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We have always maintained that this suppression has produced great evil, by diminishing the capital of the small and middling traders; but we have always denied, and we still do the same, that it has produced the ruinous low prices, or been the principal cause of the distress. Holding this opinion, it is our duty to repeat it continually, so long as the delusion, to which it is opposed, exists. The proposition, that with unlimited is sues of bank notes, prices would be generally high, no matter what the supply of commodities might be, is in our eyes, one of the most fallacious ones that error could conceive. It is demonstrable, that if corn were somewhat dearer than it is, although still far cheaper than it was during the war, the weekly supplies of it at all the leading markets would be quadrupled by importation; and that the same cause would have the same effect on all commodities not under constant prohibition. Yet we are to believe, that such enormous additional supplies would not sink prices! It is only worthy the understanding of babes, women would treat it with the derision it deserves. The more able advocates of the theory we are combating, indeed, admit that prices are in a great degree governed by supply and demand, and this destroys their theory; for if the difference between one kind of currency and another, only make a difference of five or seven per cent in prices, it is of little practical moment. But the present currency-clamour denies that supply and demand have any influence, and imputes a fall in

prices of forty or fifty per cent, solely to the difference in the kind of circulating medium.

But censure is deserved by others, as well as by the members of Parliament.

The agriculturists know that their low prices are the cause of their distress, and that these flow from the importations of foreign produce, and the terms on which such produce is admitted into the market; yet they are silent on the great cause, and blame only the currency!

The farmer has been for some years his whole rent out of pocket, yet he believes that a reduction of rents will restore to him his profits. In his petition to the legislature he says, that a few pounds taken from his taxes will give him prosperity!

The manufacturer and trader who are in a state of insolvency from the want of business and profits, proclaim to the legislature that they need nothing to make them prosperous save a petty reduction of their taxes!

The labourer who is starving from the want of employment or inadequate wages, and who never tastes malt liquor, declares to the legisla ture, that he shall have abundance if malt liquor be cheapened, or if twopence or threepence per week be allowed him in decrease of taxes!

Conduct like this in the constituents must naturally produce similar conduct in the representative. It cannot be accounted for on the ground of want of knowledge and intellect, or on any other than that of national insanity. Once more we say, What must be the end?

THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS.

BY MRS HEMANS.

Thou art fled

Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn
Robes in its golden beams-ah! thou hast fled!
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful;
The child of grace and genius. Heartless things
Are done and said i' the world, and mighty earth,
In vesper low or joyous orison,

Lifts still her solemn voice-but thou art fled !

No tears for thee!--though light be from us gone
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one!
No tears for thee!

They that have loved an exile must not mourn
To see him parting for his native bourne,

O'er the dark sea.

All the high music of thy spirit here,
Breathed but the language of another sphere,

Unechoed round;

And strange, though sweet, as midst our weeping skies,
Some half-remember'd song of Paradise

Might sadly sound.

Hast thou been answer'd? Thou that from the night,
And from the voices of the tempest's might,

Wert seeking still some oracle's reply,

And from the past,

Forth on the blast.

To pour the secrets of Man's destiny

Hast thou been answer'd?-thou that through the gloom,
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb,

A cry didst send,
So passionate and deep, to pierce, to move,
To win back token of unburied love

From buried friend.

And hast thou found where living waters burst?
Thou that didst pine amidst us in the thirst
Of fever-dreams!
Are the true fountains thine for evermore?
Oh! lured so long by shining mists that wore
The light of streams!

Speak! is it well with thee? We call as thou,
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow,
Wert wont to call

On the departed! Art thou blest and free?
Alas! the lips earth covers, ev'n to thee,

Were silent all!

Yet shall our hope rise, fann'd by quenchless faith,
As a flame foster'd by some warm wind's breath,
In light upsprings.
Freed soul of song! Yes! thou hast found the sought,
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought,

On morning's wings.

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THE EXHIBITED DWARF.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

I LAY without my father's door,
A wretched dwarfish boy;
I did not dare to lift the latch,-
I heard the voice of joy:
Too well I knew when I was near,
My father never smiled;

And she who bore me turn'd away,
Abhorring her poor child.

A stranger saw me, and he bribed
My parents with his gold;
Oh! deeper shame awaited me-
The dwarfish boy was sold!
They never loved me, never claim'd
The love I could have felt;

And yet, with bitter tears, I left
The cottage where they dwelt.

The stranger seem'd more kind to me,
He spoke of brighter days;

He lured each slumb'ring talent forth,
And gave unwonted praise:
Unused to smiles, how ardently
I panted for applause!
And daily he instructed me-

Too soon I learn'd the cause.

I stood upon his native shore;
The secret was explain'd;
I was a vile, degraded slave,
In mind and body chain'd!
Condemn'd to face, day after day,
The rabble's ruffian gaze;
To shrink before their merriment,
Or blush before their praise!

In anguish I must still perform
The oft-repeated task;
And courteously reply to all
Frivolity may ask!"

And bear inhuman scrutiny,

And hear the hateful jest!

And sing the song, then crawl away To tears instead of rest!

I know I am diminutive,

Aye, loathsome, if you will;

But say, ye hard hearts! am I not
A human being still?

