Now it is possible, that this whole communication is neither more nor less than that sort of practical joke, which usually goes by the denomination of a hoax. If it be, we can only say, that it is a very foolish and a very unmeaning one. Even in that case, our remarks may not be destitute of utility; since alas! they would have but too much foundation in notorious facts, although the letter and verses which we have just presented to our readers should be put entirely out of the question. But we confess our fears, that it is not a hoax. Strange as it may appear that a man, who can put two sentences together, without a flagrant violation either of sense or grammar, should send us such hopeless trash as the rhymes of his poor uneducated" friend, under the impression, that "they discover some gleams of poetical talent."

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It is, however, of little consequence, what may be the most rational opinion with regard to the communication before us : as we shall now simply consider it as one, which affords us an opportunity of saying a few words on the subject of poor authors in general.

As being ourselves connected with the press-as having a fellow feeling with the whole literary fraternity of Europe-it is as little our intention, as it can be our interest, to decry the vocation of an author in the lump. We are proud of its dignity, its importance, its utility, and its power we laugh at the silly, flippant, contemptible abuse, which may be cast upon it by fools and idlers, who have only two ideas in their heads, and who are unable to put those two together. We are aware that in this intelligent and reading age there are many more unprofitable trades in the world, than successful authorship; and that men of letters hold as high a rank in the society of England and Scotland at the present day, as they ever held in France before the revolution.

But we cannot be insensible to the misery, which passes before our eyes. They who are unacquainted with the interior of the literary world :—who are never admitted behind the scenes-and let them thank heaven that they never are !—who see writers only when they appear in a theatrical dress-and endeavour to perform some grand part upon the public stage -can form no conception of the wretchedness, in which many of them are involved. The cases, which might be detailed by

the members of that most benevolent institution, the Literary Fund Society, would shock and harrow up the feelings of the most callous and obdurate man of business, that ever had a smile of contempt, or a taunting jest, for the blotters of paper. The woes of genius are heard with some effect even in the strains and with the recitation of Mr. Fitzgerald; who assuredly is not the most pathetic of all poets, nor the mightiest magician in exciting the compassionate emotions of the soul. But we think rather of the plain and naked truth. There are subjects, in which the utmost graces of fanciful-embellishment can only weaken the painful and appalling impression of the facts. Such is the variety and intensity of literary distress. Real instances of frequent occurrence might be adduced, at which imagination shudders.

We, however, have nothing to do with imagination. We have the evidence of our senses: memory for us too faithfully and too powerfully recalls the dreadful picture. We have known and seen unfortunate authors sinking under the pressure of calamity and anguish, in comparison with which most other misery would appear a state of comfort.

There are indeed many reasons, why authors should suffer a peculiar poignancy of affliction, which mocks all common grief. They have a greater capacity of wretchedness: nature, and education, and habit, conspire to sharpen and refine their sense of woe. Their feelings are more acute-their dispositions are more sensitive-insults and disappointments sink deeper into their hearts. Their keen emotions have not been blunted by manual labour, or mere mechanical occupations : nor have they rusted in ignorance and conscious degradation. Others are "made of sterner stuff:" or the manner of their life, the daily exposure to the rude treatment of their equals, at last chills, hardens, and deadens their faculty of receiving pain. But there is something in the very studies and existence of writers-more particularly of poets, and all who are engaged in works of fancy-which softens and, perhaps, enervates them which fits them for the experience of misery, and not for its endurance. There is nothing, on the contrary, which enables them to contend with penury and scorn; to bear up against the rubs and buffets of incessant humiliating vexations: for this alas! is a science which books and philosophy will

never teach-and in addition to their struggles with the world, they are torn by mental agony and strife, they are in vain attempting to reconcile themselves to their destiny, to repress the lofty aspirations of their own souls. They know their innate superiority to the men, who are treating them with contumely: and that knowledge inflicts a double sting. They are at once ambitious and destitute :-they are at once above and below the beings who surround them :-they are tortured by pangs, which they disdain to own :-they find thousands to hate and deride-few to pity, and fewer to understand them.

All these misfortunes are incident to authors who are gifted with intellectual power: but they become infinitely aggravated in the case of such as possess rather the wish, than the talent, to write well; who have been called to the pursuits of literature, rather by their inclination, than their ability. Yet how many men are in this predicament: and alas! how many women!

