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THE HUMMING-TOP AND THE HOBBY-HORSE.

shadow, what is? What a pity, in such cases it seems, as Dr. Johnson said of a certain musician's execution of some wonderful passages on the violoncello, that they were not impossible. The same writer to whom I have reverted observes, that it must have cost Smollett some labour and scratching to have christened his novels. I should not be surprised if the observation is true, for Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, and Ferdinand Fathom must own alliteration for their godfather. The literary labourers-I cannot help the infection myself-of the present day, are, however, very disciples to the fortuitous flourishes, and the fantastic flashes of my theme. Our periodicals are the very garners of its riches, our new books are absolutely the reservoirs of its ingenuity, and it is not now who will produce the best volume, or the ablest article, but who will fit the one with the aptest appellation, and the other with the most tantalizing title. Mais n'importe, it will be the same were I to preach till doomsday, la bagatelle will exist to a greater extent, or lesser, long after we are gathered to our fathers; and were my voice as "potential as the duke's," I fear I should fail in persuading my alliterative brotherhood, that a man who has wise things in his head is never curious about words, unless it be those which express his meaning quickest and clearest.

THE HUMMING-TOP AND THE HOBBY-HORSE.

Of all the diversions to which children, whether of three or six feet stature, are generally addicted, we know of no two that are so prevalent as those of the humming-top and the hobby-horse. In saying this, however, we mean not to put these favourites upon an equal footing, The hobby is a pretty toy; but then he is but of limited power, carries only moderate weights, and is generally employed upon less momentous, though agreeable and useful, occasions. It is true, that though all men have not the art to manage that charger, as we may call it, the hummingtop, nor even the good fortune to possess one, every man can boast of his hobby: but then, besides that this little, freakish palfrey is often restive, and will dash out of the high road of reason and good policy, the humming-top keeps its ground, always turns upon the main point-the pivot of cunning and interest and while it amuses, enriches, and not unfrequently even ennobles, its owner. Not like the hobby-horse, a mere source of a some what profitable amusement, the top,

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while it entertains, makes emolument the principal result of its rotation; though played with, it plays upon the world, and while turning on its own centre, turns the penny.

With respect to the comparative antiquity of these two distinguished conveniencies, though it has been made a subject of dispute, the advantage of the humming-top in this particular is as certain as that its benefits are greater and more substantial than those of the hobby. Its origin was coeval with that of the world. The human race had scarcely commenced its career, when the prince of darkness sported his humming-top to the infatuation and discomfort of Eve; and she, in turn, played off its enchantment upon her credulous spouse. From the first family it descended to the second, thence to the third, and so on, traversing with the spread of population the four quarters of the globe, humming as it moved, and deluding and deceiving age after age, and nation after nation. Without the humming-top, the Greeks had never introduced their warriorloaded hobby into deceived Troy. Without his humming-top, Philip of Macedon had never quizzed the Grecian confederation, Mahomet the Arabians, nor Peter the hermit the rulers of christendom. To come down to more modern times, without his humming-top, John Law of Edinburgh, had not been able to hoax both the court and the people of France; nor had the South-sea speculators, without theirs, procured such thousands of English dupes to be ruined and laughed at; nor again, unaided by their hummingtops, would the bulls and bears of the present day succeed so well in bubbling the public, and tricking one another. Even trade and commerce depend, in a degree, on one humming-top-the round of fashion; and government itself did owe a part of its revenue to its humming-topthe lottery wheel.

How evident, then, that in utility, as well as antiquity, the humming-top is superior to the hobby-horse! that while the hobby-horse often runs his rider into straits and difficulties, the humming-top constantly leads to success and prosperity! that while turning itself, it turns the credulity of others to the advantage of its whipper, guards him against the operations of other humming-tops, protects him from surrounding perils, and ensures to him all his golden wishes! Friend, therefore, as I am to hobby-horses, when rode with a tight rein, I cannot deny the higher virtues of the humming-top. It is true, that many are made wofully sensible of its power-that its rapid turnings are

apt to give as rapid changes to the affairs of those who feel its effects, especially of those who keep hobbies,-but that, we would say, is their fault: we must not convert the want of common sense in the hobby-riders into culpability in sporters of the humming-top. If its whippers, by virtue of their skill in making it spin, are enabled to make their neighbours spin, not they, but the unwary sufferers are to blame.

Review and Analysis.

ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE.

12mo. LONDON, 1825. BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND JOY.

Ir is a debatable point, whether society is most benefited by writers who make us laugh, or those who make us think. The toil of thinking is ultimately intended to be remunerated by laughter; or, if that be rather too broad for "ears polite," to produce a demure, exhilarated feeling, which is internally the same, though not expounded in "broad grins." The agreeable compound before us is intended to operate in the latter way, and is well made up for its object. It is a witty, pleasant, good-humoured little volume; though not quite equal, we think, in cleverness and raciness of humour, to the "Rejected Addresses," of which it is an imitation, yet it is a worthy member of that sprightly family. The Odes are fifteen in number, and are inscribed to divers well-known personages; to Graham the aëronaut; M'Adam the road reformer; Richard Martin, M. P. the Pythagorean; to Champion Dymoke'; the Great Unknown; the Steam Washing Company; Dr. Kitchener; Secretary Bodkin, &c.

