idea of the thunder whispering to him "Juliana;" of his feeling when he eats his meals "as if some angel wav'd its banner;" of his drink whispering to him, and so on: all these things show great fertility of imagination. The accommodating spirit of his versification, too, we highly admire. Who but Mr. Slickey would ever have thought of rhyming "sixpence" (tanner), with Juliana? Proceeding on our way through the book, we come (p. 9) to the following STANZAS FOR MUSIC. There is a lovely spot of earth that's dear to me, yes, very! Who doubtless must be doomed to share in happiness unfading! Her father, oh that worthy man! alas! he is a stationer; Oh! Juliana! haste to me by moonlight, or I die! Oh! lay me in a turfy, narrow, damp, and mossgrown bed, As we fear that our readers may not at the first glance discover the beauties of this composition, we will briefly point them out. In the first place, there is the poetical halo which he throws around that rather common-place "spot of earth" Bucklersbury. The idea of calling it "lovely" shows him to have had a most vivid imagination, and a remarkably keen perception of the beauties of nature. we have that striking expression "Doomed to share in happiness unfading!" Next "Doomed to share "-that is a beautiful notion. Then the reference to the young lady's father is very happily introduced; we are informed by one line both of the old gentleman's character and his profession-he is "a worthy man and a stationer." How powerful and pathetic is the summing up of the second verse! "Oh! Juliana! haste to me by moonlight, or I die!" The partiality of lovers for moonlight is well known, and Mr. Slickey makes a highly poetical use of it. The fervour of his love is very well shown-if she doesn't come by moonlight, he will "die." Altogether these lines are exceeding meritorious. We hasten, however, to notice one which strikes us as being quite beyond the ordinary run of poetry. It is addressed TO MY NEPHEW, MAXIMILIAN SLICKEY, WHILE SLEEPING. After the second helping; then, sleep on And having said thus much, I'll now have done! It will be seen by the reader that Mr. Slickey was a disciple of that great school of modern poetry which takes the simplest and most familiar things with which we are acquainted for the subjects of its efforts, and altogether eschews the lofty, the noble, and the grand. This is shown most admirably in the above lines. How simple the subject-his little nephew, Maximilian Slickey. How interesting the reference to "that last Sunday's pudding," and to his mother saying "he had had enow after the second helping." We confess to being great admirers of this style of poetry. We know it is a weakness, but we acknowledge to being fond of Odes to Copper Teakettles, Sonnets on Waterproof Beaver Hats, Epics on having one's Hair Cut, and Elegies on Bluebottles. We like the Insignificant, we are partial to the Common-place, we are fond of the Minute. It is no wonder, therefore, that we highly delight in the effusion above instanced; it is a fine exemplification of the great principle of modern poetry, and we doubt not will be much relished by our many readers. It has been said by envious critics that the day of the Heroic stanza died with poor Byron. This is quite ridiculous; Mr. Slickey lived since the author alluded to, and he wrote in this style of verse. Here is a specimen: I had a dream. It was a horrid night, And midnight's brows shut out all trace of light; Not visible to the vision, because She was behind a cloud, so all was dark! The clock struck twelve, and then there came And said to me, in accents rather cruel, 66 Pray, Mr. Vincent, will you have your gruel?" What she did mean, I never have divined, And still her words remain upon my mind. It is well known that all real poets are very fond of what they call "Fragments." Here is Mr. Slickey's : :- A FRAGMENT. What is love? Oh! how can I But we have given our readers extracts enough to show the quality of Mr. Slickey's poetry, and now let us speak of the success his book experienced.. I'll tell you what it is," said he; "if I can only get plenty of cash and criticism, I shall do." It shall now be our task to show how much Mr. Slickey got of these commodities. First, as to the criticism. The Times, Herald, Chronicle, Post, Globe, Courier, Sun, and Standard, did not notice the work at all; the Advertiser did, and this was what it said :: 66 NEW BOOKS. 666 'Poems: 6 by V. S.-We have received a book bearing the above title but the author has made a mistake in christening his work; it should have been Trash, by V. S.,' for really, of all the twaddling, unmeaning, mawkish stuff we ever saw, this is the worst. That it may not be said we condemn without reason, we print the following: ' LOVE. Between some souls of mortal growth, At this moment I can feel it, Though the lov'd one is not near; Telling, too, the welcome story, Words at last complete the measure, That to human man is given, 'Till from Earth he goes to Heaven.'' Of the weekly papers, the Examiner alone condescended to notice Mr. Slickey's production, and this was the critique : 66 NEW BOOKS. "Poems: by 'V. S.'-We wonder who advised V. S.' to turn Poet! It must have been some wag of a publisher, we think, or some humourous printing bookseller who wanted to try his hand in the publishing line; or some kind friend who had made a bet upon the subject; or perhaps it was 'V. S's' mamma, who was tired of the bits of MSS. about the house, and thought to get rid of them by making him print them. However, it was a good joke whoever conceived it, and a nice Poet 'V. S.' has turned out. Here is a proof:6 MONODY. "On the Death of Тom, our Cat, who died July How shall I soothe my soul's despair? 18-. VOL. I. N Say, then, ye spirits of the air, How shall I soothe my soul's despair? When shall I cease to weep? "Twas such a timid, gentle cat! So truly I did like it! 'Twas not too lean, nor yet too fat! And never did I strike it! Then say, ye spirits of the air, 'I wander up and down the house, And all at home-aye, e'en each mouse, For aye doth cry away! Say, then, ye spirits of the air, Who all around us sweep! How shall I soothe my soul's despair? Now as to the sale. Mr. Slickey couldn't make up his mind to wait upon the publishers until at least three months after the publication, and in all probability he would have waited for even a longer period, had not the said publishers written to request that he would favour them with a call when passing their way. When, however, Mr. Slickey did call, he turned very red, and asked for his account, as he should very much like to come to a settlement. The account was soon produced, and was as follows: "To 500 Copies Poems, &c.' "To Composing, Printing, Presswork, Paper, &c. &c. £77 10 9 Corrections and Cancel Matter 12 7 3 89 18 0 "Cr. By sold-4 Copies, at 3s. 9d...... 0 15 0 £89 3 0" To say that Mr. Slickey was thunderstruck does not convey even the faintest idea of his astonishment, surprise, and disappointment. He had expected the cost would be about £40, and he had imagined that 300 copies at least would be sold, which would bring him £56 5s., so that he could not by any possibility be a loser. He looked at the account over and over again, and at last murmured something about examining" it, and a cheque next week." He then went home. 66 * 66 We happen to know, that since the above period, Mr. Slickey has quietly pursued his calling of a grocer, and has given up all idea of finishing his Fight with Fate. 'How honor'd by the folks am I!" A heap of flowers, another day, The spoil of twenty beds, or more, Our ass in open baskets bore. |