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London, in its improvements or embel-
"People quite forget the importance of the public buildings and the public avenues to their daily comfort and convenience; and it would take an entire paper to shew the influences of all kinds which the position and the construction of a city have upon the morals and habits of its inhabitants-many of them are very evident. If a town is composed of small houses, and spread over an immense space, communication will be difficult, and social intercourse obstructed, and, of course, diminished."
Oh! my Mullion, mildest of men, what beauty of expression! a growing disposition to improve the convenience of the country at large." Our scribe of the New Series here means "the out-of-door nature" of the Cockneys, which is now beginning "to lie more convenient to town ;"-" stoning all the streets to death, as if they were so many St Stephens !" What profound knowledge, and striking application of Holy Writ! what beautiful expression given to the scientific discovery of streets being now, for the first time, made of stones! how novel the similitude, yet how natural and obvious, as soon as made, between a long street under the process of Macadamization, and him the first martyr! The delighted reader wonders how a resemblance so strong at all points had never presented itself to his own pensive imagination! that it should first have appeared in the New Series of the London, Anno Domini 1825! But with what perfect ease and mastery does the gifted author of THE THAMES QUAY turn from poetry to prose, from fancy to fact, from martyrology to statistics! "IT WOULD BE WELL TO REMEMBER THAT LONDON IS THE ME
TROPOLIS NOT MERELY OF ENGLAND,
Since the days of Akenside, we have had no such imaginative writer as the Paviour. "London is but like one of its booksellers, a proprietor of a series of very indifferent Highways and ByeEach Sly, satirical dog! ways. street a little ago was like St Stephen; and now the whole of London," the metropolis, not merely of England, but of the whole British empire," is like " one of its booksellers!" Damn the idiot, Mullion,-isn't that enough to send No. I. of the New Series of the London into the paper-box of your cigarium? yet I question if a leaf of such material would light a cigar. It is fit only for a pipe at the Pig and Whistle.
Forgive this sally-but, my dear English Opium-Eater, I insist upon your reading aloud to our friend A!lan Cunninghame, the following sentence, written in Italics, as Hogg calls them; and if you do not both agree with me in declaring it, not only at the head of all periodical, but also of all idiotical composition, my name is not Timothy Tickler.
People quite forget the importance of the public buildings and the public avenue
to their daily comfort and convenience; and garter, thereby enticing people to play. it would take an entire paper to shew the in- (P. 49.) fluences of all kinds which the position and the construction of a city have upon the morals and habits of its inhabitants-many of them are very evident. If a town is composed of small houses, and spread over an immense space, communication will be difficult, and social intercourse obstructed, and, of course, diminished.”
"We do not find the Rev. Mr Buntingford, or Archdeacon → racked for dabbling in guinea whist, or Squire Holyoak for vitiating the Melton hunt with ecarté.
No such thing, you blockhead; I give you the lie direct. If a town is spread over an immense space, I maintain that communication will be much easier, social intercourse cleared of all obstruction, and, of course, increased. What comes next?-THE VAGRANT ACT. This is a comical rogue,-I know him-You remember the kicking he received on a certain occasion from a reporter in the Old Times, a degradation far beyond that of the treadmill. Take the following as a specimen of the rogue's manner :
"John Mowes; sleeping in an open shed, and not being able to give a good account of himself. (P. 31.)
"Marry! a legal settlement under a hedge! poor Mr and Mistress Smith! Hail, wedded pair! Connubial comfort, hail!'-John Mowes too,-caught in the fact of sleeping in an open shed,-how could he, without a lie, give a good account of himself? There are, however, hundreds of such hard cases as these in the prison returns!
"We come now to the report of William Matthews.
"James Birch; for singing ballads in the public streets, &c. '(P. 89.)
"What a blessing not to be born musical-the House of Correction is now your only musical box. At p. 101, we find John Voice ran away, and left his child chargeable to the parish of Albourne.' Doubtless he ran away with the best intentions; for, for him to stay was criminal. What could he do?- Vor, et præterea nihil!'-The wheel was all before him, where to choose."
This irresistible irony is followed up by a letter from Hookey Walker to the editor, which I, at first perusal, opined to be fictitious, but I now see that it is from a real vagrant of that name, well known about the suburbs of London, (the metropolis, not only of Great Britain, but of the whole British empire, an empire containing, &c.) Then comes a sort of postscript by the editor, who relapses into the following most elegant badinage.Come, Mr Taylor, come forward, if you please, once more, before an admiring public, and protest that, from a good feeling," you gave, with your prim and pursed mouth, your "imprimatur."
"At p. 18, we have Thomas Moore for selling the Great Stambridge breeches, a crime which he can only have committed in some moment of anacreontic hilarity.
"At p. 27, Thomas Little stands charged on the oath of a constable, and on his own confession. It will be remembered that this gentleman put as a motto in the title-page to his little production, "Lusisse pudet," little thinking it would conduct him to the tread-mill.
