MRS. HOPE, the Fortune-teller,
Call'd on me when I was young,
"You," she cried, "will be a dweller
All the great and wise among.
On your shoulders fortune thrust is-
Honours more than I can tell-"
Mrs. Hope, to do her justice,
Really talks extremely well.

First, she cried, "You're devilish clever,
Push for fame and pocket pelf,
Write a play and lay for ever

Billy Shakspeare on the shelf."
'Twas done the curtain rose, I nearly
Felt the laurels deck my brow-
Deuce a bit, I wish sincerely

Mrs. Hope had heard the row.

Eloquence, at her suggestion,
Conscious too that I possess'd,
I, on some important question,
Soon the sovereign mob address'd.
Strange to say such storms assail'd me,
Showers of worse than hail or rain,
my elocution fail'd me,-
Mrs. Hope was out again.

All

Whisp'ring then my wondrous merit
Claim'd at court a leading place,
I at length contrived to ferret

First my Lord and then his Grace.
Much they said conceit to soften-
Promises they made a few-
Mrs. Hope, great people often
Humbug fools as well as you.

Oft she vow'd the sex adored me,
Conquering all where'er I chose,
Husbands, lovers, tho' they bored me,
Ne'er could such a smile oppose.
Yet I scored by wives and misses,
When I came to count my game,

Quite as many kicks as kisses

Mrs. Hope, oh! fie, for shame!

Wedded bliss, she now reported,
I should taste serene and true;
Trusting still, I proudly courted
Quite a stylish black-eyed blue.
Though the fair could not refuse me,
What the sort of wife she made,
If you wish to know, excuse me-
Mrs. Hope's a cursed jade.
Thus with endless tarrididdles,
Still the gipsy wins her way,
Gulls us all, and fondly wheedles
Shallow pates like mine astray.
Fame and Fashion thus allure us
Lions, lords at routes to meet,
Then blue devils come to cure us―
Mrs. Hope is fairly beat.

Yet, old girl, on recollection,

Why should I your tricks resent,
Since I've form'd a new connexion-
That sweet modest maid, Content.
Weary now of you and blarney,
Snug with her I dwell secure,
In my little chambre garnie,—
Mrs. Hope, votre serviteur.

THE BEAUTY OF BRIGHTON.

BY JOIN POOLE, ESQ.

THE verses bearing the title of the "Beauty of Brighton" were composed with a double purpose. For the first :--England can boast of a violinist who is at the very antipodes of Paganini; for, whereas Paganini could play upon one string any tune that had ever been composed since the hour when Apollo first set up in the musical line, till the moment that the great monochordist himself twiddled his last pizzicato; the artiste in question (who delights the Brightonians during one half of the year, and the Londoners during the other) can play but one half of a single tune-say three quarters, and he will then have no just ground of complaint of a stinted allowance-upon all four! And observe the "all four" is used advisedly; for he does somehow contrive-how he does it must be left to Sivori, or Ernst, or Oury to discover-but he does somehow contrive to elicit tones-and such tones, O Orpheus!-from all four at once, from the G string to the E. "Arpeggio," cries some matter-of-fact fiddler. No such thing-no more arpeggio than a sow grunts arpeggio-the sounds are scraped off the four strings simultaneously, not one ten-millionth part of a second intervening between them. As to what is the tune, or the portion of the tune, which he plays, the best judges are not yet agreed. One says it is the "Dead March in Saul;" another, the "College Horn

pipe;" a third, "Water parted from the Sea;" a fourth, "Britons strike Home;" some say one thing, some another; but it is most generally suspected-for it results in a mere matter of suspicion after all -that he thinks he is playing "Over the Water to Charlie." Of this opinion (or suspicion, rather) is the author of the poem following; and it was for the purpose-that is to say, purpose the first-of rescuing this extraordinary artiste's only tune from its doubtful and somewhat disgraceful condition, that he resolved to give it a respectable settlement, by marrying it with immortal verse." And albeit as little vain as poet may be, he deems that he has produced a something which "shall live after him"-not, however, founding his hopes (as some sarcastic critic might say) on the chances of his bidding good night to the world before the appearance of the New Monthly for the coming May.

