with the exception of a few ringlets which hang down in graceful tendrils on his shoulders. His complexion is fair, eyes light grey, the features somewhat small and finely chiselled; and altogether, the contour of his face bears a resemblance to Shakspere's head on a small scale; he is somewhat proud of this real or fancied likeness to the Sweet Swan of Avon.

A somewhat ludicrous tale is told of Horne's ringlets. When, through the friendship of Talfourd, he was appointed one of the Assistant Inspectors of Factories, he was warned by the prudent and worldly-minded lawyer that his ringlets might militate against his interests when he was called before the. Lords of the Council, as those sapient fellows might consider a wig indispensable to wisdom. After much beating about the bush, Talfourd hinted at the Dalilah-like process of shearing the locks-not Belinda herself could have been more astonished at "the fact accomplished" than was shown now at the enormity proposed; a decided refusal was the poet inspector's reply. When, however, the morning dawned big with the fate of ringlets and of Horne, he, having weighed the grandeur of his tresses against the salary of his place, thought better of it; and as he was about to enter the Board Room, tucked the waving locks down the collar of his coat. He then went in, had his interview, and on coming down the steps, with great dignity released his imprisoned darlings from their durance vile. Horne was himself again."

66

EDWARD MOXON.

Lord Bacon has observed that some men are born greatothers achieve greatness,—and some have greatness thrust upon them. This passage, however true, is chiefly remarkable for being quoted by Shakspere, by his inimitable Maria, when she is about to quiz Malvolio into the belief of the Lady Olivia's love for her cross-gartered steward. It has sometimes occurred to us that a fourth class of human nature might be made out of that portion who thrust themselves upon greatness of this section the amiable author of "Sonnets and sundry other Poems," would be a distinguished ornament: indeed he might not unreasonably be called the "Magnus Apollo" of that peculiar race.

One of the happiest strokes of Mr. Croker's pen is in a review of Moxon's Sonnets. The amiable sonnetter has placed, as a motto to this volume, the following quotation from Wordsworth: "In truth, the prison, into which we doom Ourselves, no prison is :-and hence to me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground."

The aforesaid Croker whereon remarks thus blandly, and we are bound to add, in justice to the said Croker, most truly, "That might be very well for the author of The Excursion,' to say, but it becomes perfectly ludicrous when uttered by Mr. Moxon. What might be a scanty plot of ground for an elephant like Wordsworth,

would be a boundless wilderness for a flea, like Edward Moxon." It is very seldom that we agree with anything we see in the "Quarterly Review," but here we feel a kind of sympathy that reconciles us even to Croker, "the last infirmity of a noble mind." Indeed, the whole volume of the respectable "publisher of the poets" convinces us that it must be the volume referred to by Slender, when he says to his man Simple,

"I would give a thousand pounds had

I my Book of Sonnets here."

Were we a Suydam, or a John Jacob Astor, we would give a thousand pounds not to have Moxon's Sonnets in America, if we were compelled to read them; this is, however, a mere matter of taste, as we know one who reads them with peculiar relish to his unhappy wife and children, and that is, the simple-minded author himself.

Lest we should be thought unjust towards this curiosity of type and paper, we proceed to favor our readers with some specimens of the best we can find. Mark the peculiarity of his dictionhow sweet his English lisps upon his tongue.

TO A BIRD.

"Sweet captive, thou a lesson me hast taught
Excelling any which the schools convey;
Example before precept men obey.
Methinks already I have haply caught
A portion of thy joy. Contentment rare,
For one in dull abode like thince, I trace,
Blended with warblings of such cheerful grace;

And yet without a listening ear to share,
Save mine, thy melody. Thus all day long,
Even as the youthful bard that meditates
In scenes the visionary mind creates,
Thou to some woodland image turn'st thy song;
A prisoner too to hope, like him, sweet bird,
In lonely cell thou sing'st, and sing'st unheard."

But it is in Sonnet IX that the great poet converts himself into a farthing rush-light, and one of the happiest flights of fancy on record, and resolves to

"Burn through Shakspere's matchless page."

SOLACE DERIVED FROM BOOKS.

"Hence Care, and let me steep my drooping spirit
In streams of Poesy, or let me steer

Imagination's bark 'mong bright scenes, where
Mortals immortal fary-land inherit.

Ah me! that there should be so few to merit

The realized hope of him, who deems,

In his Youth's spring, that life is what it seems,
Till sorrow pierce his soul, and storms deter it
From resting there as erst! Ye visions fair
Of genus born, to you I turn, and flee
Far from this world's ungenial apathy;
Too blest, if but awhile I captive share

The presence of such Beings as engage

The heart, and burn through Shakspere's matchless page."

Not content with burning Shakspere, Moxon resolves to let the world know that he is burnt in return: what can be more touching than his sonnet to "Woman's Heart." Edward Moxon, thou art truly the Grand Turk of the fair sex.

"If I were asked what most my soul doth prize
Of all the good gifts men enjoy below,
Whether from Fortune or from Fame they flow,
My answer would be thus. Not wealth, which flies
Away from those who hold it in esteem,

Nor yet the honors proud place hath to give :
These were their donor changing die or live.
Not ev'n earth's fairest mountain, vale, or stream,
For these at times are 'neath dark winter's gloom :
Take the world's pleasure and its loud acclaim,
Leave me but this, like an unsullied name
Which wears for aye the self-same hue and bloom-
Need I the secret of my soul impart ?

Be witness, ye that love, 'tis woman's heart."

We feel almost inclined to forgive Mr. Moxon for his laborious

and well printed trash, on account of the following verses to the

66

:

Memory of Charles Lamb." It is an invocation to Coleridge :

"Receive him to thy arms, melodious shade!

Thou knowest his worth, for round one fountain ye
Together play'd, green wreaths of poesy

Twining for your young brows that shall not fade.
Few were your summers, when yon reverend pile,
Rear'd by good Edward, your faithful king, whose dress
Marks still the Christ-boy 'mong the crowds that press
Round holy Paul's, you entered with a smile!

Methinks I see you 'neath those cloisters gray

Conning apart some Bard of elder days,

Spenser perchance, or Chauser's pilgrim lay;
Or doth La Mancha's Knight your wonder raise?
Methinks I see you, as of old ye sate

Within those walls, with studious brows elate!"

The mention of gentle Elia reminds us that Mr. Moxon was one of his kindest friends, and that the old wit testified his sense of it by leaving him one of his executors. We feel inclined to forgive the dull sonnetter on this very account, and hope he will extend a like charity to us, when we link the memory of the "Christ Boy" to his once more in concluding the present paper with a few anecdotes of Elia, hitherto unrecorded.

One very rainy evening when Lamb and a friend of his were enjoying their "potation of spirit and water over a Beaumont and Fletcher in folio-his sister begged Lamb to go and quiet their dog which in his kennel at the back door was making a dreadful howling. The old wit turned round to her and said, “Pray, my dear Mary, do let the poor beast outside, do as we are doing inside, enjoy his Whine and Water.""

A Cheesemonger, who having realized a large fortune, retired with a genteel wife and still genteeler daughter to enjoy the “otium cum dignitate” in a nobleman sort of way at Highgate, where he