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tail of his lordship's own pointer, with a pleasurable satisfaction. Does the young patrician admire horses and prize-fighters? The man of the world acquires the vocabulary of the jockey, and descants with the pertinacity of an old frequenter at Tattersall's, on the "fine throw of Miss Biddy," and the "knees of Betsy." The heroic image his lordship makes on horseback will not be unremembered. For the prize-fighters the worldling immediately entertains a great respect; he admires the valor of an Englishman, and the muscular symmetry of a well-formed arm. Pugilism helps to support the national character, and it prevents the native hardness of our countrymen from degenerating---and, therefore, prize-fighting is a noble custom; quite worthy his lordship's encouragement.

The worldling not only succumbs to his patron's fancies, but learns to discover the state of his feelings from the expression of his features, as we prophesy on the weather from the situation of quicksilver in the thermometers and barometers. In the study of a patron's temper and prejudices, lies the worldling's most considerable efforts. Nothing flatters more than that kindness which anticipates our wants, and contrives to supply, before the tongue has expressed the heart's desire. He, therefore, draws conclusions from the arching of a frown and the wrinkle of a brow; a scowling eye enables him to deduce displeasure, and a fallen lip has more effect on his imagination than Irving's prophetical discourses. He will study sighs as attentively as Locke did Ethics, and shapes his phrases to the hour and humor: the face of the man he courts is the dial of his conduct. There is an immense deal of stoicism in a true worldling, although it be of the most degrading kind. No slight encroachment from a superior will provoke resentment, and the harshest presumption will meet with a very qualified opposition. With him, interest is more important than consequence; prosperity procured, may be enjoyed, although it was a sacrifice that reached it. Why should he resent a small injustice, if a patient endurance will hereafter be repaid? Is the pleasure of resentment more valuable than the pleasure of growing wealthy? Humility may be aggrandized, when the independence of pride is overwhelmed with obscurity.

Two of the principal characteristics of the worldling are, his partiality for calculation, and the scrupulous exercise of a selfish foresight, amiably denominated by him, prudence. Joyce himself is not better skilled in the doctrine of "Chances." He reckons them as carefully as the superstitious and duped Roman Catholic does the beeds on her rosary. He never engages until he minutely investigates, nor permits a sanguine expectation to weaken his caution. The worldling is never careless, but in determining matters unconnected with his own advantages: it is then that the spirit of Bidder forsakes him, and he is as reckless of others, as he is calculating for himself. Of his foresight he is exceedingly vain: if a tradesman, he stands behind his counter with a philosophic grin, winks his eye, gropes his breeches' pocket, and, with a jerk of his person, joyfully exclaims, "that's just what I foresaw." Foresaw what? Nothing of moment,

reader; his neighbour, perchance, has taken a seat in the King's Bench to become accomplished, or he has been cheated in his goods, his wife has departed, or his customers are speedily deserting, and "prime cost" whitens his window panes; nothing more, only "he foresaw it." He is a prophet by practice, and unrolls the future as easily as he does bales of cloth. The fall and rise of articles is always predicted by him, and when it happens, "he certainly may admire his foresight.'

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Worldlings are always men of broad principles; perhaps, more frequently for the sake of avarice than for the love they bear them. Their broadest principle is, to cheat seldom, but machinate always. They dare not boldly cheat, since, as published cozeners they would at once be scouted. But to machinate, plan deeply, and speciously filch by greedy arts,-oh! that's perfectly harmless; every body, of course, must regard himself first. Thorough men of the world are mostly hard-hearted from the pertinacity with which they apply to their beloved object: compassion seldom reaches to charity, or pity to relief; tears become a woman's eye, and not those who are "men of business," who have a certain goal to reach; whose speed would be interrupted by an attention to soft solicitations of misery. Earth is their only paradise, and riches their celestial bliss: their enjoyment is the ambrosial perfections of well-filled purses, and "laying by" is beyond the anticipations of bible-storied glories. Among worldlings, there certainly are sectarists, but they are universally marked as the followers of a common object. They are proud to be denominated "matter-of-fact men," i. e. men who subscribe to no creed but that of selfishness, and whose cold imagination feeds on the gain that is to come. It is impossible for a few pages to develop all the beauties of a man of the world; but this is certain, he is the venal tool of degrading avarice, a parasite by profession, and who is honest because he knows" honesty is the best policy," and who prefers the certain emoluments of stealthy manoeuvering, to the riskful operations of bare-faced dishonesty. Reader, art thou a worldling?-go thou and be converted!

A RUSTICATION IN LONDON.

