"Madame Vestris took her benefit on Tuesday se'nnight, the performance was the Merry Wives of Windsor. Mr. Dowton was the representative of Sir John Falstaff (to be sure, the play bills told us so). We have not space this week to enter into any detailed notice of the manner in which he supported the lusty knight (what's the reason? what has become of the space?) Suffice it to say it was very fine, (elegant, comprehensive criticism.) Mr. Harley enacted Master Slender perhaps as well as any actor on the stage could represent the part; (how was that?) but we have seen it better done, (by whom?) Mrs. Williams, Mrs. W. West, Madame Vestris, as Mrs. Page, and Miss Povey as Ann Page, contributed their respective talents in the most satisfactory manner→ (These ladies and gentlemen figure like a lot of sundries at an auction.) Mr. Dowton has since been engaged for the remainder of the season. We should, however, recommend the manager to pay a little more attention to the orchestra. A word to the wise.-By the way, we wonder what has put The Times in such an ill humour this season with the company at this theatre. The tone of asperity which it has adopted, in speaking of this establishment, has evinced a degree of virulence, not very creditable to that paper, the general fairness and justice of which, in its theatrical criticisms, we do not mean to question. But in using such language as it did a few days ago, when it spoke of having "been poisoned all the summer by the people at the Haymarket," it certainly indulged in a latitude of expression neither becoming nor merited.”

Extracts from, or if we must call them so, reviews of two new books, together with miscellaneous extracts, finish the number. We have carefully measured the original matter, and find it to be a little more than five pages out of sixteen. To this account we have only to add, that the motto of the work is a passage selected from an old comedy, and is of very equivocal import. "If this goose be not well feathered, our hopes are blown up."

MERCURY.

MERCURY, in order to know what estimation he bore among men, went to the house of a famous statuary, where he cheapened a Jupiter and a Juno. He then, seeing a Mercury with all his symbols, “Here am I," said he to himself, "in the quality of Jupiter's messenger, and the patron of artisans, with all my trade about me; and now will this fellow ask me fifteen times as much for that statue as he did for the others?" and so demanded what was the value of that piece." Why truly," says the statuary, "you seem to be a civil gentleman; give me but my price for the other two, and you shall have that into the bargain."

ABBE SIEYES." isk

THE Abbe Sieyes being asked, "When he considered the French Revolution would end?" replied, in a verse of the Magnificat, "When the hungry are filled with good things, and the rich are sent empty away."

A POET.

SIR,

ABOUT four years ago, the writer of this letter took it into his head to be a poet-and a poet he became accordingly. He was none of your shill-i-shall-i fellows, who do things by halves. He scorned to demean himself in penning sonnets to the moon, and lyrics to the nightingale, He was above the creeping process of going the dull round of the Magazines. No, Sir, the writer set lustily to work, and brought out a regular five-shilling poem. (Here the Editor is requested to join the Writer in the following dialogue.)

Editor. Pray, Sir, what sort of a poem was it?

Writer. Oh! a pathetic one, highly pathetic, I assure you. I read it in manuscript several times to my landlady, poor widowed Mrs. Lumbercourt, and the tender-hearted old soul did nothing but cry all the time I was repeating it, and heave such bitter sighs, and look so wistfully upon me, and

Editor. But what could there possibly be in the poem to excite your landlady's sensibility in such an extraordinary manner?

Writer. Its title, Sir, will unfold that. It was called, "A Lament of Lazarus Lumbercourt, who lost his Life of the Lumbago." (There's an exquisite touch at alliteration for you.)

Editor. A very promising title. I suppose you wrote it in the Spenserian stanza?

Writer. By no means, Sir; it was a regular epic poem, written in Alexandrines.

Editor. And how, may I enquire, did you divide your subject? Writer. You shall hear. It opened, as all poems ought to do, with an invocation to the Muses, thus:

Descend, ye nine, your humble votary inspire,
And fill his panting breast with your celestial fire;
O! come, like sweet Camilla, scouring o'er the plain,
Pour down your favours on him like a shower of rain.

Woes, and the man I sing, who died of the lumbago,
Whom nought could save, not even arrow-root and sago;
Of humble trade, (yet far above his fellow-varment,)

He made coats, waistcoats, and—I cannot mention 'tother garment.
He was, and here, I say, deny it ye who can,

That master-piece of workmanship-an honest man,
He was a muster tailor, too, knight of the needle,
Sometimes a constable, and always parish beadle;
All strolling vagabonds he treated with opprobia,
And killed all wicked dogs that had the hydrophobia,
From which 'twas said by certain defamating wights,
That Laz'rus was the man who slew the Canineites.

This, Sir, is the opening of my Poem. I will not trouble you with

the whole twelve Cantos, but that you may perceive I can end as well as I can begin, I will transcribe for you the concluding couplet.

The cruel curfew tolled the knell of parting day,
When the spirit of poor old Laz'rus passed away.

I must now tell you, Mr. Editor, that in comparison with this, all the poetry that has hitherto appeared in your magazine is mere trash. Your publication I tell you is in want of a poet-such a poet as I am; and if it please your editorship, I'm your man. There is, you must perceive, a freshness, and originality about my lines, seldom to be met with. "Tis none of the "heart and impart" stuff which my uncle, Leigh Hunt, used to speak against, till the bile rose in his stomach to such a degree, that his face became as yellow as his buck-skin breeches. Oh! Mr. Editor, if you could only behold me when I take long strides across my study, you would, indeed, acknowledge that I am gifted with the genuine unadulterated vis poetica. Poetry, Sir, poetry, as a friend of mine says, is the art of lying; and if you want an original genius in that department, as I said before, I'm your man. Oh! I can mourn over withered hopes that were never in blossom, I can sing of eyes that never inspired me, I can dwell upon joys I never felt, and picture sorrows which I never wish to feel.

