326 Notes of the Month on [[Skpt.- 



it produced a reluctance to mingle the profession with lower pursuits ; 

 and we are perfectly sure that if, ten years ago, any man happened to 

 have told a Lieutenant-Colonel that he would yet stand in the shoes of 

 Sir Richard Birnie, of precious memory ; or have hinted to a Post Cap- 

 tain in the British navy that he would be a succedaneum to the keeper 

 of the Hulks, and inspect a gang of thieves in Botany Bay, the teller of 

 those tidings would have to prepare himself for a grand diplomatic 

 negociation as to the time when he was to be summoned to Chalk Farm, 

 there to be run tlu-ough the body, or shot, and otherwise dealt with, 

 according to the heroic manner of wiping away insults. 



Yet here we have the thing done before the face of mankind. We 

 have Captain Parry, a post-captain and a knight too, tranquilly putting 

 his sword into his closet, dismounting his epaulettes, and metamorphos- 

 ing himself into a hired servant, or steward, of some obscure knot of 

 adventurers, and steering forthv/ith for Botany Bay. 



We have the same transmigration iii the Colonel. His business 

 henceforth is to do what that brilliant member of the magistracy. Sir 

 Richard Birnie, is employed for doing, however he may do it. The 

 Colonel is to be principal thief-taker, arrester of strayed demireps, exa- 

 miner-in-chief of gin-shops, and muster-master-general of pickpockets. 

 And tliis is to be the occupation of a soldier — of a man who once 

 commanded a regiment in the field, and who probably thinks himself 

 entitled to look down upon some individuals in society. We shall tell 

 him, that society will form an altogether different estimate on the 

 subject — that he is taking a miserable occupation — and that, from the 

 moment of his catching his first thief, and touching his first slulling 

 for the capture, he is a constable, and nothing more. 



The art of poetry, like the art of cookery, will never perish while 

 men have tongues or palates. JMoore is, we hope, not dead, nor altoge- 

 ther buried in Lord Byron's book ; but, in the mean time, Bath sup- 

 plies a substitute, and ]Mr. Bayley waves his papilionaceous wings, gay 

 and glittering, over the British Baia?. The style of his poetry is cha- 

 racteristic of the spot of its inspiration ; it is coquettish, pastiled, and 

 perfumed — ^redolent of courtship and quadrilles. What can be more 

 effervescent of the fixed air of the Upper Rooms than these sparkling and 

 dancing lines .-' — 



" THIS IS MY ELDEST DAUGHTER, SIR !" 



This is my eldest Daughter, Sir ! 



Her mother's only care ; 

 You praise her face — Oh ! Sir, she is 



As good as she is fair ! 

 My angel Jane is clever too. 



Accomplishments I've taught her ; 

 I'll introduce you to her, Sir, 



— This is my eldest Daughter. - . . . 



I've sought the aid of ornament, 



Bejewelling her curls ; 

 I've tried her beauty unadorned. 



Simplicity and pearls : 

 I've set her off, to get her off. 



Till fallen off I've thought her : 

 Yet I've softly breathed to all the beaux — 



" This is my eldest Daughter." 