"At p. 43, we have Campbell for not giving a good account of himself (we feared his connexions with the New Monthly would do him no good)—and at p. 30, we meet with Scott begging.
"At p. 54, Mrs Mary Ann Clarke; idle and disorderly. 6 To this complexion must she come at last!'
"At p. 25, Samuel Rogers; wandering abroad, lodging in ale-houses, and being unable to give a good account of himself.
"Perhaps this' talented' person was not blessed with the pleasures of me
mory just at the moment he was under examination.
"James Smith, of rejected popularity, is idle, wandering, and drinking at nearly He is, unquestionably, an every page. incorrigible rogue and vagabond. His picture, like that of Fortune, ought to He is so eterbe painted on a wheel. nally at work, that he is called by Cubitt his Tire-smith."
But here are some verses-to the Nightingale, too—and written in the woods of Bolton Abbey. Let any young lady take Barry Cornwall, and gently stupify him over the fumes of a small still, in shape and size like a tea-pot, put a crow-quill into his hand, bring her Album, and insist on the author of the Deluge apostrophizing a nightingale, and what better or worse would she expect than
« Fine bird, who mournest o'er the bygone hours,
Like one of life complaining or great wrong,
Turn hither! and, fine bird, o'er Bolton bowers
(Too much forgotten) spread thy wealth of song," &c.
Now, if this be Barry, or of the Barry breed, we shall not be long without a few heathen divinities, and here they come, ready cut and dry.
"For never since the Phrygian mood was heard,
And never since the Dorian pipe grew rich With melancholy meaning,-such as
The mermaids' music, when the stars could witch
Old Ocean to his depths, or Triton's word Alarm'd the waters of the salt-sea-ditch! Where Calpe mocks the moon-has aught been known
To mate the words thou sighest in greenwoods lone.
Sing on! Sing on, dear bird! a home more green
Than this grew never on green earth, since man
Fashion'd those antique dreams wherein
Thessalian Tempé, and the streams which
And Naiads dashing from their silver springs,
And all which verse or fable sweetly sings."
Through valleys, on whose slopes rough Fauns did lean,
When poets of old Greece saw sylvan Pan,
“In the music of the spheres, the moon is said to contribute the gravest and most sonorous part of the harmony."
† “Uriel,—the angel of the sun." VOL. XVII.
"The thousand car-bound cherubim, The wandering Eleven,
All join to chant the dirge of him Who fell just now from heaven."
Match me that, Mullion. Read it over again, and tell me if you ever read the like before. How do you account for the universal blindness of mankind to so very marked an occurrence as this, right over their heads and houses? It must have happened in the day-time-or perhaps at night, when all the world, and his wife, were asleep. It is well worth a place, however, in the Obituary. Now, mind words; my we shall be having this astronomical ninny figuring away in the New Series. Stanzas for music, by the author of the Fallen Star. The Cockneys will be carrying about THIS POEM for weeks to come, spouting it into each other's noses-" It is full of genius, sir-full of passion-not only fancy, but imagination. What majesty of sound in The wandering Eleven!'-It reminds one of Keats. Had you seen how Hazlitt stared at the first recitation-Nothing finer in Wordsworth!" Yes, Mullion, it is thus the bantams of Cockaigne gocrowing over each little addled article, as if it were absolutely the egg of a Phonix, if such a thing might be supposed, till you, or North, or-God forgive me perhaps my own thoughtless self-takes it up into his hand, and,och hone aree!-the shell breaks, and forthwith there is a splutter of purulent matter, that would never have become chickified, had it been sat upon for months by a whole New Series of geese and ganders.
But here comes the great Spanish Ass, upwards of 14 hands high. Gentlemen, you shall hear him bray.
man baron, who was slain by the hand of Harold himself, at the fatal battle of Hastings. Be this as it may, we find a family of that name flourishing some centuries later in that county. John Delliston, knight, was High-Sheriff for Kent, according to Fabian, quinto Henrici Sexti; and we trace the lineal branch flourish
ing downwards-the orthography varying, according to the unsettled usage of the times, from Delleston to Leston, or Liston, between which it seems to have alternated, till, in the latter end of the reign of James I., it finally settled into the determinate and pleasing dissyllabic arrangement which it still retains. Aminadab Liston, the eldest male representative of the family of that day, was of the strictest order of Puritans."
"BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF
"The subject of our memoir is lineally descended from Johan de L'Estonne, (see Doomesday Book, where he is so written,) who came in with the Conqueror, and had lands awarded him at Lupton Magna, in Kent. His particular merits or services, Fabian, whose authority I chiefly follow, has forgotten, or perhaps thought it immaterial to specify. Fuller thinks that he was standard-bearer to Hugo de Agmondesham, a powerful Nor
No; you are wrong, I assure youhe is not a mule-he is a bona fide genuine ass, and I could shew you his pedigree; but you are always so cursedly obstinate, and so proud of your natural history. Well, then, hear him bray once more. I say he is an ass.
