ment, was brought in and laid before me by my lassie. I took it up in preference to all the rest, and read it with gusto, as a certain pimpled lecturer would say,-not that he knows the meaning of the word, but because it makes the ignorant, his principal readers, imagine that he understands Italian. It amused me not a little, though many of the stories are old-venerable Pierce, with the rust of ancient maga zines upon them-and many more, simply cuts from those authentic registers of events the newspapers. Yet it is a pleasant little book. It revived me to read of hunting, fishing, shooting, coursing, racing, and the other varieties of sporting, which I was once able to enjoy. I never was as great a sportsman as Nimrod or Colonel Thornton, and yet I have ridden in as close after the hounds as either of them; and I still reflect with pleasure on hearing old, no matter who, for I cannot trust myself to write his name, as my eyes are dim from merely thinking of it-on hearing a gay-hearted old squire exclaim, when I hunted in Yorkshire some thirty years ago, "By goles, that there gaffer" (meaning me) "roides rum! Raddle me, if he be'ant a'most as foin a broidel-hond as Yallow Dick, the huntsman; and mayhap, if he takes to it koindly, he may be as great a man a' together." A prophecy accomplished rather in a different manner from what the vaticinator intended. I was a fair shot, and a tolerable courser. I remember one daybut I see that I am beginning to prate about myself. Garrulity concerning past events is one of the prime characteristics of old age, as you will find mentioned a dozen times in the notes of Clarke's Homer, if you are up to reading it. When I began, I did not intend to say a word about myself, being desirous to call your attention to a far different subject, to which I shall immediately advert, after remarking en passant that stories of thieves, pickpockets, blacklegs, &c. ought not to be mixed up with anecdotes of sporting and sporting men. Bill Habbersfield and Duke Hamilton, the Prince of Wales, Major Baggs, and Tom Crib, do not agree well together. Non bene conveniunt, nec in una sede morantur, as Ovid very properly remarks on the occasion, in a verse which has been thus ingeniously translated by Mr Cor

nelius Webb, a poet not to be sneezed at,

Them chaps there, I would gladly bet a dollar,

Don't take their drink together, by Apollo.

This, however, is a bagatelle scarcely worth noticing; but I confess I was seriously vexed at finding an article, p. 30, &c. in your book, written by a Cockney, on the subject of poor Cavanagh, the great Irish fives-player. Is it not enough, I exclaimed, that these Cockneys write about politics, war, law, poetry, drama, without knowing a pinsworth about them, with the most brazen and indomitable assurance? Are they not satisfied with befouling by their slaver, or intolerable conceit, every thing venerable or amiable in the country? Are we not pestered enough with them elsewhere, without having them flung in our faces, while comfortably reading a book of sporting anecdotes? You certainly are a very proper man in your line, Pierce, but you cannot have as much experience of men and books as I, or you never would have polluted your work by any of the impertinent drivellings of this fellow, no more than you would have put a handful of bay-salt into your punch-bowl, the very idea of which thrills my soul with horror. I determined to write to you at once about it, and though scarcely able to hold my pen, you see I am putting my determination into practice.

The calm assurance of this article altogether astonishes me. Here's a fellow who talks of playing fives! The force of impudence could no farther go. Why, man, he never played a game at it in his life. His ideas could never soar so high he could as soon fly to the lunar sphere, like Daniel O'Rourke or Astolpho. He has not the spirit to engage in any game, which would require more pluck than is possessed by a well-trained shrimp, or a city haberdasher. The little blood he ever had in his veins, has been washed away by eternal dilutions of tea, by everlasting decoctions of congo. His hands, lord love them, are too pretty for any thing, but to wield his pen for the purpose of writing venomous tirades against his King and country, or lackadaisiacal, water-gruel sonnets on the peterpastoral ruralities of the Serpentine or Fleetditch. And yet he has the unparalleled audacity to pretend

Striking a ball Against a wall,

I repeat, Pierce, that he does not even know how many aces there are in the game, and as you understand betting more clearly than ratiocination, I bet you Blackwood's Magazine to the dirty work of Hazlit, which is something more than Lombard-street to a china orange, that he knows no more the use of a hand-ball than he does of a hand-grenade. The notion of his going to a fives-court is in fact ridiculous: To my ideas, at least, (if I may defile myself by a vile Cockney phrase), it is more worthy of laughter than the most pathetic of Keates's sonnets, and more than that a man cannot well say. Just think of a poor feckless animal like this, crammed full of the vile vapours of tea, bread and butter, filthy politics, and Cockney poetry, standing up to play a game, that requires activity of body, dexterity of hand, and quickness of eye: Or figure to yourself such a creature, summoning up resolution to call for a quart of porter to wash down the dust, and endeavouring to put the honest extract of malt into his perked-up muzzle, a depot for such small mixtures as hyson or toast-water. Why, Pierce, he would faint at the sight of the jolly, laughing, cauliflower head of that magnanimous liquor.

