of the earth have become knights errant, and leaving their thrones and kingdoms to the care of councils and of deputies, they compass sea and land in quest of this one fair lady "throned by the West."

"From the four corners of the earth they come,

To seek this shrine-this mortal-breathing saint.
The Russian deserts, and the vasty wilds
Of wide Europa, are as thoroughfares now
For princes to come, greet VICTORIA!
The wat'ry kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spits in the face of Heaven, is no bar

To stop these foreign spirits; but they come,
As o'er a brook, to greet VICTORIA !!"

And well is it for the honour and renown of the court of once merrie England that it is so; for before these royal and imperial gallants took to coming hither, the English court seems to have been as dull and monotonous as an eremite could wish. If we are to pin our faith in courtly matters on that dull diary which is daily to be found alike in the heart of every newspaper, and denominated the Court Circular-the daily doings at the English court in general are dull enough, of all conscience; so dull, indeed, that the Court Circular which professes to narrate them, is dull as any day-book; and the Court Circular of Monday might be stereotyped for every other day in the week, and suffer no damage thereby. Save and except when one of these foreign kings is visiting here, go where you will, in every nine days out of every ten-at the breakfast-table, in the public library, in the tavern, or in the club-house-the common remark is, "How dreadfully dull the Court Circular is to-day!" Read it yourself, day by day, and, wearying of its sameness, you will think our sovereign lady's royal consort may e'en say with good King IIenry, of that name the Sixth :

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Ah, me! methinks it is a quiet life
To sit upon a bench, as I do now;

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run-
How many make the hour full complete-
How many hours bring about the day-
How many days will finish up the year-
How many years a mortal prince may live.
When this is known, then to divide the time;
So many hours may I take my rest,

So many hours must I take my walk,
So many hours may I disport myself

On horseback, or on foot, with Wem'ss, or Bowater;
Shooting the rabbits when they are in season,
Or reckoning up my stock on Norfolk farm;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean,
So many weeks ere I shall shear the fleece;
Still, taking care to be at home to lunch,
At one, precisely."

I don't mean to say that the prince moralizes precisely in these terms, or precisely on such matters as these; but this is the melancholy complexion to which the dull dreary monotony of the Court Circular has reduced the court in the apprehension of people in general; and therefore it may not be amiss to say a few words on the origin of the Court Circular;-the why and the wherefore for its invention, and to

give some rather interesting details touching its first promulgation, and thus, perhaps, in some degree, account for its general vapidity and homeliness of diction.

George the Fourth, "the first gentleman in the universe," had the courage and the honour to institute the Court Circular. It was one of his earliest cares after he had assumed the sovereignty as Prince Regent; and the instruments he employed to bring it about prove how lightly he regarded "the Fourth Estate," and how dearly he loved absolutism. Before the time of his regency there was no such thing as a Court Circular; but, time out of mind, the newspapers had been left to pick up court news how and where they could, and they, knowing the difficulty of obtaining it, left it to those shrewd descendants of Autolycus-those "snappers-up of unconsidered trifles," who write. history for three-halfpence a line-who take nunquam dormio for their motto, and whose revenue is simple gullibility. Consequently, the court and the purlicus thereof were much infested by these mercurial out-scouts of journalism; and of course, courtly considerations had little to do with their pickings up. Quantity, not quality, was their object; and provided they obtained the quantity, they were not over delicate in their mode of dressing it. They had only to take care that it was lengthy enough for their own interest, and sufficiently piquant, or otherwise, to suit the taste of their several employers; and the melange, thus cleverly and diversely concocted, appeared in the newspapers of the next day under the head-Royal "MOVEMENTS."

Now the Prince Regent was man-of-the-world enough to know that, "what great ones do, the less will prattle of;" but, as the lads say at school, he saw no fun in living under the surveillance of a swarm of young literary scamps who, day by day, were publishing their conjecturings of this, and presumings of that, and by putting this and that together, make out a new mare's-nest for every day in the year; and so he determined to put a stop to it altogether and forthwith. And this brings me to the second part of my discourse, to wit-a passage in the life of "Old Townsend."

