Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,

When thou art parted from my soul?
Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow,
But not together-no, no, no!

THE NEW CABRIOLETS.-A HAND-BILL.

Ar a time like the present, when economy is imperiously required in all branches of expenditure, public or private, the Speculator in the new hackney cabriolets feels himself called upon by a sense of duty to a candid and enlightened community, to state the circumstances under which his invention originated, and the various public advantages which, he presumes to imagine, will render it successful.

On a bleak morning, at the commencement of March last, the Speculator, while in the act of devouring a calves-foot jelly at the confectioner's in Leicester-fields, beheld a young gentleman, dressed in the very extreme of modern ton, walk on the tips of his toes, across the square, diagonally towards the Haymarket, and enter a hackney-coach, which, from its capacious bulk, seemed to have been the property of some deceased alderman, and which was drawn by a pair of enormous black long-tailed horses. The young gentleman was not much larger in the waist than a wasp. "A lady's fan" might have "brained him," (or, more strictly speaking, might have cracked his skull), and a lady's pair of scissors might have clipped him in twain. The whole weight of the stripling could barely have reached fifty pounds avoirdupois. Struck by the absurdity of employing such a vehicle, and a couple of such quadrupeds, to convey such a biped, the Speculator walked ruminating through Cranbourne-alley-(he begs pardon of the purlieu) Cranbourne-passage: and while crossing the street opposite Hamlet the jeweller's, was, through inattention, nearly run over by a baker's cart. It is extraordinary from what apparently unimportant sources the greatest discoveries frequently flow. The conjoint ideas of hackney-coach and baker's-cart suggested to the Speculator the notion of a hackney cabriolet. Any gentleman who has travelled from the Champs Elysées to Versailles, during the spouting of the waterworks, (and what English gentleman has not?) must have observed a vehicle of that description, drawn by a single horse, in the interior of which an assortment of men, women, and children, to the number of twenty at the least, has been securely stowed. Now if twice ten natives of Paris can trot safely in that species of conveyance to Versailles, the Speculator puts it to any gentleman conversant in mathematical calculation, with what a dead certainty (the speculator means a live one) a London-built cabriolet may travel with three people, namely, the driver and two passengers, from Cheapside to Greenwich fair.

The price charged by the Speculator being only two-thirds of that demanded by the drivers of hackney-coaches, it follows that a shilling fare of the latter is, by the scheme of the former, diminished to eightpence a two shilling fare to one shilling and fourpence, and so on in

proportion. Young gentlemen who are beginning to remember their multiplication-table, and middle-aged gentlemen who are beginning to forget it, will, by this arrangement, find great practical benefit in the quickness and accuracy with which they will, by a little practice, know to an odd halfpenny how much they are to pay to the driver. The necessity of carrying a pocket full of halfpence will also create a very musical jingle as the machine trots along the rough pavement of Piccadilly. Not to mention the obligation under which a candid and enlightened public will labour, of hoarding their halfpence, to the grievous annoyance of street-beggars, and the proportionate gratification of the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity. If, according to Benjamin Franklin, a penny saved is a penny got, the Speculator anticipates no small degree of popularity in these days of retrenchment, by saving any lady or gentleman one shilling in three, who has occasion to ride by a public conveyance from the Royal Exchange to the East end of Pall Mall. In short, Economy is the Speculator's object, Mr. Joseph Hume his model, and "Tollere Humo" his motto.

To the bilious and the gouty: to the soup, fish, and paté part of the London community: to the timid and lax of knee, whom even a rocking-horse sends prostrate on the carpet, and who, from their inability to sit a dead horse, feel a natural repugnance to mounting a live one, the New Hackney Cabriolet proffers a safe, cheap, and healthful exercise. The structure of the springs and the duality of the wheels give to it the exact motion of a baker's cart. To the softer sex, a trot in it over the well-paved curvature of Waterloo-place will be found to be attended with the most beneficial effect: upon the sceptic, who doubts the details of Hunter's Anatomy, it will enforce conviction, by proving to him the existence of every bone in his body. But to gentlemen from the East Indies, who have been enervated by the heat of the climate, one ride through Brentford is a dose.