Our lively Satirist has shown a correct judgment of the merit of his effusions, by placing the best first-with which we shall commence our selections;

TO MR. GRAHAM THE AERONAUT.
DEAR Graham, whilst the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
Their meaner flights pursue,
Let us cast off the foolish ties
That bind us to the earth, and rise
And take a bird's-eye view!-

A few more whiffs of my segar
And then, in Fancy's airy car,

Have with thee for the skies:-
How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd
Hath borne me from this little world,
And all that in it lies!-

Away!-away!-the bubble fills-
Farewell to earth and all its hills!-
We seem to cut the wind!-
So high we mount, so swift we go,
The chimney tops are far below,
The eagle's left behind!-

Ah, me! my brain begins to swim!→
The world is growing rather dim;
The steeples and the trees-
My wife is getting very small!
I cannot see my babe at all!—
The Dollond, if you please!-

Do, Graham, let me have a quiz,
Ld! what a Lilliput it is,

That little world of Mogg's I

Are those the London Docks?-that channel,
The mighty Thames ?-a proper kennel
For that small Isle of Dogs!-
What is that seeming tea-urn there?
That fairy dome, St. Paul's!-I swear,
Wren must have been a Wren!-
And that small stripe ?-it cannot be
The City Road!-Good lack! to see
The little ways of men!

Little indeed!-my eyeballs ache
To find a turnpike.-I must take

Their tolls upon my trust!—

And where is mortal labour gone
Look, Graham, for a little stone

Mac Adamized to dust!

?

Look at the horses!-less than flies!→→
Oh, what a waste it was of sighs
To wish to be a Mayor!

What is the honour ?-none at all,
One's honour must be very small
For such a civic chair!-

And there's Guildhall!-'tis far aloof

Methinks, I fancy thro' the roof

Its little guardian Gogs, Like penny dolls-a tiny show!~ Well, I must say they're ruled below By very little logs!

Oh! Graham, how the upper air Alters the standards of compare; Would cover London all aboutNay then-let's even empty out Another brace of bags!

One of our silken flags

Think! what a mob of little men
Are crawling just within our ken,
Pshaw-how the foolish sight rebukes
Ambitious thoughts!-can there be Dukes
Of Gloster such as these!-

Like mites upon a cheese!

Oh! what is glory?-what is fame?
Hark to the little mob's acclaim,

'Tis nothing but a hum!—
A few near gnats would trump as loud
As all the shouting of a crowd
That has so far to come!-

"The world recedes!-it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes-my ears
With buzzing noises ring!"-
A fig for Southey's Laureat lore!-
What's Rogers here ?-Who cares for Moore
That hears the Angels sing!-

Think now of Irving!-shall he preach
The princes down,-shall he impeach
The potent and the rich,
Merely on ethic stilts,-and I
Not moralize at two miles high
The true didactic pitch !

ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE.

Come-what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir? Is Gifford such a Gulliver

In Lilliput's Review,

That like Colossus he should stride
Certain small brazen inches wide
For poets to pass through?

Look down! the world is but a spot.
Now say-Is Blackwood's low or not,
For all the Scottish tone?

On clouds the Byron did not sit,
Yet dar'd on Shakspeare's head to spit,
And say the world was wrong!

And shall not we? Let's think aloud!
Thus being couch'd upon a cloud,

Graham, we'll have our eyes We felt the great when we were less, But we'll retort on littleness

Now we are in the skies.

O Graham, Graham, how I blame
The bastard blush,-the petty shame,
That used to fret me quite,-
The little sores I cover'd then,
No sores on earth, nor sorrows when
The world is out of sight!

My name is Tims.-I am the man
That North's unseen, diminish'd clan
So scurvily abused!

I am the very P. A. Z.

The London Lion's small pin's head
So often hath refused!

Campbell-(you cannot see him here)→→
Hath scorn'd my lays do his appear
Such great eggs from the sky ?-
And Longman, and his lengthy Co.
Long, only, in a little Row,

Have thrust my poems by !

What else?-I'm poor, and much beset
With damn'd small duns-that is-in debt
Some grains of golden dust!
But only worth, above, is worth.-
What's all the credit of the earth?

An inch of cloth on trust!

What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man!
Nay, worlds of wealth ?-Oh, if you can
Spy out,-the Golden Ball!
Sure, as we rose, all money sank':
What's gold or silver now ?-the Bank
Is gone the 'Change and all!

Oh, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds! Like birds of Paradise the clouds

Are winging on the wind!

But what is grander than their range? More lovely than their sun-set change?— The free creative mind!

