13.

Yet we think it is right we should say something grand on
The volume of poems by pretty Miss Landon,*

Though why something grand-something neatly and prettily,
Something smelling, in short, of the sweet law of Italy;

Theresa of Marchmont, the fair Maid of Honour, ††

Must excuse us from wasting a sentence upon her;

And our tongue with our brains must be woundidly maundering,
Ere we notice the ass from the Orient Wandering. I

23.

Let them pass-Dr. Clarke, though translated to Heaven,
Has just published his volumes, nine, ten, and eleven ; §§
Heavy books, by the mass! full of learning, 'tis true, sir,
But hard to be read as we think-What think you, sir?

The Improvisatrice, with other Poems, by L. E. L. (Letitia Elizabeth Landon) Hurst. and Co. + Letters in Rhyme. Antigone of Sophocles, translated by Mr. Edwards § Memoirs and Confessions of a justified Sinner. Longman and Co. It is correctly reported to be written by Hogg. Caroline and Zelite, by A. W. Smith.

Village Doctor, by Mr. Scott. ** Tales from Afar, by the author of " Tales from Switz erland." ++ Theresa Marchmont; or, the Maid of Honour. Oriental Wanderings, a §§ Clarke's Travels, 8vo. vols. 9, 10, and 11..

Romance.

25.

Hogg's Tour on the Continent--why we admit it,
We've not read it, and therefore, perhaps, should be pitied;
But lord bless your heart, sir, we think the day's over,
When the matter of taking a steam-boat at Dover;

Here is a skip you will say-you are growing quite thrifty,
To jump from thrice nine in a moment to fifty.

My dear friends we acknowledge the thing is an evil—
But then we've no room-and are driven by the DEVIL. §

WE stop the press, and take out two or three pages of what we must confess was mere Balaam, about books, thrown in according to the ancient and laudable custom of sheet-filling at the end of our Number, in order to make room for a letter to us from Mr. Timothy Tickler, of Blackwood's Magazine, and our answer thereto. About 350 copies had been thrown off, when a copy of Blackwood reached us, and we lost no time, as our readers will perceive. About 120 of these copies were sold-if the purchasers of them think it worth while, by bringing them to the shop, 163, Strand, they shall be exchanged. We print Mr. Tickler's letter in italics between our own, so as to answer verse by verse.

TO TIMOTHY TICKLER, ESQ. SOUTHSIDE.

The Editor of the John Bull Magazine,
Greeting,

Your time, Mr. Tickler, but idly was spent,
When your goose-quill in anger against me was bent---
Hawk to fight against hawk is a mighty bad plan, sir,
Howe'er, for the present, good-humoured I answer.

1.

Who you are, I don't know, Mister T'other John Bull,
But your horns seem as sharp as the first's to the full;
If his prick like a rapier, yours tear like a kanger;
Heaven knows which is Mcdardas, and which Doppel-ganger.
Nought in common with John have I got, Mr. T.,
Save the name, and that's open to him, you, or me;
'Twas a glorious old name, ere the three were begotten,
And glorious 'twill be when the three blades are rotten.

*Stanhope's Topography of the Plain of Olympia, with plates by G. Cooke.

In the Vicar of Wakefield, we quote from memory, "Always say a picture would be better, if there had been more pains taken with it-and remember to praise the works of Pietro Perugino.

II.

One calm word with you, lad: you well know I'm an old one,
And I think you'll admit, both a big and a bold one-
And I tell you, young man, 'tis abundantly clear,
That two months at this rate will complete your career.
Your age-somewhat else too-I know-let me hint it,
And if you're not civil, perhaps I may print it;
Two months is my date! Why, the same let me tell you,
Was once said of your own magazine, my dear fellow.

III.

That a man should be all over boldness is fil,

In the great cause of Loyalty, Wisdom, and Wit;--
But I hold it mere folly, that you should go down

In a cause that's unworthy the commonest clown.

Your last distich I take not-Tis made, I should guess,
Into nonsense by blundering work of the press.

If I battle for loyalty, wisdom, or wit,

I shall write what I please in what style I think fit.

IV.

I perceive you have learning-I trace in your style
The precision and polish of Attica's file-

O shame! that your weapons, so terse and so trim,
Should be poison`d with venom, not pointed with whim.

What? renown? Good Sir, where is my venom shown?----
Good-natured my matter, good-humoured my tone.
Oh! Tim., I am grieved-what I say is too true-
To find such dull nonsense thus scribbled by you.

V.

Byron's CHAPTER proclaims him the Worst of the BadUnless charity whisper, most wild of the mad.

I confess the alternative vexes me sadly;

And I envy no eyes can contemplate it gladly.

Byron's CHAPTER proclaims him to be WHAT he was,
For vexation I own I can't see any cause:-
And Charity too! Well, 1 may be tar-barrell'd,
But that's the last feeling I'd have for Childe Harold.

