iv. 15), and of Samuel, the contemporary of Jesse, who lived nearly till the death of Saul (xxv. 1; xxviii. 3)— until within two years of it, according to Josephus; and was, therefore, not much less than a hundred and ten at his death. But it is clear, that every additional century with which critics have endowed the theocracy will add twenty years to each of these five generations; and whether, with Josephus, we make them a hundred and twenty years each, or with Africanus, a hun

dred and fifty, is of little moment; the absurdity of any augmentation is selfevident. But we must here conclude; it would be but gilding refined gold to detail the numberless proofs of the authenticity of the text, to the illustration of which the present disquisition has been appropriated. We shall, however, probably resume the subject, in connexion with other questions of archæology and criticism. HERMOGENES.

April 2, 1836.

THESE Volumes are, in all their beautiful variety, distinguished by nothing more truly honourable to the gifted author than the dedication to Sir John Campbell. In this elegant document -but we had better let the poet speak for himself. "First and foremost," however, as the conjurors say, let us disarm malevolence, or impertinence, by a statement of the real nature of our position in a matter of considerable delicacy.

The volumes which we are about to review, in terms, certainly, of high favour, but not more so than they deserve, are furnished by two of the contributors, and published by the publisher, of REGINA. Quaffy punchovicz, Tydus-Pooh-Pooh, and James Fraser, are names indissolubly intertwined with those of OLIVER YORKE and of REGINA herself; and any work produced under such auspices must, of necessity, claim our warmest sympathy. This, indeed, but no more.

The

serenely serious eyes of our pure judgment are not to be disturbed by passion of any kind. Were we not calmly convinced of the merits of this work, we should not warmly praise it; but, being so convinced, no false delicacy When shall prevent our saying it. the late Mr. Hogg wrote a silly and vain book about Sir Walter Scott, did we hesitate to denounce it because the said Mr. Hogg was a contributor of our own? Certainly not! Now that Quaffy punchovicz and Tydus-PoohPooh have, by a rare combination of

intellectual power and poetic feeling, produced a work honourable to them and profitable to their publisher, shall we remain silent because they are contributors to, and he the publisher of, our own immaculate sheets? A thing not to be thought of! Having set this matter, with our accustomed clearness, before the noses of our male and the bright eyes of our female friends, we proceed to the discharge of a duty as delightful as any ever imposed upon us by the

"Stern daughter of the voice of Jove."

The dedication, of which we have already spoken, we shall quote entire. It cannot be necessary to do more than indicate (nor, indeed, is it necessary to do that) the surpassing skill with which Our Man of Genius has rendered the thoughts and feelings of his Polish friend into our language. It is perfectly astonishing. We may with truth say, that Quaffypunchovicz and Tydus-Pooh-Pooh seem made for each other. Happy poet to have such a translator! Happy translator to have such a poet!

compose yourself; don't be in a fidget coolness is the characteristic of a Caledonian; just come quietly to the scratch; do not denationalise your organisation - Stratheden is a very pretty title: so pray be seated, and listen to

me.

"I repeat that you are the cause of this my publication: I will explain how you are so. Sir, I cannot repress my emotions while I furnish this explanation. I will, however, do my best to soften my eulogy, so that you may have no reason to suspect me of adulation.

You may remember the trial in which you were retained, for the purpose of proving fun to be libellous, and parodies deserving of damages at the hands of an English jury. Sir, the English people love fun, and are partial to parodies, and you failed. That was no fault of yours, nor is it any business of mine; 1 merely mention the circumstance, as a natural introduction to the following pregnant fact. In the course of that trial, you, in proof of the derogatory nature of the parodies in question, as bearing on the poetical character of your client, were pleased to recite a sonnet by myself, entitled, Thought of a Pole on the prohibition of his language.' It would ill become me to say any thing in praise of my own poetry; but two points I must notice: firstly, the great beauty of my friend Tydus-Pooh-Pooh's versification -it is true I am no great judge of the matter, as I don't understand much English; yet I know the language quite as well as Oehlenschlaeger, the Danish poet and he, as we are told by Dr. Bowring, after hearing that universalist recite a page of Shakespeare, declared that it sounded in his ears like the inarticulate music of a murmuring stream. So did the versification of Tydus sound in mine, when rolling from your mellifluous lips: nay, I had an advantage over the antique Dane, for I knew what you were talking about. So wondrous is the imitative harmony of my translator's verse, that I felt the meaning of every word you uttered. Much of this effect was, I am attributable to

you.

And this is my second point. The rich tones of that most musical voice a voice which, like that of the Cretan Jupiter, seems to have been modulated with honey- the deep pathos of that passionate enunciation, the overpowering poetry of mind pervading your entire recitation, brought the soft suffusion into my admiring eyes; for my eyes were not less charmed by the beau ty of your countenance than were my ears delighted by the thrilling earnest. ness of your voice. Never, never, shall I forget the emotions of that moment, so full of meanings manifold. My whole soul was entranced, and, in the boundless gratitude of a poetic heart, I sent up a silent vow to Heaven, that I would place all my works at the disposal of Tydus, and, he willing, give them to that nation which had produced a poetical attorney-general. This vow I have here fulfilled. Through the exertions of Tydus, my poems are before the public, and I can now safely say that my destiny is accomplished.