Neither is the privacy of the projected mode of conveyance a matter to be slightly attended to. In the wretches who contrive to drag on a miserable existence eastward of Temple Bar, and who are reduced to the humiliating necessity of labouring for a maintenance, the sense of shame may well be imagined to be so utterly extinct as to make it an affair of absolute indifference whether they are seen in hackney-coaches or not. Some of them indeed seem to glory in their shame by riding in them with the glasses down. But the Speculator begs a candid and enlightened public to cast a pitying glance towards that large and increasing body of gentry, who, with the most laudable ambition of aping their betters, find themselves prohibited by the state of their finances, and their inability to dig, from so doing. The public are requested to consider the case of "younger sons of younger brothers;" of spirited youths whom the Insolvent Act has recently released from Saint George's Fields; of smart clerks in public offices, who contrive to support a genteel appearance, in a small street near Manchester-square, upon a salary of two hundred and fifty pounds per annum; of French quadrille dancers, and of dark-muzzled Italian teachers of the pianoforte. All these personages traverse the streets of London with a character to lose, and must not be seen in a hackney-coach. To these and various others situated like these, the New Cabriolet opens its

dark and hospitable hood. No vehicle, short of a hearse, is so well calculated to hide a body from the prying gaze of the vulgar.

Independently, also, of the lastmentioned advantage, the New Cabriolet presents the opposite benefit of enabling the hirer to be seen, if so disposed, in what degree he may think fit. The springs attached to the hood enable the driver to throw back that envelope, much or little, according to the fancy of the fare. The Speculator recommends it to prudent people to have it but little released from its full curve. By these means it will be optional in the fare whom to recognize in the street and whom to cut. Should he behold advancing along the Strand his unmarried uncle, walking towards Threadneedle-street to receive his dividends, he may, by bending forward a little, greet his relation with a profound bow. Should he see a smart equipage driving up the Haymarket, whose proprietor he knows not from Adam, he may get credit with the peripatetics by sitting upright and accosting the owner with a familiar nod. Should he, on the other hand, come plump upon his unpaid tailor, or upon a country cousin in a pair of trowsers of last year's growth (being what Corinthian Tom calls " a very high number in Queer Street"), he has only to throw himself back in the vehicle, and a mass of black leather will infallibly protect him from all human recognition.

Circumstances, however, will sometimes occur, under which the Speculator recommends it to his patrons to throw back the hood as far as it will go. He refers, in particular, to an election for a member of parliament. Sir Robert Wilson has recently projected a tour to La Mancha. Should the adventure have the effect of sundering him from his constituents, and a vacancy thus occur in the Borough of Southwark, any gentleman possessed of the ambition of entering Saint Stephen's Chapel, has nothing to do, after publishing his intention, but to hire one of the Speculator's cabriolets, throw back the hood, start from London bridge, drive up Tooley-street, and back to Blackman-street; thence adjourn to Saint George's church, leave the King's-bench prison on his right, and after trotting round Bethlem hospital, drive to the narrow purlieus of Webber-row, and emerge in Blackfriars-road close to the House of reception for penitent Females, commonly called the Magdalen. The motion of the machine will cause the candidate who uses it to keep his head in a continual nod, whether he will or not. This action will be construed by the multitude into universal familiarity. "He has not a bit of pride about him," will be the cry, and an exhibition of his name at the head of the poll will be the result.

All human machinery is liable to dislocation: streets will sometimes be slippery, plugs will occasionally be left open, and a horse may accidentally fall. Should such an accident take place in a cabriolet, that desirable privacy upon which the Speculator has dilated above, will still continue uninvaded. The carriage will fall forward, the hood will just cap itself over the horse's ears, and the lady or gentleman who rides inside will remain like a butterfly under a hat. The secret will not transpire beyond the quadruped who draws and the biped who drives: upon their discretion the public may rely with confidence.

