And down the stairs they ran in such a fury,
As meeting with a troop of Lawyers there,
Mann'd by their Clients (some with ten, some with
twenty,

Some five, some three; he that had least had one),
Upon the stairs, they bore them down afore them.
But such a rattling then there was amongst them,
Of ravish'd Declarations, Replications,
Rejoinders, and Petitions, all their books
And writings torn, and trod on, and some lost,
That the poor Lawyers coming to the Bar
Could say nought to the matter, but instead
Were fain to rail, and talk beside their books,
Without all order.

[From the "Late Lancashire Witches," a Comedy, by Thomas Heywood.]

A Household Bewitched.

My Uncle has of late become the sole
Discourse of all the country; for of a man respected
As master of a govern'd family,

The House (as if the ridge were fix'd below,
And groundsils lifted up to make the roof)
All now's turn'd topsy-turvy,

In such a retrograde and preposterous way
As seldom hath been heard of, I think never.
The Good Man

In all obedience kneels unto his Son;

He with an austere brow commands his Father.
The Wife presumes not in the Daughter's sight
Without a prepared curtsy; the Girl she
Expects it as a duty; chides her Mother,
Who quakes and trembles at each word she speaks.
And what's as strange, the Maid-she domineers
O'er her young Mistress, who is awed by her.
The Son, to whom the Father creeps and bends,
Stands in as much fear of the groom his Man!
All in such rare disorder, that in some
As it breeds pity, and in others wonder,
So in the most part laughter. It is thought,
This conies by WITCHCRAFT.

THE TURK IN CHEAPSIDE.

For the Table Book..

TO MR. CHARLES LAMB.

I have a favour to ask of you. My desiré is this: I would fain see a stream from thy Hippocrene flowing through the pages of the Table Book. A short article on the old Turk, who used to vend rhubarb in the City, I greatly desiderate. Methinks you would handle the subject delightfully. They tell us he is gone

We have not seen him for some time past-Is he really dead? Must we hereafter speak of him only in the past tense? You are said to have divers strange items in your brain about him-Vent them I beseech you.

Poor Mummy!-How many hours hath he dreamt away on the sunny side of Cheap, with an opium cud in his cheek, mutely proffering his drug to the way-farers! That deep-toned bell above him, doubtless, hath often brought to his recollection the loud Allah-il-Allahs to which he listened heretofore in his fatherland-the city of minaret and mosque, old Constantinople. Will he never again be greeted by the nodding steeple of Bow?-Perhaps that ancient beldame, with her threatening head and loud tongue, at length effrayed the sallow being out of existence.

Hath his soul, in truth, echapped from that swarthy cutaneous case of which it was so long a tenant? Hath he glode over that gossamer bridge which leads to the paradise of the prophet of Mecca? Doth he pursue his old calling among the faithful? Are the blue-eyed beauties (those living diamonds) who hang about the neck of Mahomet ever qualmish? Did the immortal Houris lack rhubarb ?

Prithee teach us to know more than we do of this Eastern mystery! Have some of the ministers of the old Magi eloped

Books.

Collegian. Did you, ere we departed from the College, O'erlook my Library?

Servant. Yes, Sir; and I find,

Altho' you tell me Learning is immortal,

The paper and the parchment 'tis contain❜d in
Savours of much mortality.

The moths have eaten more

Authentic Learning, than would richly furnish
A hundred country pedants; yet the worms
Are not one letter wiser.

C. L.

have heard suspicions cast upon the authenticity of his complexion-was its tawniness a forgery? Oh! for a quo warranto to show by what authority he wore a turban! Was there any hypocrisy in his sad brow?-Poor Mummy!

The editor of the Table Book ought to perpetuate his features. He was part of the living furniture of the city-Have not our grandfathers seen him?

66

The tithe of a page from thy pen on this a true portraicsubject, surmounted by ture & effigies," would be a treat to me and many more. If thou art still ELIA-if

thou art yet that gentle creature who has immortalized his predilection for the sow's baby-roasted without sage—this boon wilt thou not deny me. Take the matter upon thee speedily. Wilt thou not endorse thy Pegasus with this pleasant fardel ?

An' thou wilt not I shall be malicious and wish thee some trifling evil: to witby way of revenge for the appetite which thou hast created among the reading pub. lic for the infant progeny-the rising generation of swine-I will wish that some of the old demoniac leaven may rise up against thee in the modern pigs:-that thy sleep may be vexed with swinish visions; that a hog in armour, or a bashaw of a boar of three tails, may be thy midnight familiar-thy incubus ;-that matronly sows may howl after thee in thy walks for their immolated offspring;-that Mab may tickle thee into fits "with a tithe-pig's tail;"-that wheresoever thou goest to finger cash for copyright," instead of being paid in coin current, thy thou mayst be enforced to receive per-sheetage in guinea-pigs;-that thou mayst frequently dream thou art sitting on a hedge-hog;-that even as Oberon's Queen doated on the translated Bottom, so may thy batchelorly brain doat upon an ideal image of the swine-faced lady

Finally, I will wish, that when next G.D. visits thee, he may, by mistake, take away thy hat, and leave thee his own

"Think of that Master Brook.".
Yours ever,

January 31, 1827.

