but said, "It's time now to give you my thanks, as I am the brother you were so kind to; and, as you gave me half your cell, it is but reasonable that I should give you a lodging." Accordingly he gave him handsome apartments in his palace, and some time afterwards promoted him to a considerable bishopric, which occasioned the following sarcasm of Pasquin: "Bishoprics are now four crowns a-piece."

DAWN.

THERE is a soft and fragrant hour,
Sweet, fresh, reviving is its power;
'Tis when a ray

Steals from the veil of parting night,
And by its mild prelusive light
Foretels the day.

'Tis when some lingering stars scarce shed
O'er the mist-clad mountain's head

Their fairy beam;

Then one by one retiring, shroud,
Dim glittering through a fleecy cloud,
Their last faint gleam.

"Tis when (just waked from transient death
By some fresh zephyr's balmy breath)

The unfolding rose

Sheds on the air its rich perfume,

While every

*

bud with deeper bloom
And beauty glows.

The sleep of plants, and the clustering folds of their leaves during the night, is as faithfully ascertained by the botanists as the expansion of their charms, with renewed bloom and vigour, at the approaching return of the sun.-" The common appearance of most vegetables," says an eminent naturalist, "is so changed in the night that it is difficult to recognize the different kinds even by the assistance of light."

"Tis when fond Nature (genial power!)
Weeps o'er each drooping night-closed flower,
While softly fly

Those doubtful mists, that leave to view
Each glowing scene of various hue
That charms the eye.

'Tis when the sea-girt turret's brow
Receives the East's first kindling glow,
And the dark wave,

Swelling to meet the orient gleam,
Reflects the warmly-strengthening beam
It seems to lave.

"Tis when the restless child of sorrow,
Watching the wish'd-for rising morrow,
His couch foregoes,

And seeks midst scenes so sweet, so mild,
To soothe those pangs so keen, so wild,
Of hopeless woes.

Nor day nor night this hour can claim,
Nor the bright ray nor noon-tide beam
Does it betray;

But earth reviving, dewy, sweet,

Prepared the glowing hours to meet

Of rising day.

Lady Morgan.

MEMOIRS OF CALEB INKHORN,

A LITERARY QUACK.

Mr. Barnaby, the clerk of the parish, had a nephew in London, who was a great literary character. By a great literary character, I do not mean a man who does great things, but a man who does any thing; a man who is equally felicitous in poetry and prose, in history and criticism, in satire and panegyric, in pathos and humour, in morals and travels. These are the great literary characters of modern times: these are our living great men, A helluo librorum is now a man who writes most books, not he who reads most.

Indeed, reading is scarcely deemed a requisite; they leave that mechanical process to those who cannot write.

Caleb Inkhorn, however, had not yet arrived at this enviable pitch of eminence. He was retained by the booksellers to write; but as he had few ideas of his own, he was compelled to employ those of others, and of course he found reading a very profitable thing. The progress of Caleb had been curious, and is worth recording. Who his father was has never been exactly ascertained, nor was he very solicitous to solve the mystery; though, after he attained to something like celebrity, that honour was claimed by a tripeman near Temple-bar, and a muffin-baker who resided not far from Drury-lane. His mother, however, was a decent sort of woman, and held a situation in one of our theatres, which produced her ten shillings a week. With this, and such other accidental earnings as she could pick up, she contrived to support herself and her son Caleb. She gave him a decent education, and when he was about twelve years old she obtained him a situation with a newspaper printer, in the capacity of his devil; a term well known to great literary characters. The reader is aware, therefore, that Caleb can boast a more regular gradation of studies than falls to the lot of many of his brethren.

