a soldier's arm, with an iron brand,

Dug the last dwelling of the brave.

How it has happened that Mr. Cradock, who can write thus, should choose to write like L. E. L., and the twaddle tribe in general, we know not: we only know that it has happened. For example:

Say, are those glowing legends truth,
That tell us of thy lovely youth,
(Like odours of some flower whose birth
Was heavenly, tho' it died on earth,

And left its name and scent behind)-
Or, but when fancy's gorgeous wings

Shake o'er our sleep a perfumed wind,
Dream we these fabled things?

Pray, Mr. Cradock, have the goodness to inform usus the most gentle of critics, and most docile of created beings-what you mean when you write about "flowers whose birth is heavenly," "dying upon earth and leaving their name and scent behind?" Also, where we are to look for an idea that will fit your "perfumed wind," which "fancy's gorgeous wings shakes o'er our sleep?" This is such trash as the cockney school of versifiers, the Miss Landons, Leigh Hunts, T. K. Herveys, Miss Browns, and a whole college of Misters, Mistresses, and Misses, who blot much good paper, are wont to cackle forth; and upon which the Literary Gazette, with its long neck, cackles its commendations. But they can do no better, God help them, poor souls!-which is not your case, Mr. Cradock.

SONNET ON THE PIC DU MIDI, IN THE PYRENEES.

By Sir Archibald Edmonstone, Bart.

Fourteen lines about nothing; beginning "Peak of the south!" We have long had it in contemplation to address a sonnet to "Peake of the Strand," who dramatises for the English Opera House; and we give Sir Archibald Edmonstone, Bart., notice, that whenever we do, we shall beg the loan of his Peak. "Peake of the Strand! thou, &c." It will be an admirable beginning; and that, and the end are all we ever care for. Light both ends of a fire, and you may leave the middle to look after itself.

EPIGRAM. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

By Lord Holland.

Dr. Johnson defines an epigram to be "a short poem terminating in a point;" and Cotgrave calls it "a short poem wittily taxing a particular person or fault." This, then, is no epigram. It is short indeed (and might be shorter, with advantage); but, instead of terminating in a point, it is as flat and heavy as a pavier's rammer. Do not pin your faith upon our judgment, however, gentle reader; decide for yourself, here it is:

In a mirror too faithful, alas!

As Lyce her form was surveying,

She exclaim'd as she saw in the glass,

How the bloom of her cheeks was decaying,

"Since all things that live are to die,
And destiny won't be controll'd
Let beauty, too, perish-but why,

Oh! why must we live to be old?"

If there be point in the termination, or any thing wittily taxed in the body, of the above, we humbly beg Lord Holland's pardon; or Lope de Vega's; for we have not the Spanish poet at our elbow to determine whether he or his noble translator be the party aggrieved.

HUMAN LIFE.

By Lord Dover.

Nine hobbling quatrains to instruct us in this novel truth-that there is more of disappointment and sorrow in the world, than of good fortune and happiness. The theme is as trite as the sentimental miseries of love; and Lord Dover's treatment of the theme is as trite as the theme itself. The soldier, the statesman, the sailor, the lawyer, the poet, the merchant, and the idler have a verse apiece, to celebrate their misfortunes. They are all, of course, very miserable (by which we are to understand that the army, navy, politics, the bar, poetry, trade, and doing nothing, are only so many modifications of human infelicity), and the doleful ditty concludes with this moral, like the "buttend of a mother's blessing:"

O'er this world of sin and sadness, thus misery hovers still,

The earth is sorrow's throne, and its sons must work her will;
While to wearied eyes of mortals, no light can pierce the gloom,
Save the flame of faith, and holy hope which glows beyond the tomb.

AN EASTERN NIGHT.-STANZAS.-THE LATE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.

We have classed these three poems together because they are all from one pen, that of Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley, and they are to be found in pages 71, 130, and 281, of the Keepsake, for 1832. Shall we stop here? Mercy says yes; Conscience, no! Shall we go on? Conscience says yes; Mercy, no. Let Conscience and Mercy settle it then; and if they cannot, we appoint ourselves umpire. So to it, ladies; only don't get into a passion; the first that loses her temper, we shall decide has lost her cause. [N. B. We are aware that our prosopopoeia is somewhat arbitrary; but as our particular conscience is a female conscience, we have not hesitated to adopt a feminine personification.]

Conscience. I shall be happy to hear, ma'am, what reasons you can urge for the advice you have given.

Mercy. I am so much more accustomed to act from feeling than from reason, that really I am afraid I shall not be able to answer your expectations.

Conscience. Mere feeling, without the sanction of reason, is at best but an amiable weakness; even when it shows itself in behalf of the unfortunate.

Mercy. Very true; and yet I have known thousands happier in this weakness than if they could have boasted their superiority over Cato himself, in the stern justice of their decisions.

Conscience. But since you talk of stern justice, ma'am, pray allow me to ask upon what principle you have raised your shield, before Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley, while you never moved a finger to save poor Miss Landon, Mr. Jerdan, Mrs. Shelley, Mr. St. John, Miss Agnes Strickland, and the many other malefactors who have received condign punishment for their crimes? This looks like partiality.

Mercy. Can I ever interfere without that imputation. To be merciful implies, of necessity, the not doing what in strict justice might be done; the tender pardoning of something which it is not absolutely imperative on us to punish.

