Of all such lands as they shall see,
Or not see, as the case may be :-
It being enjoined on all who go
To study first Miss M********,
And learn from her the method true,

To do one's books, and readers, too.
For so this nymph of nous and nerve
Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"
And, lest mankind at all should swerve,
Teaches them also "What to Observe."

No, no, my friend,-it can't be blink'd,-
The Patron is a race extinct;

As dead as any Megatherion

That ever Buckland built a theory on.
Instead of bartering, in this age,

Our praise for pence and patronage,
We, authors, now, more prosperous elves,
Have learned to patronise ourselves;
And since all-potent Puffing 's made
The life of song, the soul of trade,
More frugal of our praises grown,
Puff no one's merits but our own.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really raise the wind;
And since they've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse, now, taking to the till,
Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill,
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows);
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,
Touches the notes for each new theme,
While still fresh " change comes o'er her dream."

What Steam is on the deep,—and more,

Is the vast power of Puff on shore;
Which jumps to glory's future tenses

Before the present ev'n commences;

And makes" immortal" and "divine" of us
Before the world has read one line of us.

In old times, when the God of Song
Drove his own two-horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two,

Book'd for posterity "all through ;"-
Their luggage, a few close-packed rhymes,
(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times,—
So slow the pull to Fame's abode,
That folks oft slept upon the road;—
And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,
Took to his night-cap on the way.*

Ye Gods! how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in no time!

Raise but one general blast of Puff
To start your author,—that's enough.
In vain the critics, set to watch him,
Try at the starting post to catch him;
He's off-the puffers carry it hollow-
The critics, if they please, may follow.
Ere they've laid down their first positions,
He's fairly blown through six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence,-
(That plague so awful in my time.
To young and touchy sons of rhyme,)
The Quarterly, at three months' date,
To catch th' Unread One, comes too late;
And nonsense, littered in a hurry,
Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray.

But, bless me!-while I thus keep fooling,
I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling."
That postman, too, (who, truth to tell,
'Mong men of letters bears the bell,)
Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally

That I must stop,

Yours sempiternally.

T. M.

* Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus.-HORAT.

JACK SHEPPARD.

BY W. HARRISON AINSWORTH, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF "ROOKWOOD AND "CRICHTON."

ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

EPOCH THE SECOND.—1715.

CHAPTER VI.

JACK SHEPPARD'S FIRST ROBBERY.

1

If there is one thing on earth, more lovely than another, it is a fair girl of the tender age of Winifred Wood! Her beauty awakens no feeling beyond that of admiration. The charm of innocence breathes around her, as fragrance is diffused by the flower, sanctifying her lightest thought and action, and shielding her, like a spell, from the approach of evil. Beautiful is the girl of twelve,-who is neither child nor woman, but something between both, something more exquisite than either!

Such was the fairy creature presented to Thames Darrell, under the following circumstances.

Glad to escape from the scene of recrimination that ensued between his adoptive parents, Thames seized the earliest oppor tunity of retiring, and took his way to a small chamber in the upper part of the house, where he and Jack were accustomed to spend most of their leisure in the amusements, or pursuits, proper to their years. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head.

It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormar window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox ;-a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. We have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples and a satin skin. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearlywhite teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. Her eyes

were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by