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Whose resistless eloquence

Wielded at will our fierce Democratic,
Shook th' arsenal and fulmined over Britain ?

It is even so; but here is no moral shadow, no intellectual invalid, although a pale patient of many distempers. There is languid severity and sick contempt on his relaxed but still masculine mouth; painful disgust, impatient condescension twitching his fretful colourless cheek and irritable nostril; but in his eye the triumphant consciousness of great things achieved and things far greater still achievable, brightens the dull pallor and disdainful repulsiveness of his first aspect, and

you feel that, could you think those great things also good things, (as many thousand good men do,) you would forgive him splenetic lip and supercilious brow, and for its sake render him the due meed of almost unmixed admiration and sympathy. Alas! we fear these great things were not good things; and again alas! we fear the Chancellor now knows they are not. But we all remember Lord Brougham engaged in things that were neither great nor good, when

With pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour keen'd,
He foamed his spleen alike on friend and foe:
With nose upturned he ever made a show,
As if he smelt some nauseous scent, his eye
Was cold and keen as blast from boreal snow,
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly,

chewing the sour cinders of opposition for opposition's sake, nay battening on the very garbage and draff of indiscriminate invective. It is possible he may have then thought this the wholesome diet of a natural desire and appetite of virtue, but consequent impotence has long since taught him that it was but the vicious pampering of his ambition's unhealthy longings. Who sees him now at his crude surfeits, his unhealthy debauches of virulence, Where now are his excitements of liberalism? What has he done now with his coals and chalk of pining freedom? Under what bolster of the woolsack has he hidden his ballot-sick song book? We are men of our old stature again; and, although Westminster Hall were hung with the wigs of apostate radicals from gable to gable, we could walk it till the end of Term without losing one inch of our conscious integrity.

Let us leave the gloomy grandeurs of Palace Yard, and cross Saint James's Park to Regent-street. This broad stair, basing the great granite pillar, is well conceived. You are prepared to expect something magnificent beyond an approach so noble. Walk up the gradual ascent and step out on the platform of Waterloo-place-is your eye filled to its complete satisfaction? No; the paint and stucco offend it after the living stone of walls that have

stood till their bulk is natural rock again. The split plaster pilasters and the garret windows peeping out of sculptured pediments are poor pride after the rough masonry of the guards. We will leave Waterloo-place also, and go look at the improvements on Charing Cross. Oil paint again, and tawdry attics, and Agrigentan columns of lath and plaster. Where are the Mews, and what is that staring edifice like the governor of Trincomalie's bungaloo? The Golden Cross Inn, as we live, drawing itself up cheek by jowl with the Percy's palace. The Northumbrian Lion growls to the four quarters of heaven, and stiffens his tail as if he would snap their chimney pots off all the brick stacks in the Strand. They were or are going to build, (or may be in building for ought we know) some other dislocated abortion of vile taste here for a National Gallery-of yellow stone, with pot-metal pillars, very likely, and a dome like a bee's cap. And this is to hide Saint Martin's, and more than make amends for the lost portico. "Oh, soul of Sir John Cheek!" Was Sir John Cheek an architect? We protest we cannot tell, but he was a great Grecian in his day,

That would have made Quinctilian stare and gasp

as we do at the architectural taste of the nineteenth century in London.

How soon the darkness has set in: here are a dozen grand glass lamps with gilded sockets blazing already in the Lowther Arcade. This is really a very beautiful alley, and, notwithstanding all our sneers, got up with taste and judgment; and at this hour, even in the dull month of November, a pleasant spot for a man hav

ing business in the east to pass through. But what are we thinking of, lingering here listening to those fellows with the harp and fiddles, when we must dine in our hall among the shepherds at five o'clock? Pray, Sir, of which Inn of Court are you a member-you are aware, Sir, of the distich,

The Inner for the rich, the middle for the poor,
Lincoln's for the gentlemen, and Gray's Inn

