1826.] Death's Doings. _ 479 
here... We cannot, however,always compliment the drawing as much as the con- 
ception, Some of the figures—thbe horse, for instance, under the huntsman, 
page/213, which has a. much stronger resemblance to the White Horse in Fetter- 
lane, than..to, any other breed with which we happen to be acquainted—are 
sadly, out of drawing, This is a defect which surely could be corrected without 
much difficulty : it certainly ought to be corrected. 
Asa fair specimen of the writing, we select the following pretty verses : 
THE SCROLL. 
The maiden’s cheek blush’d ruby bright, 
And her heart beat quick with its own delight ; 
Again she should dwell on those vows so dear, 
Almost as if her lover were near. 
Little deemed she that letter would tell 
How that true lover fought and fell. 
The maiden read till her cheek grew pale— 
Yon drooping eye tells all the tale: 
She sees her own knight’s last fond prayer, 
And she reads in that scroll her heart’s despair. 
Oh! graye, how terrible art thou 
To young hearts bound in one fond vow. 
Oh! human love, how vain is thy trust; 
Hope! how soon art thou Jaid in dust. 
Thou fatal pilgrim, who art thou, 
As thou flingst the black veil from thy shadowy brow ? 
I know thee now, dark lord of the tomb, 
By the pale maiden’s withering bloom : 
The light is gone from her glassy eye, 
And her cheek is struck by mortality ; 
From her parted lip there comes no breath, 
For that scroll was fate—its bearer— Death. 
It is quite superflucus, we imagine, to say that these lines are by Miss Lan- 
don; the verses are redolent of love. 
Mr. Jerdan has contributed the “* Last Bottle.”’—There is something Rabe- 
laisian in the style ; but we beg to remind Mr. Jerdan, that Bakbuk of the Holy 
Bottle is not a high priest, but a priestess. 
“ Death in the Ring” is not well done. The author pleads the authority of 
Blackwood and Mr. Moore for indulging in the disgusting language of the 
Fancy, Admitting the authorities, they do not, however, now defend the prac- 
tice. Some seven or eight years ago, allusions to the Ring might have been 
tolerated. Now that that institute has become entirely the prey of thieves, 
pickpockets, and low swindlers—when it is nothing but an establishment for 
robbery—no gentleman should, even in jest, allude to its existence. The pre- 
sent heroes of the Ring are the heroes of the tread-mill, and their dialect is not 
more respectable than the conventional language of highwaymen, We hope to 
see it entirely banished from any-species of literature that aspires to be read in 
a society above that which favours with its company the pot-houses in the pur- 
lieus of Newgate, or the alleys of St. Giles’s; nor can we flatter the gentleman 
who employs it in Mr. Dagley’s “ Death’s Doings,” by saying that he manages 
it, such as it is, very dexterously. ; 
With one specimen of grave poetry—from the pen, we believe, of the Rev. 
George Croly—and a gay one from Mr. Forbes, we conclude: 
THE POET. 
Thou art vanish’d! Like the blast 
Bursting from the midnight cloud ; 
Like the lightning thou art past,— 
Larth has seen no nobler shroud ! 
Now is quench’d the flashing eye, 
Now is chill’d the burning brow, 
All the poet that can die ; 
Homer's self is but as thou. 