Who that has ever sauntered along Pall Mall, and the stable-yard, St. James's Palace, or through the Mall in the park of that ilk any fine sunshiny morning during the fashionable season between 1820 and the next twelve years, does not well remember "Old Townsend,” the short, dumpy, "bumptious" Bow Street officer, in nankeen shorts and short gaiters, to match, with blue and white striped silk hose between; his blue broadcloth dress-coat buttoned over his portly paunch, which was always carefully invested in a neat marcella "vest;" his cranium closely covered with a flaxen scratch, his flaxen scratch surmounted by a broad-brimmed drab beaver, his drab beaver surrounded and adorned with a drab riband, and full rosette, to correspond, and his righthand graced with a handsome silver-headed stout Malacca cane? Reader, if you have ever met such a man,-and no doubt you have, for he was always to be met with for many years at the time and place above mentioned, sometimes arm-in-arm with the Duke of York, or chatting familiarly with Lord Sidmouth,-that man, be it known unto thee, was "Old Townsend." George the Fourth called him John-plain "John;" by the ladies, he was called "Mister Townsend," for he was a special favourite and a useful man to them

as I mean to shew, sometime or other; by the great officers of state, and the cabinet ministers, he was also called Mister Townsend; but by the common sort, who delight to vulgarize everything, he was called "Old Townsend." In his younger days, he had been a student in shoe-blackingry, in his majesty's gaol of Newgate; from shoe-blacking, he elevated himself to coal-heaving, and in that profession he obtained the honour of being an odd man; from coal-heaving, he took to the gaol again, and became a trusty turnkey; from turning the key in Newgate, he turned Bow Street officer, and principal confidant of Sir Richard Birnie, Knight; from Bow Street he was advanced to the run of all the royal palaces, and became the intimate of royalty itself from George the Third down to William the Fourth; the consulting friend of all the lord chancellors, from Lord Loughborough down to Lord Eldon; the gratuitous adviser of all cabinet ministers, from Mr. Spencer Percival, Lord Sidmouth, &c., down to Sir Robert Peel; the favourite champion of the ladies generally; and, finally, he was the very man whom George the Fourth called in to aid, and assist him in establishing the COURT CIRCULAR!

"John, we want you," said Sir John M'Mahon, seizing Townsend by the button, as they accidentally met under the portico of Carlton House one morning, shortly after the passing of the Regency Act. Sir John M'Mahon was a small Irish gentleman, with a rather large and somewhat carbuncled nose; and he was, moreover, privy pursebearer, and private secretary to his royal highness the prince regent. So, seizing Townsend by his button, as above related, he said to him, John, we want you ;" and Townsend, drawing himself up to his full height-five feet four, or thereabout-replied, "Werry good, Sir John."-"We want your assistance," continued Sir John, "in a matter which must be instantly attended to―instantly-do you understand me?"

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"Understand you, Sir John!” replied Townsend-" to be sure I do; and I'm always at your service, Sir John, or his royal highness' either; and you may always

"Ay, ay, I know all that, Townsend; but do be so good as listen to me for a moment," replied Sir John, interrupting him, and giving the button a very earnest twitch, by way of bespeaking instant attention, "do pray listen to me."

"It's my duty

"Listen to you, Sir John!" exclaimed Townsend. to listen to you, as the privy purse and private secretary of his royal highness, who is a-holding of the royal authority, during his poor old father's illness. God bless 'em both, I say!"

Whereupon, he gave his broad beaver a jaunty cant on one side, and struck the pavement energetically with the brass-shod point of his Malacca cane, by way of giving more point to his speech, I suppose, at the same moment sticking his left arm boldly akimbo, and darting all the lustre of his keen grey eyes full on the private secretary's ruby countenance, and ending with a wink so significant, that it drew his right cheek an inch higher than the left. It was the reconciliatory wink with which the Townsend invariably let himself down from the proud attitude he assumed whenever he thought his knowledge of his duty was in question.

The Privy Purse understood it, and proceeded.

"Well then, Townsend, what I want to say to you is this:-You see what stupid things get into the papers almost every morning about what they call the royal movements, and

"See 'em, Sir John!" again broke out the Townsend, grasping his cane with increased vigour; "I b'lieve I do see 'em, for it aint easy to keep anything away from me, I can tell you;" and then, spite of the repeated tugs at his button by the Privy Purse, he went on. it was only last Wednesday morning, as ever was, as I was a-coming "Why, through stable-yard, St. James's,-which I always makes it my way, from Pimlico to Bow Street,-who should I light on but York-the Dook-the custos, as they call him. Good morning, Mr. Townsend,' says he. Good morning, your royal highness,' says I; and with that, he puts his arm inside of mine, and says I to him says I, Why, I'm blessed,' says I, if them rascally noozpapers ar'nt a-running their rigs at you now, Mister Fred,-I'm blow'd if they ar'nt!' For you know, Sir John, how plaguy hard they've been a-running of him this last week, and if

Ay, ay, ay! never mind all that," said the impatient Privy Purse; "but tell me at once, do you know any writer for the newspapers?any plain, decent fellow, who will say no more than is set down for him? because, if you do, I should like to see him down here directly. Do you understand?"