It

Conscience. Heyday, ma'am, you are getting metaphysical; but if once we wander into quodlibets we shall go on talking till we leave off just where we commenced. seems to me, however, that you have conceded the main point, viz., that there is something to punish; so if you please we will settle it thus: The matter of offence shall be put upon record, but no judgment pronounced; in other words no punishment shall be inflicted.

Mercy. Content: but how can such an arrangement be carried into effect?

Conscience. Oh, leave that to me.

Conscience then drew out a pair of ivory tablets, and with an iron pen she wrote the following award, to which both afterwards subscribed their names:

"We decide that

(here our name is inserted) shall be allowed to quote any six passages she chooses from Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley's Eastern Night,'Stanzas, and The late Queen of Prussia; that is, six passages in the whole; but she is not to say one word as to what she thinks of them. She is at liberty, however, to make any use she likes of italics, small capitals, and notes of admiration, provided that in no case the last shall exceed nine, at any one time.

" (Signed)

CONSCIENCE, MERCY."

We say nothing: but we remember what Shakspeare says; and it is very much to the purpose, if this sort of tyranny is to be allowed; namely, that "the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none but parrots." However, we mean to abide by the award.

FIRST PASSAGE.

From "An Eastern Night."

Bright glow the champaka and pomegranate flowers,
Like stars that have fallen to earth with a blush!!!

Oh how this deep beautiful music of night

Is stirring up echoes like spirits around,

Till the stars, those vast mighty creations of light,
Are listening like lovers to love's sweetest sound !!!!

SECOND PASSAGE.

From the same.

"Tis the time for sweet thoughts-all seems thinking around,
The stars float in the skies like DEEP WARM REVERIES!!!!!
"Tis a beautiful night! Oh, the sun hath bequeath'd

To the moon his sultana (!!) all, all but his blaze!

His being, his soul he hath burn'd in and breathed

Through the hush of an hour that hath all but his rays!!!

THIRD PASSAGE.

From the same.

The flamingo hath folded the fire of his wings,

Their crimsoning shadows no more flush the fountain;

He is gone to his rest, like all beautiful things,

Save the stars and the moon WITH HER THRONE ON NIGHT'S MOUNTAIN !

FOURTH PASSAGE.

From "Stanzas."

When the last flash of daylight is declining,

When Persian bowers are round thy head entwining,

When Persian eyes are all about thee shining,

Remember me! remember me!

I passionately pray of thee!

FIFTH PASSAGE.

From "The late Queen of Prussia." ¡
Oh thou! pale daughter of the eagle ! (!!!)
Thou ermined child of empire-scarce of earth,
So bright of aspect, and of soul so regal,
More royal in thy death than in thy birth.

SIXTH PASSAGE.

From the same.

The summer lightnings of thy smile (!!) are past,

The summer SUNBURSTS OF THY BLUSHES ( ! ! ! ! ! ! ) faded;
But holily within our hearts thou hast

The martyr's palms with beauty's myrtles braided.

Now, if you please, we will go on as usual; and if ever we suffer our pen to be again directed by any other conscience and mercy except our own, may we—but we will make no rash vows.

We beg leave to call the reader's attention to the following stanzas by Lord Ashtown: On gentle Fanny's grassy tomb

A sigh will start, a tear will fall.

By the way, we do not exactly comprehend how a sigh can "start upon a tomb." A starting sigh any where, indeed, is a difficult idea to lay hold of. We should like to see a comparative estimate of the velocity of sighs, from the "windy suspiration of forced breath," emitted by desponding love, to the heartiest puff that ever" started" from an alderman's lungs at the end of a turtle dinner.

On gentle Fanny's grassy tomb

A sigh will start, a tear will fall;

Yet, why lament your favourite's doom,

Or mourn a lot-the lot of all?

We would not, for the world, insinuate that Lord Ashtown is a Parnassian poacher; but it is curious that his lordship and Collins should both have begun a poem with the same line. Collins commences his dirge in Cymbeline thus:

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb.

We are bound, however, in candour, to admit that this is the only resemblance we have discovered between Lord Ashtown and Collins.

Beloved she lived and blameless died,
What greater bliss can fate bestow?

A bliss to man so oft denied,
To sink to rest unvex'd by wo.

Such soft repose when I depart―
I ask no more-oh, mayst thou feel!
I would not pierce thy bleeding heart
With wounds too deep for time to heal.

Reader, "gentle Fanny" is a lady-dog, over whose "grassy tomb" his lordship's sighs start, and his tears fall! And his lordship, in his pensive mood, wishes no better fate for himself than to die as this dog did," beloved and blameless." Wellthere is no accounting for tastes. We had a lovely gentleman-cat once, and in the pride of our hearts we called him PLATO. Poor PLATO! He is dead! A more blameless cat never lived; for, except stealing milk whenever he could, we really don't remember a single vice he had. He was beloved too; and there his ashes lie, at the foot of a gooseberry-bush in our little garden at Newington-butts: but though we cherish his memory, and are therefore in the same cat-egory as Lord Ashtown; and, although we visit his grave, which we have affectionately called "PLATO's cat-acomb," at least once every day-nay, although we have gone so far as to hang his cat-agraph (i. e., the first draught of his picture for it was not finished) over our chimney, in our sanctum-sanctorum, or study-notwithstanding all these things, which denote how truly we loved him living and honour him dead, we confess we would rather die of cat-alepsis than of what caused PLATO's death; and prefer being mourned over as "your even Christian," than bewailed as the best cat in Christendom.

SONNET.

By Lord Holland. On Reading Paradise Regained. 1830.-A very respectable affair, and about as good as sonnets are in general.