See how hideously ugly this clandestine appropriation of a few hundreds has made, in the eyes of the world, the absent man, who had been pictured in the imaginations of one half the kind-hearted Christians of the metropolis as the most handsome and accomplished youth within its walls. "Our paper has a moral, and no doubt ORIGINAL SONNETS. No. 2, AIR. Oh! to be borne upon the wings o' the wind, To me were happiness beyond compare. Were a choice gift to me, who love to breathe The fitful breezes, which themselves do wreathe A LITERARY COMPLAINT. To the Editor of "The Original." T. [We give insertion to the following letter for its singularity; but we cannot, of course, lend any countenance to the specuation respecting which the writer has thought proper to apply to us. Of Mr. Kean's present health we know nothing; but we hope and trust he is well, and that he will long continue to frustrate the sixpenny curiosity that would rejoice in the possession of a complete account of him from birth to burial, contained in a pamphlet with a glowing wrapper, and a highlycoloured frontispiece.] SIR, I have the misfortune to be one of the humbler retainers of literature-a hanger-on upon the skirts, as it were, of that capricious and illiberal mistress. I need scarcely say, after this, that I am a garretteer and a starveling. My scribbling vocation, with every impulse from the provocation of hunger, produces me but a minimum of subsistence. The purlieus of St. Giles's are the sphere-and ballads, dream-books, marvellous pamphlets, with other sorts of cheap and popular literature, the subjects, of my labours. The publishers of such matters have, however, little of the character of Mæcenas: they doom us authors to find multum in parvo, a fortune in a farthing: they expect a large acquittance for a small pittance. In the desperate ingenuity which our impecuniosity suggests, we are sometimes driven to take the life of a popular character-an orator, actor, singer, or preacher I mean, to work him up biographically, ere he has ceased to exist, in sixpenny to half-a-crown form, for the supply of our necessities, through the public passion for collected fact or fiction about individuals who figure in the newspapers. But these anticipatory biographies have lost of late their value in the market; the competition, the reform bill, the cholera morbus, and the public indifference, have pretty well knocked these lives on the head. Post mortem biographies have still however, of course, a large power of attraction, and to these our tribe are particularly alive; whilst I, among the number, have for some time past, looked to the obituary for the resurrection of my hopes. But every thing depends on the advantage of being first in the market. The printed life must appear as soon as ever the individual himself is (to adopt the bookseller's phrase,) "out of print," that is to say, removed from vitality. And now, Sir, comes the especial topic of my complaint. Mr. Kean, the actor, has been a good man to the poor -that is to say, like a pelican feeding her young, he has supplied to hungry authorlings many a meal, derived from his life itself. But this source has ceased, from the beforenamed causes, to afford nourishment, and they can now only look to his demise for any further support from him. In saying this, Sir, I must deprecate the idea of the slightest feeling of malice against the great tragedian, whom, in his profession, and out of mine, I respect from my soul.-"My poverty, and not my will, consents." Of Mr. Kean, then, let me say, without odium, I have long had a design upon his Life. I have long had in preparation a mass of papers, extracts from the daily journals, scraps from magazines, anecdotes from dramatic miscellanies, &c., all duly arranged, affixed, and connected, (mainly by dint of scissors and paste) and only awaiting the departure of Mr. Kean, for the addition of those mortuary particulars which would enable them to spring into life, through the aid of the press, and to realize my hunger-prompted_expectations. Do not for a moment mistake me, Mr, Editor, I beseech you. I am not actually wishing for the death of this eminent character: I only wish to take advantage of it when it really does occur. This public privation I was the more led to suppose likely, by reason of the newspaper declarations, from time to time, of Mr. K.'s declining powers, and apparently approaching secession from this troublesome world. But Mr. Kean still lives, in defiance of every authority-he draws his breath in the teeth of every promised extinction, and I sometimes think be seems almost to have commenced on this earth the immortality which his admirers