Some account of Peter Daunerabout. with any one who may think differently from himself. Having now introduced this worthy personage to your notice, gentle reader, I bid you adieu, with a promise that next number you shall become better acquainted with Peter, from whose "NoTIONS" I hope you may derive as much pleasure as I have done. Wishing you therefore much happiness as well as instruction, and hoping, in the style of the Spaniards, that you may live nine hundered and ninty-nine years, SIR, No doubt you will start upon the discovery that the following observations come from a SPIRIT, one of those invisible beings employed by Apollo to rail at the foibles of "little man” at those whom fate has sorely beset-who imagine themselves something—yet in the eyes of others dwindle into nothingsans every thing "-to whom the muse is magic, and the ratling of a stanza, the ne plus ultra of delight. That you will stare confounded to think that it can bring forward its lucubrations before the discerning eyes of a book-sifting world, and exclaim. in the language of astonishment,- "Mirabile dictu! who would have thought it, that our little Gleaner should not only have spread through the wide range of western Caledonia, but extended so far as to arrest the attention of the invisible creation." But your surprise will be lessened when you are informed that I am Momus the celebrated railer, hated amongst men, but highly honoured in the temple of fame; and that when the hollow tones of woe ascend on high; and the wasps of the lower world come buzzing about my ears, I generally descend into the lack brains of Mullilubarkerston, a poor old anchorite, in whose On the Irascibility of Poets. capacious caput I investigate the topics of the day, and whose hand and pen I employ when wishing publicity to my remarks. So much introductory. But before we proceed to the subject of discussion, perhaps it may not be inexpedient to remark, to the itching few, and immaculi literati, in case any of them in the attitude of imagined superiority should draw their battle quills and march up their Lilliputian forces to expel me from the abodes of man, that I am invulnerable-as far above the artscribblers of terra as Mount Blanc o'ertops the mole-hill in the vale; that it will be as vain to try to silence my artillery, as it was for Giants of old to scale the walls of heaven, and turn Jupiter from his throne-and wisdom in those who have caught the cacoethes scribendi to conceal their animosity, lest unhappily they provoke me to assume a more terrible appearance-attack them with ferocity, tear them in pieces, and scatter their contemptible members in the wide expanse of heaven. ON THE IRASCIBILITY OF POETS. Genius is allied to a hot and inflammable temper. Hume The sun was just sinking below the black verge of the sky, etching out another day to that part of the world where Mullilubarkerston my amanuensis had found a retreat from the noise and bustle of active life, in a small cottage that smiled beneath the covert of a mountain's brow, that shot with awful projection over head, forming at once a shelter from the sun, the rain and down-beating tempests of the north; and in which along with Dorothy Crabface his spouse he ruled with absolute controul over a numerous funily, the happy production of nineteen and a half connubial years. At this time of the closing day to gratify a romantic humour, I took my station on the highest crag of one of those black clouds, which are often seen rising from the west on the shoul ders of the grey twilight, moving in awful majesty before the blue zephyrs of the ocean-to survey the abodes of man whose towns and cities, castles, domes and spires, faintly tinged with the golden hues of the setting sun-presented a scene at once grand, awful and sublime. But as I sailed through the blue vault of heaven, admiring the grand scenery below, my attention was drawn to a hill-side, where peering from a miserable hut, I On the Irascibility of Poets. espied a man who had all the appearance of one of Apollo's care-lashed devotees; and following his steps as he sought with rueful looks the dark shade of a thick wood; on a sudden my ears were saluted with one of the most doleful strains that ever came from the abodes of madness, which seemed to flow from a heart charged with sorrow-tossed by ambition-vexed at disappointment and wrung with the poison of despair. The air was solemn, and the words as follows: Let joy no more the banquet spread, No more let Hope deceive, Death tear the laurels from my head Confusion seize each rhyming mood, No sooner ceased the woe-woven anthem, than from my empyreal I descended and took possession of my little squat friend, whom I found reclining in his elbow chair in the arms of repose; Grimalkin stretched on his knee, purring to nostril grave, her favourite old song of "three threads and a thrum." On my arrival he awoke, and as there was no time to dally, after inspi ring him with the proper qualifications of an essayist I began the following interrogatory remarks. How comes it my dear Mullilu that almost all those beings known by the name of poets, scriberrants, poetasters and rhymers, are so peevish, irascible, and so often out of humour with themselves and the world, appearing more like men under the power of lunacy, than favourites destined by the parent of genius to learn and delight mankind. I have observed in the course of my perambulations round the world, that with the exception of a