66

Purpose the second-an amiable purpose it will be said-was to throw an apple of discord amongst the unmarried divinities (and not few are they, to the shame of single-man-kind be it spoken) who embellish that Babylon of marine towns, Brighton. But this, as all wicked intentions deserve to be, must, if not altogether frustrated, be at least limited in its operation, and to an extent, indeed, which the poet had never contemplated. For, admitting, as he does, that he invoked the Muse with a particular object in his hear-that is to say, in his eye-it will instantly be perceived that no young lady, bearing a name composed either of more, or fewer than just two syllables "need apply:" thus, the Misses Jones, Tims, Sims, Pyms; Appleton, Poppleton, Singleton, Congleton; Atterbury and Battersbury, Trelyddeldillon and Fitzmyddlewyllan are, by the prohibitory length or shortness of their patronyms, excluded from the privilege of joining in the flattering scramble. Let it, however, console them to reflect that, by the same circumstance they are protected from the mortification of defeat.

But what a May-day is prepared for the Misses Simpsons, Thomsons, Johnsons and Jacksons, and all the other dissyllabled beauties of the place! The heart-burnings! the jealousies! the pulling of caps and tearing of ribbons-metaphorical caps and ribbons be it understood, for the realities are unknown to young ladies. "Tis I am the Beauty of Brighton !"-" No, 'tis I."- "You, indeed! no; 'tis to me those exquisite stanzas are addressed." Fortunately for the poet he is half a hundred of miles away from the scene of strife. It is from London he casts his mischievous missile, and can but guess at the terrible effects of its explosion. O, for next Thursday's number of the Brighton Gazette!

He

Even as I am writing these words, he comes-he of the fiddle. walks towards my window, not as ordinary mortals walk, by moving his legs alternately forward, and treading on the flat of the foot; but by curiously tossing his feet over each other and supporting himself on his ancles. And now he takes his seat-not a bench, nor a chair, nor a stool, but a stick, a walking-stick! Placed horizontally, of course? By no means-perpendicularly-bolt upright. The lower point he puts to the ground, and on the upper point he sits! How he contrives to do it is the wonder of every one of the many thousands who have seen him; but there, on the point of a stick, he sits; and, apparently,

as much to his own comfort as if he were resting on a velvet-cushioned settee.* And now he draws his bow; and having satisfied his ear that his fiddle is as perfectly out of tune as it can possibly be, he plays the air which inspired the song of

*

THE BEAUTY OF BRIGHTON.

(Air-[PRESUMPTIVE,]" Over the Water to Charlie.")

This is a real character, well known in London, but still better at Brighton. † It may be objected by some formal and precise Sussex-county critics, that Portslade, Preston, and perhaps some other places mentioned in the text, are not, strictly speaking, boroughs. To this we shall only say, in lawyers' phrase, "And if not, why not?" No blame to us that they are not so: for the sake of our own accuracy we wish they were.

A reasonable reward will be paid to any person who will favour us with an available rhyme to Chichester.

1

THE POLKA; OR, THE BOHEMIAN GIRL TO HER lover.

A NATIONAL BALLAD.

THE following graphic description of the far-famed "Polka Dance" has recently been given to the world by the celebrated Fredrika Bremer, the Edgeworth and Austin of Sweden, in a work entitled "STRIFE AND PEACE," of which a translation has appeared from the pen of a kindred writer, the accomplished Mary Howitt. This dance, which is equally popular in Bohemia, Hungary, Sweden, Norway, &c., "is," says Miss Bremer, "highly characteristic; it paints the northern inhabitants' highest joy in life; it is the Berserker-gladness in the dance. Supported upon the arm of the woman, the man throws himself high in the air: then catches her in his arms, and swings round with her in wild circles; then they separate, then they unite again, and whirl again round, as it were in superabundance of life and delight. The measure is determined, bold, and full of life. It is a dance-intoxication, in which people for the moment release themselves from every care, every burden and oppression of existence !"

1.

DEAR youth, from the forest and mountain
Oh, come, 'neath the wild cherry-tree-t
My flax thread I've washed in the fountain,
Come, love, dance the Polka with me!
Like the waves of the Elbe madly bounding,
Let not the dark Wodnykt affright,

Literally translated from the French, Aller le cochon éntier.

+ The branches of the wild cherry-tree, which are supposed to possess many magical properties in Bohemia, &c., are used in wedding festivities. It is the favourite tree of Sclavonian song and superstition.

The Wodnyk, or Wodnjk-water-demon, frequently the subject of popular stories in Bohemia; his name is used to frighten children away from the water-side"The Wodnjk will catch you!" is a common exclamation with mothers and

nurses.