I now come to the part of your paper referring to the wrestlers, which is ingenious in portions, but not altogether kind and just (Mrs. Gale knows "the little Coast Hercules," as you call him). I remember the day you mention. I know the very spot of ground-I think I see it now!I think so, because I do. The morning was indeed wet; it was wet through! I was there; and I stood near Mr. Roe (kind Mr. Roe, you I may well call him, for he is a good man and a skilful medical!)-Mr. Simpson, and one or two others, were also there, under the awning and near the Canus. I must say a word or two about the men of the Moors. Mr. the curate, has looked in Squire 's library, and has found the book on wrestling which you quote, and I and Mrs. Gale, and Mr. Norris, and Miss Knowles, have thoroughly read it (the old quarto book with wood prints, and a powerful picture of the Baronet) to the end that we might discuss your remarks the better, and comment upon them in return.* And so without more ado I proceed with my letter. It is not in my power, neither is it in Mrs. Gale's, to talk of the early wrestlers of this country.-Except to rejoice in the laudable part, which the primitive Lord Mayors and magistrates took in supporting the sports of the poor. It gratifies us all to know, that the men of Devon have been celebrated, time out of mind, for their skill in throwing their neighbours. And I see, by an extract from Robin Hood, the Poet, that the amusement is of great antiquity:for by the language, I guess Robin to be an old writer. Mrs. Gale protests that Miss Hood, near the Postoffice, is a grand-daughter of Mr. Robin the Bard,-but she only surmizes, and from no very potent points. It may be so. Heaven only knows! I do not think Mrs. Gale does. You have described the Canns very favourably. We were not aware that they were half such fine men as you say they are,-not that we do not believe it now, for they are Devon-born, like Mrs. Gale and myself-and therefore they may be well grown. (Mrs. Gale is a tall woman of her size, and I am hard on the heels of five feet nine inches, which, as men go, is not diminutive. In proof of this, when I was young, the grenadier company in the militia, panted to possess me.-But I was not warlike-I could never fight at school. A musket gives me a turn at all times, for I have my mother's idea that "it may go off.") Well.-The Canns are very respectable young men,-farmers on their own land. They come to the holiday meetings to increase the fame of the family, and to gladden the eyes of the country girls (my servant Sukey inclines to the youngest,-but Mrs. Gale's Elizabeth leans towards the second one with dark hair). I do not wish to take from the reputation you have given them, but I like fair play. And really, we all question your treatment of the men of the Moors. The Coast Hercules (John Jones, son of old Jones the fisherman) was not so awkward as you mention. He is less than Cann-at least not so tall. Broader he may be, a trifle. His skill lies in his under play, and on that account he must not be reviled-not that you altogether revile him, but he ought to be graciously treated. Cann did not throw him:Remember that. , What had Widdicomb of the Moors done, to deserve your dark representations (Mr. the curate, says thus much)-was he not tall-manly, well-shaped, powerful and courageous?-Had he the feelings of the crowd with him? - Was he mean or ignoble in his play? We well know that he and all the men of the Moors are silent but sensitive, -rude, but honest, and brave, and good men, (Widdicomb purchased a trifle at Mrs. Gale's shop)-Do not, Sir, therefore, because the popular voice was with the Canns, forsake the men of the Moors. I do not speak my own language here, for I do not write after this fashion, nor indeed, after any fashion, for fashion in writing seems a contradiction. We do not understand Sir Thomas. I wished to try the Flying Horse with Mr. Norris, but the gout is against me. I think a man has no chance with only two hands, of working any of Sir Thomas's problems. I quote the words of Mr. the curate, who wrote to me, in a letter, his feelings on the subject. And Mrs. Gale and the rest think as much. Cann was thrown:-Remember that. Widdicomb shall wrestle with Cann for three guineas-a great sum you'll say, and correctly-any day through the summer;-and the money is ready at the Dolphin. We do not very well understand Sir Thomas Parkyns, inasmuch as he writes in a way not very well to be understood; his style being aged, mysterious, and not altogether English-but compounded of Greek, Latin, and, I dare say, Welsh. At any rate, he is too fond of uttering words which are not most intelligible to me, being of languages out of my sphere. That he may speak to the purpose, I do not deny; but the purpose is beyond me. Mrs. Gale thinks his book a joke upon wrestling -but Mr. Norris holds to its having been written for political purposes. I cannot myself decide. Mrs. Gale is a shrewd woman; but Mr. Norris reads the Courier and knows what's what. They both may be rightthere's no saying. The length of my letter surprizes me, and the more particularly as I have written it all since December last; which you will own is easy writing. I trust you will not dislike this first public attempt, which conveys the sentiments of others besides myself. Mr. Norris says, the style is not amiss: and Mrs. Gale, whose name I have mentioned to you before, thinks that I have written to the point. I am, Sir, Your obedient Servant, HUMPHREY NIXON. P.S. Circumstances may prevent me from writing to you again very speedily-I am going to change my condition. Mrs. Gale will in a few days be Mrs. Nixon. You are down for cake. MR. EDITOR,-One of our modern philosophers has asserted