ON MR. CAMPBELL'S FORTHCOMING POEM, REULLURA. (From a Correspondent.) TILL now, dear Bull, I frankly own I never could endure a Poem, that had a name so hard But now my thoughts are alter'd quite, Lay cannot fail to please the town, I'm told the bookseller has got Jaw-breaking feeling, which one gets But while his readers gnash their teeth, Ballad of fifty stanzas long, Whose theme is Reullura. This pretty word means "Pretty Star,"- Few folks who read the Chronicle, But if the word means what he says, One really must procure a bump The organ of pronounciveness, A name so hard was never heard, As that sweet name which Tom has got, But soon as the New Monthly's out, I hope 'tis like the Ritter Bann: Finer humbug was never known, Sir Walter Scott will look but blue, Most jealous tinge will come, when he Blue- Posts, Sept. 29th. Rogers will look as he were dead, Southey will scratch his laurelled head, But now my rhymes and page are out, One huzza for the Ritter Bann,. MIDNIGHT POTATION. Dedicated to NATHAN DRAKE, M.D. SIR,-I have taken the liberty of dedicating the following short essay to you, as a small tribute of gratitude and respect for your amiable Noon-tide Leisure, which has suggested to me the idea of composing it. You will perceive that I have merely altered a word here and there, but in general have stuck to the spirit of your opening chapter. I am, Sir, * There is no part of a summer's night, in town or country, more delightful, perhaps, to the contemplative man, than are its midnight potations, provided the fervency which usually attends spirituous liquors be sufficiently attempered by the grateful contrast of cold spring-water and odoriferous lemon-juice. All nature, indeed, seems at this sultry season sunk in lassitude, and an universal stillness reigns around, deep as may be expected to wait upon the noon of night. It is then With much esteem, Your humble servant, JOHN TOMKINS. we fly to rum and water and lemons, whose comparative serenity, whilst it breathes a delicious lassitude through every nerve, singularly disposes the mind not only to the full indulgence in the glorious bowl, which vies in shape and magnificence with the orb of day; but to the indulgence of those hours and associations of thought, which spring from, and luxuriate in the realms of fancy and meditation. * As Dr. DRAKE'S NOONTIDE LEISURE is not as much read as it deserves, we beg leave to subjoin the opening of his work in a note, that our correspondent's full obligation may be duly appreciated.-EDITOR. “THERE is no part of a SUMMER'S DAY in the country more delightful, perhaps, to the contemplative man, than are its NOONTIDE HOURS, provided the fervency which usually attends upon them, be sufficiently attempered by the grateful contrast of protecting shade. All nature, indeed, seems at this sultry season sunk in lassitude and repose, and a universal stillness reigns around, even deep as that which waits upon the noon of night. It is then we fly to woods, to waters, and to caves, whose comparative coolness, whilst it breathes a delicious balm through every nerve, singularly disposes the mind, not only to the full enjoyment of the scenery itself which secludes us from the blaze of day, but to the indulgence of those trains and associations of thought which spring from, and luxuriate in, the realms of fancy and meditation. "Mindful, therefore, of the soothing influence which we owe to the sheltered solitude of a Summer's Noon, it may prove no unpleasing task, nor one altogether void of moral instruction, should we enter somewhat minutely into a detail of the pleasures, feelings, and reflections, which a retreat of this kind is calculated to supply; more especially as relating to the impressions resulting from its scenery, from its tendency to dispose the mind to musing and reverie, to the enthusiasm of poetry, the charms of philosophy, and the consolations of an enlightened piety. "In no circumstances, indeed, can we be placed where, from the power of contrast, the sensations springing from the gloom, the depth, and breezy coolness of aged woods and forests, are more coveted or more fully enjoyed than when the beams of a vertical sun are raging in the world around us. It is then, that, in the beautiful language of Virgil, we are ready to express our eager wishes, and exclaim, a passage which Thomson, who studied the Roman poet with the happiest taste and emulation, adopting a wider canvass, has expanded into a picture which seems, whilst we behold it, to breathe the very freshness of the living landscape. He is describing the hottest hours of noon : VOL. I. X Mindful, therefore, of the soothing influence which we owe to the agreeable suavity of a punch-bowl, it may prove no unpleasing task, nor one altogether void of moral instruction, should we enter somewhat minutely into a detail of the pleasures, feelings, and reflections, which a composition of this kind is calculated to supply; more especially as relating to the impression resulting from getting muzzy thereupon, the tendency of which is to dispose the mind to musing and reverie, to the enthusiasm of poetry, the charms of philosophy, and the conso lations of an enlightened piety, [Hear! Hear!] In no circumstances, indeed, can we be placed clear from the power of contrast; the sensations springing from the breadth, the depth, and breezy coolness of aged rum and water, are more coveted or more fully enjoyed, than when the thirst of an unmoistened gullet are raging in the world within us. It is then, that, in the beautiful language of Virgil, we are ready to express our eager wishes, and exclaim, Panting, bare-headed, and with out-stretch'd arm, Walks in a Forest; Noon. TO OUR CORRESPONDENTS AND OTHERS. OMNIBUS, &C. We are now approaching the confines of light, after struggling through the Cimerian gloom which the warm rays of the sun cast over our literature in the hot weather. We e may say with the devil, ugly customer as he is— O sun, we tell thee that we hate thy beams, and we feel now as if we were about to emerge into the twinkling of the literary day, which Shoots far into the bosom of dim night, A glimmering dawn. London too is beginning to show some faint symptoms