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"Another shoe-another, hark ye,"
Ra-ra, ra-ra, ra-ra-rap;

Split the ruddy sheddings sparky,
Ra-ra, ra-ra, ra-ra-rap;

Strikes the quick and lifted hammer
On the anvil bright and worn;
While amid the midnight there,
Beyond the noisy streaming glare,
With a yellow misty glamour,

Looks the moon upon the corn.

On the hill-road moving nigher,

Hurries something dimly shooting,
Glances from two eyes of fire:

"Haste oh, haste!" they're working steady;
Cries the blacksmith "now they're ready."

Pats the pawing horses, testing

On the ground their iron footing;

Helps the lady, lightly resting

On his black arm up the carriage;

Takes the gold with doubt and wonder-
And as o'er the stones and gorses
Tramp the hot pursuing horses,

Cries with voice of jolly thunder

"Trust me, they won't stop the marriage !"

Scarce a minute's past away

When, oh, magic scene! the village

Lies asleep all hushed and grey;

But hark! who throng again the street
With roaring voices, brows of heat?

Come they here the town to pillage?

No. Across the road, o'erthrown,
Carriage creaks, and horses moan;
"Blacksmith, ho!" the travellers cry—
Not a taper cheers the eye;

While a-top a distant hill

Flushed with dawn-light's silent warning,
Speed the lovers toward the morning

With a rapid right good will;

While, behind that father fretting,
The pale night-sick moon is setting.

T. IRWIN.

It

What a life-like picture, strong colouring, and admirably wrought out in its details! It reminds one of the pieces of the old Dutch masters. That deep, ruddy glow of the forge flashes out on the night gloom most picturesquely, and you hear the low roar of the bellows and the ringing music of the sledge upon the anvil. The poet is working in a true vein, and has brought up the ore. is wonderful what poetry there is in the incidents of every-day life, if one only understands how to develop it. We wish Mr. Irwin success-nay, we venture to promise it, if he throws his vigorous fancy thus into the romance of the world around him. But here comes something to contrast with the world as we see it now-a-days; something about the days of eld-of knights, and dragons, and fair ladies:

THE OLDEN TIME.

BY TINY.

My blessing rest upon thee, thou merry olden time,

When the fairies were in fashion, and the world was in its prime;
Every ruin had its goblin, every green rath had its fay,

Till the light of Science chased them from their ancient haunts away.

How rich wert thou in legends of magic lamps and ring-
Of genii, whom a single word to mortal aid would bring;
Of caves of gold and diamonds, where foot had never been,
Till by the favoured one their depths were all unveiled and seen.

Thou wert the time for monarchs-then kings were kings indeed,
With potent fairy sponsors to summon at their need ;
Whose wands could change their enemies to marble at their will:
Ah, many a king would need to have those wands of power still!

Oh, cruel race of stepmothers! where are you vanished now?
Where are the henpecked husbands who before you used to bow,
And yield their lovely daughters to glut your jealous ire,
Forgetful, 'mid your blandishments, of ev'n the name of sire?

Sweet beauteous persecuted tribe, princesses young and fair,
With faces like a poet's dreams, and veils of flowing hair,
Beloved by vile enchanters, who turned to stone and wood,
The princes who to rescue you dared steel, and fire, and flood.

Fierce cannibalish giants, who dwelt in forests wild,
And worn and weary wayfarers to darksome dens beguiled;
Brave knights with charmed weapons, who laid the monsters low,
And opening wide the dungeon doors, bid cease the captive's woe.

Where are you all departed?—where lie your treasures hid?
Where are the pearls and emeralds that came when they were bid?
Where are the mines of gold and gems, that but to think of now,
Dazzles our mental eyes with light-Old World, where art thou?

We want those endless riches, we want the magic spells,

That brought the fairies to your aid, from woods, and hills, and wells;
We've no enchanters now-a-day, no cabalistic flames—

The world has lost them all, and keeps but their time-honoured names.

Oh, could I find a magic wand, I'd bring those days again-
I'd call the treasures from the caves of earth and throbbing main;
The land should be a glorious land, as 'twas in ancient time,
When the fairies were in fashion, and the world was in its prime!

