THE LOST SHIP.

"Twas a fearful night—the heavens were bowed,
And the red flash came from the low'ring cloud,
And the thunder pealed as the lightning sped,
And the quaking earth seemed shaken with dread,
And the angry waves came loudly and free,
With a hollow moan, from the troubled sea.

A ship was out on the sea that night,
Dashing about like a thing affright;
But the hardy men who strode her deck
Were stout of heart, and little did reck
The thunder bolt, or the lightning flash,
The howling wind, or the wave's wild dash.
But trembling was one on board that ship,
And prayers went forth from her whited lip-
Kneeling below was a female form,
Praying for peace to the midnight storm.

The maiden's prayer is said—but hark!
A thunder bolt has reached the bark-
The stout of heart grow faint, and cries
Of fear from off the decks arise.
The trembling one has brushed a tear,
And where is now that maiden's fear?
Strong in her faith of God's own might
Mounts she the deck; a blaze of light
Falls glaring on the maiden's sight!
The masts were gone, and all the frame
Of that proud ship was in a flame;
And there she lay-a thing of fire-

A dreary-flaming-floating pyre!

"The boats!-the boats!" the Captain cried-
They lowered them by the heated side;
And soon upon the running sea

The little things tossed fearfully.

THE EDITOR'S TABLE.

“GENUS irritabile vatum !" It has passed into a proverb. Poets are thin-skinned. There lie upon our table some dozen peppery epistles, of different degrees of violence, from offended gentlemen of this craft. Some of them, it is true, are courteously worded-full of "by'r leave," and "would not presume," and "regret extremely," and such like orderly phrases. These we slip under the red tape for a kind answer, and a friendly page of criticisms and wherefores. Others again are pestilently satirical and reflectious-stabbing us through and through with "erudite Sir," and "was not aware," and "if you will condescend so far," &c. These we toss over the table to a certain tri-cornered receptacle appropriated as a lounging place, jointly and amicably, by Ugolino and L. E. L. Their rough edges are soon smoothed over. Then again we have your crisp letter-writer-a fellow who indites his three peremptory sentences with his under lip rampant, and his sleeves rolled up. We save him for the amusement of the club. He reads well as a specimen of Bombastes Furioso. It never enters the head of your Master Shallow that his article can, by any possibility, be superfluous, or a periodical, by ever so slight a chance, be overflowed. He has not an inkling of an idea that older, perchance better, writers may have sent in their contributions before him. Such vulgar proverbs as-" Age before merit," "First come first served," (we beg pardon, but one does contract such phrases in this miscellaneous world,) seem never to have shocked his polite ear. He counts the pages of our beloved Monthlyseventy-two-and of his own article-twenty-and it is as clear as a Q. E. D. to him that the Editor intended to insult him-it was so easy to have rejected the three or four small papers that take up the room! He turns forthwith into an epigrammatist, attacks us "tooth and nail," (another vile phrase that sticks to us,) surmises we are no great things, and contributes bitter paragraphs henceforth to some more grateful hebdomadal. We have our eye on a spider of this sort, who puts his small cobweb about us as punctual as the monthsome Mr. Smith, or Clark, or some such peculiar name-an unfortunate imitator of some atrocious verses we perpetrated (Lord assoil us therefore!) in our boyhood. We reckon up a score of these scratched fellows-all men in buckram, and dexterous at blackball.

Quite seriously, however, we have long wished an opportunity of appealing to the judgment and kindness of our friends to whom we stand so much indebted, (for, sooth to say, the nervousness of which we speak is not confined to bad writers,) and of explaining a few of the causes of delay and omission. We will not enlarge upon them. They arise sometimes from the irregularity of contributions, (often twenty in one month, and then none of any value for the next two,) or sometimes the subject has been discussed in another journ al, or the piece is too long, or, oftener, the theme, though well managed, is unpopular, and would offend. There are other reasons, with which it is not worth while to trouble the general reader-but we claim hereafter, on all occasions of offence, at least the privilege of explanation, and much indulgence always. It is a most delicate and trying office that we hold-one that not only draws most heavily on our strength and resources, but demands a degree of tact and patience not often possessed. We must fail of course, sometimes, even in health; and there are times also, we beg to remind the Reader, when the mind, as well as the body, is ill at ease, and unstrung; and it is not only generous, but just, to lay an occasional discord or deficiency at the door of that imperfectness from which none of us are altogether free.

THE question "How do you like Paul Clifford?" is so variously answered, that one is compelled, "will-he nill-he,” to hazard an opinion of his own. We ask no permission therefore of Mr. Smith, or any other representative of the whole human race, to sit down this warm morning (80 of Fahrenheit) and speak our mind of Mr. Bulwer-whom, (between ourselves,) we are disposed to like, hearing that he is a short gentleman, dependant on his wits for his bread and butterour own special predicament.