of returning life, of which Covent Garden affords the earliest pulsation. Meanwhile we must flounder on as well as we can through the unsteady footing afforded us, with head, hands, wings, or feet, swimming, sail ing, wading, creeping, or flying-any thing in fact to being alive. We perceive that we are in a great vein for quoting Milton, and shall, therefore, pull up without farther ceremony, and occupy the few pages of our Magazine left to us by writing not the blank verse of an old poet, but the remarks of ourselves, who are merely modern prosers. We shall wipe off our debts to our correspondents, who have thickened upon us this month, beyond all wish or expectation. And, as we have alluded to Covent Garden above; upon honour we did not do it to bring in our observation, like the fellow who told jokes. "Talking of a gun," we shall first say a few words to a most esteemed correspondent, (whose town address we have unfortunately mislaid), concerning articles "If any thing were wanting to paint in yet stronger terms the intense gratification which with other adjuncts of a similar kind, umbrage dark and deep as this affords, when Nature pants as it were beneath the dazzling deluge, no where can it be better drawn than from a sketch presented to us by Mr. Gisborne, who, in describing a peasant-boy watching unsheltered his master's herd during the fervor of a summer's noon, represents him, over. come by the sultriness of the hour, as falling asleep and dreaming of what is directly opposed to the throbbing heat which burns within his bosom. It is a delineation full of merit, and illustrated in a manner which touches some of the finest feelings of the heart. i Panting, bare-headed, and with outstretch'd arms He sleeps; and dreams of winter's frosty gale, Of sunless thickets, rills with breezy course, So when in slumber the poor exile seeks A pause from woe, delusive fancy's hand- Gisborne's Walks in a Forest; Noon. • We beg pardon, but we must enquire of the Dr. whether a peasant-boy can be said to be watching his master's herd while he is asleep? Is it not rather inclined to a bull? If so, we like it better for the name's sake. about theatrical matters. We accept his offer with due limitations. We willingly leave it to Benbow and Company, to wage war with the private characters of the gentlemen and ladies of the theatres, which, God knows, in too many instances, are open enough to queer remarks; but we agree with our friend, that some vehicle should exist in which something like truth should be told concerning their public merits or demerits; at present, there is none. Those who know the inside of newspapers, are well aware that there is not one of them in which the editor, or proprietor, or the reporters, for even they have some small shred of patronage in this domain, are not bound to some particular house, or some particular actor. To take an instance, the whole controversy concerning the talent or want of talent of Kean may be seen with half an eye to have been got up on both sides without the slightest reference being had to the principles of sound criticism of any kind. Party---part political, absurd as that may seem to be; and part local, gave the tone to the whole. In magazines it is much the same. Those of Edinburgh being out of the way, sensibly enough refrain from mingling much in theatrical details, but even they do their occasional puff's upon the players-generally fifty-fifth raters, who happen to come among them. It is most delightful to see the occasional critiques in one of the papers of the modern Athens; we forget its name; written by Jemmy Ballantyne, which beat every thing ever heard of out of the field. Here, every magazine, without exception, is under controul. The managers and actors mix so much in that class of society from which the magazines are drawn, for indeed the thea rical folk are generally much decenter, and always much richer, men-that impartiality cannot be expected; fo say nothing of corrupt pecuniary influence. The London, for instance, is the same thing as in the pay of the English Opera. We, therefore, who are quite out of the theatrical world, and are perfectly indifferent about the great people who meddle in such affairs, will open our columns to our correspondent, or to any body else, who will, for the first time, do the public the justice of writing the truth on this subject, without humbug or mystification. LOUISA's love-verses have been received. They will hardly do for us. We have no doubt that their fair author will find a place for them in the Lady's or Ackerman's. What have we to do with Come to me, thou much-loved youth, We can only say that she is a very cunning young lady. Does it never strike writers of love-verses that an excellent mechanical test of the poetry would be to try if it will read as well backward as forward, as the above. Come, or else thy bride must sigh, Come to me, thou much-loved youth. And if the experiment succeeds, ought they not to suspect that their verses are not ballasted with good-sense, else they would not be so easily overset? P. N. is not only ignorant but imperfinent; and if we discover, as we in all probability shall do, his real name, we shall show him that we know how to tickle a malefactor who beards us in our den. The BILLINGSGATE MELODIES do not shine in wit. There is a little power of fear displayed in the introductory prose, but the MS. Magazine of Merchant Taylors should consist of better things than such stuff as "I'll in," says Betty Bowers, He did bray The lion's jaws she entered &c " Young gentlemen ought to be better employed. He who writes about donkeys, should reflect for a while whether he is himself not copiate in some respect with the objects of his muse. From some expressions, however, in the letter signed "Peter Salmon," we should have no objection to hear again from "the large red brick building deep in one of the narrow streets of the city, bounded on one side by Thames-street and the brewery of the Borough champion, and on the other by plodding Eastcheap." We must again repeat, that we do not intend to fill our pages with reviews, and, therefore, decline the very clever one on Dr. Mac Culloch's excellent |