When he had exercised this calling for four or five years, during which his mother had to pay some pounds to the shoemaker, he was raised to a post of more distinguished notice, and one in which he made a great noise in the world. This was a street herald, or hornblower; one of those gentlemen who sometimes electrify the politicians of this metropolis with the sonorous peal of "Bloody news! bloody news! just arrived from France!" And Caleb was soon distinguished for the

* If the reader fancies I am using a term here improperly, I must beg him to throw aside old prejudices, and accommodate himself to modern notions. Facts are stubborn things, and I will give one here, in support of myself. A few years ago the following advertisement appeared, "Wanted several gentlemen to be employed upon a daily paper: apply at such an office." Upon inquiry, these gentlemen were wanted to blow the horn in the street. This is true.

intonations of his horn, and the tremendous yell of his thorax. He might be seen with his spattered shoes, worsted stockings, parti-coloured breeches, (" what will not time subdue ?") tattered vest and coat, that flaunted in rags, his locks matted with accumulated dirt, sweat, and pomatum, his newspapers under his arm, his horn in one hand, and the other elevated to his mouth to assist the emission of his glorious tidings to all the profound politicians of ale-houses, coffee-houses, and private houses, scowering along the streets of the metropolis, glad of a shilling, and eager to cheat for it by vending a paper of a week old. If the buyer detected the imposition, and turned round to expostulate, Caleb had vanished-he was rousing the peaceable inhabitants of some other street with his horn, and ready again to cheat, and again to fly.

Thus passed three more years of Caleb's life, during which time he was actuated by a laudable ambition, that "last infirmity of noble minds," to aspire beyond the vender of news, and become the maker of it. During his long residence as devil and horn-blower in a newspaper office, he had had various opportunities of observing the process; and at length began to think that he could write a paragraph, invent a murder or a rape, break half a dozen legs, overturn two or three chariots, set a house on fire, or make a lunatic cut his throat, with as much skill and probability as any other. He could also manufacture a lie, a tale of scandal, a lampoon or a libel, with infinite dexterity, and these are among the prime offices of a newspaper writer or editor. This consciousness, however, of his own powers, was only part of the business-and the smallest part: the principal part was to make an opportunity of displaying those powers. Caleb no sooner felt this necessity, than he soon devised the means of accomplishing it. He was too ardent and enthusiastic to wait, patiently, the progress of events: he panted for distinction, and resolved to abridge the tedium of delay.

Mr. Prim, who had the management of that department in which Caleb longed to signalize himself, was a

man who freely indulged in drinking; and it was his custom always to regale himself with a glass of rum punch in the afternoon. This daily potation it was usually Caleb's office to fetch from a neighbouring alehouse, when he did not fail to lower the contents by sipping it as he came along, and afterwards to lower the quality by supplying the deficiency with water. Mr. Prim used sometimes to complain, that they mixed the liquor very weak, but he never suspected that Caleb was his taster.

One day, as the latter was going for this constant beverage, and ruminating upon his own ambitious schemes of forsaking the horn for the pen, he thought if he could, suddenly, and at a critical moment, disqualify Mr. Prim for proceeding with his avocations, a temporary opportunity might occur for him to step forward and offer his services upon the emergency thus artificially created. In order, therefore, to accomplish this, he paid for an extra portion of rum in the glass which he was going for, and when he returned with it Mr. Prim noticed the increase of spirit only with commendation, thinking the landlady had learned to mix better. One excess generally leads to another, as one glass of wine generally prepares the way for the next. So it was with Mr. Prim. He was so well pleased with the excellence of his liquor, that he resolved to seize occasion by the forelock, and, lest the benevolence of the landlady or her error should experience a change, he despatched Caleb for another noggin, and Caleb took care that it should rather increase than decrease in potency. By the time Mr. Prim had stowed this second cargo in his hold, his eyes began to twinkle with unusual vivacity, and his tongue acquired an added power of velocity. He whistled half a tune, talked to himself, walked across the room with a little obliquity of motion, simpered without knowing why, and, in short, did any thing but write, though the press was then standing still for the conclusion of a most atrocious and barbarous rape, which had been committed by a certain gentleman, of a certain family, upon the body of a cer