ship's position on the chart, recommended an immediate alteration of course. The captain was at once on deck, and gave orders to wear. His practised eye soon detected the absence of the redcoats.

"Where's the military officer of the watch ?" he yelled, in a voice audible above the roaring of the wind-a voice that penetrated into the ears of the delinquent, and chilled him to his heart's core. "Where's the military officer of the watch? Send him up here at once. Boatswain's mate, rout up the port-watch of privates to be mustered here. Where's this d-d skulking hound of an officer? If he's not up in half a second I'll drag him up by the ears. Now, sir, send your men to their stations. Here's a pretty example for an officer to set to his men! You shall stay here for the morning watch, sir; and all day, too, if you play those pranks with me! Wear ship!"

It was a pitiable sight to see the wretched soldier ordering about the equally-wretched privates in lugubrious tones.

"Now, then, take hold of the rope. Pull-at-the-ropes. Oh, Lord!"

"A little more smartness there, sir," yelled out Jaccade from the gunslide on which he stood. "Send those men over a little quicker! Move a little quicker yourself, sir! Now muster your men.'

"The ship moves heavily, sir," said the master.

"Tell them to sound the well. This gale will try her timbers." The master went on his errand, and soon returned with a face of alarm.

"She's leaking fearfully, sir! the hold."

There are several inches water in

And so she was. The old timbers could not be expected to hold out for ever. The men were clapped on the pumps at once, and could only keep her clear by diligent efforts. One watch relieved the other at the pumps, and all next day, while the ship was still fighting against the gale, the water had to be kept down. Strange rumours floated about in the neighbourhood of the pumps. Jack heard the first leeftenant say, they'd have to go into dry dock at Malta; but the capting said, "Yes, if so be that we gets to Malta." It seemed doubtful whether the ship would reach Malta, especially when the gale put forth its last efforts, and, as if in a rage at having to subside so soon, tore the foretopmast clean out of the cap, and snapped the old rickety mainyard in the slings. Where the BellePoule would have gone to had the gale lasted, no one can say; but luckily it moderated immediately after, contented with the evil it had wrought, and the crippled vessel crawled along before a light air, with the pumps still going. Providence guided her into Malta, where the troops were landed, and the leaks examined. "All the world wondered" how such a ship had got out there, and had Captain Stimkins possessed a decent muse, he might have written a poem on the voyage that Mr. Muir would have gladly published at his own risk, and which would have had a sale among Maltese salons second only to the Shilling Peerage.

Perhaps it may not be quite superfluous to add, that the Belle

Poule was broken up at Malta, and her officers and crew sent home on the earliest possible occasion. Captain Jaccade has not yet got another appointment, and hardly expects one, though he goes to the Admiralty pretty frequently, and always finds the secretary very particularly engaged. Theth have not yet arrived in the Crimea, and Captain Stimkins has actually been recalled by "urgent private affairs" before his regiment has left Malta. What private affairs he can have, no one seems to know. All the world knows he has little money, no land, and less brains.

MELTING THE EARL'S PLATE.

By G. W. THORNBURY.

Here's the gold cup all bossy with satyrs and saints,
And my race-bowl (now, women, no whining and plaints !);
From the paltriest spoon to the costliest thing,

We'll melt it all down for the use of the king.

Here's the chalice stamped over with sigil and cross,-
Some day we'll make up to the chapel the loss.
Now bring me my father's great emerald ring,
For I'll melt down the gold for the good of the king.

And bring me the casket my mother has got,
And the jewels that fell to my Barbara's lot;
Then dry up your eyes, and do nothing but sing,
For we're helping to coin the gold for the king.

This dross we'll transmute into weapons of steel,
Tempered blades for the hand, sharpest spurs for the heel;
And when Charles, with a shout, into London we bring,
We'll be glad to remember this deed for the king.

Bring the hawk's silver bells, and the nursery spoon,
The crucible's ready-we're nothing too soon;
For I hear the horse neigh, that shall carry the thing
That 'll bring up a smile in the eyes of the king.

There go my gold spurs, and the old silver jug,—
"Twas just for a moment a pang and a tug;
But now I am ready to skip and to sing,

To think I've thrown gold in the chest of my king.

The earrings lose shape, and the coronet too,
I felt my eyes dim with a sort of a dew.
Hurrah for the posset-dish!-Everything
Shall run into bars for the use of the king.

That spoon is a sword, and this thimble a pike,
It's but a week's garret in London belike.
Then a dash at Whitehall, and the city shall ring
With the shouts of the multitude bringing the king.

92

Kicks and Halfpence.

"I take prose and poetry together, like bread and cheese."-GRAY.

"I will be heard!" bawled Bobus, amidst cheers;
"I will be heard, and tried, sir,-by my peers."
-They ought to listen, Bobus,-they have ears!

