going so far, in extenuation of his hyperbolical statements, as to maintain that most of them had some sort of foundation-rather an equivocal defence. That he was the undoubted original of this representation Hill was quite willing to admit ; and, indeed, I think he felt rather flattered by the interest it excited among his friends.

Having made allusion in this article to the proprietor of the Morning Chronicle, I must be indulged in a little episode. The reader was forewarned that I should be discursive, and unless I snatch a reminiscence ere it flies, "the Cynthia of the minute" will be gone for ever. Ever welcome did I find an invitation to Tavistock House, for there was I sure to meet persons of eminence in art or literature; the entertainments were of the most luxurious description, and no one could better discharge the duties of the convivial board than Mr. Perry, whose inexhaustible fund of information and anecdote was not rendered less piquant by his broad Scotch accent and high voice. One day he had assembled a large dinner party, having on his left hand Captain Morris, of lyrical celebrity, once the boon companion, compotator, and Bacchanalian minstrel of the Prince of Wales, but recently estranged from him because his royal highness had unceremoniously discarded all his old Whig friends, and had thrown himself into the arms of the Tory party. Expatiating upon the long intimacy, almost amounting to domiciliation, which he had enjoyed at Carlton House, where a bed-room was set apart for his use when their revels, as often happened, absorbed the greater portion of the night, and perchance had disqualified him from seeking his own home: the captain stated that Big Sam, the scarlet-cloaked Janitor in Pall-mall, had been ordered to admit him at all hours, so that he had liberty to run about the whole house "like a kitten;" adding, that the prince would often send for him before he rose in the morning, that he might sit by his bed-side and chat with him about the occurrences of the day, discuss the plan of some approaching entertainment, or settle the guests who were to form the next private symposium. "And now," he continued, "I never cross the threshold of Carlton House, and his royal highness and myself are as much estranged as if we had never been acquainted.'

"And why have you thus become alienated from the prince?" inquired Mr. D'Israeli, senior, who sat on the same side, though at the further end of the table.

"Because, sir, I would not give up the political principles of my whole life."

With a strange simplicity, or inadvertence, for he could hardly have weighed his words, the same inquirer quietly resumed.

"And what, upon such an occasion, prevented your giving up your principles?"

I saw the colour instantly rush into the cheeks of the captain, who jumped up, and fixed his flashing eyes upon his questioner, as he angrily and loudly exclaimed—

"Take off your spectacles, sir, that I may see the face of the man who dares to ask me such a question.

Fully did I expect some fresh and instant illustration of the "Quarrels and Calamities of Authors;" but our host, urging that the words had been inconsiderately spoken, that no offence could possibly have been intended, succeeded in pacifying the fuming poet, whose geniality, however, was not fully restored, until the offender had quitted the party, when he was June.-VOL. LXXX. NO. CCCXVIII.

L

easily persuaded to sing some of his own beautiful lyrics. This he did with as much gusto as if he had been a young, instead of an old, man, elevating his glass, for his odes were generally Bacchanalian, and tossing off its contents in a single gulp, at the end of every stanza, after which a recently written comic canticle, in ridicule of the Americans, wound up his vocal performances with universal applause.

66

Reference having been made to the fine health he enjoyed, he remarked, Why, it may well seem wonderful, for I believe few men in England have led so hard a life as myself; but I attribute it mainly to a rule which I have rigorously observed for many years-that of always apportioning the exercise of the following day to the excess of the previous night. For this purpose I had a sort of scale, never walking less than ten miles for three bottles, so that you may guess what a rare pedestrian I have been !"

Whether the cessation of intimacy with the royal Porcus de grege Epicuri contracted his potations, and so expanded his life, I know not; but certain it is that he attained a patriarchal age, and repenting his loose companionship, and drunken orgies at Carlton House, became exceedingly devout. In this mood, I have been told, that he made atonement for the Fescennine verses, into which his youthful muse had been betrayed, by composing pious songs, which he sang after dinner, emptying his glass as he did so, from the force of habit, so that his convivial gestures and devout words presented a strange mixture of the Bacchanalian and the spiritual, the sinner and the saint!

But to return to Tom Hill. Such as I have described it, continued to be his Paul Pry life in his book-wilderness of the Adelphi, until the time of his death, nearly up to which period his plump, crimson, pæony face, and rotund figure, underwent no perceptible alteration, nor was there any diminution of his usual good spirits and superabundant energy. Instinct, with the vitality of an immortal curiosity, he remained as young and alert as ever, always prepared to sound, probe, and interrogate whomsoever he might encounter. So inveterate had this habit become, that on giving a penny to a street-sweeper he would stop, perhaps in the middle of a perilous crossing, to ask his name and address, having ascertained which important facts he would hurry on, and remark to his companion, "Well, now, that's information."

