he looked more like an owl in an ivy bush, than a rational human creature. His figure was modelled on the plan of a broomstick, or rather after the fashion of a scullery door, and his appearance, take him altogether, was that of a disbanded life-guardsman, or one of the new police off duty. His dress, for some years before his death, was of that particular material and cut known in Dublin as the Plunkett Street style, his hat a gossamer, that some years ago had taken it into its head to change its name from black to brown-his shoes high-lows, to which were strapped down tightly a pair of " never-mention-'ems," evidently made for the wearer when he was a foot or two shorter than he subsequently grew. His coat, winter and summer, was tightly buttoned up, and further secured closely at the throat with a large corking-pin, so that I cannot gratify the natural curiosity of the inquisitive reader as to the cut of the Oyster Eater's waistcoat, or the colour of his shirts, or indeed, for the matter of that, whether he might not have altogether dispensed with the superfluities of both shirt and waistcoat. To finish the matter, the dress of the Oyster-Eater, taken altogether, was seedy, and his whole turn-out an unsophisticated specimen of the shabby-genteel.

The next point to which I think it my biographical duty to direct the attention of the patient reader, is to the progress and probable cause of that extraordinary mania for oystereating which has gained for him a niche in the temple of fame, and will hand him down to posterity with Apicius, Dando, Sir George Warrender, and the Editor of the Almanac des Gourmands. It was to his dismissal by the Commissioners of National Navigation that he owed his devotion to oyster-taverns, and the extraordinary facility for the developement of his peculiar turn of humour which such places afford.

He has, in his own account of himself, said nothing of this, nor do I suppose that, had he lived to complete his work, would he have alluded to it; being anxious to drown, in continual dissipation, not only the present consciousness of that he was, but also the more bitter retrospect of that he might have been. It is certain that, up to the time of his dismissal by the Com

missioners, whose conduct forms the subject of his last chapter, he was a good father, tender husband, a sober and steady man, and was giving every reasonable hope of becoming a bright and useful member of society. From the day of his being dismissed, however, misery and misfortune crowded fast upon him-the Commissioners' refusal to grant him a certificate, which he might have relied on, deprived him effectually of obtaining elsewhere another employment-the influence they exercised with the officials of every successive government to prevent him having his case taken into consideration-and their personal malignity, silently exercised by a shrug, a wink, or a shake of the head, weighed altogether too heavily upon his prospects, and crushed him and them together. As he himself has finely observed, "the hopes upon which he fed for years had died within him, and their epitaphs might be read legibly on his brow." It was often and often suggested by those who wished him well, that the Commissioners being sycophants by profession, the aspect of erect independence was personally offensive to them-that the subserviency with which they approached their superiors, they exacted from their inferiors in turn, just as when in the Rivals, Captain Absolute kicks his valet, Mister Fag, and Mr Fag in his turn kicks the little dirty boy who recalls him to wait upon his master. It was observed by Sophia, that, as sycophancy was their current coin, it was very unlikely they would consent to be paid in any other. But the OysterEater was not naturally constituted to stoop to conquer, particularly when he would have been obliged to stoop to men who crawled habitually on their bellies in the worship of Mammon. He replied to all the arguments used to induce him to consent to such a prostration as would perhaps satisfy the Commissioners, that he would do it for the sake of his wife and family if he could, but that he found his back refuse its degrading office; he said he had never in his life taken off his hat save to virtue, independence, or a woman, and it was too late in life to begin now.

As the consciousness of his situation opened upon him, and the fate that awaited his family became more and more imminent, he appeared more

and more to lose that energy and spirit that in more hopeful circumstances characterised him. He shunned the society of his wife and children, and was almost exclusively to be found at O'Hara's, where, so far from supposing that his heart was breaking, and his constitution gone, the casual visiter, who witnessed the flashes of his broad and original humour, would have supposed him a man without a care. He became, by acclamation, a sort of permanent chairman of the evening convivial meetings, and, as he was usually treated with oysters and grog by some or other of the more wealthy guests, he gained vast popularity, and thunders of applause; for he was a man who would rather shine in a pot-house than shine not at all, and lost nothing but his self-respect, his time, and his constitution.