E. C. M. D.

Literature.

GLANCES AT NEW BOOKS ON MY TABLE. SPECIMENS OF BRITISH POETESSES; selected, and chronologically arranged, by the Rev. Alexander Dyce, 1827, cr. 8vo. pp. 462.

Mr. Dyce remarks that, "from the great Collections of the English Poets, where so many worthless compositions find a place, the productions of women have been carefully excluded." This utter neglect of female talent produces a counteracting effort: "the object of the present volume is to exhibit the growth and progress of the genius of our countrywomen in the department of poetry." The collection of "Poems by eminent Ladies," edited by the elder Colman and Bonnel Thornton, contained specimens of only eighteen female writers; Mr. Dyce offers specimens of the poetry of

eighty-eight, ten of whom are still living. He commences with the dame Juliana Berners, Prioress of the Nunnery of Sopwell, "who resembled an abbot in respect of exercising an extensive manorial jurisdiction, and who hawked and hunted in common with other ladies of distinction," and wrote in rhyme on field sports. The volume concludes with Miss Landon, whose initials, L. E. L, are attached to a profusion of talented poetry, in different journals.

The following are not to be regarded as examples of the charming variety selected by Mr. Dyce, in illustration of his purpose, but rather as "specimens" of peculiar thinking, or for their suitableness to the present time of the year.

Our language does not afford a more truly noble specimen of verse, dignified by high feeling, than the following chorus from "The Tragedy of Mariam, 1613," ascribed to lady Elizabeth Carew.

Revenge of Injuries.

The fairest action of our human life
Is scorning to revenge an injury;
For who forgives without a further strife,

His adversary's heart to him doth tie.
And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said,
To win the heart, than overthrow the head.

If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nobly done;
But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honour won.
Who would a worthy courage overthrow,
And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great and cannot yield;
Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor:
Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld
The weakest lion will the loudest roar.
Truth's school for certain doth this same allow,
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.
A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn,
To scorn to owe a duty overlong;
To scorn to be for benefits forborne,

To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong.
To scorn to bear an injury in mind,
To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.
But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have,
Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind;
Do we his body from our fury save,

And let our hate prevail against our mind?
What car, 'gainst him a greater vengeance be,
Than make his foe more worthy far than he ?

Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid,

She would to Herod then have paid her love;
And not have been by sullen passion sway'd.

To fix her thoughts all injury above
Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud,
Long famous life to her had been allow'd.

Melancholy.

I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun,
Sit on the banks by which clear waters run;
In summers hot down in a shade I lie,
My music is the buzzing of a fly;

I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass,
In fields, where corn is high, I often pass;
Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see,
Some brushy woods, and some all champains be;
Returning back, I in fresh pastures go,

To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low;
In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on,
Then I do live in a small house alone;
Altho' tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within,
Like to a soul that's pure and clear from sin;
And there I dwell in quiet and still peace,
Not fill'd with cares how riches to increase;
I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures,
No riches are, but what the mind intreasures.
Thus am I solitary, live alone,

Yet better lov'd, the more that I am known;
And tho' my face ill-favour'd at first sight,
After acquaintance it will give delight.
Refuse me not, for I shall constant be,
Maintain your credit and your dignity.

Elizabeth Thomas, (born 1675, died 1730,) in the fifteenth year of her age, was disturbed in her mind, by the sermons she heard in attending her grandmother at meetings, and by the reading of high predestinarian works. She "languished for some time," in expectation of the publication of bishop Burnet's work on the Thirty-nine Articles. When she read it, the bishop seemed to her more candid in stating the doctrines of the sects, than explicit in his own opinion; and, in this perplexity, retiring to her closet, she entered on a self-discussion, and wrote the following poem:

Predestination, or, the Resolution.

Ah! strive no more to know what fate
Is preordain'd for thee:

"Tis vain in this my mortal state,

For Heaven's inscrutable decree
Will only be reveal'd in vast Eternity.
Then, O my soul!

Remember thy celestial birth,

And live to Heaven, while here on earth:
Thy God is infinitely true,

All Justice, yet all Mercy too:
To Him, then, thro' thy Saviour, pray
For Grace, to guide thee on thy way,

And give thee Will to do.
But humbly, for the rest, my soul!
Let Hope, and Faith, the limits be
Of thy presumptuous curiosity!

Mary Chandler, born in 1687, the daughter of a dissenting minister at Bath, commended by Pope for her poetry, died in 1745. The specimen of her verse, selected by Mr. Dyce, is

Temperance.

