1826.] 
or any man, to be without one? Not Mr. 
Moore. But he was confessedly through 
life : an embarrassed man, and essentially a 
‘selfish one. Pleasure was his object, and 
notoriously unscrupulous was he about 
the means. Gratification—distinetion in 
society, was pursued through all impedi- 
ments, and at any cost. For forty long 
years was he the subject alternately of 
obligation and insolence, though making 
light of the one, and cleverly parrying the 
other; but driven perpetually to the most 
‘miserable subterfuges—subterfuges repre- 
‘senited here as ingenious, but harmless jokes. 
‘What room was left for kindness or 
consideration? Let us discriminate —he 
was a man of high talent—who can doubt 
it ?—of little acquirement—why deny it? 
of profligate habits—why disguise them ? 
Of one act of effectual kindness towards 
a distressed family near his little property 
at Polesdon, described at some length in 
this contemptible volume, we do not for a 
moment doubt—it comes with authority ; 
but too much is made of it—it shews the 
general absence of commendable facts. 
The communication of this story was made 
to Mr. Moore, who seems to have for- 
gotten it, as in the hwry with which he 
finally concluded his book he did many 
others. But there are other omissions of 
Mr. Moore’s, respecting matters in which 
he took and had a personal interest, scarce- 
ly attributable to the same cause. On 
the whole, however, notwithstanding his 
omissions—notwithstanding his flowers of 
speech—notwithstanding his silly contempt 
of the silly but honest Dr. Watkins, we 
know not who would have done better ; 
and we.are content with Ais life of Sheridan. 
Letters from Cockney-Lands. 1826.—No, 
Mr. Ebers; if this be your debut in the 
publishing “line,” give up the matter forth- 
with. Shortest follies are best. Mr. Col- 
burn has the start of you, and no chance 
have you, if this be your best ‘‘ set-out,” 
of contending with that dexterous whip. 
Where was your tact, Mr. Ebers? Haye 
you no homme d'affaires, who knows some- 
thing of the literary, as well as the opera- 
tastes of the town? The book is abso- 
lutely unreadable—a Bond-street produc- 
tion . altogether ; full of pretension of all 
that is fine and fashionable, aristocratic and 
exclusive ; betraying unluckily more know- 
ledge of the coarse and the familiar, of the’ 
trumpery wonders of the streets, and the 
press and its, profligacies, than becomes or 
marks the fastidiousness to which the 
writer so superciliously lays claim. With 
all the desire in the world to mingle sar- 
casm and levity with ‘‘ wondrous potency,” 
what,is' he? Pert and pointless, raising 
neither a blush by his severity, nor a smile 
by his, wit;.some contempt, perhaps, for 
ee een. and certainly indignation at 
the impudence. of such an attempt to 
: | Bieter attention., He would be 
of course, /to haye viewed: these 
Domestic and Foreign. 
205 
Cockney-Lands (London and Brighton, 
that is) with a learned spirit, and his pur- 
pose is, we believe, to describe their pecu- 
liarities to some rustic cousin. That pur- 
pose, however, is any thing) but obvious. 
The book is, indeed, a perfect puzzle : for 
some time we could make neither head nor 
tail of it; nor were we much the wiser, 
after discovering the list of contents with 
which his mysteries are prefaced. » The 
leading thought, perhaps, that which gave 
rise to the whole, is to scourge the turpi- 
tude of the London press; of which he 
knows nothing at ali, or more than enough; 
and to taik of Mr. Malthus, the clab- 
houses, Mr. McAdam, and sundry other 
matters, of which every body, but himself, 
has long since been tired of talking. 
Two heads are better than one; and 
never were we so benefited bysthe recol- 
lection of this ancient truth as on the pre- 
sent occasion. Great was our good for- 
tune to be able to read some of the volume 
in the company of a very able enigmatist, 
who most felicitously*divined the ‘ mot” 
in numerous instances, Where, without such 
professional assistance, we must have given 
up the matter in despair. 
The metre is of a doggrel character ; 
Hudibrastic, perhaps, the writer considers 
it; and, certainly, if out-of-the-way rhymes 
and rugged inversions, if digressions, 
checks, breaks, equally uncalled-for and 
unintelligible, constitute that style ef yer- 
sification, it is, Heaven knows, Hudibras- 
tic enough. Take aspecimen, as he drives 
through the streets— 
Now we're sailing 
In rougher ways. Jolt !—are we over? 
Slugh ! where are we now? 
Well, we're right again: 
Hubbub! I shall never my hearing recover, 
This Babelish row, 
Come drive on amain ; 
What is’t ? they’re making money sure. 
This is the way, in crowds they pour, 
All day and every thro’ Cheapside, 
And Fleet-Street, and the Strand. Subside 
The clamours. Have we left the street, 
So smooth we roll, ’tis quite a treat; 
No, you’re on pavement still, but alter’d, 
The paviours used to sigh so: falter’d 
Many a girl, and thought her lover 
Was near; the ladies talked it over, 
It was agreed to mince the granite ; 
The paviours p’rhaps have left this planet, &e- 
————_ What building’s that? Ah, Peace 
And half-pay! ’tis a club-house—Malthus, 
You come again I hear, you call thus - 
«* Was I not right—see of my school 
These votaries.” Sir, I own your rule 
Observed here: but I think such palaces 
Less fit for those they hold than gallowses- 
What does the idiot mean ? 
Take an event— 
«« 4 buck exchang’d with me his card, 
Because my switch touch’d him—'tis hard, i 
An accident—but ’twas no duel, 
’ Though he spoke thunder-bolts. — stdnd wal 
Scarce credit—he so pert and soi 1%, 
Was a professor in an art Hat td3¢ <é 
