rank in the gallery, with his unwashen face, his dingy collar, his venerable hat, which has braved the breezes for a score of years! He looketh like Olympian Jove: he shaketh his head, as if in amateur exercise of his sovereignty: his heart expandeth with the consciousness that he is an arbiter of fate, and that upon his approving clap, or dissatisfied hiss, depends the fortune or the failure of an aspiring fellow. The fire begins to scintillate in his eyes; his very nose-the rudder of the will, as Hazlit calls it-seemeth to grow rigid and peremptory. There sitteth the eight hundred millionth part of the Sovereign People, prepared to wield his little portion of royalty; there is he, an uncrowned fragment of the Imperial House of Man, waiting with sublime impatience the appearance of those who are about to submit themselves to his judgment. Ha! ha! saith he, snuffing up the air, like the wild courser of the desert. "To be or not to be ?" He pauseth; he decideth! He raiseth his hands, and the first clap is heard: he delivereth also a hearty roar of applause. It spreadeth; the "Public" is set in motion; a volley cometh; the monster warmeth, and every limb is quickened into life! Now he is roused from his apathy, and shaketh himself for a decisive effort. Lo! he speaketh; the mighty "Public" speaketh many voiced, but with a wild harmony in his thunder! Heard you that? One general roar from pit, boxes, and gallery-one magnificent bellow of applause from the Leviathan-one mighty billow of sound rolling onwards into space, like huge wave of the tempestrocked ocean dashing to shore, and bearing the triumphant author safely on its crest to the rock of Fame! And behold! there sitteth the Sovereign Atom, smiling placidly on the heaving sea of life beneath : he, the Sovereign unwashed, without a shilling in his pocket, or perhaps a spoon for the pawnbroker, hath made, as he might have marred, the fortune of a fellow-for it was he who first spoke and approved: the primum mobile of the applauding tempest was his unbought and independent vociferation: the spark which kindled all fell from his beaming eyes: the thousand utterances of the great monster were but the echoes of his leading cheer. And what are the consequences of a labourer's shout? The author becometh a favourite; he writeth poems and dramas, and receiveth payment ere a single idea has been scooped out of his cranium; an imaginary portrait of an angel is painted by some distinguished artist, and the author's cognomen appended thereto; he buyeth him a coach, and decanteth a bottle or two of port into his corporeal receptacle every day after dinner; he scribbleth pretty nonsense in lady's albums, and despatcheth his autograph to hundreds of importunate maidens; he polleth off his hair, and distributeth it in single bristles as an extraordinary favour; he receiveth a tiny blow upon his shoulder, and becometh a Knight; he devoureth a Royal chicken at the Royal table; he appeareth as a genuine lion in fashionable companies, and is supplicated to give them an extemporaneous roar; he complieth; he shaketh his mane and looketh politely fierce; he emitteth a variegated series of sounds, and the sweet young ladies respond in silver chorus-"what a charming roar !"-Yea, he becometh the pet of the fair; he is fed on sugar-plums; anointed with soft flatteries from the softest lips; the doors of the boudoir and drawing-room glide gently on their

hinges as he approacheth; he loungeth about at pleasure, and even kicketh up his heels on the sofa in the fairest company; he liveth in the lap of fashion, and at length goeth to his marble sarcophagus in honour! But the Sovereign Atom-the impelling cause of all this-what of him? He, meanwhile, worketh as a cleanser of the streets, or vainly grindeth the air at the treadmill;-he, upon whose fiat the fortunes of the author were suspended! For if instead of an approving chuckle he had launched forth a derisive hiss, when fate was dubious, it might have evoked a tempest of disdain, amidst the roarings of which the fragile bark of the adventurer might have sunk, and sunk for ever. And whilst the clamours of the audience, originated by a dustman, were whirling around the head of the author, could it catch the sharp quick sound made by his heart-strings as they snapped one by one! Could it see that heaving soul rent by a scornful shout, and the gay band of hopes which had been banquetting there depart without a sigh, and leave it no tenant but despair? Could it have seen those fair visions-graceful as a dream of love-which Ambition's pencil had delineated in vivid rainbowcolours on the curtain of the Future now fading away, all broken and distorted, and the spectral forms of woe start up to welcome their victim to darkness and thick hopeless night? One rude blow might have shattered a fabric of hope, towering to the skies. The rough lightning seizes its pinnacle, as it gleams already in the rays of the rising sun of Renown, and in one moment the pile which years have built lies scattered in fragments on the ground!