Imagine yourself, dainty Reader, vis-a-vis to us, at this our Table. Place around you, to your own taste, (for we have a nervous habit of changing them constantly as we talk,) the Chinese Cupid, who carries our ink in his quiver-the velvet butterfly, on which we wipe our pen, (sent us incog. by some satirical rogue,) the vase of Hungary water, in which (that instrument being near a sensitive organ of ours) we ever and anon steep the feather of our quill—the lovely miniature (no smiling Sir, if you please, she is dead-married, I would say) of the brightest creature under heaven, taken by ourself in pencil during church, (Lord forgive us our sins!)-and the ivory folder, on the handle of which you see the head of "Fighting Attie," the Duke of Wellington, presented to us by

the pleasantest cut. (his weight exactly) that ever looked like two through a vista of black bottles. On your right you see a silver bon bon niére, with which you are at liberty to make free-on your left, a ripe, redolent edition, two centuries old, of the "Religio Medici," our present oracle-and in the midst, between that long-necked Rudesheimer and this slender Curacoa, Miss Sedgwick's charming book and Paul Clifford, the two matters whereon we propose-the gods willingpresently to discourse. We have been particular to make you at home for two sufficient reasons. We do not care to enter into a regular review of these books, which we should otherwise be partly compelled to do-preferring infinitely a rambling, ad libitum sketchiness in such matters, and, feeling indebted to you, not only for "creature comforts," but for the maintenance of a feverish pride in the existence of this our cherished Maga, we desire earnestly a more familiar acquaintance. Pray consider yourself at home!

Mr. Bulwer's Dedicatory Epistle is as good as anything in the book. It is a frank, sensible, natural avowal of his reasons and opinions, and sends you on to the first chapter with a pleasant prepossession in his favor. After a sprightly page or two of raillery in defence of his project, he makes a just remark upon the color of the literature about us:

"In books, as in other manufactures, the great aim seems the abridgment of labor; the idlest work is the most charming. People will only expend their time for immediate returns of knowledge; and the wholesome and fair profit, slow, but permanent, they call tedious in letters, and speculative in politics. This eager, yet slothful habit of mind, now so general, has brought into notice an emigrant and motley class of literature, formerly, in this country, little known and less honored. We throw aside our profound researches, and feast upon popular abridgments; we forsake the old march through elaborate histories, for "a dip" into entertaining memoirs. In this, our immediate bias in literature, if any class of writing has benefited more than another in popularity and estimation, it is the novel. Readers now look into fiction for facts; as Voltaire, in his witty philosophy, looked among facts for fiction. I do not say that the novel has, in increased merit, deserved its increased reputation; on the contrary, I think, that though our style may be less prolix than it was in the last century, our thoughts are more languid, and our invention less racy." We choose to dwell on this preface. It is worth a separate criticism. His notes on his contemporaries are admirable, and excepting that he goes out of his way to abuse Mr. Moore, they embody our own literary creed to a shade. There is much of that obsolete essence, modesty, in his remarks. It is not the less sincere that it will be disputed, where he says, "I feel that I have just sufficient reading, or observation, or talent

of any sort, to make it possible that I may stumble in a light fiction upon some amusing, perhaps even some useful truths; while neither the reading, nor the observation, nor the reflection, nor the talents, are, in all probability, sufficient to entitle me to a momentary notice in any graver and more presuming composition." He says again, with a frank self-commendation which is to our own eye no less modest, that he has outlived the desire to be didascular, and has studied more than in his two last works to write a tolerably entertaining novel. He certainly has succeeded. We have not read a more entertaining book for a long time, and never a better satire. The objection made to the scenes of low life in which he has masked his characters could be equally applied to a score of the standard novels of the language, and we are really refreshed to get once more off the track of Almack's, and the descriptions of crowded staircases and flirtations in full dress. Dummie Dunnaker, to our mind, is a fair exchange for any copy of Brummel, and Mistress Lobkins (in a book) shall please us better than my Lady Haut-ton, or the Marchioness of any letter in the alphabet with a dash after it. And so we will take another paragraph and particularize.

The first fifty pages of Paul's history are neither especially edifying nor over-entertaining. The author commenced evidently with a determination to write a novel if it pleased Heaven, but at any rate to caricature and revenge himself upon "Mr. McGrawler the Editor of the Asinæum."* Like all people in a passion, (a certain Editor for instance) he has overshot. The thing is strained. The moment an assailant in such cases loses his self-possession-his quiet smile-he loses the sympathy of the reader. Throw away your bilbo for a broad axe and you may gash your opponent awkwardly, but you may as well hack your spurs off on the spot. No true knight will take up your glove after it. There is an evident ill-nature, an irritated temper in the portrait of the Scotch critic, that destroys the quietness necessary to severity. say this against all our prepossessions. The modern lowland Scotch, we do think, as a nation, possess the most detestable traits of human nature. They are a parsimonious, selfish, cringing people-the very drudges and underlings of Europe. Their sagacity and morality are little redemption. The chivalric character of the ancient Highlander serves only as a

We

*You will recollect, dear Reader, that in a former number we extracted a capital satire on Mr. Bulwer, from the "Athenæum," in a pretended examination before the Committee for the Settlement of Swan River.