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hair, is the "glory of the possessor." A punless name*—a liquidly seductive musical name-like a beautiful face, "muta commendatio est," is the sum of good fortune. "Ah! Lucy, what a pretty name is Clementina," said Miss Byron.† ever heroine with a vile monosyllabic name. In the creation of EVE, there existed no artificial scale of sounds, no "harmonious discord," no cacophonic words-name was lost in the music of pure tones, and melody diffused itself, like light, around the world. Once more the little publisher bowed. Sir Pettronell quietly inclined himself into a chair. Kind reader, hast thou ever had the misfortune to be mistaken for a gentleman, when thy solicitations were about to give the lie to thine address, to deceive a rich, low, man into obsequious ceremony, and humiliate him by the condescension, oh then pity the gentle Sir Pettronell, and apply to thy own sensibilities the agitation of his, when even the advantages of poverty were denied him, and the thread-bare coat ominously buttoned close up to the chin, was perfectly unobservable in the cimerian darkness of this Trophonian cave. Sir Pettronell was a fine, tall, soldier-like man, one "that would not flatter Neptune for his Trident;" but there was in that mystical eye, a dove-like beaming, that would have once become a "ladies bower." Once-for Sir Pettronell had seen many winters, and long since must it have been when the " singing birds" awakened his young heart. His nose was well formed, advancing boldly from the forehead, but either naturally or by the habit of snuffing, the alæ nasi were expanded a line or so too widely-his mouth rather large and voluptuous-his forehead-and here let me pause 'twas not the "jutty and impendious brow" of the mathematician, nor the corrugated front of the logician, "one glance was as good as a thousand," broad, clear, and unclouded, Frons ubi vivit honor"-poor he might be, but like Sir Lucius, "he was too poor to do a mean action.'


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No one would have called Sir Pettronell old, though the white hairs could hardly be numbered. Sir Pettronell would have called himself young-his small white hand played with the said eye-glass, which seemed, judging by the vividness of his eyes, to have been merely an outlet for physical irritability, like Coleridge's frill, which he twisted and screwed as the "winged words," verba alata, escaped from his vibrating lip-the hands instantly sympathise with the tongue; there is a mototary sympathy. Sir Charles Bell has forgotten the chief glory of the hand; the mechanism is curious, but it is the moral expression of the hand which is the theme of its praise, the spirit of motion, which gives grandeur and sublimity to the eloquence of a Demosthenes, which, as an electrical rod, touches the inmost soul and awakens the echoes of its passions.

* Shenston solemnly thanked God that his name was not liable to a pun.-See "Curiosities of Literature."

+ Sir Charles Grandison.

While taking this sketch of Sir Pettronell's "outward-man," which the attribute of my "invisible ubiquity," would allow, he was sitting directly opposed to the little, sharp-looking Aristarchus, whose oscillatory movements too plainly expressed his uneasiness at the taciturnity of his visitor; vain it was that the little bald-headed book-keeper bowed and bent, blew his nose, rubbed his bearded chin, blew his nose still louder-and louder still-he awakened only the silence and solitude around him. Sir Pettronell was dumb-abstracted, immoveable, with his gleamy eyes fixed upon the dingy window of the apartment, and save that between the two first fingers of his right hand, he slowly swung the afore-mentioned eye-glass, he was moveless as a statue-still the ribbon and the glass swung to and fro-like a lone bird in the wilderness, the swing, swing, gave a horror to the silence. The bibliopole's eyes began to glisten in snake-like sympathy-a sort of incubus looked Sir Pettronell; the little man could endure it no longer-seizing with a spasmodic grasp a newly-published work which lay on the table, and making a sort of preparatory cough or scream, to assure himself of his existence-once, twice, and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth; closing his eyes, he threw himself back in the chair, and with a groan unutterable pronounced Sir Pettronell in a tone rather louder than was absolutely necessary. Merciful heavens! different soils produce not more variety in the "world of vegetation" than is created by circumstances in man. Sir Pettronell did not jump off his chair in a startling sympathy with his associate, but quietly relinquishing the chaste past-time of counting the clouds through a London atmosphere, fixing his eyes on Mr. P. the almost silent responsive Sir, pronounced in a sort of audible whisper, was more distressing to his auditor than the noisy vociferation of a madman. The charm was brokenSir Pettronell waited in silence. The confused bibliopole turned rapidly over the uncut leaves of the book he had resorted to. Sir Pettronell did not even reiterate the little monosyllable, but looking him full in the face, awaited in silence the proffered communication. I was going to ask-that is, I mean, I was going to inquire-(the idea of asking a nobleman his business; pah! 'twas impossible)—have you seen this new work, Sir Pettronell? just out, vastly clever-said to be by a young Lord, glancing an inquiring look at Sir Pettronell, vastly witty, young, handsome, and highly talented. Are you speaking of the book or the author? Sir Pettronell mildly asked, taking the proffered work from the hand of the disappointed Aristarchus, who had said anything but what he desired, which was to have inquired of Sir Pettronell who Sir Pettronell could be, and what Sir Pettronell could require. Admirable, said Mr. P. to Sir Pettronell's remark -admirably cutting—you are quite one of us. Sir Pettronell did not laugh, but extracting from the tail of his coat a bundle of papers, he placed them in the hand of the astonished little