A blessing on the olden time! Ah, that's all very well; we have no objection to give it our benison, but we are not quite sure that we would recall it. It looks very well in the distance, like the old ivy-mantled castles; but we have a notion that the present times are as superior, intellectually and physically, for man, as the modern houses are better to live in than the little, dark, damp, stone-floored chambers of the old fortresses. A fair lady certainly travels more pleasantly in a first-class steam-carriage than she was wont to do sitting sideways upon a palfrey, behind a man-at-arms. But what is that crash? Mercy on us, our fire has sunk down bodily in the grate!-there goes the last flare-up, and now there is nothing but the blackness of darkness. Our lamp, too, is growing dim, and the light is flaring and flickering. We look around us-the shadows on floor and wall are growing fainter and more ghostly; even our own umbra has a less imposing appearance, and looks as if it was tired sitting up so late into the night keeping us company. "Ah, hapless shade!" we shall certainly let you go to bed, and shall even marshal you the way ourselves, for we know well that unless we go you are too polite to leave us. So come along, then, comrade; on there before us up the stairs, while we carry the light. And then, when we are comfortably in bed, we shall put out the candle, and dismiss you. Good night, dear friends; may each of you, through the long winter evenings, enjoy your fireside fancies.

A PEEP AT THE DRAMATIC GALLERY OF THE GARRICK CLUB.

"Dulce est desipere in loco."-HOR.
It is pleasant to relax in proper season.

READER, are you acquainted with the "Garrick Club," the hospitable temple of which stands in King-street, Covent-garden? We do not mean, do you know it by sight? as Jack Bannister said he knew Greek; but have you ever been admitted into the penetralia, and examined the curiosities therein contained? You have not. Well, then, the next time you visit London, get into fellowship with some of the members- we may specially recommend Jack Harley, or Drinkwater Meadows, than whom it would be impossible to name more agreeable or competent ciceroni-the regulations allow them to introduce guests. You will find a good dinner, good wine, and excellent company; and will illustrate practically what the poet figuratively

expresses as

"Mingling o'er the friendly bowl, The feast of reason, and the flow of soul."

Substantial sweeteners of life's pilgrimage, never to be contemned at any time, and particularly welcome when you are in town for three or four weeks en garçon-as, of course, you make it a rule to be, in the short interval of relaxation from professional and domestic cares, during which you are permitted to indulge in an annual "spree."

The Club-house has nothing imposing in its exterior, and cannot compete, in architectural magnificence, with some of the more recent, stately palaces of Pall Mall; but it has a snug, old-fashioned, English look, with a pedigree of respectable antiquity, having been for many years "Probatt's Family Hotel;" and, before that, the residence of William Thomas Lewis, the celebrated light comedian, who died, very rich, in 1811, and of whom four portraits are now within the walls. The edifice very much resembles the description of Drury-lane Theatre in the "Rejected Addresses," as supposed to be delivered by Cobbett :-"A large, comfortable house. Not a gimcrack palace, nor a Solomon's Temple; not a frost-work of Brobdignag filagree; but a plain, honest, homely, industrious, wholesome, brown, brick, house -all plain and smooth, like a Quaker's

meeting. None of your Egyptian pyramids, to entomb subscribers' capitals. No overgrown colonnades of stone, like an alderman's gouty legs in white cotton stockings, fit only to use as rammers for paving Tottenham Court-road. Neither after the model of a temple in Athens, nor a temple in Moorfields." In selecting the situation, prudential motives took the lead. Convenience and economy were more considered than fashion or show. It was near what were then the two great national theatres, the inns of court, the resorts of merchants; and a sort of intermediate station between the business-end and the west-end of the great metropolis. The Garrick Club was formed in 1831, and may be considered a very small, private constituency; the number of members being limited to three hundred, unless with the consent of a general meeting. The musterroll, we believe, has never been complete, and now only amounts to two hundred and sixty-one. This appears strange, when we consider that the club is by no means an expensive one; and the inducements, as set down in the rules and regulations, are numerous and attractive. The avowed objects are" For the general patronage of the Drama; for the purpose of combining the use of a Club, on economical principles, with the advantages of a Literary Society; for the formation of a Theatrical Library and Works on Costume; and also, for bringing toge ther the Patrons of the Drama, and Gentlemen eminent in their respective circles." The affairs of this, as of all other clubs, are managed by a committee. The president and vice-president are elected for life. The former is the Duke of Beaufort; the latter, Lord Tenterden.

