THE trade, by the publication of a rambling, irrelevant, and expensive "Life" of the hero whose revered name heads this paragraph, has aroused the ire of Mr. Owl, whose ponderous tomes are groaning on their shelves, from lack of motion; and in reply to the querulous questions of that gentleman, begs concisely to state that his (Mr. Hawk's) "code of honour" is so perfectly understood and valued by the public, that he does not feel himself called upon to explain its foundation to Mr. Owl; and that by "cream and essence" he understands the best portion of any given article;-in short, to follow up the metaphor, and yet make himself intelligible, even to Mr. Owl, he meant to say that he had-milked his cow; and Mr. Owl is welcome to both the expletives. Nor is Mr. Hawk at any loss to offer an equally lucid solution of Mr. Owl's closing doubt; and he, Mr. Hawk, the publisher of the cheap and condensed edition of "The Life, Correspondence, and Writings of Jack the Giant-killer," has much pleasure in informing his more costly and voluminous chronicler, that the illustrious Jack married a Widow :-the inference is obvious.

Mr. Hawk, moreover, takes this opportunity of informing Mr. Owl, that should he attempt, either directly or indirectly, to injure the sale of his, Mr. Hawk's abridged edition of "The Life, Correspondence, and Writings of Jack the Giant-killer," after this public notice, he, Mr. Hawk, being quite aware that Mr. Owl has no good and solid claim on the copyright of the said work, as edited by Mr. Firefly, will, in order to prove himself in the right and to vindicate his "code of honour," publish it ALL in three 8vo vols., at 7s. 6d. the set! It is not yet too late.

Surely we have now shewn enough to prove that the science of Puffing is by no means so unimportant and contemptible as some persons may, in their sagacity, have been tempted to believe; for when it is remembered that nine-tenths of what is facetiously called the "reading" (in contradistinction, as we imagine, to the "thinking") public always build up their critical judgment on the foundation of the journal or periodical which forms one of their Penati, it will be at once conceded that great results must be accomplished by these infinitesimally veracious paragraphs, which, while they produce a small revenue to the actual and tangible journals that echo the invisible and impalpable "Evening Paper" of THE TRADE, and boldly fling off every trammel of respectability and truth, do undying honour to the disinterestedness of purpose and earnestness of assertion of those by whom they are put forth, with a modesty as admirable as their genius, there being no single instance on record, save in the case of the "Puff Pugnacious," (which is necessarily a species of goose-quill duello,) wherein the commendatory and generous professor ever reveals himself in his subject; his shrinking self-depreciation constantly leading him to make his own greatness appear to reflect from some other and equally invisible agent.

There is, however, one species of puff, perhaps the most difficult in its composition, and decidedly the most bitter in its tone, which, however, as a matter of science, and even of utility, is a decided failure; we allude to the

PUFF UNCOMFORTABLE,

in which, despite affected humour and assumed superiority, the leaven of ill-nature and the gall of disappointment neutralize every effort at wit, and negative every exertion at self-government. This peculiar description of puff always appears after the secession of some popular writer from the pages of the work in which it is inserted; and consists in calling names, and ridiculing talents of which it formerly made its boast. So far from being done to order, like the others, by the square foot, the Puff Uncomfortable has such a tight-booted, overheated character about it, that you feel at once that it is the spontaneous effect of suffering and annoyance, and by no means subjected to the sober, measured, civil restraints of those formerly noticed. When intended to be especially severe, it is sometimes put into doggerel verse, such as occasionally figures in the advertisements of the celebrated Mr. Rowland's Macassar Oil and Kalydor. Viewed in this phase, the puff uncomfortable is highly diverting, and resembles an unwieldy steamer at the mouth of a harbour, lying-to for want of water-rolling, pitching, and heaving; crashing her own crockery, and victimizing her own passengers, without making an inch of way, or securing a movement of sympathy. Here is a specimen of the Puff Uncomfortable, in its majestic and condensed form:

