Miss Molly's horse was gone, the Lord knows where. To return on foot was out of the question. A cottage was nigh. Molly was fainting with fear. Le Comte, supporting her in his arms, called a peasant, who was told to run to town as fast as he could for a carriage, while a wink and a five-frank piece, which, strictly speaking, was part of the charitable donation to the shuttlecock alien, intimated to the bumpkin that he was to move as slowly as possible. Miss Molly recovered from her fright, beheld the blood flowing from the generous Frenchman, and, with becoming sentiments of sympathy, could not help sinking on his bosom, when he swore that he should have been proud to have shed the last drop of his vital stream to rescue her from danger.

M. De la Blague, who deemed it necessary to look for the runaway horse, endeavoured to persuade Lucy to accompany him in the search; but she, from various motives, that I shall not presume to question, remained with her sister.

NUTMEGS FOR NIGHTINGALES!

BY DICK DISTICH.

No. I. SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

FILL, fill up a bumper! no twilight, no, no!
Let hearts, now or never, and goblets o'erflow!
Apollo commands that we drink, and the Nine,
A generous spirit in generous wine.

The rose smells as sweet call it what name you will;
The right honest heart is an honest heart still;

Can we find a truer to garnish our bowls

Than Sheridan, Sherry, or prime Paddy Knowles?

The bard, in a bumper! behold, to the brim
They rise, the gay spirits of poesy-whim!
Around ev'ry glass they a garland entwine,

Of sprigs from the laurel, and leaves from the vine.

A bumper the hard who, in eloquence bold,

Of two noble fathers the story has told;

What pangs heave the bosom, what tears dim the eyes,
When the dagger is sped, and the arrow it flies.

The bard, in a bumper! Is fancy his theme?
"Tis sportive and light as a fairy-land dream;
Does love tune his harp? 'tis devoted and pure;
Or friendship? 'tis that which shall always endure.

Ye tramplers on liberty, tremble at him;

His song is your knell, and the slave's morning hymn!
His frolicksome humour is buxom and bland,

And bright as the goblet I hold in my hand.

The bard! brim your glasses; a bumper! a cheer!
Long may he live in good fellowship here.

Shame to thee, Britain, if ever he roam,

To seek with the stranger a friend and a home!

Fate in his cup ev'ry blessing infuse,
Cherish his fortune, and smile on his muse;
Warm be his hearth, and prosperity cheer
Those he is dear to, and those he holds dear.

Blythe be his autumn as summer hath been,-
Frosty, but kindly, and sweetly serene :
Green be his winter, with snow on his brow;
Green as the wreath that encircles it now!

To dear Paddy Knowles, then, a bumper we fill,
And toast his good health as he trots down the hill;

In genius he 's left all behind him, by goles !

But he won't leave behind him another Pat Knowles !

No. II.-HOURS THERE ARE TO MEM'RY DEARER.

Hours there are to mem'ry dearer
Than the miser's hoarded pelf;
More facetious, quainter, queerer,
Than Grimaldi-Joe himself!
At the Goose and Thimble, Greenwich,
Charming Lydia! fancy dwells;
When we din'd on lamb and spinage,
List'ning to those evening bells!
Then I thought our vessel anchor'd
In love's harbour safe and sound;
Thou, the teacup; I, the tankard;
Softly sighing, passing round!

Nothing now can cross or wrong go,

Bless'd with such a fav'ring gale;
Thou art pledg'd in cups of congo,
I in draughts of Burton ale!
Fleeting visions! dreams delusive!

When I thought my Lydia won;
"Of your courting what's the use, if
I (she whisper'd) wed but one?
Tibbs Timotheus, top of Vere-Street,

He, bold youth, has bowl'd you out."
All my hopes are now in Queer-Street,
All my spirits up the spout.

No. III. THAT ROMAN NOSE.

That Roman nose! that Roman nose!
Has robb'd my bosom of repose;
For when in sleep my eyelids close,
It haunts me still, that Roman nose!

Between two eyes as black as sloes
The bright and flaming ruby glows;
That Roman nose! that Roman nose!
And beats the blush of damask rose.

I walk the streets, the alleys, rows;
I look at all the Jems and Joes;
And old and young, and friends and foes,
But cannot find a Roman nose!

Then blessed be the day I chose
That nasal beauty of my beau's;
And when at last to heaven I goes,
I hope to spy his Roman nose!

No. IV. TELL ME, GENTLE LAURA, WHY.

Tell me, gentle Laura, why,
When a drop is in my eye,

I could laugh, and I could cry,
I don't know how, I can't tell why?

When my blood flows hotter, quicker,
Is it love? or is it liquor?
To decide the point I'm loth:
One or t' other 'tis, or both!
When my peepers wink like winkin',
After laying lots of drink in,

Lovely Laura, nymph divine!
Is it Meux's mug, or thine?
When my muzzy brains begin
Like a humming-top to spin,
And I carry too much sail,
Are you humming, or the ale?

