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tion, with a more sustained illustration and impressive sentimentality than are to be found in the admired original :

Day rose o'er Norton Falgate high,
And Sol, like Tom of Coventry,

On many a nude was peeping ;-
The chimneys smokeless and erect,
And garret windows patch'd and check's,
The prentice-rousing ray reflect;

While those within them sleeping
Reflect that they must stretch their legs,
And bundle out, and stir their pegs,
Or else, as sure as eggs are eggs,

Their masters, strict and wary,
With rattling bells will overhaul 'em,
Or, may be, rise themselves to call 'em

Up with a sesserary !
Pendant on dyer's pole afloat,
Loose pantaloon and petticoat
Seem on each others charms to doat,

Like lovers fond and bland;
Now swelling as the breezes rise,
They flout each other in the skies,
As if, conjoin'd by marriage ties,
They fought for th'


Beneath with dirty face and fell,
Timing his footsteps to a bell,

The dustman saunter'd slowly,
Bawling “ Dust-O!" with might and main,
Or humming in a lower strain,

“ Hi-ho, says Rowley!"-
Now at shop-windows near and far

The prentice-boys alert
Fold gently back the jointed bar,
Then sink the shutter with a jar

Upon the ground unhurt;



While some, from perforated tin,
Sprinkle the pavement with a grin

Of indolent delight,
As poising on extended toe,
Their circling arm around they throw,
And on the stony page below

Their frolic fancies write.-
What poems praised and puff’d, have just
Like these kick'd up a mighty dust,
But wanting the impressive power
To stamp a name beyond the hour,
Have soon become forgotten, mute,
Effaced, and trodden under foot!

In future communications I shall send you some more tid-bits from our feast of intellect; but, as we have a meeting this evening to ballot for the admission of Miss Caustic, the apothecary's daughter (whom I mean to blackball), I have only time to add that I have discarded my baptismal name of Harriet, as inappropriate and unclassical, and shall henceforth acknowledge no other appellation than that of Hebe Hoggins.

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16 I've cast your Horoscope-your natal star

Is Ursa Major-a most hanging sign. Old Play The indefatigable author of the Scottish novels, 1 and his innumerable imitators, have not only commemorated all the reevers, robbers, borderers, blackmail

men, brigands, rebels, outlaws, cut-throats, and other heroes of Scotland, but have begun to make incursions into England; while another set have landed upon the shores of Ireland, where they bid fair to reap an abundant harvest of riot and robbery. It is really scandalous, that the citizens of London should not have availed themselves of their rich records of rascality to immortalize some of their more celebrated felons ; but, with the exception of the Newgate Calendar, an imperfect and obscure publication, I am not aware of any attempt to do proper justice to these characters, beyond the very simple process of hanging them, This desideratum in literature I purpose to supply by a series of traditional or recorded tales, wherein, according to established usage, I shall introduce frequent dialogues, imitations of the old ballads, songs, and other poems; and have made such arrangements, that every one shall contain a crazy, doting semi-prophetic old crone, upon whose fatuous auguries the whole plot shall be forced to depend. I need not more fully develope my mode of treatment, since I enclose you, as a specimen, the tale of

HARRY HALTER THE HIGHWAYMAN. In the whole populous range of Dyot-street, St. Giles's, and Seven Dials, it would have been impossible to find a more dashing youth, or one who at once illustrated and defied the dangers of his profession with a look of more resolute slang, than Harry Halter the Highwayman. Sixteen-string Jack, with the

bunches of ribbons at his knees, and the ends of his neckcloth fluttering in the air of St. George's Fields, had a more swelling swagger, and Abershaw might carry

in his face a more stubborn and insolent assurance of the gallows; but Harry, with his hat on one side, his quid in his left cheek, and his bludgeon in his right hand, contrived to associate such a real air of high birth and fashion, that it was impossible to distinguish him from the nobility and gentry with whom * he was constantly intermingled at boxing-matches and cock-pits. Even the Bow-street officers were sometimes deceived ; and many a lord and member of parliament, going to receive his dividends at the Bank, has been tapped on the shoulder, with a—“Come, come, Mr. Harry, this is no place for you-you 're nosed, so bundle off.” The Wig and Water Spaniel in Monmouth-street was his favourite haunt in London; none bừt: "Booth's best” was ever dispensed from that savoury bar, which, not being above six feet square, was exactly big enough to admit Mrs. Juniper, the fat landlady, a dozen or two of dram glasses, and a small net of lemons, which, with a delicacy of feeling that did her honour, she declined hanging from the roof, as customary, lest it should awaken any dangling presentiments in the minds of her guests. Here, with his two friends Ned Noose and old Charley Crape,-one of whom ultimately emigrated to Australasia, and the other, after being kept some time in suspense as to his final fate, was admitted of Surgeons' Hall,–Harry has sate behind many a pint of purl, arranging the plans of innumerable burglaries which

figure in the annals of those days, or singing the ballad of


Bold Turpin upon Hounslow Heath

His black mare Bess bestrode,
When he saw a Bishop's coach and four

Sweeping along the road :
He bade the coachman stop, but he,

Suspecting of the job,
His horses lash'd—but soon roll's off,

With a brace of slugs in his nob.
Galloping to the carriage-door,

He thrust his face within,
When the Chaplain cried—Sure as eggs is eggs,

That is the bold Turpin.
Quoth Turpin, You shall eat your words

With sauce of leaden bullet ;
So clapp'd his pistol to his mouth,

And fired it down his gullet.
The Bishop fell upon his knees,

When Turpin bade him stand,
And gave him his watch, a bag of gold,

And six bright rings from his hand.
Rolling with laughter, Turpin pluck'd

The Bishop's wig from his head,
And popp'd it on the Chaplain's poll,

As he sate in the corner dead.
Upon the box he tied him then,

With the reins behind his back,
Put a pipe in his mouth, the whip in his hand,

And set off the horses smack !
Then whisper'd in his black mare's ear,

Who luckily wasn't fagg'd,
You must gallop fast and far, my dear,

Or I shall be surely scragg’d.

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