"Mr. Snooks feels himself called upon to deny all knowledge of Mr. Hooks (which he will immediately prove by an allusion to past events, in which they both had a share), and he strongly counsels him, on his side, to disclaim the acquaintance, as the surest method of securing his own respectability. Mr. Snooks has heard that Mr. Hooks has been entertaining some friends at dinner, and cannot conceal his mortification that he has ceased to be of the number. Mr. Snooks cannot forget that he was more fortunate six years ago; and merely throws out the remark, unclassical as it must appear, as a hint. Had the favour been returned, of course the obligation would have been mutual, which, Mr. Snooks regrets, is not now the case. Mr. Snooks begs, moreover, to remark that, in expressing these sentiments, he is not so indignant for himself as for a friend, who declines to make similar ones a decision which has induced Mr. Snooks to shoot the bolt for him; and he has been led to take this step by feeling the necessity of explaining the painful difference between the present and the past, and the propriety of immortalizing the memory of the departed-dinners!"

The metrical version of the Puff Uncomfortable is more elaborate and personal, driving its tiny sting into other noses besides that of the principal offender, and professing to be funny; basing a bad copy on the model of a clever original, and doing harmless and empty noise, with all the fuss and splutter of the escape-valve of an engine, which occupies room without producing movement, and obscures the light for an instant with its dingy vapour, only to make it more acceptable when it has dispersed.

This puff is, however, rare; for few in THE TRADE will condescend to avail themselves of so shallow and contemptible an agent; and thus it must be considered as the mere Pariah and outcast of the science, occasionally to be met with in the desert of disappointment, but never venturing within the walls of the fair city of courteous competition.

In these miscellaneous notelets, sent forth like Sibylline leaves to flutter on the wind at random, it is not my intention to observe any chronological order, or indeed any arrangement at all other than what may give pleasure to my reader and myself. I intend to skip over the rosiest paths I can find, culling in each some bright flower, and utterly careless whether I pluck it for my garland by diverging from the straight line, or by pursuing it regularly. In fact, I shall be governed entirely by the spirit of those golden verses of Lucretius, which are certainly as beautiful as a little Arcadian landscape, and as full of melody as if they had been spoken by Orpheus himself:

"Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant,

Omnia nos itidem depascimur aurea dicta."

I put my hand into my desk, and draw forth a paper. It may be a sonnet, a hymn, a barcarole, or a canzone-I care not which, so that it possesses merit. I would as soon think of putting my gold pen into the fire, as of entering on a classification of these trifles.

In sonnet writing, the wreath of superiority has, I believe, been universally awarded to Petrarch. Such as it is, it would be a pity to deprive him of it, for it is but a flimsy wreath, after all, and is scarcely worth contending for. He has certainly done more for it than any writer who has come within the course of my reading, and it seems to have been admirably adapted for a mind like his, incapable of a continuous range of fine thought, and formed to expend itself on trifles. By persons of this order of intellect, indeed, it was that the Sonnet was first invented, and by such it has since continued to be most highly prized; for the instances are very few where real genius has condescended to toy with it. Nobody believes that Shakspeare wrote the sonnets which bear his name. Everyone can judge of those of Milton. Byron, I believe, has written half-adozen, and Shelley two or three. Talfourd has put his star-bright muse into leading strings, and written some sonnets, also; the only man of elegant taste who, I believe, ever did so. None of these, however, have achieved enough to win the crown from Petrarch, and he must always be regarded as the Prince of Sonneteers.

The two following are as good specimens of him as I can recollect :

Sonetto di Petrarca, CCLI.

Gli occhi, di ch' io parlai si caldamente,

E le braccia, e le mani, e i piedi, e 'l viso
Che m' havean si da me stesso diviso,

E fatto singular da l' altra gente;
Le crespi chiome d' or puro lucente

E 'l lampeggiar de l'angelico riso
Che solean far in terra un paradiso,
Poca polvere son che nulla sente.