have in a more ethereal sense assigned to him. Yet, Sir, after all, this great man may be no better than (for my life interest in him,) he should be-and (may I say it without offence?) I should be very grateful if you, in your extended acquaintance with all that concerns eminent public individuals, would favour me with some intelligence on which I may rely, as to his actual condition of health; for I am positively reduced to my last shifts, and must do something. I am, Sir, Your very humble servant, N.B. I have secret designs on the "Life" of Cobbettbut he is so tough, that I fear they will prove abortive; so pray let me know what you think about Kean; although I really should be sorry if any harm were to happen to him, you know. manage it by some means or other: what is boldly ventured is half won. There was once a King's-daughter who was very proud and haughty, and issued a proclamation that she would marry any one who should bring her a riddle which she could not solve-on condition, however, that if she guessed it, the proposer should be put to death. Now she was as beautiful as milk and blood, so that no one thought for a moment of the danger, but all were ready with their riddles; but she guessed them every one. However, after nin had been thus put to death, it happened that a merchant's son heard of the proclamation, and determined, with the assistance of his servant, who was a shrewd knave, to try his fortune. Four eyes, thought he, see more than two; we will But when his parents heard of his intention, they were grievously afflicted, for they deemed it certain that their beloved child would perish-so they sought to prevent him from going, and said, "it was better that he should die and be buried in his own country, than in a strange land." So they mixed poison in the stirrup-cup, and begged of him to drink off the parting drink; but he, as if he guessed their intentions, would not drink, but sprang hastily into the saddle, saying, "Farewell, dear parents, I may not tarry longer, lest some one win from me the beautiful maiden." When he was mounted they again presented the cup to him, but he stuck his spurs into his horse, and the wine was spilt, so that some of it fell into his horse's ears. When he had ridden a short distance his horse fell, so that he was fain to ride his servant's, and let him follow on foot. No sooner had the horse fallen than the ravens descended to feed upon it; but,its flesh being poisoned, they fell dead by the side of it. Then the servant picked up three of the dead ravens, and took them to an inn, for he thought they would make fit food for robbers- so he had them cut into pieces, and made up with flour into three loaves. On the following morning, as they were travelling through a gloomy forest, twelve thieves sprang upon them, and laid hands both upon the master and the servant. And the servant said, "Spare our lives; we have no money; nothing but three loaves, which we will give to you.' And the robbers were satisfied with the loaves, divided them among themselves, and ate them-but it was not long before the poison worked upon them, and they all fell down upon earth. the Then the young merchant and his servant journeyed on; and, when they reached the city, the young man presented himself before the King's daughter, and said he would propose a riddle to her. She gave him permission to do so; and he said, "One at the first blow, three at the second, and twelve at the third." And the King's daughter considered for a long time, but could not discover it-and she consulted her riddle-book, but there was nothing like it there. But, as she had three days to find it out, on the first night she sent one of her maids into the sleeping-room of the young merchant, to listen whether he spoke of it in his sleep, But his cunning servant had placed himself in his master's bed; and, when the maid came, he laid hold of her cloak, and drove her from the room the cloak he secured in his knapsack. On the second night the King's daughter sent off another of her ladies of the bed-chamber-and the servant seized her cloak, drove her from the room, and secured that cloak likewise in his knapsack. But on the third night the princess came herself, wrapped up in an ermine cloak, and she seated herself by the bedside. As soon as she thought he was asleep and dreaming, she questioned him, in hopes that he would answer in his sleep-but he was awake, and heard aud understood every thing that was said. Then she asked, "One at the first blow; What is that?" and he answered "my horse, which died from the poison that was spilt in his ear." "Three at the second blow; what is that?" "Three ravens, who