If the hopes you nursed decline,
If the friends you cherish'd die,
For you it was ordain'd to shine;-
It is for all that sigh.

For whom was the Sabbath made?—
It calls the wretch to prayer,

Whose soul the noonday thoughts upbraid,
And the midnight visions scare:
It calls thee to the shrine;

Fear'st thou to enter in?

For thee it was ordain'd to shine;-
It is for all that sin.

JAMES SMITH, 1775–1839.

THE two brothers, James and Horace Smith, as the joint authors of the Rejerted Addresses, are almost as closely associated together in modern, as Beaumont and Fletcher are in early English, literature. They were the sons of Robert Smith, an eminent legal practitioner of London. James was born on the 10th of February, 1775. He was educated at the school at Chigwell, in Essex, where his talents excited the admiration of his master. After completing his education, he was articled to his father, was taken into partnership in due time, and eventually succeeded to the business; but never did his professional engagements alienate him altogether from his literary pursuits. His natural tendency to banter and cajolery, his keen sense of the ridiculous, his strong passion for the drama, and his love of London society and manners, -all these contributed to make him a town humorist, and his society courted by the circles of wit and fashion. His first pieces were written for the Picnic newspaper, which was made up of the contributions of a large number of writers, but which lived only about two years. From 1807 to 1810 he was a constant contributor to the Monthly Mirror. In 1812 appeared the celebrated Rejected Addresses, which at once established his fame as a writer of playful

1 The fame of these brothers was confined to a limited circle until the publication of the Rejected Addresses. James used to dwell with much pleasure on the criticism of a Leicestershire clergyman:-"I do not see why they (The Addresses) should have been rejected; I think some of them very good." This, he would add, is almost as good as the avowal of the Irish bishop, who said that there were Bome things in Gulliver's Travels which he could not believe.

The occasion of the Rejected Addresses, called "one of the happiest hits in literature,' was as follows:-In 1812 the directors of the Drury Lane Theatre offered a premium of twenty pounds for the best poetical address, to be spoken on the opening of the new edifice. A casual hint from Mr. Ward, secretary to the theatre, suggested to the witty brothers, James and Horace Smith, the composition of a series of humorous addresses in imitation of

the style of the principal authors of the day, and professing to be composed by them. They were but six weeks in writing them, and the work was ready by the opening of the theatre. Its success was almost unprecedented, for in ten years it reached the eighteenth edition. The articles written by James Smith are:-No. 2. The Baby's Début, by W. W. (Wordsworth.) No. 5. Hampshire Farmer's Address, by W. C. (Cobbett.) No. 7. The Rebuilding, by W. S. (Southey.) No. 13. Playhouse Musings, by S. T. C. (Coleridge.) No. 14. Drury Lane Hustings, by a Picnic Poet (a quiz on what are called humorous songs). No. 16. Theatrical Alarm-Bell, by the editor of the M. P. (Morning Post.) No. 17. The Theatre, by the Rev. G. C. (Crabbe.) Nos. 18, 19, and 20. Macbeth, George Barnwell, and the Stranger: travesties. He also supplied the first stanza to No. 4. Cui Bono, by Lord B. (Byron.)

satire and humorous parody quite unequalled. So satisfied was he with the popularity thus acquired that he never afterward wrote any thing of length,confining himself to short, anonymous pieces in the New Monthly Magazine and other periodicals. He died on the 24th of December, 1839. His brother Horace collected his works and published them in two volumes, prefixing a biographical memoir.

THE BABY'S DÉBUT.

BY W. W.

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on New Year's Day;
So in Kate Wilson's shop

Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,
And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,
He thinks mine came to more than his,
So to my drawer he goes,

Takes out the doll, and oh, my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg-top's peg,

And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parlor-door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite;
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not
To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,
Thus to distress your aunt:
No Drury Lane for you to-day!"
And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!"
Mamma said, "No, she shan't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney-coach,
And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind;
The tails of both hung down behind;
Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
Stood in the lumber-room:

I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopp'd it with a mop,
And brush'd it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes,
(I always talk to Sam):

So what does he, but takes and drags
Me in the chaise along the flags,
And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,
But not so tall, and not so thick

As these; and-goodness me!—
My father's beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good
As these that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,
Won't hide it, I'll be bound:
And there's a row of lamps; my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why
They keep them on the ground.
At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr. Thing-
Umbob, the prompter man,
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said, "Go on, my pretty love;
Speak to 'em, little Nan.