few, these nondescripts have always hung their harps on the wil lows of despondency, after some favourite part was played, and earnestly solicited the grim king of terrors, to come and pour the balm of oblivion into their bleeding bosoms, put an end to the unendurable anguish of their souls; emancipate their spirits from the corroding chains of mortality, and hasten the happy hour when their weary limbs were deposited where the "wicked cease from troubling," and the wretched sigh no more. A thousand times have I listened with joy, as on the wings of imagination Ou the Irascibility of Poets. their souls swelled with rapture at the soul-firing vibrations of their lyres; and as often have I turned with disgust as their furious fingers struck the discordant chords, fetching out sounds analogous to the music of the Kraals which entered the ear like the yellings of bedlam, and shook the troubled air. One moment have I melted at the symphonies of heaven, at another to the groans of hell-to the morning song, lost in the evening dirge, and the joys of the night in the horrors of the day. I remember when one of these enthusiasts titilated me so that with the rapidity of light, I descended from the bosom of a summer cloud, on which I had lain carolling all day with the Muses, "to bless the enraptured bard;" but e'er the concluding stanza's last undulation had died away, the placidity of the minstrel was changed into fury, and the sweet calm of melody expired in a tempest of rage. Tell me now, O Mullilubarkerston! if thou canst, what is the cause of this inconsistency-this misery attending the Children of Song. Here my sapient friend with a sardonic smile, assumed an air of considerable importance, looked to the roof for ten seconds, went over the gamut of his fingers, and after putting himself into a proper oratorical attitude delivered the following interlo cutor. "Most noble Momus, I know not whether I am duly qualified to answer your request, i. e. Whether my fugitive abilities are equal to the task of giving a true ecclaircissement of the subject. Or whether I shall, instead of pleasing only give offence, by discussing the matter as it lies before me. But most Puissant Spirit! being acquainted more or less with the "children of Song," from Homer the father of verse, to the unlettered author of Mary Lee; and having studied with critical eye the lives, actions, passions, qualities, propensities, hopes and fears of the musing race-since Milton brought down the Gazette of the three days war in heaven, to the last groan of Childe Harold, I presume, independent of whatever nice. disquisition, others may give who are more deeply versed in the art of anatomizing the mental and corporeal departments of the rational creation, that no one is more able to account for the peculiar irascibility of Poets, than I your humble servant, who in the first place, and in absence of Dorothy Crabface, attribute one cause of their apparent insanity to that predeliction they have for ease and harmonious composition, and the determined On the Irascibility of Poets. antipathy, the earless, unmusical division of the species have to every thing like Parnassian melody, and truth, in fiction dres sed. In the second place, to the oddity, eccentricity of manner, and Utopian calculations, which being so laughable in the eyes of the plain-faced prudential sons of mammon, and decorum, that often when they are basking in the bright beams of self-importance, considering their productions the subject of universal praise; in a moment, the loud roar of derision, and sneer of contempt assails them on every side, accompanied by grins, shrugs, and "moving fingers," all holding up to scorn. In the third place, to the hot inflammability of their tempers and extreme sensibility-ardent love of fame, pride, vanity and humbling criticism. And in the fourth place, to their deeprooted jealousy of one another, which, operating on their minds like compound physic upon the vitals of disease, never fails to inflict the severest pangs imaginable. And though some are wise and polished enough to cry up what they wish down, and will raise a great fanfaronade about the "wildness," "originality," and excellence of those they could see, works and all, well grounded at the bottom of the Red Sea; yet the keen desire of monopolizing all the sprigs, bays, and laurels of immortality, has such an effect, that no sooner does a competitor mount the stage, and the sound of a new song" break upon their ear, than their eyes begin to roll, the pulse beat, the bosom heave, aad angry features writhe, making them yell like lunatics under the lash of the keeper, and curse all around: which brings me to a very apposite remark of the Earl of Orrery, Poets are Sultans if they had their will; For every author would his brother kill, "But to draw the picture to life: let us suppose one of these enthusiasts coming before the public, with the dear produce of deep study and research, sighing for a place amongst the sons of fame. And for the sake of brevity, let us pass over the many stings and embarrassments that lie between the concep tion and the hour, when in a specimen perhaps, conceived to be the very quintessence of poetical vitality, he announces his intention to the world. Now, O behold him surrounded on all sides with friends and foes, fools, rogues and clowns, and stingtailed critics, eager to engage. On this side, one overflowing with love, whispers the old, time-ridden watch-word, "take |