ate of the poisoined horse, and so died." "Twelve at the third blow; what does that mean ?” "Twelve robbers, who ate of three loaves in which the ravens were mixed, and who died in consequence," As soon as she discovered the riddle, she would have slipt out of the apartment, but he laid fast hold of the ermine cloak, so that she was obliged to leave it behind her. On the following morning she said, "I have guess ed the riddle," and she commanded the twelve judges to attend, and explained it before them. But the youth demanded to be heard by them, and said-"Had she not come to me in the night, and asked me what it was, she would not have known it." But they answered him, "Give us proof of this." Then the servant displayed the three cloaks, and the judges recognised the ermine one as being the princess's. "Let the cloak be embroidered," was then the mandate. So it was converted into a bridal cloak, and the young merchant received the princess for wife. DEAR TOM, You lead a happy life, Bless'd with such children, such a wife, And such a pleasant home, But write, to ask your friends in town To snuff your country air, For really I am tired of hearing. Lord Althorp's candour and Hume's carpings, For such I call Lord Eldon's tears, And ('twixt ourselves, Tom,) Brougham's sneers, And such, spite of the Times, I call O Tom, I very often dream How we have paced the rippling stream, And brought the finny prize to shore. For I now tread a different strand, But truce-since I cannot come down, And converse hold by letter. I'll write-I can't do better. Starting with books, first let me just cor- Whom I remember ofttimes seeing At Russell's and at Saville's. His book is clever, doubtless; but, One's private friends in print- I read few novels, but I warn ye, It seems a hash of truth and fiction, Dumont's account of Mirabeau I'm told by some who her have seen, Heart swell as if the veins would burst- But I have almost fill'd my sheet, To recommend a paper rich in all And now good night.-I'm pretty well, Me that I'm growing lank: His measured word who dares gainsay? SOME THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT STATE OF PARTIES. BY A SEXAGENARIAN. "Laudator temporis acti." To one who, like myself, has descended into the vale of years, the foolish innovations of the present generation upon the institutions of our ancestors are an awful and distressing consideration. I am an old man, and have little to be anxious about in this valley of tears; but the Ramilies hat which it was my pride to wear, the slender pigtail which I cherished for so many years-those I did hope to carry unmolested with me to the grave. But I foolishly suffered myself to be persuaded by my nephew Charles, who was spending his Oxford vacation with me, to send my Ramilies to a hatter, to be put, as he expressed it, at full cock-an operation which, I am ready to admit, it stood in some need of. My consternation, however, may be imagined, when, upon opening the box in which I expected to find my renovated chapeau, I discovered a cerebral covering of an extravagance which my wildest imaginings had never conceived. I turned to my nephew for an explanation. "The fact is," said he, with a grin which I shall never forget, "the old hat was mislaid, and I thought this just the thing for you, so I ordered it home." Directing my attention to a label which was appended to this new abomination by a string, I distinguished the words "Neck or Nothing." "Ah, Charles !" said I, your conduct will bring your uncle's grey hairs with sorrow to the grave." "How can that be, Sir, since you wear a wig?" exclaimed the unfeeling reprobate. 66 My pig-tail did not long survive the loss of my unlucky hat; it was severed from my head by a single cut of my little grand-daughter's scissors, while, unconscious of my peril, I slumbered after dinner in my easy chair. I was not aware of the extent of my misfortune, until the candles had been brought in, and I discovered that the reflection of the queue, which, Charles declared, used to give to the shadow of my head upon the wall the appearance of a warming-pan, was no longer there. But I wander from my subject. Having accepted the invitation of my old friend, Mrs. Twaddle, of Wigmore-street, to her annual rout, and being unable, through forgetting my spectacles, to take part in a rubber, I had ample leisure for indulging in reflection. "And are these, indeed, the representatives of the bloods of former times?