To whom, then, can I iuscribe the work with such propriety as to yourself? You, sir, were its great originator, I but the humble instrument for collecting and arranging the scattered relics of my longdistracted mind. Suffer me, then, to present to you the result of my labours, and to wish you all the legitimate consequences of your consistent self-denial in the matter of promotion.

"I am, sir,

on a singular subject. It is called "On my own Death ;" and was occasioned by reading in this Magazine a statement of his having died young and suddenly. The latter circumstance was said to be very neatly alluded to in his epitaph, which was the following: "Here I lies,

To my own surprise." When this was pointed out to Quaffypunchovics, he rubbed his eyes, coughed aloud, and called all present to witness that he was not dead. The report had, in fact, originated in his sudden disappearance from Poland. They thought he was drowned, and raised a marble slab to his memory ;another proof how confoundedly hurried people are in believing the death, or any other disaster, of their neighbours. Well, to return, the Pole, having coughed, stamped, jumped, and played at coits, to prove his vitality, and drank a bottle of claret at a draught, in further confirmation, retired to his home; and there, in the solitude of the midnight hour, he paced his apartment with the energetic tread of an exiled patriot, till the cork of his poetic spirit flew to heaven, and the following stream outpoured itself.

"On reading of my own Death, and of the Stone raised to me in my native country. Dead! - and so, on second thoughts, I

am!

of the feelings of a very large, a very deserving, and, thanks to Lord Brougham and Sir John Campbell, a very longsuffering class of men, ay, and of women, who, in the most prosaic sense of the poetical term, are labouring under the "sickness that comes of hope deferred." It is a sickness of the inmost soul -subduing every lofty, almost every vital, energy, and leaving no moral, no intellectual quality unpoisoned by its debasing misery. Well, before this last stage has darkened over the actual and clouded all the future, there is a state of doubt, which, but for inborn daring, might be fear. This state is alluded to by the poet in the poem we are about to place before our readers. It is celebrative of that day spoken of by the fair authoress of Lodore, when she tells us that the fine young fellow who loved her hero's daughter could only see her on the Sabbath, owing to his botherations. One of our own poets has eulogised the same day, though not from the same motives. Our fellow-countryman robustly carols thus: "Of all the days that's in the week

I dearly love but one day,
And that's the day that comes between
Saturday and Monday.

For then I'm dressed all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley."

So

says the merry Englishman, and he is right. A shallow critic or foppish littérateur might stop at the line,

"For then I'm dressed all in my best," and set down our lover for a coxcomb. In that case the coxcombry would be in the critic, not in the carroller. "Tis true the latter looks forward to the being "dressed all in his best" on the Sunday. But why?

"To walk abroad with Sally," who

"Is the darling of his heart."

He has no wish to deck his person for any selfish admiration. No! but to render it worthy the companionship of his love. And our countryman is in this a true FRASERIAN. Higher praise it were impossible to accord to. him. Now for the Pole. He is no less fervent in the praise of that delightful day which

"Comes between Saturday and Monday."

But, as we have already said, the motives of the two eulogists differ. This will be apparent from the poem itself. Here it is. We can conscientiously recommend it for its truth. Its beauty must strike every one.

"Sabbath Joy.

Hurrah! hurrah! the earth and sky
Interchange their glances free,
And every sweet face that passes by
Looks bright with Liberty!
The generous front and elastic air
Of hearty, hopeful man,

Are glad as though life, never stirred with care,

To the eternal ocean ran.

This, this is the day the Lord hath
made,

Be glad, and rejoice therein!'
Let no care perplex, no doubt degrade,
The soul now bright within!
What slave shall dare to cross the path
Of our joyous or pensive way?

Let him dread the flash of a freeman's wrath,

For this is the freeman's day!

Look up, lone mourner, thy youth hath fled,

Thy vigorous manhood's gone,— The hopes of thy life lie cold and dead, And thy heart is left alone! Look up, one free-breathing day is thine,

One snatched from the sorrowing seven; Then open thy soul to the ray divine,

For the light is a 'light from heaven!'

'Tis a light to gladden both young and, old

Whose foot-way the hell-hounds track, With a thirst to be quenched by naught but gold,

And a hate that will never slack. Blessed, oh, blest be the Sabbath morn,

When the devils must hide their claws, When a respite is found by the heart forlorn,

And misery knows a pause."

What the poet is in such a pucker about, we have already intimated. Generally agreeing with him, we could wish his style more spiritual and less spirituous. But the latter is probably his inspiration. Wrong-very wrong! We think the name Quaffypunchovicz quite enough for any moderate man. The following seemingly facetious version of the Emperor of Russia's speech at Warsaw, is, in fact, a most spirited appeal to the patriotism of the Polish nation. The poet, it will be perceived, under the veil of a festive canticle, conveys the whole enormity of the emperor's tvrannv