At last the pale summoner, who knocks alike at the door of the cottage and the palace (the Latin original is too hackneyed for quotation), found his way to the book-groaning third-floor in the Adelphi, and it was announced that poor Tom Hill was dead! The statement was not universally believed, for he had lived so long that many thought it had become, like his inquisitiveness, a habit which he could not shake off. For the last half century at least, his real age had been a mystery, and a subject of incessant discussion among his friends, none of whom could coax or cajole him out of the smallest admission that might throw light upon the subject.

The father of the late Charles Mathews, when a young man and a bookseller in the Strand, had remembered Hill coming to the shop, looking just the same as he did thirty years afterwards; adding, that his father knew still older people who had made a similar remark! There was so little of Mr. D'Israeli's mosaic Arab in his appearance, he was so thoroughly John Bullish, that the suggestion of his being, perchance, the Wandering Jew, was deemed untenable. James Smith once said to him,

"The fact is, Hill, that the register of your birth was destroyed in the great fire of London, and you take advantage of that accident to conceal your real age."

But Hook went much further, by suggesting that he might originally have been one of the little Hills recorded as skipping in the Psalms. No counter-statement, that might at least reduce him to the level of Jenkins or old Parr, was ever made by the ruddy patriarch. Perhaps he did not know his real age-at all events, he never told it; nor could others supply the information which he himself would not or could not furnish, for the Mæcenas of Queenhithe not being "atavis edite_regibus," like his namesake of Rome, there were no known relations, dead or living, who could throw any light upon this chronological mystery. It has been stated, on what authority I know not, that he was only eighty-three when he died.

Incredible as it may sound, our original Paul Pry must have undergone a nearly unquestioning existence of several weeks' duration, for though he was literally a mono-linguist, not speaking a word of any language but his own, he once travelled as far as Naples, unaccompanied by any other interpreters than his own energy and perseverance. When asked, after his return, what had enabled him to make his way through France without difficulty, he answered,

"Francs and fingers! I had only to hold up a piece of money and point, and the whole country and every thing it contained instantly became mine. Talk French, indeed! pooh, pooh! I know better-don't tell me; if I had chosen to learn, in six weeks I would have undertaken to speak the language ten times better than the natives; yes, sir, fifty times, a hundred times better. But I would not pay them the compliment. I hate French."

Nor did Latin names find much favour with him, for in alluding to his excursions from Naples, he would talk of his visits to the buried city of Pompey-ey-i-i, laying a vehement emphasis on the last two vowels, and sympathetically enlarging his eyes as if they were so many incontestible proofs of his assertion.

Whatever might have been the doubts as to his birth, there could be none as to his death, and I can answer for one individual-doubtless there were many more, by whom that announcement was received with unfeigned regret. To the foibles of Tom Hill none could be blind; they were too glaring; his importunate cross-questioning, and the indiscreet gossiping which sometimes compromised himself and others, combined with his blustering manner, tended, in his latter life, to prevent any great increase in the circle of his acquaintance; but no one could deny that he was a kind-hearted, friendly man, ever ready to do a good service, and still social in his disposition, though his narrow circumstances would not allow him to renew the hospitalities of his earlier years. Great was my pleasure, in my infrequent visits to the metropolis, when I found my old friend in his lofty book lair, and could not only be placed au courant as to all the tittle-tattle of the passing day, but could conjure up, through the sympathy of our memories, the years that had long rolled away, and recall the deceased or surviving friends who had helped to wing the hours in our numerous merry meetings at Sydenham.

Of these associates my next paper will still further indulge in the remembrance.

SCHWERTING, DUKE OF SAXONY.

PARAPHRASED FROM KARL EBERT.

BY A. LODGE, ESQ.

DUKE SCHWERTING in his banner'd hall sits at the festal board;
And see! in iron goblets rude the mantling wine is pour'd;
Of iron trenchers to the roof resounds the ceaseless clang;
And loud on every warrior's breast the iron corslet rang.

A guest was there ;-'tis Denmark's king: all round in mute amaze
He look'd; the Saxon's trappings next have fix'd his wondering gaze;
For massy chains from Sehwerting's neck and arms hung down before;
And gleaming iron spangles deck'd the sable garb he wore !

"How now, Sir Duke! what boots the jest”—broke out the frowning Dane-
"To greet with such strange revelry a monarch and his train?
To grace thy feast I left my home beyond the Baltic tide;
Why lack thy golden braveries and robes of courtly pride?"