Small Billy the noodle,—a whisper we hear-
Is the natural son of a wicked old peer:
But the wicked old fellow, one's bound to declare,
Has a gentleman's head and a gentleman's air.
So of name, neither noodle nor peer let us rob,
Billy can't be a bastard,—he looks such a snob.

H.

What do you think of Millais? said Z. to H. H. replied in a single line from Tibullus (iv. 2):

"Millais habet ornatus, Millais decenter habet." *

THE REV. CUTHBERT BEDE.

Swift wore the cassock; yet his wit was strong,

And Sydney Smith set all the world a laughing,

And Ingoldsby's inimitable song

Proved that the gown could not obscure his "chaffing."
But now, O tempora! our hearts must bleed;

Our cleric humourist is-Cuthbert Bede.

EPIGRAM.

I've heard of a person, a pious old soul,

(But a very great fool, it is said, on the whole),

Who once, after dinner, his talk thus began

With "Sampson, you know, was a very strong man."

It was not the first time Sampson's strength was made known (As from Scripture we learn) by an ass's jaw bone.

ON ONE OF OUR CRITICS.

E. W.

I can't see why the Telegraph's so harsh, some readers say:
Can't you indeed? The reason's plain. We all our writer's pay.

Why abuse those reformers who'd ope the career,
And talent remove from the shelves?
How pure and how lofty their motives! 'tis clear
They don't aim at raising themselves.

ESCAPE FROM DROWNING.

How did Sir Robert 'scape a wat❜ry bed?
'Tis plain: he lectured, and the ocean fled.

PELIDES.

All things by turns Pelides must appear,
Placeholder, critic, statesman, lecturer.
Strange, when such varied duties he fulfil,
That he can do them all, and all so ill.

POPULAR AUTHOR LOQUITUR.

They say I steal from Shakspeare: 'tis absurd...
I've never even read him,-on my word.

RELIGIOUS PROGRESS.

A comical Bible John threatens to write;

And one blessing at least from this task would ensue :

No attention whatever John's work would excite,

While for once he'd be driven to read The Book through.

CRUEL PUN.

They say Turks are no jokers: a mistake;

Ask General Williams, and ask Colonel Lake.
Kind Halet Pasha sent to Kars, they say,
Perfumes instead of med'cines, t'other day.

They wanted splints, and so forth :-by a neat trick
He sent them several instruments obstetric.
When asked the reason, the facetious giver
Said, he but meant the city to deliver.

S.

E. W.

EMINENT MODERN WRITERS.

No. II.-GERALD MASSEY.

HAVING adopted a general title which has created so much dismay amongst the ranks of the "popular" writers,-those who conserve and encourage, rather than remove, the ignorance of their necessarily many readers, we readily admit Mr. Gerald Massey* to an early and prominent seat on the funeral pyre. We had intended to "trot him out" as an "eminent modern plagiarist," and we have abandoned the name only, not the intention. He is moree-he could scarcely be less-a writer than a poet, (and in the present day men rarely steal from prose,) but far more a plagiarist than either.

Now it cannot be denied that Mr. Massey's claims to consideration are considerably eked out by allegations of youth and low birth. Will any body have the hardihood to assert, when they have considered the matter, that such excuses can be taken? No excuses at all can be made for any literary performance, because an excuse implies a defect; and why should a defective poem or essay be printed? The Babe Christabel volume is concluded by a panegyrical memoir of the author, (written in so intense a spirit of ultramanliness, that it is impossible not to detect beneath the robe the Wellington-boot of Mr. Eliza Cook-indeed, it is extracted from that gentleman's Journal,) in which those extenuating circumstances are forcibly inculcated. To us it seems all nonsense. A man knows English, has, or thinks he has, poetical thoughts and capacity, some opinions, and an insane hankering after proof-sheets; he sets various machineries at work to produce a thing five inches by three, in a pink cover, and persuades you to give half-a-crown for it; you repent at an early period, and are then requested to "take your change" out of the writer's youth. Youth! Mr. Massey was twenty-six years old when he published his volume; and it is the publication, not the writing, which is complained of. Chatterton might have paused at publishing his own poems at twenty-six; he would not have written Mr. Massey's at sixteen. The best of Tennyson's lyrics were published, we believe, in his nineteenth year; and Shelley died at thirty. The Ballad of Babe Christabel is a long affair informing the public, who were not very inquisitive on the matter, how Christabel was born, considered a miracle, and died,— her father being down in Toil's dark mine during her brief career. Possibly it is an allegory. It may be that Christabel personifies knowledge emerging from ignorance; but that knowledge is dead we can scarcely believe, although Mr. Massey's volume is rather strong evidence. If it really be an allegory, it has scarcely answered its purpose, for it teaches no lesson that can be comprehended; if it be intended for so much plain fact, then, we think, it might have

* The Ballad of Babe Christabel: with other Lyrical Poems. By Gerald Massey. London: Bogue. 1854.