It is not very easy, perhaps, to allow that every dingy creature we see is a fraction of the awful Public, whose sublime roarings are the irreversible utterances of fate. He, an integral part of the "general body" of mankind; he, a portion of the living mass of which kings, prelates, nobles, and gentlemen, with all their civilized perfumery, are constituent particles? Yes, that same ragged and trampled wretch is a member of the Great Humanity, of which we ourselves are parts. It embraces him as it did Julius Cæsar or Napoleon Buonaparte. For him the gay, glorious sun, has a cheering beam, and the voice of evening a soothing echo for his ear. For him the soft winds shed their mystic music through the air, and wake the myriad strings of Nature's lyre to gentle melody. For him return the seasons in gay unwearied dance, and wreathe him round with smiles and hopes. For him was prepared this gorgeous temple, with its azure roof and glancing stars; its pavement of living verdure and ever-varied beauty. Yes, he too, is a tenant of this Earth-a partaker of its privileges-a partner in its glories. Men count him a vulgar fraction of Humanity. Yes;-but God made him! And hereafter that poor fellow will be found amongst a greater "Public" than Earth, with her living and buried millions, can produce.

How is it that people have acquired so minute a knowledge of the character of the Public? They talk about his qualities with as much assurance as if he had dined or supped with them every week of their lives. One tells you he is generous and impartial, full of charity and unbounded in his liberality; another declares that he is a "discerning" animal, and relies upon his sagacity, as a thing infallible in its decisions, and capable of piercing through the thickest millstone.

There are some indeed who insinuate that he is fickle and volatile; that he runs after novelties, and at times looks vinegarish at his best and oldest servants. But how can they pronounce judgment upon his idiosyncracies, and give us the mental portrait of the monster with such confidence? We can only see him in fragments. Our impression respecting him must therefore be as vague as our conception of Nature derived from a Tour in the British Museum. Who can form an opinion of the many-headed, many-hearted Creature from a few slips cut out at random; or (as the ancient witticism runs) venture upon a guess as to the nature of a house upon the production of a single brick? [Oh that wearisome, detestable brick; how it thrusts itself in one's way, when the relation of a part to the whole is suggested-is it never to be discarded? Cannot ingenuity possibly bake another standard simile? Is it the special prerogative of this particular lump of clay to officiate on such occasions? Avaunt, thou everlasting brick! I would that thou wert buried many fathoms deep beneath the Red Sea waves. es.] There are, however, some persons who have excellent reasons for magnifying the virtues of the Great Public, seeing that he is their Master-and of all masters commend me to the Public! There is no poking of noses into your desks no inquisitorial investigation of your private life and proceedings-no ungentlemanly computation of the amount of work you have despatched during the day! No, the Public is more magnanimous than to interfere with his servants--except on quarter-day! The Honourable Timothy, for example, goeth to his office, readeth his daily paper, writeth a few billets-doux on his own behalf, and then subscribeth his name a dozen times on behalf of the Public. The honourable Tim then taketh his stand at the window, and smileth to see his master go by in fragments. A piece of his master knocketh at the door :-the honourable Tim ordereth them to turn the dog away! He snappeth his fingers at the Public, receiveth his allowance as if entitled thereto by divine right, but confesseth in his heart that the gentlest of monsters is the Leviathan, in whose jaws he has fixed his hook, and upon whose back he is firmly mounted.

The Public has now become the supreme judge in all matterswhatever may be their importance-from the hostile correspondence between two pugnacious coxcombs to the conclusion of a treaty which affects the political adjustments of a continent. It is too much, however, to expect Mr. Justice Public to adjudicate upon every theft in his own person; and therefore it is the custom to detach a few flakes from his immense corpus and form them into a Jury. The Sheriff is commanded to catch twelve "good and lawful" clodpoles ; that functionary accordingly captures the requisite number of yeomen, and entices them into a narrow box where they are packed almost as closely as the English in the Calcutta Hole. There they sit-the poor, puzzled, perspiring creatures-as the representatives of the myriadtailed public, before whose tribunal every atrocious offence committed upon the body of a pewter spoon or superannuated saucepan must be investigated. There you see twelve grains of the public, weighed out by the Sheriff for the administration of Justice and the preservation of the general Health. Yes, there is a tangible visible detachment from the body of the Public impounded by the magical wand of the

official in that wooden pinfold:-oi polloi reduced to a duodecimo! It is time now, however, after taking the illustrious animal by the beard, to effect a prudent retreat, lest his fury should be kindled ;methinks indeed, his tail looks tremulous already, as if preparing for a fatal flourish. Therefore, most noble Bebemoth-thou Great Indefinite Article-thou Argus-eyed, Briareus-handed, Hydra-headed Leviathan-would I beg to subscribe myself, with the greatest respect, thy most humble and obedient servant,

BASIL LINCOLN.