As a melancholy contrast to this great advantage, the Speculator has merely to draw the enlightened attention of the public towards the situation of those unhappy people who ride outside of stage-coaches.

1

They are aware that, barring accidents, they will reach Barnet or Stevenage at a given period. But, should a linch-pin get loose, or the load of live and dead luggage on the top, cause the coach to swerve from the perpendicular, they know no more than the Pope of Rome when, where, or upon what projectile fate has destined them to be spilt. They may be shot into the City-road canal, impaled upon the iron rails of Finsbury-square, hurled headlong into a scavengers's cart, or precipitated many a fathom into one of the bottomless areas of the Adelphi. One case of example operates better than five volumes of precept. The Speculator, therefore, begs to refer to the catastrophe which not long ago occurred to the Fulham coach. Mat, the driver, was both the cause and the historian. Let the event be recorded in his own words, no other could do it adequate justice. "Sam Snaffle," (it is Mat who now speaks)," Sam Snaffle shoots off his outsiders in a heap. That's not my way; I spread 'em. I'll tell you what happened to me last Wednesday. I started rather lateish from Saint Paul's. I stopped at the corner of Fetter-lane for a booked insider, and a deuce of a time I stood, door in hand.-Says Bill Burton, by the time it. takes, this must be a woman.-Worse, says I, a pigtail. Well! at last I bundled the old gentleman in, and drove on to the Spotted Dog. I drew up rather short, the wheel got into the gutter, and over she went. One of my outsiders, a very good sort of man, went down head first into the cobbler's stall, under the doctor's shop. Crispin did not seem to know what to make of it. Another one, Mr. Wilkins, a saddler, went smack into the shop-window all among the red and blue bottles. But the oddest thing of all happened to Grub the marketgardener, who rode in the dickey. Jack Roberts was sitting in the bar of the Spotted Dog behind a pint of purl. You must know Jack Roberts, a stout pock-marked man; him as used to drive to Manchester. Well! in went Grub at the window like a shot, and, 'drat me if he did not upset Jack Roberts, purl and all. That's what I call spreading 'em!" The public has only to contrast this diffuse dispersion with the compact deposit of a declining cabriolet. Upon this single advantage, the Projector is content to stand or fall.

It remains but to mention the extent of the Projector's liability in case of personal accidents. By a reference to the printed list, affixed to the apron of the machine, the public will be apprised of the sum to the extent of which, the Speculator will hold himself liable, in the event of any fracture, simple or compound. On perusing the catalogue it will be seen, that in the case of a broken leg, the Speculator is content to pay five pounds; for a fractured arm, he will forfeit to the sufferer two pounds ten shillings; and for a bruise, of sufficient magnitude to require the aid of brown paper and vinegar, eleven shillings and sixpence; for a broken head, three shillings is the extent of the Speculator's pecuniary reimbursement. Should the possessor estimate that excrescence at a greater value, he must have it entered at the office, ad valorem, and pay a premium accordingly.

GREEK SONG.

THE SHADE OF THESEUS.

KNOW ye not when our dead
From sleep to battle sprung?
When the Persian charger's tread
On their covering greensward rung*.
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

There was one, a leader crown'd,
And arm'd for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In the battle's front he stood,

With his tall and shadowy crest,

But the arrows drew no blood,

Though their path was through his breast.

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

His sword was seen to flash

Where the boldest deeds were done,

But it smote without a clash,

The stroke was heard by none!

His voice was not of those

That swell'd the rolling blast,
And his steps fell hush'd like snows-
'Twas the shade of Theseus pass'd!

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

Far-sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore,
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the dashing waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,

As the shade of Theseus pass'd!

*See the tradition mentioned in Plutarch's Life of Theseus.