Ishall proceed, my dear Egan, to examine this article a little, and shew you the utter coxcombry and insolence of this unfortunate scribbler. Let us be gin with the beginning. His third sentence is this," It may be said that there are things of more importance thanstriking a ball against a wall-there are things, indeed, that make more noise, and do as little good, such as making war and peace, making speeches and answering them,making verses and blotting them, making money and throwing it away." Is it not evident to you, that this is a dirty species of slang, my dear Pierce, quite different from the bang up language of the fancy, of which you are thegreat lexicographer? You see from it at once, that the fellow who could write this puppy sentence never had a heart to play fives. On it, I shall only remark, that he is much mistaken if ball-playing does not do more good than writing such poems as Rimini.

exhilarates a man's spirits, raises no blush but the healthy glow of manly exercise, and excites no ideas but those of good humour and innocence, while Rimini is enough to throw a man into the horrors; and I leave it to his own conscience to answer what blush it calls up, and what ideas it is calculated to excite. After this comes on some more stuff in praise of fives, which I skip; for it is manifest that he is extolling what he knows nothing about, just as he lauds the Italian poets sometimes. We also have a panegyric upon Cavanagh, and it must lacerate every soul of sensibility, to see that fine fellow of an Irishman undergoing the praise of a Cockney. I am informed by a letter from a friend in Ireland, that his surviving family are quite indignant at this atrocious libel, and are determined to do something on the occasion. His poor mother, who is not a woman of literary habits, as she is rather unacquainted with the alphabet, on having the matter explained to her, a task of some difficulty, said with much indignation,-"Arragh, is that the sort of spalpeen who is going a keening after poor Shane? Ohone!-ohone! If he was alive the day, its a fine kicking he would give that bullaboo, for speaking that fashion about him after he was dead!" and I am sure you must sympathize with this hapless Hibernian matron.

But to return to our author. He soon finds it imposssible to go on with panegyric, and from mere inability, falls to the trade he is best used to, that of abusing those who are immeasureably above him. Here is a specimen. "Cavanagh's blows were not undecided and ineffectual, lumbering like Mr Wordsworth's epic poetry, nor wavering like Mr Coleridge's lyric prose, nor short of the mark like Mr Brougham's speeches, nor void of it like Mr Canning's wit, nor foul like the Quarterly, nor let balls like the Edinburgh Review." As Wordsworth and Coleridge do not frequent the Daffy Club, you may not have heard that they are two of the greatest men in the literary worldsuch fellows, in short, as Tom Crib or Jack Randal in their own way, and Hazlitt's criticizing them, is just as prime gammon as if the Brumagem youth

was to strip against the champion, or Alderman Waithman to try a turn up with Sutton. And it is no bad joke that this mudlark of Cockaigne takes it into his head that he patronizes Wordsworth every now and then, and yet you see him here talking of his epic poetry, though I assure you, Pierce, the man never wrote an epic in his life. And then Mr Canning's wit! O tempora, O mores! I thank you to look at the ass who puts himself up as the judge of wit, and the wit of such a man as Canning. He spits at the Quarterly for the same reason that a thievish soldier never can give a good word to the Provost Marshal; he has tasted his thong, and still feels his back so sore from the castigation, that he cannot even think of his punisher without wincing. As for bully Brougham and the Edinburgh, though I am not exactly in the habit of twisting my bunch of five with theirs, yet I should be a very unfair fellow indeed, if I did not admit that the worthy hero of the "well foughten field,' * and little Frank are much too decent out-and-outers to be carped at by such a sneaking costermonger as this knight of the white feather.

Again, he brings in how "politicians wonder to see the balance of Europe suspended in Lord Castlereagh's face, and admire the trophies of the -British navy under Mr Croker's hanging brow. Now Cavanagh was as good a looking man as the noble lord, and a much better than the Right Honourable Secretary. He had a clear, open countenance, and did not look sideways or down, like Mr Murray the bookseller." Now, for God's sake, did you ever hear such impertinence?-Is he thinking of his own principles, or of Mr Leigh Hunt, with his comingup mouth, and his " showery smile,' and his "clipsome waist," and his 66 nose lightsomely brought down from a forehead of clear-spirited thought," and his washerwoman air, and his whole phisiognomy redolent of conceit;-has this animal, I say, whose appearance puts you in mind of the Serpentine, and the Indicator, the Examiner, and Heigh-ho-nonny, little Johnny, and other vile slops, has he the consummate assurance to talk of people's looks! Compare him with Lord Castlereagh! Look upon this pic