The mention of the latter brings back to our recollection a circumstance, which we had almost forgotten. Among other communications of the same kind, we received some months ago the production which we are about to notice. It was accompanied by a letter, requesting our opinions and patronage. Its title-page runs thus: "The Actress's Ways and Means, to industriously raise the Wind!-containing the moral and entertaining poetical Effusions of Mrs. R. Beverley, Comedian, Professor of Elocution, and Author of the popular "Coronation Sermon, Modern Times, &c. &c." The motto is the following.

"All things change below, 'tis plain to common sense;
For I, who crowns have worn, now write for pence!"

The contents are very miscellaneous, and oddly jumbled. For instance, six lines which are headed, "Christ's Invitation on the Cross to a Sinner, an Acrostic," are immediately succeeded by the morceau which we subjoin "On Napoleon's abdicating the Throne of France a second Time."

Vive le Empereur! was each Frenchman's cry,
Next, strains their lungs with Vive le Roi!!

Napoleon returns, with joyous roar,

They shout again, Vive le Empereur!!!

Once more you see the've turn'd the table,

And now, no doubt, 'twill be Vive le Diable!!!

Our copy, we assure our readers, is an exact fac-simile, in all respects, of the original. Again, we have the five following pieces close together: "On Brighton, published in the Brighton Herald, Aug. 15, 1818."-" The Crucifixion"another, "Invitation" from Christ-also "an Acrostic". "Song, the Speaking Eyes"-and" Lines to a Pawnbroker." We shall print the last of these "poetical effusions;" as we sincerely wish to assist "the actress in her ways and means to industriously raise the wind!" It is, as might be expected, by far the best specimen of composition in the book; for it was inspired, we are afraid, by personal experience.

Thou sov'reign of the needy poor,

What swarms of wretches throng thy door!
The old, the young, by turns succeed,
And call on thee to help their need:
Among the changing motley crowd,
Are seen the thoughtless and the proud;
Who to thy mighty nod attend,
Compell'd to own thee for a friend;
And often stoop to meanness low,
For cash which thou hast to bestow;
And though they oft at misery frown,
Are in thy presence, then, brought down.
Next, wretches, to obtain their end,
To thee their bodies servile bend;
Whilst thou, in answer to their cant,

Dost roughly bawl out—“ What d'ye want?”
Yet thou a useful person art,

And yield'st relief to many a heart;

And though thou art so much abus'd,

Thou'rt good, when thou art rightly us'd;

Yet, to speak truth, I freely own,

I'd rather not to thee be known.

Poor creature, we believe her! We should be glad, therefore, if our extracts should induce any of our readers to purchase her "effusions." We can assure them, that a feast of amusement, "after a fashion," remains behind, which we have purposely left untouched. The verses will only cost one

shilling; and, bad as they are, they at least beat Leigh Hunt out of the field, and need not fear a comparison with Lord Byron's "Werner." To prevent, however, dishonourable suspicions from attaching to our illustrious Council, we must here declare that the members, one and all, know no more of "Mrs. R. Beverley, comedian," than of her " Modern Times," or her popular "Coronation Sermon;" moreover, although we may be willing to encourage the sale of her present attempt, we by no means recommend her to publish any more of her poetical lucubrations. She talks, poor woman! as if it were a matter of life and death; and insinuates that she "must eating and writing together renounce:" yet we are compelled to tell her, that the subsistence, which she gains by her pen, will be but miserable diet.

We say, then, to the "Actress" " you must woo the Muses no more;" and we must give the same advice to ❝ the poor uneducated man," whose lines-for poetry we cannot call them—we quoted in the first instance. There are so many writers, now living and at work, who unite the double advantage of natural genius and a cultivated, well-trained, and well-disciplined understanding, that genius without education can have little chance ;-and what then may they expect, who have neither the one nor the other?

To encourage such persons in authorship is the height of cruelty and injustice. It is to send them to a market already overstocked with productions infinitely better than they can bring. It is to prevent them from procuring bread in a regular and honest way-it is to waste their time, which to them is more than money-it is to drive them into poverty and desperation—perhaps into crime and its most fatal consequences. Is this wisdom? is it generosity? is it kindness? can the misguided patrons, who urge unqualified and ignorant men`upon literary pursuits, be aware of the miseries of that fate, into which they plunge them? To feel a craving at once for food and fame and to be gratified in neither-to ask, and be refused to flatter, and be disdained-to be the drudge and scorn of booksellers to endure the insults of some-the false affability of others, a mockery unmeaning, and delusive, and destructive to become a beggar upon his own family-to