The affection of his wife he still retained, probably because she saw that his faults were as much the offspring of his misfortunes as the result of a vicious inclination to dissipation, and made allowances for her husband's frailties accordingly.

Having thus endeavoured shortly to account for the prevailing propensity of my deceased friend, a short notice of his writings-being also the regular thing-will not, I trust be altogether unacceptable.

The Crustaceous Tour, which introduced him to the literary world, as it was the first, so, like other maiden efforts of other great pens, was the best, of all the works he afterwards gave to a discerning public. Whether it was designed as a satirical burlesque of the grave and solemn style of tours in general, or simply a journey undertaken with a view to a more intimate acquaintance with what the author enthusiastically describes as the "gelatinous objects of his affections," it is impossible to conceive any thing more racy, more full of piquant and original humour, from the opening paragraph to the close. But what is perhaps the highest authority I could adduce in its favour, is the fact which I can myself attest, that the OysterEaters in Dublin-no mean judges of literary merit-have actually extracted the favourite passages of the work, and suspended them over the doors of their several shops and cellars, "worthily emblazoned in letters of gold." To the Account of Himself, I regret that

VOL. XLV. NO, CCLXXXIV,

I cannot afford the same full measure of approbation. It appears to be a story inartificially constructed, badly connected, and unequally sustained, beginning in the shape of a very dull dialogue, which is metamorphosed, for no reason that we can discern, into a narrative equally dull. The characters are introduced apparently with no fixed purpose or settled design, are conducted any how, through a chapter pedantically called by the author a fasciculus, and, without contributing in the least degree to the main action or progress of the narrative, are finally dismissed. Nor is the narrative itself consistent in its several parts. Α chapter of personal narrative is interrupted by a long digression, and digression makes way again for personal narrative. As it is the province of the critic to lay hold of some trifling anachronism or violation of arbitrary rules which genius spurns and contemns, I think it my duty to observe that the Oyster-Eater, in one of his fasciculi, travels through the Midland Counties in company with a factory-boy towards London, while the next fasciculus exhibits them at Warrington, north of the Midland Counties, so that they must have journeyed towards London backwards—a style of ambulation peculiarly crustaceous! In another place, Sophia is made to address her lover as "Horatio," while in the dialogue between the OysterEater and the horse-jockey, the latter is made to address the former by the sponsorial appellation "Pat." This, however, may be considered as a poetical license, and, as there is a lady in the case, I will not be ungallant enough to press the objection further.

Not only is the matter of the OysterEater's Account of Himself not interesting, but his humour is not original

perhaps, indeed, it might have been original when he wrote it, but it certainly is not original now. It is a sort of miscellaneous humour, compounded of the humour, or rather of an imitation of the humour, of Swift, of Goldsmith, of Sterne, of Washington Irving, and, although I never read him and know nothing about him, of the humour of Rabelais. Accordingly, not being original, it is bad; for, I presume, nobody will have the hardihood to assert that in these days any thing (except port wine) can be good that is not new!

3 D

At the same time, I am free to confess that the thoughts of my late friend, if not original, have a savour of origi nality, and that there is a quaintness in his turns of expression, in these days of fine-spun dulness and long-drawn platitude, peculiarly refreshing. The characters too, who bear him company, although too often unadvisedly introduced and abruptly dismissed, have a distinct individuality and complete vraisemblance with nature.

The horse-jockey, faithful to the death to his master, and a rogue to all the world beside, is a true picture of character, and the factory-boy's account of himself, is too good to be the offspring of the imagination alone-it is a photogenic drawing of a natural object by natural means-it is full of poetry and pathos, worth, not to rate it too highly, a wilderness of Trollopes. Of the state and prospects of the Oyster-Eater's family, it is essential that I should say something-that being also the regular thing.