;

"Sir King, with our old Saxon saw my answer well is told
The iron vest beseems the slave, the freeman pranks in gold;
Thy treacherous arm has bound our land in thraldom's iron chain ;-
Thou tried'st thy golden fetters once-but those were forged in vain !

"You need, methinks, to burst our bonds, and proud in freedom rise,
But holy trust, and heart untamed, and deed of stern emprize;
Thus may our oath in Heaven be loosed, and cleansed our bitter shame,-
Thy gyves debase our limbs no more-thy power our Saxon fame !"

He spoke, and lo! in swarthy file, slow pacing from the door,
Twelve knights advance :-each mail'd right arm a flaming torch upbore;
In Schwerting's speaking eye they mark the signal to destroy;
Then waved their brands, and from the hall rush'd forth with furious joy.

Soon from beneath strange sounds confused the monarch's ears engage,
Of roaring flames that o'er the house spread fast with crackling rage;
Nor long-each cheek with felt annoy of sultry breathings glows,
And deep, not loud, "The hour is come!" in mournful concert rose !

The King would fly, but Schwerting's hand and voice his steps refrain ;
"Now prove thy soul of Chivalry, and test thy royal strain!
If thou canst quell yon wasting foe whose arms so brightly shine,
My Saxon mantle thou may'st wear, my Saxon lands are thine !"

And now thro' all the lofty dome the scorch'd and stifling air
Blows fierce; the walls and vaulted roof give back a ruddy glare;
Loud and more loud of crumbling beams the thundering sound dismays;
The ponderous portal sinks at last-and inward shoots the blaze!

The Saxons kneel in suppliant guise, and hymn the throne on high,
Thy pardon, Lord! for not in vain shall Freedom's martyrs die;
The Duke, with steadfast mien resolved, confronts the rushing flame;
The King has fall'n-his arm uprears the dull, half breathing frame!

Awake! proud conqueror-mighty Lord! thou craven heart, and see
How melt the vassal's iron chains, how Saxons dare be free :-
He spoke and in the fiery surge together whelm'd they fall,
The crashing pile in smoke descends, and ruin covers all !

STREET HARMONIES AND DISCORDS.

SPRING STREET CRIES.

It is some solace to me, the denizen of a narrow street, no longer looking on the face of nature for the index of her daily doings, learning, literally, the primrose time of the year from the sweet evidence of wood paths and hedge-rows-recognising her first timid steps in the scattered handfuls of pelucid snowdrops, and the impromptu clusters of pink and blue hepaticas, that in their eagerness to greet her, have risen to the sunny borders without their leaves. It is some solace in the absence of these simple remembrancers - wayfaring flowers and their cultivated sisters of the parterre-to find, upon the city pavement vocal substitutes, sounds that serve me for signs and for seasons. To hear the approach of Spring, since I can no longer see it, is better than not to be reminded of Spring at all, so I always note, after the middle of March, the cries that day by day proclaim its coming. I do not regard your "Spring watercresses" as any better than a cheat. We hear it soon after Christmas, certainly before Old Ladytide, when the vernal season begins, and long ere the_roscid fingers of Spring have pranked the running streams with verdure. It is that softest and most poetic of all street cries, "Sweet primroses!" that fairly wakens within us the sense of her presence, carrying us in spirit to the sylvan places made luminous with the white track of their countless blossoms. Earth-born stars! flowery constellations! stretching through the shadowy woods a terrestrial milky way, and with pale, appealing eyes, lifting upwards the grateful thoughts which this outpouring of efflorescence for no apparent purpose but that of ornament creates in us. Most poetic is the cry, though the vendor be no rosy fingered flower-girl, with sun-touched cheek, dewy lip, and laughing eye, but a bowed, feeble-voiced old man, tottering, as his short steps bear him along the pavement, and hardly equal to the weight of the flat basket before him. Into the crowded courts he carries his fresh burden of green roots and pallid flowers, and forthwith old wrinkled crones gather round him at the door-steps, and babble of green fields and of the pleasant time of youth, when under wood-boughs, where primroses carpetted the earth as thickly as the winter leaves had done, they wove the flowers in their then bright hair, with fingers smooth and shapely. Through the close, fetid lanes and alleys you may hear his pandian cry. Young girls spring forth at the sound, and his course may be tracked through these places and the humble back streets, by the blacking-pots in area and attic-windows, in which a solitary root is seen for a day or two afterwards struggling to live, or rather dying slowly, despite the care of the poor sempstress to whose lowly room that little nest of leaves, with its one open flower and two-folded buds, gives so much of pure beauty-constituting an ornament infinitely more effective, though she does not think so, than the tinselled things upon the chimneypiece that cost six times as much!

"Sweet primroses!"-the little children clap their hands and the bigger ones gaze wistfully as their soft and alas dying breaths are