At love ditties, Sir, I'm quite an Ovid. I could write upon love, till there should not be an old maid or a bachelor in the kingdom; and as to the young maids, bless their little hearts, I'd turn 'em all mad, stark, staring mad. You should have seen me, Mr. Editor, when I was a young fellow, "I was the boy for bewitching 'em;" and what did it, think ye? Why, my poetry, to be sure. Did I not write upon their lips and eyes, verses as beautiful as the lips and eyes themselves?

These remarks, I should imagine, are sufficient to convince you of the service I can render to you in the poetical department of your Magazine. I, as you must have perceived, am an original writer; and I can now tell you, that I have discovered several very important: errors in the old system of poetry, which I intend forthwith to correct. With mentioning one of these, I shall conclude my letter. It has been common with poets to talk of their hearts being full of sorrow, and their breasts overflowing with joy. Now this is exceedingly nonsensical, for any body who knows any thing of metaphysics, can prove that the heart and the breast have as little to do with happiness and grief as the greattoe or the elbow. I hope you begin to perceive I am able to do great things for you. Pray let me know how many guineas a sheet you give for poetry?

I remain, Sir,

Your obedient and very humble Servant,

J. H. H.

ON BEING EXCLUSIVE.

I Do not agree with moralists when they insist on the inefficacy of advice. On the contrary, I believe there is scarcely a mind on which advice, if properly administered, would not produce much effect. If we sufficiently consider that the mind of man is peculiarly susceptible to impressions, above all if we reflect on ourselves, as willing and capable to be acted on by advice, we ought not to conclude that advice never produces any effect. When I look back on my past life, of no great length, however, I find many periods wherein, if I had had proper advice, especially on literary and scientific subjects, I should, to say the least, have been much more fortunate; I should have relinquished more quickly many errors into which I had fallen, and escaped falling into many others into which I have fallen-how inestimable is well-timed advice.

Advice, however, is like physic, seldom palatable; and, like physic, it may be given various ways, by encouragement and kindness, by secrecy and insinuation, by force and severity, and, lastly, in large and small quantities; and happy is he who finds a physician or adviser that suits the matter and mode to the exigences of his case.

Now I profess to have taken both advice and medicine from others; why, therefore, should I not acquit myself of the obligation, at least in part, for if I cannot give medicine I may give advice, which, if not so valuable a commodity as the former, has the advantage of being dispensed freely.

I advise then, not only all young readers, writers, talkers, and thinkers, but also old ones, of whatsoever" nation, country, or tongue," that they be not exclusive in their judgments on books, men, and opinions; observe, I say, judgments, not taste; there is a standard of judgment, TRUTH, but not of tastes. Το any individual I would say, never conclude that you are right, and all the rest of the world are wrong, never conclude that the authors you admire most, are the best. If you happen to prefer the poets to men of science, never conclude that the sciences are useless; if you happen to be young, do not imagine you will always be so. If you entertain an opinion to day, do not conclude that you will always retain it-no, your mind will as certainly change as that your head will become first grey and then bald. Do not be exclusive; to be exclusive is to be the companion of youth, inexperience, ignorance, obstinacy. To be comprehensive is the result of age, observation, learning, candour. There are two or three paths to almost every object, to every place, not excluding heaven itself. Let us not be angry with those who will not travel in our path, and in our company; let them go as they please, and let us take all possible care that in attending to others, we do not forget ourselves.

A lover of Milton should read Shakspeare; and the admirers of both should read and study Bacon, Locke, and Newton. There is a vast difference between those who make Pope the best of the English poets, and those who make him no poet at all. There is a vast difference between

And there is as much genius in the Lord Byron and Mr. Bowles. "Lake School of poetry" as in many others, or in any other school of poetry. And I think Wordsworth at least as good a poet as Thomson or Young. And why is not the "Cockney School" as good a school as the "Lake School ?" And why are not land poets as good as water poets? Let us not be exclusive, we have only to learn a science to admire it; to be ignorant of it and despise it. Science and literature mutually benefit each other, to deprive mankind of either would be the means to destroy both. The stars in the firmament are as much indebted to the firmament as the firmament to the stars. Poets, mathematicians, and philosophers, are all entitled to the veneration of each other S**** and of mankind.

MY BIRTH NIGHT.

AND have twice twenty summers o'er me past
Since first mine infant eye drank heaven's pure beam,
And have I learnt the fatal truth at last,

That life is but a long, mysterious dream?

On comes the awful hour, and let it come,

When the cold earth will claim this kindred clay,
The world is nought to me-for joy is dumb,
And every faithless hope hath passed away.

I loved, yes, faithfully I loved, a few ;
But where are those bright spirits now?
The grave hath closed upon them-and the dew
Of death lies damp and cold upon each brow

There was a time, when lovely visions stole
Across the secret mazes of my brain;
And if delight a moment left my soul,

'Twas but to come more sweetly on again.

There was a time, when such an eve as this,
Brought with it every earthly pleasure;

And my young heart was lighted up with bliss,

My hours were bright, and life was deemed a treasure.

Then freely went the mantling goblet round,

Then did I meet the few to earth that bound me;

And then in every beaming eye was found,

The friendly smiles that formed a heaven around me.

O! I have loved, and faithfully, a few,

The

But where are those bright spirits now?
grave hath closed upon them-and the dew
Of death lies damp and cold upon each brow.

J. H. H.