Forgive us for interrupting you, Sir:
we regret very much that we have not
the honour to be a member of the
Gray's-Inn rather than any other; for
we love our countrymen, and delight
in their witty company at home and
abroad, and Gray's is almost exclu-
sively the Inn of Irish law students,
and Irishmen at the English bar. Yet
the merry mass is known in all the
others; and never did the black raf-
ters of old Queen Bess's drawing-room
shake their cobwebs to more jovial
peals than have rung from them round
the pictured walls of Lincoln's and the
Middle Temple, till the Hogarths and
Vandycks shook in their carved frames
for company. Let no one here sus-
pect us of not venerating the English
character, and not loving the society of
Englishmen. We believe the English
gentleman to be one of the finest and
best fellows in the world-calm, cour-
teous, discreet, manly, candid, and ge-
nerous: let him be Captain of a merry
mess of Irishmen there, and there shall
be nothing incorrect, though Steward
draws his claret till the welkin roars.
But why shall we not have a bonny
Scot or two, and represent the triple
union? Because the bonny Scot is,
unlike his dwelling, self-contained. Now,
heaven knows, we are no harpers on
grievances, or rakers up of subjects of
complaint. We do not live by making
faults and finding them, like the medal-
lion-mongers of a learned society with
their coins; but where Ireland's pocket
is concerned by the loss of her current
and sterling cash to the amount of fifty
thousand a year, and upwards, and that
for not so much as a law lecture in re-
turn, we will cry out against the mon-
strous extortion, and tell the high law
authorities that they have a share of
every sin committed in Ireland, so long
as they connive at her impoverishment
by allowing such pernicious plunder to

VOL. III.

continue. Let them (if mutual intercourse between the countries be pleaded as their object) send their law students half their time to our King's Inns in Henrietta-street, or send but an equal number hither in return for ours; for we ask no profit, only a fair stage and no favour, and we will be satisfied, nay, delighted to see their honest faces among us, and to entertain them as well as our poverty will permit. True, London is a better school of law than Dublin, and why? Because in a London pleader's office are brought together under the student's eye a class of cases which must be sought for, some in the study of the Irish barrister, some in the office of the Irish attorney; or, in other words, because the legal business of London admits, from its immense extent, of a more perfect classification, and consequently of a more ready access to the branch desired, than that of Dublin. But the offices of two or three pleaders are sufficient for the Irish demand of tuition, and who will venture to assert that, were the demand transferred, the supply would not follow-that did twenty students a year, each with his fee of a hundred guineas, offer themselves to a special pleader in Henriettastreet, there would not be some Chitty ready to gather the scattered materials of his profession, and set them drawing declarations within a week? Still it is the duty of the student to frequent the best school; and it must be long ere Henrietta-street can rival Inner Temple-lane. To Inner Temple-lane then, let him go, in the mean time; but let it be a private speculation, a journey undertaken at will, like the medical student's to Edinburgh or Paris; let him have the use of the Inns of Court while he is there, if he choose to keep terms, while so employed; but do not make it obligatory on the Irish

F

gentleman to spend among you five hundred pounds on fat coachmen and innkeepers, already too rich, before he can have the privilege of taking his fee from an impoverished litigant at home. Do you plead the necessity of making the profession expensive, that it may be select? The money is a useful restriction on an Irishman's forensic propensities; but let the aspirant for honours at the Irish bar contribute those expenses to the prosperity of his future clients, not to the establishment of an artificial and unnatural class in another part of the empire; so shall his briefs abound, and his attorney's costs be paid, without an

execution.

After all, the majority of the Irish law students would be little obliged to us were our representations of any effect. They delight too much in the King's Theatre and Drury-lane to con

template with resignation their chance of being confined to the shabby saloon of Hawkins's-street Theatre. Offley's has greater charms for them than the Royal Shades; and the Knights of Tara, with all Sir Jonah's romance, were never fit to boil the kettle for the KNIGHTS OF MALT. Ah, brother B., hold you a chapter to-night? Has the cask been brought from the Customhouse? Has the Kerry piper got his drone in order?-any egg-flip, eh? Ha, Sir Syphon, shall we not suck, shall we not inhale? Yes, Sir, we shall rejoice in mustachios of froth, if there be eggs in hens, though Sir John Fallstaff hath said, • no pullet

sperm in my brewage.' But there go the three taps-all hands to grace, ahoy! God bless the king, the church, and this honourable society. Amen.'

"Dinner on the table, Sir."

TRIUMPHANT LOVE.

"I hoped not at the first-how durst I hope?
With riches-rank-a homebred boy to cope!
But after many days, methought a beam
Of distant heaven entered like a dream.
She'd gaze on vacancy, then glance at me,

And meet my eyes, where they were sure to be;
Then, as the crimson o'er her features passed,
One blessed day she smiled-aye, smiled at last!
And afterwards I met her musing lonely,
And as I spoke not to her, gazing only,
I saw the flood repressed beneath her eye,

I marked the bursting struggle not to sigh,

And through her lips' unwilling, quivering motion,
Methought there faintly dawned the heart's devotion ;-
And at that thought I sighed-and then she wept-

In short, the passion that so long had slept

Now boiled, like Etna, forth, and with a force

That hurled distinction downward in its course,

Hath raised me'-hold your squalling tongue, you fool you!
Do close Georgina's mouth, my sweetest Julia!