"In the midst of some most pathetic passage, the parting of Jaffier with his dying friend, for instance, he would suddenly be surprised with a fit of violent horse-laughter. While the spectators were all sobbing before him with emotion, suddenly one of those grotesque could not resist the impulse. faces would peep out upon him, and he A timely excuse once or twice served his purpose,
but no audience could be expected to tinuity of feeling. He describes them bear repeatedly this violation of the con(the illusions) as so many demons haunting him, [and paralysing every effect. Even now, I am told, he cannot recite the famous soliloquy in Hamlet, even in private, without immoderate bursts of laughter."
Now, Mullion, are not all your doubts removed ?*
I remember some months ago, that Snug the Joiner, in the Lion's Head, roared out to his subscribers, that no magazine ever reviewed any new books, and that therefore he was going_to begin. He does so, in the New Series. And with what book?-Don Juan!! Snug supposes that so wicked a book cannot have been read much, and therefore he proposes to perform the same operation on Don Juan as Mr Bowdler of Bath performed upon Wicked Will of Warwickshire. He
Yes, he is an ass.-M. Mullion.
is going to reprint the poem, without the naughty verses, in order that it may be perused to advantage by the same virgins who read the following VISION OF HORNS.
Yes! lo and behold-a VISION OF HORNS! Why scratchest thou thy head, my dear Mullion? Why, London Maga is quite a woman of the world; nay, verily, a woman of the town, and her mirth is most indecorous. How shocking must her slang be to the chaste ears and "good feeling" of her keeper, Mr Taylor! What will Mrs Fry say? She used to be a very demure female, somewhat homely, no doubt, and not very captivating; but, although I "thought her prattle to be tedious," there was a rosy pudency about her lips, that once a-month was not so much amiss to an old subscriber. But now-fye on it-equivoque, double-entendre, and downright, plain-spoken "skulduddery," is with her the order of the day. Now for the Vision of Horns.
The wit of the Vision is this:Elia (God forgive him) becomes clearsighted in a dream, and, to his utter dismay, observes that every man of his acquaintance is a-cuckold, and this important information he communicates, at the rate of ten guineas a-sheet, to London, "which is the metropolis, not merely of Great Britain, but of the whole British empire." His friends are all interesting characters, and they all belong to the most interesting professions. We have Dick Mitis, a cheesemonger; Dulcet, a confectioner; Placid, an annuitant; and various clerks of the India-House. Elia, even in his dreams, is addicted to the very best society; and among these delightful citizens he introduces also no less a man than a colonelyes, an absolute colonel in the army.
when I felt an ugly smart in my neck, as if something had gored it behind, and turning round, it was my old friend and neighbour, Dulcet, the confectioner, who, meaning to be pleasant, had thrust his protuberance right into my nape, and seemed proud of his power of offending."
Genius, like Elia's, can throw an air of eloquence and delicacy over the coarsest subject. How keen the edge of his satire, and yet how lightly wielded his weapon!" Now," continues the ingenious and original Elia of the London,' "I was assailed right and left, till, in my own defence; I was obliged to walk sideling and wary, and look about me, as you guard your eyes in London streets; for the horns thickened and came at me like the ends of umbrellas, poking in one's face. They do not know what dangerous weapons they protrude in front, and will stick their best friends with provoking complacency." How like the language of a dream! How far superior to Coleridge's Kubla-Khan! Why, it is quite Shakspearean! But hark
"Dick Mitis, the little cheesemonger in St -'s Passage, was the first that saluted me, with his hat off-you know Dick's way to a customer-and, I not being aware of him, he thrust a strange beam into my left eye, which pained and grieved me exceedingly; but, instead of apology, he only grinned and fleered in my face, as much as to say, 'it is the custom of the country,' and passed on.
"I had scarce time to send a civil message to his lady-whom I have always admired as a pattern of a wife, and do indeed take Dick and her to be a model of conjugal agreement and harmony
"Desiring to be better informed of the ways of this extraordinary people, I applied myself to a fellow of some assurance, who (it appeared) acted as a sort of interpreter to strangers-he was dressed in a military uniform, and strongly resembled Colonel of the Guards; -and' Pray, sir,' said I, 'have all the inhabitants of your city these troublesome excrescences? I beg pardon, I see you have none. You perhaps are single.'
Truly, sir,' he replied with a smile, 'for the most part we have, but not all alike. There are some, like Dick, that sport but one tumescence. Their ladies have been tolerably faithful—have confined themselves to a single aberration or 80-these we call Unicorns. Dick, you must know, is my Unicorn. He spoke this with an air of invincible assurance.] Then we have Bicorns, Tricorns, and so on up to Millecorns. [Here methought I crossed and blessed myself in my dream.] Some again we have-there goes oneyou see how happy the rogue lookshow he walks smiling, and perking up his face, as if he thought himself the only man! He is not married yet, but on Monday next he leads to the altar the accomplished widow Dacres, relict of our late sheriff.'
"I see, sir,' said I, 'and observe that he is happily free from the national goire, (let me call it,) which distinguishes most of your countrymen.'