The widowed Sophia resides with her daughter, a sweet girl of twelve years old, in an empty house in an obscure court off Mecklenburgh Street, which she is permitted to occupy until let, without paying rent, on the sole condition of keeping it clean, and exhibiting it to probable tenants. Her household furniture consists of a few broken chairs, a paralytic table, an old pianoforte, and a bit of carpet on the floor here this admirable woman, worthy of a better fate, spends her days and nights with her daughter, in unintermitting toil, to procure clothing and food by preparing little articles of female skill for sale at the various bazaars and charitable repositories of this charitable metropolis.

Here, of an evening, the curate of the parish himself does not disdain to look in on the desolate woman, to comfort her on her misfortune (for such she strangely enough considers the loss of a husband all unworthy of her), to tell the gossip of the day, and to observe the progress of her little labours-here, of an evening, one or two respectable decayed women like herself, assemble, and combine from their slender resources the womanly luxury, a cup of tea-here Sophia, laying aside for the moment her needle and her thimble, charms her friends with her sweet voice and here I often look in myself, to witness, in this

poor family, poverty made respectable by virtue !

One evening, in particular, when a cheerful little party (for virtuous poverty is ever cheerful) was, in the usual way, assembled, the curate produced a bottle of sherry from his pocket, begged permission of Sophia to treat the ladies with a glass of wine (the curate is poor, but very generous), which being promptly granted, glasses were subscribed for from the lodgings of the decayed ladies (each having one at home, as it happened), and the frugal glass being duly honoured, Sophia was requested by the curate to favour the company with a song. My deceased friend's wife is not a woman to spoil our appetite for her singing by unmannerly delay; laying aside her work, therefore, she seated herself gracefully at her piano, and with an apology that the tone of her mind would not permit her to sing any thing lively, entreated the indulgence of the little party for some verses of her own, which she had attempted to set to music.

SONG BY SOPHIA.

1.

'Tis ever thus! when youth and joy Make life an infant's new-found toy; The happy moments fall as fast As leaves on an autumnal day; And still, ere half enjoy'd, are pastA moment blissful-and away. 'Tis ever thus !

2.

'Tis ever thus! when care draws nigh, With the sad brow and frequent sigh, And our light-heartedness is goneThe tedious hours, prolong'd and slow, Vex life with their continued stay, And dreary come and dreary go. 'Tis ever thus!

3.

'Tis ever thus ! when to be blest Is but to dream ourselves possess'd Of friendship and of love. The heart, O'ermastering the less ardent mind, Gives all in love-will all impart "To make that heaven it cannot find." 'Tis ever thus !

4.

'Tis ever thus, when friendship's gay Delusive dreams have pass'd away,

Sophia ceased-the decayed ladies, who seemed to have caught cold, betaking themselves to their pockethandkerchiefs. The curate went to the window, opened it, and, looking out, observed that it rained, then returned to his seat. I looked out of the window, and saw that it did not rain, but observing some drops on the window-sill, where the curate had been looking out, I concluded it was going to rain.

I had almost forgot to state that the Oyster-Eater's only son, a fine youth of fourteen, very like his late father, is employed as one of the under waiters in the Emporium of O'Hara, who has been excessively kind to the family of the deceased, and in whose service the young lad, I am happy to be enabled to state, is giving every satisfaction. It may seem strange that the Oyster-Eater should have permitted his son to occupy this humble position in society; but having entertained a salutary dread that the young man, if permitted to learn reading or writing, would pine away his life behind a brass plate as a fellow of the College of Physicians, or starve in a garret in the Temple, under pretence of being a briefless barrister (starvation being the only certain prospect held out by that honourable degree), steadily refused to permit the boy to become possessor of such dangerous and fatal accomplishments.

Accordingly, the youth being not educated above his hopes, is satisfied with his situation; and, instead of be. ing a burden to his surviving parent, will, by being put in the way of an honest living, be probably enabled, in time, to afford some little comfort to her declining years.