VI.

That for tickling the vein of some vile heartless flirt
The Genius of Harold could stoop to such dirt—
That a POET like this could be less than a MAN,
I loathe the conviction :-go hug it who can!
What poor Lady Byron, "a poor heartless flirt."
For shame, Mr. Tim! 'tis you dabble in dirt!
How sagacious your noble antithesis too-

Of POET v. MAN. "Tis so terse and so new!

VII.

But that you, sir,—a wit, and a scholar like you,
Should not blush to produce what he blush'd not to do-
Take your compliment, youngster this doubles (almost)
The sorrow that rose when his Honour was lost.

I blush not a shade. Why I should, I don't know;

I consider that chapter a curious morceau,

A bonne bouche which 'twas pity should wander adrift,
I'd just do the same by a lost bit of Swift,

For a sop to the Cerberus-jowler of Lust?

Just! gen'rous! Were Byron again upon earth,

For your pains, what a butt would you be for his mirth!
Trust? None was betrayed, Sir. Lust? Plenty no doubt,
By the Baron was catered, but I starved it out.

IX.

Was it spleen against him?—Then you warr'd with the dead :—
Was it pelf?-No,-whatever you want, 'tis not Bread-
Was it fun?-O how merry to trample and tear

The heart that was bruised through the breast that was bare.
Spleen? Avarice? Nonsense. "The war on the dead-
And the bruised breast I trample with merciless tread.
What breast-or what trample? Ah! Tim, that a man
Should survive when his brains have all left his brain-pan!

Leave this work to the Whigs:-'tis their old favourite game;
MOORE did this and was damn'd: the vile stink of his name
Will offend people's nostrils a hundred years hence,
For he warr'd against women, and pocketed pence.

I war against women! The charge I deny,

"Tis unfair-'tis untrue-there's no other reply.

What care I for the Whigs and their laureat, Tom Moore !
From that blame both my verse and my breast shall be pure.

XI.

But you!—well, you're young, and were probably drunk,

I won't think you (for once) irreclaimably sunk;

Drop this vice-that, depend on't, won't injure your spunk—

So says one that you won't call or Bigot or Monk.

What vice do you mean? I'd reply if I knew.

If either be drunk, my dear Tim, it is you,

Who praise to the stars the vile fellow who wrote it,
[The chapter Inica], and scold me who but quote it.

XII.

Fie, fie! Mister John, I am sorry to think

You could do such a Whig-looking thing, even in drink ;-
-You may turn up your nose and cry, "He's turn'd a Stickler!"
I do stickle for some things,

THE HISTORY OF GERALDI.-A FLORENTINE STORY. FACTION rent the state of Florence some hundred years ago-it is not necessary to specify when-and the lower orders were inflamed against the upper. It was only a variation of the old eternal war of the shirtless versus the shirteda war which, we fear, will last till time shall be no more. One party cried up the cause of social order, and denounced their antagonists as desperate and wicked insurgents. The other party were as clamourous for the common privileges of mankind, and stigmatized their opponents with the vexatious title of oppressors and tyrants. Which party was right I know not, nor, indeed, do I much care.

not invidiously of that particular Florentine faction, but because the body of men who join any party through principle is very small. If he who reads this is a young man he will not believe us, but set us down as cankered and prejudiced-if he be at all stiff-bearded below the chin, he will in all probability say that we are right.

But though the shirtless-the descamisados as the Spaniards call themcomposed the great bulk of our Florentine agitators; yet some who mixed much in their politics did actually wear ruffles with a shirt appended. These people were of a higher class, of course, and took the side they did from several reasons. Some, because they wished to hear themselves talk, and would not be listened to among the nobles-others, because they flattered themselves that they would be the natural leaders in case of success-some through vexation, because the aristocratical party did not reward their merit, as they thought it deserved, or because some great ringleader on that side of the question had not looked civilly on a wife or daughter--we must add a few through principle. This last, you may be sure, was but a small body, and we say it,

VOL. I.

The motives of the men of principle were as various as possible-almost as various as these men among them. Some hated tyranny in the abstract, and wished for fair play to all parties-some hated tyranny exercised against themselves, and wished to be able to exercise it on others-some thought that it was patriotic to have a revolution -some wished it to be considered religious. Why it is, O reader, I shall not say; but listen thou to my words with as perfect faith as if you heard an oracle, when I tell you, that I have ever found young gentlemen hot from school, who, of course, by their long experience in the simple art of governing mankind, and their deep thinking on every subject whatsoever, are eminently qualified for the task, to be very active and industrious, and loquacious votaries of these things. Among the most ardent of these was Geraldi, of whom I am going to tell you a story. Geraldi had been educated in the highest branches of erudition, and was, indeed, a very clever young man." In those days lived a doctor from Padua, of the name of Hoparros, and he was Geraldi's tutor. Hoparros was great in Greek beyond any M