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the matrons are pleased that Lord Byron can draw the character of a modest woman, and some gentlemen say that Angiolina is the only heroine in his lordship's poems whom a rational Englishman would like for his wife. I was obliged to get 'Don Juan' to please the gentlemen; some ladies shook their heads when they saw it in my window, while others bribed me to send it to them secretly, wrapped up in paper, and carefully sealed.

However, I think I could go on pretty well, without being teazed and fretted into a nervous fever, if it were not for these horrible Novels, written by some Scotchman, heaven only knows who, for there is always a different story about it. I believe the devil himself must be their author, for nobody else could write them so fast. No words can express how I dread their coming out; I have no peace of my life for three months before, and as many after their publication, and I am so baited, and scolded, and abused.

"What! Mrs. Smith, not got 'Kenilworth' yet, why it's really too bad."

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"Not out! it has been advertised these six months; you're always behind every body."

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Ma'am, the very moment it is out of the printer's hands, it will be sent to me. I have despatched five messengers about it since last Monday."

"Then you'll let me have it as soon as it arrives."

"I am very sorry, Madam, but that's quite impossible; there are others before you on the list."

"Before me, Mrs. Smith! Why, my name has been down these six weeks."

"Very true, Ma'am; but there were three-and-twenty ladies before you."

"Three-and-twenty; it is false, Mrs. Smith-you know it is false. This is shameful behaviour; you have been bribed to set down others above me. I will subscribe here no longer."

"I am very sorry, Madam, but what can I do? I shall have two copies. I do all in my power to oblige my customers."

Well, when will they be down?

"Next week, Ma'am, I hope."

"And when shall I have them ?"

"It is impossible to say exactly; it depends upon the other ladies, who sometimes keep them too long."

"But you should not permit that, Mrs. Smith."

"La! Ma'am, what can I do? I send, and send, and beg, and pray, and all to no purpose."

"Ah, you manage your library very ill, and are always behind every body."

And this is all the reward I get for my pains. Then, when the book is at last published, I am still worse off. My shop is besieged from morning till night. They send to me before I am up, and after I am in bed, at hours when they have no right to disturb me. One lady sent her servant seven times in three hours; and at last he said he should lose his place if he went home without the first volume. Another set her footman to watch at the corner of the

street for a little boy, who she knew was gone to fetch "Kenilworth" for a subscriber who was to have it next, and desired him to take it from my messenger by main force; and one gentleman quietly seated himself in my shop, and swore he would never leave it till he got the last volume. Then the gentlefolks tell such dreadful falsehoods: I do believe, since the world began, there were never so many lies told about any thing, as about these tiresome novels; and I can tell Sir Walter Scott, if he is the author, that he will have a great deal to answer for.

"I faithfully promise you, Mrs. Smith, upon my word and honour, that I will return you the first volume to-morrow. I read quick, and I shall make a point of sending it to you the very moment I have finished it."

Upon the strength of this assurance I venture to quiet another of my tormentors, with the promise of her having the book the following evening, and perhaps it does not arrive for ten days, and all the blame of unpunctuality and falsehood falls upon my unhappy head.

Then the ladies are so rude and violent. One tore the book out of my hands, though I held it as tight as I could, and persisted in carrying it off with her in spite of my entreaties. Lord bless me! I wish I had lived before this Scotchman began to write. And he gives one no respite. I had scarcely got through the first fury about "Kenilworth," and had begun to recover my spirits and my temper, when in comes a lady, and says, "Put my name down, Mrs. Smith, for the Buccaneers."

"Certainly, Ma'am," replied I, very quietly, "pray how long has it been out, and who is it by? I will order it immediately." "Oh, it's not out yet; it's a new novel of Sir Walter Scott's. Another treat for us, Mrs. Smith."

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You might have knocked me down with a feather. I turned cold from head to foot. "Am I never to have any peace of my life,” thought I. More misery for me, and more work for the devil, who loves liars." I am sure Sir Walter is in compact with him. The devil gives irresistible talent and unequalled rapidity of composition, and receives, in return, the power of making ladies who used to speak truth, speak falsehood, without either hesitation or remorse. And it can only be by some supernatural charm that the author of these accursed books contrives to please all the world. People differ about every other work in my library; but these Scotch novels are admired by young and old, grave and gay, wise and foolish. If they continue to come out so rapidly, I must either give up my business, to avoid dying of consumption, or else I must follow the example of a librarian at Oxford, who never will admit one of my Scotch torments into his shop. I dare say he is afraid of being torn to pieces by the wild Oxonians, which is likely enough to happen, for I am half killed by what is called "the gentle sex."

I am quite ashamed, Sir, of having troubled you so long with my distresses; but knowing your Honour's goodness, hope you will excuse the liberty, and remain,

Your grateful and humble servant,

A. SMITH

Notwithstanding my concern for my correspondent's distress, I want not only the power, but the will to relieve it, as I am one among the millions who are anticipating, with great delight, the publication of "The Buccaneers," and who hail with pleasure every addition to these novels of the 19th, and classics of the 20th century. I earnestly hope that their author will not be so moved by the wretchedness of poor Mrs. Smith as to resolve upon the suppression of his new work, and that he will not be grievously offended by the imputation of infernal intercourse. For my own part, I can never believe that the enemy of the human race would assist in affording them so much gratification in so innocent a shape; nor am I disposed to credit Mrs. Smith's heavy censures on my fair countrywomen. Truth, whether considered as "the conformity of speech to the end for which God designed it," as a moral virtue, or a Christian grace, is too serious a duty to be neglected, even for the sake of reading "Waverley" or "Kenilworth ;" and a promise, in the opinion of every rightly-disposed mind, is sacred and binding, though made to the keeper of a circulating library.

