ANSTER. I think that after that batch we may as well take a little rest; but before we do we must look at one more, and that is a first-rate song by an old contributor. To Bessy. The crystal fountains of those eyes Those cheeks before whose purple dyes The red rose fadeth; Those smiles wherein the blush of dawn All the sweet airs that round thee fawn These only could not move My soul to love. What are they but a radiant veil O'er the shrine's glory?— Thy hearts bright story? Oh dearer far than sunny look, Or blush of roses, The heart-more pure than purest brook, That veil encloses. Ask ye then what doth move My soul to love? That gentle heart where virtue dwells And meekness shineth, Round which her fairest, loveliest spells Religion twineth; Which seems like storied Paradise, By brightest angels from the skies Newly descended,— That heart it is doth move My soul to love. PUBLISHER. This is sure to appear. Shew me a Magazine that can turn out better, and I will take the worth of my money out of the writer in a beating. Why, Boyle, I say, old boy, are you asleep? BOYLE. First-rate gin-first-first-rate. Ah! that is a noble line in Homer : : "The finest divarshun that's under the sun, Is to sit by the fire till the praties are done." SABERTASH. Don't mind him Pat. Thank Providence we have got through the list. Now for the wine; O'Callaghan, you rascal. Enter O'CALLAGHAN. Bring in the same quantity of drink that Mr. Boyle ordered an hour or two since. O'CALLAGHAN (staring) An hour since! Lord bless you captain, are you joking? GOLD SPECTACLES. Joking you ruffian !-this is too serious a matter to joke about. O'CALLAGHAN. Arrah, captain, may be you're not aware when that ordher was gev. SABERTASH. Why, I heard it about an hour, or an hour and a half ago. Eh, Prout? FATHER PROUT. I say twenty minutes at the farthest. O'CALLAGHAN. By Saint Pathrick 'twas given ere last night, and ye've sat here tippling, and smoking, and dozing for two days. It's a truth I tell yez, captain. Honour bright. No lie We do not think it necessary to linger any longer on this affair, only that we wish to assure our readers with all due solemnity, that Mr. O'Callaghan's statement was a falsehood from beginning to end, there being no foundation whatever for his insinuation. The only piece of truth was, that the entire allowance of liquids was certainly non inventus, but we cannot say what happened it. The jollification was attended by one advantage, and that was, its affording us an excellent opportunity to fascinate the public and the whole reading world, with the songs and wit by which it was so splendidly illumined. PLAGIARISMS OF TOM MOORE. The Prologue. In Hansard's Parliamentary Debates vol. xxxix. page 161, the following passage occurs :— Mr. Bateman said, "perhaps the Rt. Hon. Gentleman will answer me one question? I wish to know whether one Thomas Moore is on the pension list, or not? and if he be whether his pension were granted to him for making ballads for love-sick ladies, or for slandering George the 4th ?-Debate on the Civil List. Nov. 23, 1837. It is not generally known that Mr. Bateman was a distinguished member of the Deipnosophist Club, and that it was among us he imbibed that hearty contempt for Whiggery, humbug and Tom Moore, which has always characterised him. The question which he, on the above occasion, put to Her Majesty's Chancellor of the Exchequer, was one that had occasionally occurred to the President of the Club also, and I have no doubt that it was the latter suggested to Mr. Bateman the propriety of making it the subject of parliamentary notice. We of the Club had indeed once proceeded so far that we had actually a petition drawn up, containing a list of Moore's enormities in the slander, sneak, sycophant and plagiary line, but out of compassion to the little man it was never presented. The following fragment of one of our President's innumerable discourses on this subject, seemed to me worth preserving, and as it is really a curious example of the extent to which the robbing art may be carried by the votaries of Parnassus, I doubt not it will possess as much interest for general readers, as for their humble servant, R. A. MILLIKIN, Historiographer of the Deipnosophist Club. A Deipnosophist Fragment. Moore's plagiarisms are intolerable. There is not a single original thought, conception, metaphor, or image, in the whole range of his works,-from the Posthumous Poems of Tom Little to his last dying speech-the Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion. Even the title of this nonsense is stolen from Erasmus's Peregrinatio Religionis ergo. The man is an indefatigable thief. He has laid under contribution every imaginable book, from the biography of his namesake, Tom Thumb, to the portly folios of the fathers of the Church. Perfectly unscrupulous in his marauding expeditions, and impartial in his attacks, he is found at one moment rifling a saint, and in the next pillaging a sinner. Every outpouring from the wells of Literature has brought grist to his mill, and now that he has filled his bags, he laughs at the world, clothes himself in sackcloth and ashes for his youthful misdeeds, and exhibits to the profane another incident for the chapter of literary curiosities; an incident which perhaps has no parallel-namely, that of T |