BY AN EXPATRIATED EXCLUSIVE.

R. M.

At this melancholy season of the year, when London is shunned as a pestilence by every one who can pay for an outside place to Brighton, or a steerage passage to Margate, the few that are left under its smoky canopy, seem to skulk along the forsaken pavement, with a full conviction on their countenances of the atrocity they are perpetrating. From July to December, London may be compared to a member of the animal kingdom, which, at a peculiar season of the year, relapses into a lethargy, till it wakes into life again, and with brighter and gayer colors, takes a new lease of existence. During

the interval, our metropolis is, to all intents and purposes, defunct; its functions seem suspended; it rolls itself into a chrysalis, and becomes a mass of dead life. Unless you choose to yawn for the hundredth and fiftieth time through the never-ending Paul Pry, or wonder, at the other House, why Mr. Thorne and Miss Hamilton are allowed to disturb the repose of respectable people, you have no theatre; every place of christian-like resort is abandoned. If you are bold enough to risk detection, and turn out for an airing in Bond-street, you are frightened into a nervous fever by the fetch of your tailor, who forms a shrewd guess of your staying in town, when Cheltenham, Brighton, and Leamington, are not overflowing, and he draws his conclusions accordingly. If you venture a drive, under that commendable screen against duns and country cousins-your cabriolet, to Kensington Gardens, you may make up your mind of being unmolested, save by some hapless creditor, to whom you have been "out of town" for the last three months. Your man servant begins to look sentimental, and your poodle becomes melancholy, while your landlady refreshes your memory, by sending you up a small note regularly with your breakfast. In a fit of desperation, you fly to Boodle's, and find it as empty as an alderman's cranium, or your own pockets. There's nobody at White's, save some bilious East India contractor, who talks of Rajahs, pagodas, natives, and "loll shraub :" nor at the Union, nor Army and Navy, save some superannuated commodore, or sentimental subaltern, who has made himself useful at every friend's seat, till he is wanted no longer. The Alfred has no one but the waiters, looking as blank as the tables, and as melancholy as the empty benches, or a midshipman on half pay. Suicides ought, therefore, to be charitably overlooked at this season of the year, as a man would be justified in hanging himself, or blowing his brains out, by way of creating a change.

Would you console yourself with the newspapers, you may despatch the seven daily, and five evening, with as little ceremony, and less time, than you would despatch your morning rolls and coffee.— In opposition to the consumptive nature of the Editor's resources, every paragraph appears to be laboring under a dropsy, being swelled to its utmost magnitude. A murder that would have "blush'd unseen,” a few months since, under that general catalogue of calamities, "accidents and offences," in these seasons of scarcity, when casualties are all that can be depended upon in a newspaper office, now greets the eye, under the awful form of "most horrid occurrence," or "Thurtle revived," in the best part of a page. A fire, which, at one time, would have been discovered and extinguished in five lines and a half, now presents itself to your notice in three columns; a respectable manslaughter is a prize; a fight, a 'real blessing'-not' to mothers,' but to Editors; and a gentleman having his pocket picked, a thing not to be sneezed at. With what an innocent joy the heart of the Editor boundeth within him, at the full particulars of a bona-fide seduction! Unpublished poems of Lord Byron are laid on the shelf, and anecdotes of Sheridan, for a while, cease being manufactured.— Recollections of Dr. Parr are left, till the doleful cry is heard of more copy."

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But no sooner does December and its pitchy gloom arrive, than the city of the world begins to assume appearances of re-animation. The first orthodox fog brings with it a post chaise and four, travelling equipages follow, slowly at first, and then by strings; Covent Garden smiles, and Drury Lane puts on her best looks. The correspondence in the Times, of "Viator," and "Pro bono publico;" on the dry rot, and the "essays on curing smoky chimneys," are at last concluded, "for want of room;" "constant readers" disappear, and the Morning Post becomes suddenly poetical; Parliament revives the exhausted Editor's hopes, and the Opera is announced. Then may you, with as much effrontery as you please, issue from the attic where you have been vegetating for the last five months, turn into your club, or discover your whiskers in the Burlington Arcade, talk of your summer excursion, and wonder "what the wretched people in LONDON did with themselves in SEPTEMBER." Q. Q.