that poetry pervades the whole system of nature, and that every inhabitant of the earth (I know not whether the observation extends to the other planets) is born a poet. I am perfectly satisfied with his reasoning and his proofs; (as who can be otherwise?) although I am aware that the expression which we were formerly accustomed to quote as the result of philosophical speculation," poeta nascitur, non fit," now becomes a mere truism. But I do not consider this nearly so material as the almost universal ignorance that exists among the bulk of mankind, of the powers with which they are endowed,-powers, the exercise of which would add so much to the happiness and enjoyment of themselves and their fellowpoets (I was going to say-creatures) -but which are suffered to sleep, and lie useless in decay. It is true, that, notwithstanding this ignorance, almost all classes of society are daily giving involuntary proofs of their Horace, O. 2, lib. iv. poetical capabilities. In travellers, and dealers in general, we invariably perceive the developement of the fiction of poetry; in the daily--and indeed nightly-cries of London, we hear its music;-in the trades of shoemakers and hosiers, we find its measurement of feet;-in the accidents of children, and in the performance of pantomimic actors, we may recognize its cadence With a dying, dying full,and even in the miscalled vulgarity of swearers, we discover the germs of sublime invocation. The class of society which seems to be most unaware of its poetical temperament, is the profession of the law. Although their study has been charged by some with a very intimate connection with one of the principal constituents of poetry-fiction ;-it is apparently of that dry and systematic kind, that few have recognized its relationship to poetry itself. It would, indeed, be difficult to appro priate it to any particular class of - nor poetry. It cannot be called strictly I, Mr. Editor, have the honour to belong to this profession, which I have long considered as scandalized by these depreciating insinuations; and, in order to prove their falsity, and to redeem the poetical character of my brethren, I have lately resolved to reduce all its technicalities into metre, and at all events to hold my legal correspondence in measured lines. If possible, I intend to introduce the practice of charging by stanzas, instead of by folio, being convinced, with the Newcastle Apothecary, who seems to have adopted the same means to obviate a similar objection-that as my clients must have the requisite quantity, which they too often consider to be without reason, AIR-" It is but fair to add a little rhime. As it must be allowed to be of great importance to teach mankind themselves, and to point out to them the talents, the instincts, and, I may say, the properties, they possess,-I conceive, Sir, that in thus endeavouring to sweeten the bitterness of law, to smooth down its excrescences, and to render more musical its expressions,-in short, to show that there is poetry in its practice,-I have deserved the thanks of my countrymen, and of my professional brethren in particular; for I have thus not only made the study of it more palatable to our pupils, but its practice also more attractive to our clients. The following is a slight specimen of my new mode, in a letter which I lately sent to an opposing brother, with whom, however, I am on familiar terms, giving him notice of my intention to file a demurrer to some of his proceedings. I generally adapt my letters to some favorite tune, and the last which happened to be in my head was that to which Moore has written the beautiful words, beginning with "Oh think not my spirits are always as light." JOHN O'REILLY THE ACTIVE." The return of to-morrow will quickly show how: No, all is a waste of impertinent reading, Which seldom produces but quibbles and broils; But, brother attorney! how happy are we! May we never meet worse in our practice of law, And the fee that a conscience can earn from a flaw! Yet our doors would not often be dark, on my soul! And I care not how soon I am struck off the roll, Is happy if always his costs he can save. Temple, April 1, 1821. Yours devotedly, ONE, &c. TO THE MEMORY OF EMMA FULLER. "Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; And waste its sweetness on the desert air."-Gray's Elegy. YES, flow'rets unseen their rich perfume may shed, Thy brief span of life like a vision is fled, It is true that the blight of a flow'ret in May, And yet if we calmly reflect on thy lot, It seems like a bright page which sorrow would blot; For me, I could envy thee !-thus in the bloom Had'st thou died in thy childhood, I scarcely can tell Thou had'st lived long enough to acknowledge the sway The purest-in bosoms where innocence keeps Its watch o'er the heart, like a star o'er the deeps. Thou didst love, and wert loved-and the future was bright, At times, with the hues of ideal delight:— But thou did'st not, when call'd on such hopes to resign, Unto HIM, who can humble the lofty and proud, Thus wert thou enabled, when dying, to bless Although, in thy lifetime, thou wast unto me And features whose mildness 'tis soothing to trace: Yet, when thou wast dead, while remembrance still dwelt A desire which I could not, and cannot explain, They were changed-O! how much since I look'd on them last; Yet, spite of all this-in defiance of all Death had done to disfigure, disease to appal,- For O! there was meekness, and loveliness yet," B. Bandusia's spring! more glittering-clear than glass, Whose brow, just bourgeonning With firstling horns, decides for love and war Thy crystal, cooling rills. Thee the fierce dog-star in his blazing hour With thy voluptuous cool. Thy place is with the famous streams: for I |