Townsend pursed his lips, gave his coat a tight button across his heart, struck the pavement again with the point of his cane, winked his eye vigorously, and descended the steps of the portico without answering; but before he had taken half a dozen strides across the fore court, he suddenly turned round, and seeing the Privy Purse still looking after him, he gave him another hard wink, and said—“ Sir John, I'll be back in a jiffy. I can clap my finger upon the very man."

And Townsend was as good as his word. In less than half an hour -which, therefore, must be understood to signify a jiffy-he returned with an elderly police reporter in his hand-an old crony of his own, "courteous he was, lowly and serviceable"-and that same day he was installed in the office and dignity of COURT NEWSMAN. Notices were sent round to all the newspaper offices, that thenceforward circulars" Court Circulars "would be sent round to them from the newly appointed "court newsman," containing the only authentic court news, and they were warned against publishing any other. At the' same time, all the approaches to the palaces, or any of their appurtenances were strictly tabooed against the incursions of the irregular troops of the press; and the establishment of the "Court Circular was complete as it at this day appears before the public-a dreadfully dull document, except when enlivened by those occurrences peculiarly appertaining, as aforesaid, to the reign of Queen Victoria, whom God preserve!

PROGRESS OF POETRY. 2

HUNT-BROWN-BENNET.

Imagination and Fancy; or, Selections from the English Poets, with an Essay, in answer to the question, "What is Poetry?' By Leigh Hunt.

Smith and Elder.

The Star of Atteghei; and other Poems. By Frances Brown. Moxon. The Poetess; and other Poems. By Georgiana Bennet. Longman. BEFORE we turn to the first of these three volumes-to the contemplation of those greatest names in English poetry, which, in relation to their associated excellences of imagination and fancy, are now illustrated in the choice criticalTM prose of a poet who has attained the high fortune of "numbering his name with theirs "we propose to draw a deserved regard to two efforts, not of the same lofty character, but having something lovely in them, as well from the interest attaching to youth and sex, as from their own aspirations.

The fervent fluent verses which some time ago introduced Miss Bennet to the poetical reader, are followed, in this little volume, by pieces somewhat similar in tone, though differing, for the greater part, in subject, as the chief portions of this collection are tinctured by a strong religious feeling. This pervading principle shews itself strikingly in the opening poem-picturing the wild dreams, passionate aspirings, and solemn communings with nature of a devoted girl, who achieves early the fame she intensely covets, and instantly awakens to a sense of the utter nothingness of life and the exclusive influences of religion. All is vanity on earth; and the step to another state of being is represented to be bitter disappointment in this. The out-pourings of a gifted glowing mind, so unnaturally clouded, are characterized frequently by equal energy and tenderness. That such a subject so considered, and illustrated as it here is with passages of graceful though gloomy reflection, with a fervent earnestness that always impresses, and a spirit of piety which, though indicated in the form of fiction, is unmistakably sincere, will have its influence on many orders of the poetical, as on numbers who are not, there can be on doubt; for the "most musical, most melancholy," will always have its charm. But the most sombre, solitary, world-shunning muse that ever wept day and night over the earth because graves must be dug in it, may easily recollect that a churchyard is not a parish, and that gardens, besides being more poetical than moors, are also more plentiful in this civilized world, wherein we all have our being.

Besides, the young muse, whose sad, melodious chime we are now in sympathy commending to the ear of the reader, sad as she is, is always happiest and most influential when singing, in a lively, ardent key, of the affections: which inspire her. There is a feeling of filial piety, rising to rapture in some of the expressions, that touches the heart, and prompts the wish that the future essay of the " poetess" should be of a simple and domestic character, worked out in a story.

The character of Frances Brown's poetry, the quality of her mind, the nature of her pretensions to be heard-above all, the peculiarities of her personal and social condition, and the circumstances under which she grew, from blind infancy into the capacity to see all the universe at a glance, as the poet's eye can do these are so utterly opposed to every association which the experienced reader must have of such ordinary and inauspicious-looking stories as "Stars of Attéghéi," that it would be quite impossible for him to guess who Frances Brown may be. We can tell him at once that she is a writer of no common powers, of extremely uncommon experiences; and a poet little short, in her own personal history, of a personified romance.

There is enough in this volume to interest us, without hearing a syllable of the author of it; still the reader must learn some particulars which cannot but

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