publisher. Mr. P., said Sir Pettronell, I am aware I am a stranger to you-my name is Sir Pettronell Flash-here Mr. P. bowed (though not much the wiser for the information.) Who I am is of little consequence, and for the present I choose to be unknown. I am a gentleman-here Mr. P. bowed very low, because the term implied independence and patronage-I wish you, continued Sir Pettronell, to peruse carefully the manuscripts you hold in your hand, and in a little time I will return and receive your opinion-a man who is constantly supplying the tables of the public must know well what is best suited to their taste. The writer of the papers is a friend of mine, one to whom I am warmly attached, and am, therefore, anxious as to his success. Should you think the papers unworthy of notice, the author will be too proud to solicit it; and since he does not behold his intellectual offspring with the "bliss of excessive fondness," neither will he condescend to be an eleemosynary suitor for public bounty. I submit these manuscripts to you, relying on your judgment, and confiding in your probity. Here Sir Pettronell paused; the little critic, as might be supposed, made a bow-a low bow-yes, a very low bow. Sir Pettronell rose from his chair, and moved towards the door. Mr. P. not knowing exactly what to say, and yet by habit knowing what to do-moved after his upright comical visitor, for the purpose of bowing him into the street, and to see whether he rode or walked, went up or down the row, &c. Sir Pettronell was aware of the thing and waving his hand-like Hamlet in the play-motioned the little man to his chair. I insist on it, Sir, that you do not rise-for once I can dispense with ceremony. The critic was as immoveable as Lot's wife. One more graceful bend of the neck, and Sir Pettronell closed the door-one, two, three, four, five steps, and all was as silent as the grave.

Most extraordinary, said little Mr. P., starting from his chair, most mysterious; what is he? who can he be? Once I thought I smelt the poor author-one of the poor proud Quixotte's of literature; but then his manner was potent as a Lord's. Hollo, Sir boy-opening the door-did that Sir Pettronell come in a carriage? No, Sir, cried the boy. Nor coach nor cab―did he ride home, wherever the devil it is. No, Sir, again cried the boy. Here the little man took up his hat and departed.

The visit and departure of Sir Pettronell, as described in the preceding page, occurred on the morning of one of those cold, rainy November days which are a certain stimulus to fire-sides, arm-chairs, and recent novels. On the evening of the same day the bibliopolist was sitting in his private room-his snug hibernacle, ten feet by eight-a blazing fire threw its cheerful gleams over the apartment, giving to the most trifling object an uncertain and interesting appearance by the changing lights and shadows, as the flame peered up, or flickered low and feebly. February.-VOL. II, NO. VII,