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BAVIUS. (Solus, walking up and down the room in great agitation.) Cursed be the day when I was fool enough to turn poet! and cursed be the flattery that persuaded me I was so! What a simpleton must I have been to listen to the applause of Lady Louisa Lamb, whom I now find only praised my sonnets that I might help to complete her album. And Miss Kidney, too! her applause could not have come from the heart and yet I will believe but my "Ode to the Moon," and "Stanzas on the Death of a Fuppy," do not a little partake of the real divinitus afflatus! Still it was a lamentable want of judgment in me to print so hastily. I might have corrected these hexameters, and repaired the metrical pauses in the blank-verse pieces; for, after all, there's no genius in having a correct ear: melody is not thought, or smooth versification equal to grandeur of idea: I'm sure this does not sound badly, (reads.)

"The Mighty One, in awful splendor shrined,
Unglimpsed by mortal eyes, is throned on high,
Where round his glories all th' Archangels sing

Their strains of never-ending, never-wearied, praise !"

I don't admire his taste, who does not admire the magniloquous kind of euphony in the close of the last line; the

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sounds in beautiful sympathy to the sense. But see how that murderous quill-driver and wordy critic has served me! under " Sights of Books." (reads again.) " Were we requested to decree a severe punishment for a literary sinner, we could not single out any thing so salutary for its completion, as Mr. Bavius' never-ending, neverwearied praise.' But he certainly may be classed among the poets of the more exalted order; he is perpetually soaring beyond alma mater, and presumes to describe heaven with as much accuracy as if he had been there! He is too much of a poetaster to merit the appellation of a sing-song psalm-driveller." I wish I had hold of Jerdan's ears! I suppose if I had been L--

MAVIUS.---Ah! my crony. What! all in the mumps! or, as the poet says, "down in the mouth!" Cheer thee up, man! Some mangling criticism I'll wager. Come, come, be seated, and let me into the secret. Open your burden'd bosom, and I'll be the balm pourer. Never let a mortal oracle discompose you; especially when it is nothing else but the mouth-piece of a croaking party. Oh! I perceive it all: a slashing review this, 'pon my soul though! and yet---come, come, dont wear out the carpet by these agitated perambulations. You ought to know by this time how to esteem the criticism of the day!

BAVIUS.---Criticism! Criticism! Sir, I tell you there's no criticism going. Just examine two of the head Reviews---take the Quarterly and Edinburgh---exempli gratia. The former is under the twink of Murray, the paymaster of a troop of servile scribblers, who would bedizen a donkey, if they could compromise the subject. A Review in the Quarterly is, and ever will be, a misnomer ;---a complete medium for conveying certain opinions flavor'd high with Toryism, and tending to laud their patronising party---by parasitic abortions. What are we to consider a Review, but an impartial examination of the work in question---not a display of venemous censure to gratify a pique or party---not the meagre display of the "Table of Contents" in a book, but an analytical development of its literary merits, and a tasteful scrutiny of all its various claims :---in fine, a manly, vigorous critique should exhibit every merit, as well as illumine every defect---its primary object should be, to detect what is bad, and freely laud what is excellent. Then look at the Edinburgh---another cadaverous mouth-piece, heated in every line with the rage of Whiggism; and, if it be possible, when in the full tide of abuse, more rancorous than Absolute John's concern.

MAVIUS. The anonymous lacerators belonging to the Quarterly are particularly dastardly at times, vengeful, and burning with animosity. What could be a more bilious and nauseous criticism, than Milman's review of Shelley's "Revolt of Islam?" Such as could only come from one whom Heber had puffed to greatness, and whose envy made him tremulous of a successful rival. Well might Byron say, "Judging from Milman, Christianity would appear a bad religion for a poet, and not a very good one for man." And as for Keats---I am certain that he was murdered by Croker's inhuman and unprincipled attack:

"On his own bed of torture let him lie,

Fit garbage for the hell-hound infamy."

BAVIUS.---I know few men who have met with more barbarous treatment from the Quarterly, than Lisle Bowles; and why, forsooth? because he had too much regard for his honor, as a gentleman, and his character as a Christian minister and a clas sical critic, to describe Pope a stainless angel, and a poet of the first rank. I was delighted at the bold way in which he drove the sneaking "bush-fighters" from the field of combat. Roscoe, I believe, has done nothing but growl since---thinks himself most secure in his den; but we have lost sight of Jerdan and the Literary Gazette; you seemed to have been served rather unmercifully.

MEVIUS.---Unmercifully, Sir !---cowardly, Sir !---villanously, Sir !---One would conelude from the unfeeling sarcastic style, that I had been exposing some of Jerdan's chicaneries, but I leave this to the Examiner.

BAVIUS.---I do not think much of this critic of Cockaigne; he is but a lounging sort of reviewer, and a very dissonant rhymester, whenever he attempts to poeticise. This is

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