Fatal effects of luxury and ease!

We drink our poison, and we eat disease,
Indulge our senses at our reason's cost,
Till sense is pain, and reason hurt, or lost.
Not so, O Temperance bland! when rul'd by thee,
The brute's obedient, and the man is free..
Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest,
His veins not boiling from the midnight feast.
Touch'd by Aurora's rosy hand, he wakes
Peaceful and calm, and with the world partakes
The joyful dawnings of returning day,

For which their grateful thanks the whole creation pay,
All but the human brute: 'tis he alone,

Whose works of darkness fly the rising sun.

'Tis to thy rules, O Temperance! that we owe
All pleasures, which from health and strength can flow;
Vigour of body, purity of mind,

Unclouded reason, sentiments refin'd,
Unmixt, untainted joys, without remorse,'
Th' intemperate sinner's never-failing curse.

Elizabeth Tollet (born 1694, died 1754) was authoress of Susanna, a sacred drama, and poems, from whence this is a seasonable extract:

Winter Song.

Ask me no more, my truth to prove,
What I would suffer for my love :,
With thee I would in exile go,
To regions of eternal snow;
O'er floods by solid ice confin'd;
Thro' forest bare with northern wind;
While all around my eyes I cast,
Where all is wild and all is waste.
If there the timorous stag you chase,
Or rouse to fight a fiercer race,

Undaunted I thy arms would bear,
And give thy hand the hunter's spear.
When the low sun withdraws his light,
And menaces an half year's night,
The conscious moon and stars above
Shall guide me with my wandering love.
Beneath the mountain's hollow brow,
Or in its rocky cells below,

Thy rural feast I would provide ;
Nor envy palaces their pride;

The softest moss should dress thy bed,
With savage spoils about thee spread;
While faithful love the watch should keep,
To banish danger from thy sleep.

Mrs. Tighe died in 1810. Mr. Dyce

says, "Of this highly-gifted Irishwoman, I have not met with any poetical account; but I learn, from the notes to her poems, that she was the daughter of the Rev. William Blachford, and that she died in her thirty-seventh year. In the Psyche of Mrs. Tighe are several pictures, conceived in the true spirit of poetry; while over the whole composition is spread the richest glow of purified passion." Besides specimens from that delightful poem, Mr. Dyce extracts

The Lily.

How wither'd, perish'd seems the form
Of yon obscure unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm,
It hides secure the precious fruit.

The careless eye can find no grace,
No beauty in the scaly folds,
Nor see within the dark embrace

What latent loveliness it holds.

Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales

Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.

Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap The undelighting slighted thing; There in the cold earth buried deep,

In silence let it wait the Spring.

Oh! many a stormy night shall close In gloom upon the barren earth, While still, in undisturb'd repose, Uninjur'd lies the future birth;

And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,
Hope's patient smile shall wondering view:
Or mock her fond credulity,

As her soft tears the spot bedew.

Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear!
The sun, the shower indeed shall come;
The promis'd verdant shoot appear,
And nature bid her blossoms bloom.

And thou, O virgin Queen of Spring!

Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed,
Bursting thy green sheath'd silken string,
Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed;
Unfold thy robes of purest white,

Unsullied from their darksome grave,
And thy soft petals' silvery light

In the mild breeze unfetter'd wave.
So Faith shall seek the lowly dust
Where humble Sorrow loves to lie,
And bid her thus her hopes intrust,
And watch with patient, cheerful eye;
And bear the long, cold wintry night,
And bear her own degraded doom,
And wait till Heaven's reviving light,

Eternal Spring! shall burst the gloom. Every one is acquainted with the beautiful ballad which is the subject of the following notice; yet the succinct history, and the present accurate text, may justify the insertion of both.

Sister of the late Earl of Balcarras, and wife of Sir Andrew Barnard, wrote the charming song of Auld Robin Gray.

A quarto tract, edited by " the Ariosto of the North," and circulated among the members of the Bannatyne Club, contains the original ballad, as corrected by Lady Anne, and two Continuations by the same authoress; while the Introduction consists almost entirely of a very interesting letter from her to the Editor, dated July 1823, part of which I take the liberty of inserting here:"Robin Gray,' so called from its being the name of the old herd at Balcarras, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister Margaret had married, and accompanied her husband to London; I was melancholy, and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few poetical trifles. There was an ancient Scotch melody, of which I was passionately fond; who lived before your day, used to sing it to us at Balcarras. She did not object to its having improper words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy's air to different words, and give to its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous distress in humble life, such as might suit it. While attempting to effect this in my closet, I called to my little sister, now Lady Hardwicke, who was the only person near me, I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea-and broken her father's arm-and made her mother fall sick-and given her Auld Robin Gray for her lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four lines, poor thing! Help me to one. Steal the cow, sister Anne,' said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately lifted by me, and the song completed. At our fireside, and