Ed io pur vivo: onde mi doglio e sdegno,
Rimaso senza 'l lume, ch' amai tanto
In gran fortune e 'n disarmato legno,

Or sia qui fine al mio amoroso canto;
Secca e la vena de l' usato ingegno

E la cetera mia rivolto in pianto.

Where are those eyes whose sparkling glow,
Those arms which, cast in Beauty's mould,
Could raise my songs, and bid them flow,
And where those locks of brightest gold?

Where are those angel smiles that o'er
Her rose-soft cheeks were wont to pace,
Lighting, like stars, in Heaven's floor,
The radiant heaven within her face?

Where are they now? Alas! their light
Is quench'd, and dust alone remains;
And I survive to curse the blight

And woe that still my heart retains.

Like the lone bark that o'er the sea,
When the sweet moon has veil'd her rays,
Wanders alone distractedly-

So my sad spirit wildly strays.

Be hush'd my harp, repose my strings!
The fiery soul that once could wake
Your sweetest tones, to sorrow clings,
And only longs at last to break.

In my first leaves (published last month) I noticed what is marvellously like a plagiarism from the Greek; here I insert another remarkable instance of coincidence with the foregoing Italian sonnet from the English poet,

Brummond.

Those eyes, those sparkling sapphires of delight,
Which thousand thousand hearts did set on fire,
Of which that eye of heaven which brings the light
Oft jealous stay'd, amazed them to admire ;

That living snow, those crimson roses bright,
Those pearls, those rubies which inflame desire,

Those locks of gold, that purple fire of Tyre,

Are wrapt (ay me) up in eternal night.

What hast thou more to vaunt of, wretched world,

Sith she who caused all thy bliss is gone?

Thy ever-burning lamps, round ever whirl'd,

Cannot unto thee model such a one;

Or if they should such beauty bring on earth,
They should be forced again to give her birth.

Verily, there is much truth in the saying of shrewd Old Burton-" As apothecaries, we make new mixtures every day-pour out of one vessel into another." The frail and transitory nature of female loveliness is a favourite theme of reflection with all poets. Few are more melancholy, few more saddening. In the numberless trifles which have been written on the subject, the most perfect In the similarity exists; all have chosen the rose as the emblem of beauty. Greek and Latin anthologies there are at least hundreds of gem-like epigrams on this subject; yet each has a pleasing gracefulness, and the reader never experiences the monotony of the subject

"Each gives each a double charm."

One of these Latin epigrams, in which the very Spirit of Beauty sits enshrined, may be given here as a foil to a couple of short ones which have now budded up in my memory, and illustrate the remark I have just made :—

O quales ego mane Rosas procedere vidi !
Nascebantur adhuc; neque erat par omnibus ætas.
Prima papillatos ducebat nata corymbos;

Altera puniceos apices umbone levabat;

Tertia non totum calathi patefecerat orbem;

Quarta simul nituit mutato tegmine floris.

Dum levat una caput, dumque explicat altera nodum

Huic dum virgineus pudor exsinuatur amictu,

Ne pereat lege mane rosam :-cito virgo senescit.

Such is the reflection of the Roman writer. In the same spirit the English poet Daniel points the attention of his fair-eyed mistress to the rose :

Look, DELIA, how w' esteem the half-blown rose,

The image of thy blush, and summer's honour,

While yet her tender bud doth undisclose

That full of beauty time bestows upon her;

No sooner spreads her glory in the air,

But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;

She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair

So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.

The other verses are by Carew, a writer who had a tinge of Anacreon in his soul, but not the same richness of imagination :

MARY STUART,

FROM PRISON TO HER FRIENDS IN FRANCE, WHO BEGGED HER TO NAME WHAT THEY SHOULD SEND HER IN HER CAPTIVITY.

BY LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.