The candles were as yet not lighted. Mr. P., like a true “fire worshipper," was burning his shins to his perfect satisfaction, the table was close to his chair, his chair close to the fire; but there was not that abandonment in his reclining figure which marks the idle man, in his easy chair; there was a compression and twitching of the lips, an epileptic sort of stare, a rigidity of the whole frame, which betrayed a moral abstraction, to which Mr. P. was not accustomed. Who this mysterious Sir Pettronell was the little man had been quite unsuccessful in discovering, and his perturbed spirit even now vibrated under the misery of unsatisfied curiosity. Who can he be, most inexplicable man, the name familiar to no one. Who can he be, murmured the vexed bibliopole. Here Mr. P. lighted the candles, and opened the manuscript papers left by Sir Pettronell; to judge by the several titles, the papers offered the most agreeable repast, such as *** *** *** ***; but as things must have a beginning (from the creation of the world to the unities of Aristotle), Mr. P., with all worldly wisdom, desired to be acquainted with the host before he partook of the entertainment. We therefore begin-in the beginning was chaos-"rudis indigestaque males." How know you all this, do you ask? How do I know! How do I know! If you please, suppose that I had the cloak of Mephistophiles, or "as quaint Ariel, like to a nymph of the sea, subject to no sight, invisible to every eye-ball"-or perched with Asmodeus on the glowing ball of St. Paul's, or even astride the little critic's chair, peering over his shoulder, for "we have the receipt of fern seed."*


* It may not generally be known that to several plants, the old herbalists attached a magical power; thus the vervain, Verbena officinalis, was given to conciliate friendship, and hence Shakspeare alludes to the power of the fern-seed in bestowing invisibility. John Parkinson, in his Theatrum Botannicum, 1640, thus curiously describes the magical virtues of the Felix mas vulgare :"The seed, which this and the female fern do beare, are to be gathered only on Midsummer eve, at night, with I know not what conjuring words, is superstitiously held by divers, not only mountebanks and quack-salvers, but by other learned men, to be of some great secret hidden virtue" (see Tribe 10 Felices, page 1039); but if the age of charms is gone by, and even his present Majesty King William "of blessed memory," forgets to cure his people's "evils" by "touching them," and though we no longer weave the tapering vervain into a pyladean cestus for an amiciciary tie, still are our minds linked to superstitions which seem the physicospiritual chain between time and eternity.

"Hominibus vitæ finis mors nom

Autem superstitiones."-PLIN,


To the Editor of the Analyst.

SIR,-I was much pleased with the article in your last number relative to Charles II., and permit me to say that the more papers you publish upon topics connected with local antiquities, the more the interest of your periodical, to the success of which I am a hearty well-wisher, will be strengthened among the generality of your readers. Now certainly, as Mr. Hughes observes in his Introduction to the Boscobel Tracts, p. 12, "at no time did the character of Charles II. appear to so much advantage as at the period of the battle of Worcester, and had he met his fate there, history would have lost a theme of reprobation in a bad king, and gained as respectable a hero as many whom it has thought fit to immortalize.” For it seems a settled point with all historians of credit and authority, that after his accession to the throne, he became, as Mr. Fox has briefly but most impressively styled him, "a bad man and a bad king." Accordingly, some writers have deemed it an unaccountable circumstance why a great people who had put down the tyranny of the father, should not have opposed another revolution as a barrier to those passions which the son had let loose upon them for the destruction of their national religion and liberty. In a very able article* in the Edinburgh Review on that illustrious man's history of James II., we meet with the following observations:

"There are three great events of which it appears to us, that the story has not been intelligibly told for the want of a correct analysis of the national feelings. One is the universal joy and sincere confidence with which Charles 2nd was received back without one stipulation for the liberties of the people, or one precaution against the abuses of power. This was done by the very people who had waged war against a more amicable Sovereign, and quarrelled with the Protector for depriving them of their freedom. It is saying nothing to say that Monk did this by means of the army. It was not done either by Monk or the army, but by the nation; and even if it were not so, the question would still be, by what change in the dispositions of the army and the nation, Monk was able to make them do it. The second event, which must always appear unaccountable upon the mere narrative of the circumstances, is the base and abject submission of the people to the avowed tyranny of Charles when he was pleased at last to give up the use of Parliaments and to tax and govern on his own single authority. This happened when most of those must have still been alive who had seen the nation rise up in arms against his father, and within five years of the time when it rose up still more unanimously against his successor, and not only changed the succession of the Crown, but very strictly defined and limited its prerogatives. The third is the Revolution itself; an event which was brought about by the very individuals who had submitted so quietly to the domination of Charles, and who, when assembled in the House of Commons under James himself, had of their own accord sent one of their members to the Tower for having observed upon a harsh

* Vol. XII., 1808, p. 284.

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