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which Canova declared to be well worth a journey from Rome-I could not help exclaiming, "With what delight must the ancients, with their exquisite relish for sculpture, have pored upon this chef-d'œuvre of Phidias !"

"Alas!" replied the figure, "you forget that, although now the noblest fragment left, I then occupied, as a deified hero, but a very subordinate station among the deities of his majestic group. My recumbent posture was destined to fill up the angle of one pediment, as the Ilissus did of the other; and there was nothing but the celebrated horse's head between my figure and the extremity of the building. This back, over which sculptors and anatomists now hang enraptured, might as well have been an unchiselled block; it was turned to the wall of the building, never meant to be seen; and, in fact, no human eyes rested upon it for more than twenty-two centuries, when violence tore it from its position, and exhibited it to the applauses of the world. It was thus elaborately wrought, because it would have been held sacrilege to dedicate any thing imperfect to the gods; and because, in the exuberant opulence of his art, Phidias could afford to be extravagant, and throw away a masterpiece upon a blind wall. Judge hence of the superior majesty, of the more celestial grace and sublimity, by which the central figures were made glorious to the eyes; but judge not, even from them, of the pinnacle to which Phidias could exalt his art. All these were fashioned for exposure to the injuries of the weather,

and, from the great height at which they were to be viewed, were meant to excite admiration by the grandeur of general effect, rather than the exquisiteness of minute detail. Imagine the awful beauty of the statues within the temple, where both were to be .combined! Conceive the stupendous symmetry of the Minerva, thirty-nine feet high-the still more majestic proportions of the Olympian Jupiter, executed for the Eleans!"

How long this enumeration might have continued it is impossible to say; but it was rudelybroken, and the whole fabric of my reverie demolished, by the voice of the Museum porter,-" Sir, you're the only gemman left, and we always locks the doors at six."Once more I surveyed the marble upon which the living eyes of all the illustrious persons I have mentioned had been formerly fixed, as well as those of Cicero, Pliny, Pausanias, and Plutarch, who have recorded their visits to the Parthenon; and then, with slow steps, I quitted the building. On reaching the street, I still doubted whether I was in the Acropolis, the Agora, or before the theatre of Bacchus ; when a lanıplighter, scampering by me, skipped up his ladder, and, by the light of his link, I discovered, printed on a black board, "GREAT RUSSELL STREET, BLOOMSBURY."

NEHEMIAH MUGGS.

Most courteous Reader, pray permit the Fool
To doff his cap and bells for your politeness,
In sparing him a niche released from rule,
And all pedantic ligature and tightness;
Where he may freely, in his motley papers,
Cut reverend jokes, and well-establish'd capers.—
He has a lengthy tale, which, when enroll'd,
Requires some scores of pages to uphold-
(One Mister Muggs is hero of the poem ;)
And as no hero of the stage struts on,
Without a flourish for his Chaperon,

Ours shall be usher'd by a pompous proem.
So for your ample solace and instruction,
Take this grave sample of an

INTRODUCTION.

No sweet Arcadian pipe is mine—
Such as of old the tuneful Nine,
On rosy banks of Helicon,
Committed to some favour'd son,

Whose wild and magic melodies,
From banks of flowers,

And myrtle bowers,

Bade nymphs and sylvan boys arise,

To form, with laughing loves, an earthly Paradise.

I may not, with the classic few,"

Snatch inspiration from the Muses' hill;

Nor, raptured, quaff poetic dew

From Aganippe's rill.

Vales and mountains,

Grots and fountains,

The haunt of heroes, and the poet's theme-
Sense viting, soul delighting,

Burst on my vision like a glorious dream.—
VOL. II.

D

But, ah! as soon to fade away,

For Christian knights demand my lay.

Not steel-clad Crusaders, with lances and shields,
The sparkling invaders of Palestine's fields ;
Who, marching o'er deserts, or vineyards and balm,
In the blaze of the sun, or the shade of the palm,
Planted the cross amid havoc and death,

On the sands of Damascus and Nazareth.

Whose helmeted leaders gave charge through the cedars,
At sound of the trumpets on Lebanon's mount,
And roll'd man and horse of the Saracen force

Down to the waters of Galilee's fount.

Fearless were they, by night or by day,

Of the infidel legions that barr'd the way;

Who, with turban and beard, and scymitars rear'd, Through whirlwinds of sand on their enemies dash'd; And gloried to fall on the breach of the wall,

Where the crescented flag o'er the battlements flash'd.—

Nor sing I of the knights whose fame
Minstrels and troubadours proclaim;
Who, pricking o'er enchanted ground,
By forest dark, or moated mound,
Where captive beauty sigh'd,
Spite of the guardian dragon's yell,
Smote the black giant grim and fell,
Rescued the nymph from wizard spell,

And claim'd the blushing bride.

Alas! no fancy-woven wreaths

Their perfume o'er my pathway shed,

And no melodious spirit breathes

Wild inspiration o'er my head.

Here we must close our proem (what a pity!)

And tumble from Parnassus to

THE CITY.

Bright broke the morning in the blaze

Of London's own romantic traits.

And now (so great Hippona pleased)

Two coaches rattled past ;

Their bugle-horns the guardmen seized,
And from their pigmy throttles squeezed
An angry giant's blast.—

Now let the reader take a view
Of Norton Falgate, and pursue
Each peak-topp'd tenement to where
A squat snug man, with sable hair,
And dirty night-cap, he may see,
Brought to the window by the roar,
Which might have split the scull he bore,
Unless, indeed, 'twas crack'd before,

As sculls like his are apt to be.

O reader, fix your eyes where I have said;
For from that window peeps my hero's head !—
Yes, yes; 'tis Nehemiah Muggs-

A name that would inspirit slugs!
With poet-frensy make a mite

Leap from his cheese of Stilton,

And every native oyster write
As if he were a Milton!
But see, he quits the attic story,

So I'll prepare to do the same,
And in plain English lay before ye
The birth, profession, and the glory,
Of him who own'd this classic name.-

His pedigree was old, no doubt,
Only he could not make it out;
Though surely 'tis self-evident,

That he might boast a great descent.-
Some who are learned heralds can tell
Men's ancestry from shield, or mantle :—
If like Elijah's mantle, theirs
Entail'd its virtues on its heirs,

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