With feelings sensitive as yours,
Perhaps I have been born;

I could not wound a fellow Man
In mockery, or scorn!

But some there are who seem to shrink

Away from me at first,

And then speak kindly; to my heart

That trial is the worst!

Oh, then I long to kneel to them,
Imploring them to save

A hopeless wretch, who only asks
An honourable grave!

THE TEA-TABLF.

'Tis there all meet,

*

The downright clown, and perfectly wellbred.

BLAIR'S GRAVE.

THOUGH all unknown to Greek and Roman song
The paler Hyson, and the dark Souchong;
Though Black nor Green the warbled praises share
Of knightly Troubadour, or gay Trouvér,
Yet scorn not thou, as alien quite to numbers,
That friend to prattle, and that foe to slumbers,
Which Kien Long, imperial poet, praised

So high, that cent per cent its price was raised;
Which Pope himself would sometimes condescend
To place, commodious, at a couplet's end;
Which the sweet bard of Olney did not spurn,
Who sung
the music of the "hissing urn:"
Let her, who bade me write, enact the Muse,
Inspire my genius, and my Tea infuse:

So shall my verse the hovering Sylphs delight,
And critic Gnomes relinquish half their spite.
Clear, warm, and flowing as my liquid theme,
As sweet as sugar, and as soft as cream.
May it awhile engage the gentle fair,
Then gambol gaily in the morning air,
Twined in the tendrils of her nut-brown hair!
Who has not read in chronicle or fable,
Of good King Arthur and his famous Table,
Where Kay and Tristrem talk'd by fits and starts
Of love and murder, broken heads and hearts?
Like this the modern talk at time of tea,
Of the Round Table and its chivalry,
Who speak, with even voice and equal zest,
Of hearts ensnared, and heads absurdly drest.
'Tis true, a softer race the board environ,
Who corslets wear indeed, but not of iron;
Who play-but seldom combat by the card,

And drink-but drink not through the helmet barr'd,
The fair alone with Chalybean proof,

Support their busts, their lovers keep aloof,

The Muse is female, and may dare reveal

What I have heard, and some, perhaps, may feel.

King Arthur kept his court in Camelot,

But the Round Table graces every cot.
Palace and farm enjoy the gentle feast
That blends the products of the West and East.
Where'er, on British ground, our footsteps roam,
We find it still, and find it too at home.
Whether till eight the formal guests delay,
Or meet at seven in a friendly way:
Sooner or later, still the board is crown'd-
The lacquer'd tray and argent spoons resound-
The homely delft, or far-sought porcelain,
In circling ranks are marshall'd on the plain.
The polish'd chest with curious art inlaid,
Or quaintly wrought by some ingenious maid,
Displays the lawful spoils of venturous trade.
But not alike in every place and time,
The social banquet that provokes my rhyme;

Not social there, where law or logic lours,
At inns of court, or academic bowers:
In silence sip the solitary tribes

Of lank-jaw'd students, and of sallow scribes.
Pot after pot is drain'd, yet not a word
From lady's lip in those confines is heard:

Nought save the knell of " midnight's dreary noon,"
And the dull jingle of the circling spoon.

Hie we from thence, nor shall we long delay
About the homely meal of every day:

For the dear comforts of domestic tea
Are sung too well to stand in need of me,
By Cowper and the bard of Rimini.
Besides, I hold it for a special grace
That such a theme is rather common-place.
The joyous blazing of the new-stirr'd fire,
The mother's summons to the dozing sire;
The whispers audible, that oft intrude
On the forced silence of the younger brood;
The blooming daughter's ever-ready smile,
So full of meaning, and so void of guile;
With all the little, mighty things that cheer
The closing day from quiet year to year,
I leave to those whom more benignant fate
Or merit destines to the wedded state.
A stranger I, a wanderer upon earth,
A thriftless prodigal of tears and mirth,
Must learn, without a cherish'd hope, to see
The loving looks that look not love to me;
Happy, if time at length shall teach me this,
To find my proper joy in others' bliss:
But ne'er be mine the selfish heart forlorn,
The tear of envy, or the laugh of scorn.

I grow too grave, and must in haste return
To the frail China, and resplendent Urn.
Behold the table spread, the lady set;
Matrons and spinsters, all are duly met;
The younger belles disposed in scatter'd troops,
In rows demure, or gaily whispering groups;
The female elders chat the time away,

(I often wonder what they find to say,)
Or sort the pearly fish in painted pools,

(Their light exchequers,) while their coffee cools.
What various tones from female organs flow,
How briskly smooth, or languishingly slow;
The pretty creatures laugh, and weep, and rail,
In all gradations of the vocal scale,

From fell Xantippe's emphasis of brass
To the soft murmur of the melting lass;

The smoking board sets all their tongues in motion,
Like many billows of the voiceful ocean;
From note to note the keen remark descends,
In squalls begins, and in a whisper ends.
For loud and shrill the bulky bourgeoise
Accosts the beauty of departed days-
With accents tuned with unavailing skill,
The Vestal answers to the Matron shrill;
With temper'd melody of cautious speech
The Hostess doubts, and yet accords with each:
Then round and round the breezy murmurs glide,

And every absent Miss is named a Bride.
Yon rosy lassy, just arrived from schocl,

Where all must look, and think, and feel by rule,

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