ture, and on this, as Hamlet says. Why, Cavanagh, though a smart fellow indeed, was in no one lineament of gentlemanly or manly appearance, or, to use his Lordship's own pet phrase, in no fundamental feature, to be compared to Lord Castlereagh; but to put this being who prates of his looks in competition with him, would be as bad as comparing a baboon to the Apollo Belvidere. He suspects Mr Croker of having given him some sharp dressings, and thinks he has made a grand hit in return, by cracking that excellent joke on his hanging eye-brows. The thing is a lie, but that, no doubt, in his opinion, enhanced the wit. Poor jackass! As for Mr Murray's down looks, I fear there is some foundation for the charge, but I could cure him in a month. All he has to do is to take to reading us with might and main; let him peruse us with unsated eyes; let him devour us with unwearied jaws; let him swallow us down with immeasurable throat; and if that will not clear his countenance, put jollification and delight into his face, and lift his eyes from the peru sal of the base earth, there is no truth in man. I am anxious he should do this, for he is really one of the best and most honourable fellows in the world, though no astronomer. Let him reflect seriously on my advice, if he should hear it, taking warning by the words of old Merrythought: "I have seen,” says that worthy elder, a man come by my door, with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a hat-band, carrying his head as if he looked for pins in the street; I have looked out of the window half a year after, and have spied that man's head upon London Bridge," which would be a sad end for Mr Murray, and would spread woe and consternation among the bright literary luminaries of Albemarle Street. But seriously, Pierce, I leave it to you if this ruffian personality be not altogether abominable; more particularly if you reflect, that the gang of which this Cockney is the prime swell, are the most sore, touchy, thin-skinned abortions conceivable. Were any of my friends, Adam Oehlenschlaeger, the great Danish dramatist, for instance, to drop a word about Hazlitt's face being as thick studded with pimples as a tumbler of soda water is with air-bubbles, or to hint that John Keates

66

was a smart hand at a glyster, you have no notion what a lamentable squeaking would be sent forth from all the tiny ratholes where these animals burrow. They abuse and libel the most dignified characters in the empire; the King, the clergy, the nobles, the men illustrious in war, policy, or literature -and think they have a carte blanche for so doing; but they themselves poor devils that they are-must forsooth be sacred characters, like the old Roman tribunes-not to be touched. It is lezè majesté of Cockaigne to laugh at the ridiculous persons, or the ridiculous minds of any of its inhabitants; but in their brutal doggrel or caricatures, they may picture our King as a beast, or our bishops as pimplenosed debauchees, or, as in articles like this, may upbraid Mr Croker with hanging eye-brows, and Mr Murray with downcast looks. Is not this gross and stupid assurance? Mr Murray is an upright and honourable man, of sound principles in church and state that I shall say of him, though he and I are a little cool at present and on account of those very principles, he is attacked with sneering personality. What the principles or characters of the Cockney authors are, I need not say; but if any one happen to think they are not entirely exempt from ridicule, the whole flock bristle up their feathers at once, put themselves into the most comic attitudes of turkey-cock defiance, and begin gobbling with indefatigable bill. Of this, Pierce, you have most probably never heard, as these dunghill birds are not much known beyond their own roosts, except by such people as myself, who now and then condescend to cast an eye on the poultry, just to pluck one or other of them, to make a feast for the honest people of the realm; but I assure you it is the fact, and what is your candid opinion of such conduct?

Let me take another sample of this precious article. "As Mr Peel made it a qualification of the present Speaker, Mr Manners Sutton, that he was an excellent moral character, so Jack Cavanagh was a zealous Catholic, and could not be prevailed on to eat meat on Friday, the day on which he died." I am not a Roman Catholic, yet I cannot feel any thing but contempt for a man, who could thus sneer at one of the most solemn ordinances of that re

ligion; nor am I particularly given to fasting, but I do not forget that it was one of the practices of the primitive church-for which, to be sure, this heartless buffoon does not care a farthing. That he should vent a pointless sarcasm on Mr Peel and the Speaker, is only natural—they are gentlemen, and of course honoured by his hostility, and accordingly I shall say nothing of that.

I really am tired of exposing this piece of blackguardism, which yet is only six pages long, and after quoting one more passage, shall fling it from me in disgust." Powell is at present the keeper of FIVES COURT, and we might have recommended to him for a motto over his door, Who enters here forgets himself, his country, and his friends.' And the best of it is, that by the calculation of the odds, none of the three are worth remembering." True it is, indeed, that this heartless scribbler has forgotten his country. Take up any of his trash, no matter of what date, and you will find abundant proofs of his utter AntiEnglish spirit. Not a ruffian, great or small, can lift his head, or raise his tongue or pen against England, or English interests, at home or abroad, but is sure of being eulogized by him; not a scoundrel can join in a cry of revolution, robbery, and murder, in any quarter of the globe, without being extolled as a patriot, or canonized as a martyr. You will find Buonaparte, and his huffcap marshals, held forth as invincible, even in the middle of runaway defeat and ruin; you will find our national heroes vilified, and our victories, from Trafalgar to Waterloo, depreciated and slandered. There every un-English sentiment is carefully treasured up; radicalism is recommended,assassination panegyrized. I wonder not, therefore, at his saying he does not think it worth while to remember his country; but I utterly disbelieve him when he informs us that it is among the honest recreations of the Fives Court that he has lost his memory. I know that he never mixed in any such manly sports; and I know also, that country is always forgotten by those who have the misfortune of wallowing in the sloughs of his muchbe-praised Jacobinism. Whether he has any friends or not, I cannot say; but if the rule noscitur a socio, (which being interpreted, Pierce, signifies, Tell me with whom thou goest, and I