You've only got to curtsey, whisp-
er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,
And then you're sure to take:
I've known the day when brats not quite
Thirteen got fifty pounds a-night,
Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?
And where's my aunt? and where's mamina?
Where's Jack? Oh, there they sit!

They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy's chaise,
To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsey, like a pretty miss,
And if you'll blow to me a kiss,
I'll blow a kiss to you.1

This is, of course, in imitation of Wordsworth's earlier writings; for in their preface the authors say, "To avoid politics and personality, to imitate the turn of mind as well as the phraseology of our originals, and, at all events, to raise a harmless laugh, were our main objects; in the attainment of which

[Blows kiss, and exit.

united aims we were sometimes hurried into extravagance. In no instance were we thus betrayed into greater injustice than in the case of Mr. Wordsworth,-the touching sentiment, profound wisdom, and copious harmony of whose loftier writings we left unnoticed."

"The author does not, in this instance, at

THE THEATRE. (BY G. C.)

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
Our long wax candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start:
To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,
While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit,
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.
What various swains our motley walls contain!
Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane;
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,
With pence twice five, they want but twopence more,
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,

And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,
The muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat;

But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat;
Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
And spurn'd the one, to settle in the two.
How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door
Two shillings for what cost when new but four?
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,
And gain his hat again at half-past eight?
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,

John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief."

"Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line;"

"Take mine," cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, "Take mine."

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,

Where Spitalfields with real India vies;

Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clue,

Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,

Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

George Green below, with palpitating hand,
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band;
Upsoars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeign'd,
Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd,
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat.1

tempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry, but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his Alice Fell, and the greater part of his last volumes, of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and, indeed,

we think, a very flattering imitation."-Edin burgh Review.

1 The Theatre,' by the Rev. George Crabbe, we rather think is the best piece in the collec tion. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of descrip tion of that most original author, except in

THE UPAS IN MARYBONE LANE.
A tree grew in Java, whose pestilent rind
A venom distill'd of the deadliest kind;
The Dutch sent their felons its juices to draw,
And who return'd safe pleaded pardon by law.

Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale,
Advancing from windward to 'scape the death-gale;
How few the reward of their victory earn'd!
For ninety-nine perish'd for one who return'd.

Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer,
Removed it through Holland, and planted it here;
'Tis now a stock-plant of the genus wolf's-bane,
And one of them blossoms in Marybone Lane.

The house that surrounds it stands first in the row,
Two doors at right angles swing open below;
And the children of misery daily steal in,
And the poison they draw they denominate Gin.

There enter the prude, and the reprobate boy,
The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy,
The serving-maid slim, and the serving-man stout,
They quickly steal in, and they slowly reel out.

Surcharged with the venom, some walk forth erect,
Apparently batiling its deadly effect;

But, sooner or later, the reckoning arrives,
And ninety-nine perish for one who survives.

They cautious advance with slouch'd bonnet and hat,
They enter at this door, they go out at that;
Some bear off their burden with riotous glee,
But most sink in sleep at the foot of the tree.

Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart,
This compound of crime at a sovereign a quart;
Let gin fetch per bottle the price of champagne,
And hew down the Upas in Marybone Lane.

Of James Smith's minor effusions none are more witty than some epigrams in his "Martial in London," in imitation of the Latin bard. The following are a few specimens:

BLUE INK.

You ask me, Edward, what I think
Of this new fashionable ink?

I'll answer briefly, Ned.

Methinks it will be always blue;
At all events, when used by you,
It never will be red.

the excessive profusion of puns and verbal jingles. It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral sublinity, but

seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere description."-Edin burgh Review.