TO THE "FORGET ME NOT."

Go, modest flow'ret of the vale,

I sigh to say farewell,

For sad and simple is the tale
Thy light and lustre tell.

An emblem thou of modest minds,
Whose worth the proud despise,
Which searching Wisdom often finds
Concealed in sorrow's guise.

Thou bloomest not with gaudy show,
Thou sheddest not thy ray

In paths where pride and splendor glow,
Where pleasure leads the gay;

But in some glade where dew-born tears
Revive thy fading hue,

As oft the sorrows mem'ry bears
Recall the lost to view.

Whilst flow'rs of painted velvet folds
By Beauty's hands are sought,
"Forget me not" too seldom holds
A place in Beauty's thought.

I look on thee, and sigh to think
How the rude world pass by
The many woe-worn hearts that drink
Their silent draught, and die:

Of those who linger 'ere they go,

By all but one forgot,

And breathe the last heart broken woe

That sighs, Forget me not:

Of looks that tell, tho' all beside

To mem'ry prove a blot,

Tho' Hope may sink in Sorrow's tide!

My soul forgets the not!

Go, in thy meekness, fare-thee-well,

If sorrow be my lot,

Go, and to those who love me tell
My prayer, "Forget me not!"

J. BAKER.

WALKS ROUND LONDON.-No. 4.

TOTTENHAM AND ITS VICINITY.

THE Country round the metropolis may, in many respects, be divided into districts, each having a peculiar individual character of its own, owing either to the nature of its soil, or some local circumstance that has influenced it in the course of years.

In the preceeding article we showed there were large tracts, the distinguishing character of which, was that of marshy pasture land. In other places the character of the land is the opposite to that of rich pasture meadows. There is a ridge of dry common land, of wild heath and brambles-the soil of which is chiefly gravel-extending over a considerable part of Surrey, near the Metropolis. From Clapham to Kingston, we have a continued succession of these open rugged heaths. From Dulwich to Norwood, Sydenham, and the country round there in every direction, the landscape is peculiarly poetical. Sylvan homesteads, gentle undulating meadows, verdant hills, wooded walks, and graceful villas snugly located in the neighbouring valleys, are met with at every step. The country hereabouts cannot be called rural, it is poetical, pastoral, romantic. In some places the country has taken its distinguishing character from the class of its inhabitants. In Surrey from Putney to Richmond, and in Middlesex from Brentford to Hampton, we have but few scenes besides the parks and country mansions of the nobility. Here there is scarcely a farm building of any kind, the inhabitants are either the labourers of the parks and enclosures, or some few shop-keepers, who supply them with the smaller necessaries of life. Again, the country from Blackheath to Camberwell, and so on to Clapham takes another form. There the landscape is broken up into a thousand petty enclosuresmimic meadows, Lilliputian orchards, and villas smothered with rose blossoms are met with everywhere. Each surrounded with its high red brick wall, or lofty wooden palisade, behind which, shutting in the whole prospect with a miser's grasping clutch, rise rows of poplars stiff and erect, as a company of foot on a review day.

Though none of these districts can be called rural, yet, there is one lying between Hornsey, Tottenham, and Edmonton that may pre-eminently bear that designation. The tract of land we allude to, may be said to commence in the Green Lane, by Northumberland House, once the residence of the Duke so called, but now a Lunatic Asylum, and to extend from thence to Tottenham, Edmonton, and Southgate, returning by the Green Lane to Northumberland House. This extensive tract of land, consists of a thousand gentle undulating swells, like huge waves in the moment of their rebounding converted into solid earth. The land, is very rich consisting in a great part of luxuriant corn-fields, pleasantly variegated with rich grass meadows, and in their various seasons, with fields of the bean, pea, and potatoe blossom. With the exception of a few manor houses, and here and there a solitary villa, all the buildings are farm houses and cottages, grouped in many places together, round the little village green, with its dirty pond and dabbling ducks. There is something peculiarly English in these rural greens-these sweet little bits of common land,