Ah, me! I've touch'd a string that opes The airy valve !-the gas elopes

Down goes our bright Balloon!Farewell, the skies! the clouds! I smell The lower world! Graham, farewell, Man of the silken moon!

The earth is close! the City nearsLike a burnt paper it appears, Studded with tiny sparks! Methinks I hear the distant rout Of coaches rumbling all about

We're close above the Parks !

I hear the watchmen on their beats,
Hawking the hour about the streets.
L-d! what a cruel jar

It is upon the earth to light!
Well there's the finish of our flight!
I've smoked my last segar!

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We must protest against Mrs. Fry being placed in Mr. Merryman's satirical gallery. Topics of ridicule are not so scarce that there is an absolute necessity to fall on the philanthropists: though some of them may not adopt the best possible plans for doing good, yet the purity of their intentions consecrates their labours, and throws a sort of sacredness about their persons. At all events, they are volunteers; they make no charge to the public; on the contrary they make considerable sacrifices, and have an unquestionable right to pursue their own course in rendering their gratuitous services. We would leave, therefore, unannoyed, Mr. Brougham to superintend the dame schools, Mr. Place to keep a sharp look out on the balance of christenings and burials, and the worthy President to disseminate universally chemical and mechanical knowledge.

There are some pleasant conceits and happy imaginings in the "Epistle to the Great Unknown:"

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Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!

We met with mirth,-we part in pain!
For many a long, long year must go,
Ere Fun can see thy like again-
For Nature does not keep great stores
Of perfect Clowns-that are not Boors!

Then follows an epistle to the venerable Sylvanus Urban, gent.-" the Old Parr of periodicals"-with a bit of pleasant banter on his never-dying A, B, C correspondents, and his old-fashioned gossip on country churches. The "Letter of Remonstrance from Bridget Jones to the Noblemen and Gentlemen forming the Steam Washing Committee," is excessively facetious but we can only spare room for a plaintive and more serious stanza from the "Address."

Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge

Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge

When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, And beginneth her toil while the morn is

still grey,

As if she was washing the night into day

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With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop

Quite a living absorbent that revell'd in stop

She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand,

And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land!

The "Ode to Captain Parry" is spirited and fanciful:

Parry, my man! has thy brave leg
Yet struck its foot against the peg

On which the world is spun ?
Or hast thou found "No Thoroughfare"
Writ by the hand of Nature there,
Where man has never run!

Perchance thou'rt now-while I am writing

Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting
About thy frozen spine!
Or thou thyself art eating whale,

Oily, and underdone, and stale,
That, haply, cross'd thy line!

But I'll not dream such dreams of ill-
Rather will I believe thee still

Safe cellar'd in the snow,-
Of British kings and British glory,
Reciting many a gallant story
To crony Esquimaux-

Cheering that dismal game where night
Makes one slow move from black to white
Thro' all the tedious year,-

Or smitten by some fond frost fair,
That comb'd out crystals from her hair,
Wooing a seal-skin dear!

* Query, purly?-Printer's Devil.

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ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE.

But ah, ere thou art fixt to marry,
And take a polar Mrs. Parry,

Think of a six months' gloom-
Think of the wintry waste, and hers,
Each furnish'd with a dozen furs,
Think of thine icy dome!

ever saw.

There are some complete failures as well as the happiest hits in these jeux d'esprits among the former we class the effusion to Elliston, and the " Address to Maria Darlington:" the first is totally unworthy of notice, and the last is the poorest, cockneyfied, namby pamby thing we Indeed, our Democritus is clearly not au fait to the merits of Maria Darlington; and we are more surprised at finding him so purblind, in this case, after the good sense and penetration evinced in investigating the political economy of Mrs. Fry. We push on, however, to the great prince of gastronomy and music, Dr. Kitchener, who is thus invoked :

Hail! multifarious man! Thou wondrous, admirable, kitchen Crichton!

Born to enlighten

The laws of optics, peptics, music, cooking

Master of the piano-and the pan

As busy with the kitchen as the skies!

Now looking

At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes,-
Or boiling eggs

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Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath

'Gainst cattle days and death,Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager

For fighting on soup meagre"And yet, (as thou wouldst add,) the French

have seen

A marshall Tureen !"

Great was thy evening cluster!

grac'd

often

With Dollond-Burgess-and sir Humphry
Davy!

'Twas there M'Dermot first inclined to

Taste,

There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste

For puffs-and Accum analysed a gravy. Colman-the cutter of Coleman-street 'tis said

Came there,-and Parkins with his ex-wisehead,

(His claim to letters,) — Kater, too, the

Moon's

Crony, and Graham, lofty on balloons,There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated, (Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed)

And lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes spoons,

of

Madame Valbrèque thrice honour'd thee,

and came

With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle

And even Irving spar'd a night from fame, And talk'd-till thou didst stop him in the middle,

To serve round Tewah-diddle !*

*The doctor's composition for a night-cap.

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