There lurks a moral under the Oyster-Eater's account of himself; and I

must confess that I would as soon read a temperance tract as one of those moral tales, where the wisdom floats like the scum of a broth-pot at top, and which the reader is expected to stand by with his ladle and skim off. I say again there is a moral in the story of this unfortunate man, which I leave you to find out for yourself; if you have not penetration to find it, you will not have fortitude to profit by it. His observations on the folly and vanity of parents, and the misery that vanity and folly entail upon their unhappy offspring, will, if he had never written another line, command the gratitude of every man who has had experience (as I have) of the vast addition made from this source to the sum of human misery. It is not my wont to use my own language when there is better ready cut and dry to my hand, and therefore I take the liberty to borrow the concluding sentence of the life of the unfortunate Savage, by his gigantic friend Johnson, to illustrate the position so applicable to the case of my gifted but ill-fated friend, where it is wisely and greatly laid down, "that nothing can compensate for the want of prudence, without which knowledge is useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible."

The Oyster-Eater is gone; but I do not ask you to drop a tear to his memory-it will be better reserved in pity to those he has left helplessly behind. He is no more-nor need I direct you to his lowly and unhonoured grave.

Let me only entreat the humane and courteous reader, who has borne with him so long-who has been beguiled of the sorrow of an hour by his eccentricities of thought or of expression-or who has detected in his writings a spark of genius so lamentably misapplied that whenever he visits the Emporium of O'Hara, to eat oysters in, or lobsters out of the season, he will suffer himself to be attended by the Oyster-Eater's son, and

"Pray, remember the waiter !"

THE names which we prefix to this article have been often united together, as the representatives of kindred as well as contemporary genius, and the objects of similar and nearly equal commendation. The poets to whom they belong, have indeed several points of mutual resemblance in their history and character. Both of them must be ranked in the class of minor poets, as well for the number and compass of their several compositions, as for the elevation of excellence to which they aspired. Both contributed in no inconsiderable degree to smooth the versification and polish the language of English poetry; and both descended to dishonour the muse, and degrade their own fair fame, by sullying the purity of their style with impurity of sentiment. The civil commotions and fanatical severities which overtook or followed closely after the periods in which they lived, had the effect of alike consigning both of them to contempt or forgetfulness: and neither regained his just position in literary estimation till long after the cessation of those causes that originally operated to deprive them of celebrity. But with these features of strong similarity, we can discover also many striking marks of diversity between them, and we conceive that a very different measure of praise is due to the one and the other, whether we regard the objects at which they respectively aimed, or the degree of success which attended their attempts. In point of manliness of thought, tenderness of feeling, dignity of manner, and soundness of taste, we consider Carew to be very greatly superior to his competitor. We propose now to give some analysis of the best productions of each, with the view of illustrating both their separate and their comparative merits.

Carew may be considered first in order, as the earlier in point of time, having been born, it is believed, in 1589, and having died at the age of fifty, in 1639, while the dates of Herrick's birth and death appear to be 1591, and about 1674. A gentleman by birth,

and a courtier by his sovereign's favour, Carew seems naturally to have turned his poetical talents chiefly to those lighter subjects that would be most acceptable to the immediate circle in which he was placed; yet so that the attainments of the scholar, and the observation of the man of travel, gave at once solidity and finish to his compositions. Love was, perhaps, his principal and most prominent theme; and that not always of the purest or most poetical kind. Yet, although we may be shocked by his occasional violations of virtue and propriety, and may wonder at the incongruities which we find linked together in his verses, we are bound to say that, unless many of his offensive compositions have been suppressed, the proportion which they bear to his whole works is smaller than might have been expected from a man of pleasure, in an age where virtue itself was not always accompanied with delicacy. The omission of half a dozen pieces, and of a few lines in half a dozen more, would render Carew's volume as inoffensive as it is delightful. The licentiousness of Carew is not the rule, but the exception he has for the most part written worthily of women and of love: and there are many true and touching exhortations to mental dignity and virtue, which should more than compensate or correct his occasional errors.

What shall we say of that style of gallantry and compliment with which women were wont to be addressed as beings of a superior and almost sacred order? We do not ridicule, but approve and delight in it, believing that it flowed from a right source, and fulfilled a salutary purpose. It has ever been the mark of a noble spirit to treat the softer portion of humanity not only with tenderness, but with homage and reverence. Our German ancestors believed that a sanctum aliquid resided in the female breast, and a form of the same feeling has diffused among their best descendants that devotion and fidelity of attachment which gives to life its dearest enjoyments, and