-the Jemmy's and Jessamy's of my youthful days!" thought I, as I gazed upon a sombre-looking group of youths. If I was considered a plain dresser, though arrayed in a salmon-coloured coat with a blue velvet collar -if I was voted tame because I seldom exceeded canarycoloured pantaloons-how utterly stale, flat, and unprofitable must the present race of beaux be, who blush not to appear in as dingy a suit as might grace a disconsolate heir returning from the funeral of his wealthy grandmother? There are many who affect to be astonished by the widely-spread profligacy of the present age, as if mora dignity were compatible with a round hat, or sterling principle could exist in a person who wears his own hair? Barristers, though ever so astute and eloquent in their several Courts, appear, when translated to the House of Commons, just as silly and stupid as the majority of those who surround them, and for the reason I have already given. In the Courts they are decorated with the wigs, which the wisdom of our fathers has handed down to them; in the Commons they attend with their heads unfurnished. My sporting friends complain to me of the increasing numbers of the blacklegs who infest our race-courses, &c. They attribute the evil to the effects of a long peace; I ascribe it to the disuse of canary-coloured pantaloons. But the customs of this generation are all equally absurd; instead of conducting his partner to her place, after the graceful fashion of 1790, with a gentle compression of the tips of her white kid gloves, the Exclusive of the present day, tucks her under his arm with the air of a light porter of a grocery establishment, carrying home two pounds of tea. What a delicate medium was the ancient mode for exhibiting the unsullied freshness of a silver-fringed glove! Gloves were gloves then; now, I am sorry to say, they are little better than mittens. I could say more upon a subject so important, were I not apprehensive of having said too much for the patience of my readers. The following lines will be, I trust, more acceptable; they are the production of a talented young friend, Mr. Robert Higgs, who having, for several years fulfilled the arduous duties of waiter at the Assembly-rooms at Margate, is, of course, eminently qualified to dilate upon the present state of society. THE BALL. Lights are bursting on the gloom; Band-men through the ball-room creep, Stealing from the ante-room, Where the powdered waiters sleep, Lamentations long and loud, Of some much-prized diamond dross. Reeking from the Stock Exchange, Dowagers, with turbaned brow, Through the "salle-a-manger" range, Stalking o'er the festive scene, Like the Fiend of Frankenstein. Animated by the sound Of the joyous fiddle-notes, Spinsters join, with merry bound, Whirling in the giddy waltz, Merveilleux display their skill: They, whose footsteps play them false, Stumble through a cold quadrille : Artists of a higher grade Figure in the gallopade. But the lofty roof-trees ring With a fainter revelry; G. C. Old Mandarin Fum, who his joke never spares, They say "Life's a tale;" if so, all tails are lives, Like a sailor deprived, in the midst of his voyage, Thus shaven behind nigh as clean as a whistle, I never can answer, when I've lost my queue. Alas for my tail! Yet one comfort I find, that, no matter now how hard I must fly to that land, where, unless Dryden flams, BRITISH REVIEW. T. The Works of Lord Byron; with his Letters and Journals, and his Life. By Thomas Moore, Esq. Vol. 4. London, 1832. Murray. This is another of Mr. Moore's deeply interesting volumes on the subject of Byron's biography, and embraces the period between April 1817 and October 1820. Its chief interest is, of course, in the letters and scraps from the pen of the Noble Bard himself, which Mr. Moore weaves together very judiciously with his own elegant and illustrative commentary. The publication of Don Juan, and the liaison with the Countess Guiccioli, are the principal points of attraction in the present volume, which, like all volumes of a similar nature, abounds in quotable passages. Among these the following is one of the most remarkable, not only for the sentiments expressed in it, but for the opinion which Gifford has given with regard to it. "There is," observed Gifford, in a manuscript note upon the letter, "more good sense, and feeling, and judgment in this passage, than in any other I ever read, or Lord Byron wrote.” "With regard to poetry in general, I am convinced, the more I think of it, that he and all of us-Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I-are all in the wrong, one The acquaintance with European literature evinced by this singular Chinaman may perhaps create some astonishment: but the fact is, that he has acquired an early taste for the English language, and is a particular correspondent of Dr. Bowring. +"Both number twice a day the milky dams, |