The Garrick Club possesses an unique attraction in their far-famed "Gallery of Theatrical Portraits," originally formed by the late Charles Mathews; collected by him with great taste, and regardless of expense; for years the pride of his existence, and a leading solace under many disappointments. This is the only complete series of the kind ever formed, and devoted to one

exclusive subject. For those (and they are many) who delight to live on retrospection, and to multiply present enjoyments by a revival of the past, these pictures possess a charm exclusive of, and superior to, their pretensions as works of art; and a power over the imagination and feelings, which can be felt more easily than described. You may sit or stand for hours in dreamy abstraction, looking on the familiar faces and costumes which have so often thrilled your soul with high-wrought sentiment, or convulsed your faculties with immoderate mirth; until they step from their frames in animated reality, surround you in a band, and carry you far away into the realms of imagination. You fancy that you hear, and are mingling with, the social intercourse, the green-room gossip, the professional jealousies, the sparkling jest, the biting sarcasm, or the pungent anecdote. The little busy microcosm is full of life, variety, and conflicting passions. These musings are as salutary as they are delightful; and, like the sleeping Caliban, when enjoying visions of pleasant sights and sounds, you are almost ready to weep on awakening from them.

The number of pictures collected by Mr. Mathews, amounted to three hundred and eighty-eight, according to the printed catalogue. The original cost approached to £5000. He built a room expressly to contain them, at his residence, Ivy Cottage, Kentish Town, and took much delight in showing them to his friends. He was frequently bored by vapid, unmeaning curiosityhunters; many of them perfect strangers, who almost forced themselves in, and would scarcely have left him an hour to himself, had he admitted them all. But nothing afforded him more pleasure than to exhibit his gallery to friends, or even simple acquaintances, who were attracted by true taste, and a rational desire to see what was known and admitted to be one of the lions of the day. Mrs. Mathews says, in her memoirs of her husband:-"So many came -whom to reject would have been personally mortifying to us-that our peaceful retreat was converted almost into a fatigue to us, too often having all the character of a show-place (from which I pray Heaven to defend me!) where we lived more for others than for ourselves."

When circumstances compelled Mr. Mathews to break up his country es

tablishment, and live in London, it became absolutely necessary to part with the pictures. He could not bear the idea of their dispersion. The Garrick Club, it was said, ought to have them. Pleased with the idea of seeing them kept as an unbroken collection, where he could still look at them whenever he felt inclined, the transfer was proposed at £3000; but the sum which the finances of the club enabled them to offer was so small (about one-fifth of the original cost), that the idea of the disposal was for the present wholly given up. Mr. Mathews was then strongly advised to exhibit them, to which with reluctance he consented— thinking their deserved popularity would assist and enhance the ultimate sale. It was well that he contemplated no immediate gain. In May, 1833, the exhibition was opened to public view, the price of admittance being one shilling. When the accounts were closed at the end of the period announced, it was found that the loss exceeded one hundred and fifty pounds! Thus it became evident, upon an unanswerable arithmetical calculation, that the troublesome curiosity, the rabid appetite of thousands, had been excited more by a desire to see the unrivalled Mathews, than Mathews's unrivalled show. When the original proprietor and collector died, in 1835, his widow sold the pictures to Mr. John Rowland Durrant, the well known and wealthy stock-broker, who purchased them for the Garrick Club-they paying him five per cent. interest until convenient to re-imburse the capital. At his death he bequeathed them as a free legacy to the club; and thus they are permanently fixed in the most eligible resting-place (which appears as if specially provided for their reception), and secured against the probability of being diminished or dispersed. And now, having played off a necessary preludio of information, let us enter and look around us.

There are many busts and portraits in the hall and on the staircase not belonging to the Mathews collection— amongst others, Charles Kemble, in Macbeth, a donation from himself. In the smoking-room beyond are four very fine large paintings-one by Clarkson Stanfield, one by David Roberts, and two by Louis Haghe, executed expressly for the club, and presented by the artists. Every room is full of pictures, and it matters not where you

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