Our story's at a stand until you stop her!"

"Yes, Henry, but she's crying for her supper

A sixpence"" Not one left"-" "Twas what I dreaded-
The loaf is done, and Raspall won't give credit!"

:

THE LITERARY LADY.

AN EPISTLE FROM ONE MARRIED MAN TO ANOTHER.

TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER.

Why does my friend thus bitterly lament?
Why angry curses upon Hymen vent ?
Is it because his faithless consort flies,

To seek elsewhere the love which he denies ?
Then let him know another's deeper care,
And learn more patiently his own to bear.

My friend, I see thee sadly weep and moan,
Because one shares what is by right thine own.
Thrice enviable man! now mark my case,
My wife belongs to all the human race.
In every city from the banks of Rhine

Unto the olive-mantled Appenine,

Or muddy Seine, whence fashions' forms are brought, At every stall my wife is cheaply bought.

On dusty diligence when mounted high,

The school boy scans her with presumptuous eye.
She lies in steam boats; and the Cockneys there,
Put on their spectacles, on her to stare;
And with a critic's pomp each fool decrees,
Her fame or infamy, as he may please;

A man from Leipsic-damn him-came to trace,
In mezzotint, an Atlas of her face,

And those fair features to the crowd displays,
On which I would 'twere only mine to gaze.

Thy wife is still thy wife, tho' lost to fame,
The laws compel her to retain thy name.
But I, alas! the weaker vessel grown,
As Ninon's husband to the world am known.
It grieves thee, that, whene'er thou dost appear

In public, whispers pass from ear to ear.

Thrice happy man! in whom the public see
Aught to remark, however vile it be;

While I unhappy! by a female wit,
Upon her left am coldly bade to sit;
Unheeded there, while each admiring eye
Proclaims my wife's superiority.

Ere day break, footmen at our door are seen;
A motley crowd, in yellow, blue, or green,
Each with his parcel, whose unfranked address,
Is to the celebrated authoress.

She sleeps so soft-to wake her were a sin,
Yet must I-ma'am, the papers from Berlin,
Letters from Jena-eyes of lovely blue

Now open-glancing, o'er the last Review,
Not once on me-and though her infant cries,
Time passes ere she to its wants replies.
The toilette next-but let that quickly pass,
She throws one hurried look into her glass-
By muttered threats, wings to the maid are given,
The graces from her dressing room are driven.

The Furies in the place of Loves are there,
And a-la-Gorgon curl and dress her hair.
Now comes the roll of carriages, and more
Gay footmen rush to thunder at our door.
The pursy Abbé and the purse proud Lord,
The English gentleman, who not one word
Of German knows, and many more, are come
To see the far-famed authoress at home.
Hid in a corner stands a thing they call
A Husband, shrinking and o'er-looked by all.
And, what I think thy consort scarce would dare,
The fulsome admiration does she hear

Of

every fool, born letters to disgrace,
And this occurs before my very face;
And if I would not quarrel with her quite
I must the brutes to dine with me invite.

At table, friend, my sorest grief begins,
My cellar empties forth its choicest binns,
Prime Burgundy that doctors bid me shun,
Must down the gullets of her flatterers run.
The bread I toiled for many a weary day,
These sponging parasites devour away;
Oh! may a thousand curses light on thee,
Thou death to good wine-Immortality!
Confusion on their fingers how they rise!
And what is my reward? With upturned eyes
And lifted shoulders do they pity me.
Guess you the meaning, I too plainly see?
A woman of such brilliant parts to find,
With a baboon like me in wedlock joined.

Spring comes, and o'er the mountain and the mead
Is nature's richly painted carpet spread.
The bright flower drest in green apparel seems,
The lark sings, and with life the woodland teems;
But spring, and the sweet singers of the spring,
Can to her soul no soft emotions bring;
The nightingales to read are all unskilled!
The lilies to admire! all nature filled

With joy inspires her-its praises forth to pour ?
Ah, no! the season's lovely-for a tour.

What crowds are setting off to Pyrmont now!

That Carlsbad is delicious all avow!

Away she goes, and in that motley set

Where Doctors' canes and Marshalls' batons met, Jog on together in celebrity,

As oddly grouped as Charon's freight may be.

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