I intend to advise Mrs. Smith either to give up her present business immediately, in order to put an end to her sickness and her sorrows, or to become more patient and less irritable, which will probably produce the same desirable effect. Indeed, all who are tied by fate to uncongenial pursuits, will find it their wisdom and their interest to accommodate their minds to these adverse circumstances. They will discover that perseverance is an admirable substitute for talent; and that he who has the habit of looking on the bright side of things, and persons, and prospects, may be said to possess the best genius in the world, -a genius for being happy.

SONNET, IMITATED FROM CHEVRÆANÁ.

To have a jealous, ugly wife,

In hopeless love to pass one's life;

To sail upon a stormy sea,

Without an hope from death to flee;
Alone through deserts drear to roam,
Or in a prison find one's home;

To deal with Scotchmen, or with Jews,
Or time in ceremonies lose;

In travelling to pass one's days,
Disputing turnpikes, boys, and chaise-
All these are states we well term evil.
But if in life you wish to know
The climax of all earthly wo,
London sans money is the devil.

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"FIRST FRUITS OF AUSTRALASIAN POETRY.

"I first adventure. Follow me who list;

And be the second AUSTRAL HARMONIST."

SUCH is the title of a work, which has something curious about it. In the first place, it will be a novelty to our readers, as it was "printed for private distribution;" in the second, because it is what the title denotes, and was printed at “SYDNEY, New South Wales;" and thirdly, because, though written by a gentleman who fills a very solemn office there, it contains an Ode to a KANGAROO; with a previous piece entitled “Betany-Bay Flowers."

Poetical feelings are not, at the first blush, much excited by the words "BOTANY BAY;" but this must certainly arise from the prejudice of unlucky associations in the mind, with regard to this part of what is (with the license of the sister kingdom) called the fifth quarter of the globe. The term Botany cannot be but a favourite of the Muse, and, if we may be permitted a little jeu de mots, what is there abhorrent in the word Bay? Pope, it is true, talks of "The Critic's Bay," and this, we admit, may occasionally make it productive of disagreeable sensations. The connexion, however, between the poet and this place, is indeed so close, that, on reflection, it seems impossible to think of one without the other, or Horace has been praised without judgment. It is the poet's part, says he, to transport

us:

"Ut Magus; et modò me Thebis, modò ponit Athenis."*

The fifth quarter was not discovered in his time, or there is little doubt that Australia (a very pretty word for Latin verse) would have figured in his measure. That he was inclined to go still further in his description of a true poet, may be gathered from this passage :—

"Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur

Ire Poëta," &c.

The QUARTERLY, in reviewing " Michael Howe, the last and worst of the bush-rangers," printed at Hobart Town, the capital of Van Diemen's Land, recommends the ROXBURGHE CLUB, to apply early for a copy, as that little book will, says the reviewer, be assuredly the Reynarde the Foxe of Australian bibliomaniacs. Now, if such is likely to be the fate of a prose work, published in that quarter, what may we not prophesy of a copy of the "first fruits of poetry," printed at Sydney, "for private distribution?" The Roxburghe Club can obtain no cop

Epist. lib. ii. 1.

in England, and must rest their fame on Boccaccio, unless some of the members should by chance (and "chance happeneth to all") go to Botany Bay. Under these circumstances we take some credit to ourselves for introducing this rarity to our readers.

It is in quarto, printed by George Howe, and bears date (we beg Mr. Dibdin's attention) 1819. Its being in quarto, has in it, at first, something alarming; but the alarm of small readers will subside into perfect ravishment, when they learn that the whole work consists of twelve pages.

Of these "first fruits" we now proceed to give a taste, premising a hope that, being exotics, and coming from afar, they will be received courteously and thankfully.

The leading piece is, "Botany Bay Flowers," to which the author takes a motto from Lucretius:

66

-juvatque novos decerpere flores, Insignemque meo capiti petere inde coronam, Unde priùs nulli velârint tempora Musæ.*

This is the opening:

"God of this planet! for that name best fits
The purblind view, which man of this 'dim spot'
Can take of THEE, the God of suns and spheres!
What desert forests, and what barren plains,
Lie unexplor'd by European eye,

In what our fathers called the Great South Land!
Ev'n in those tracts, which we have visited,
Tho' thousands of thy vegetable works
Have, by the hand of Science, (as 'tis call'd)
Been gather'd, and dissected, press'd and dried,
Till all their blood and beauty are extinct;
And nam'd in barb'rous Latin, men's surnames,
With terminations of the Roman tongue;
Yet tens of thousands have escap'd the search,
The decimation, the alive-impaling,
Nick-naming of God's creatures-'scap'd it all.
Still fewer (perhaps none) of all these flowers
Have been by poet sung. Poets are few,
And botanists are many, and good cheap.
When first I landed on AUSTRALIA's shore,
(I neither botanist nor poet truly,
But less a seeker after facts than Truth)

We give Creech's translation, that England may know what its son promises to himself:

'Tis sweet to crop fresh flowers, and get a crown
For new and rare inventions of my own;
So noble, great, and gen'rous the design,
That none of all the mighty tuneful Nine
Shall grace a head with laurels like to mine.

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