Now I know what makes me queer,
You are spruce, and so's the beer;
You are fair; the stout is brown ;
That is up, and I am down!

BOOK-MAKING CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE
FINE ARTS.

COMPOSITION (in Literature) is a metaphor probably borrowed from the printing-office, and, (as the etymology of the word implies) consists in the " composing," or arranging of certain intellectual materials, derived either from the minds of other men, or from a man's own-either abstracted by the memory, or separated by the scissors. Bookcraft, therefore, is to a certain extent to be considered as one of the manual arts; and the productive industry of the country during the last half century, in the article of books, has probably no parallel, except in the article of cotton goods. An extraordinary impetus has recently been given to the book manufacture, by the large consumption of that class of goods denominated "Penny Publications," which are got up with little labour, made of old and coarse materials, and have a rapid and extensive sale, producing a quick return of the small capital employed.

The object of the following pages is to render book-making easy to the meanest capacity; to lay down such rules and principles of the art, as will increase the productive industry of a numerous, and somewhat despised class of men-a class that (with the exception of the hand-loom weavers) may be considered as the most industrious and ill-paid of the working classes-I mean the journeymen book-makers; and I trust that the present essay will be thought worthy of being reprinted and circulated by the "Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge."

In the practical consideration of our subject, our attention will be first directed to the market; for it will be necessary first to ascertain the commodity required, and then the best and cheapest mode of producing it.

Now, the home-consumption of modern books is principally confined to the lighter kinds of goods, and, for some years, the run has been chiefly upon pamphlets, travels, novels, and above all, minia

ture books of science.

The composition of a pamphlet is one of the most simple processes in the art of book-making. I have known an admirable pamphlet

on " Capital Punishments' "made" after supper out of a file of

Morning Heralds," with no other assistance than a few expletives and a pair of scissors! The recent publication of a valuable work called the "Statistical Journal," has greatly facilitated the "composition" of pamphlets by furnishing, with tolerable correctness, those imposing rows of figures which form so indispensable a part of the stockin-trade of a pamphleteer. The immense number of Parliamentary Reports on various subjects now accessible to the public, furnish also a rich vein of materials for this kind of writing. There is a class of writers that feed almost entirely on this kind of literary offal. Some of these gentlemen like their game "high," and may be seen occasionally in the manuscript-room in the British Museum, with their white heads hanging over the state parchments, like moths on a damp garment! At sunset, these industrious creatures (like homeward-bound bees,) return, laden with the sweets of centuries, to their garrets, to toil through the night at the work of reproduction. 2 K

VOL. III.

"Whilst o'er their books their eyes begin to roll,

In pleasing memory of all they stole,

How here they sipped-how there they plundered snug,
And sacked all o'er, like an industrious bug!"

Your "petit Literateur" is indeed, essentially, a beast of prey-he is, moreover, a gross feeder, and decidedly omniverous.

A grave metaphysician of this class will occasionally plunder a thought from Byron's "Cain," and a hungry small-beer poet will sometimes snatch a mouthful from the "Philosopher of Malmesbury." I have known a whig-doctor quietly appropriate a leading article from the "Standard," and a tory parson lay violent hands upon a whole chapter of Jeremy Bentham. It is astonishing how literary materials change and improve under the hands of a skilful workman. The rude old black-letter ballad is polished into an elegant modern lyric, and the stern religious tracts of the grim old puritans, are softened down to the sweet and unctuous manuals of their modern representatives.

I now come to the book of travels, which may appear, at first sight, to be out of the reach of the journeyman book-maker; but let it be remembered that the most beautiful descriptions of Italian scenery (those of Mrs. Ratcliffe) were composed by a writer who was never in Italy. How great a latitude of description may be indulged in by a writer, who discourses of the sources of the Nile and Niger, and the manners and customs of Copts and Æthiopians ! Who shall gainsay him if he describe an island in the South Seas, the male inhabitants of which lie a-bed and drink cawdle at the "accouchement" of their wives, and who in times of dearth pickle their grandfathers to preserve themselves?

As to home tours, (as they may be called)-Trips to Paris, Rambles in Spain, Excursions in Italy, or Wanderings in Switzerland, these may be "thrown off" in a fortnight a-piece, (by any one conversant with the most popular models) with the help of a guidebook and a French vocabulary.

It is not my intention to say much on the composition of " the novel." The models of this kind of writing are so numerous, and yet so uniform, and the materials out of which they may be worked so abundant, as to render any remarks almost unnecessary. I would, however, briefly observe in reference to the manufacture of what is called the "fashionable novel," that the writer should have an accurate and extensive knowledge of the names and dwellings of fashionable tradesmen, such as pastrycooks, perfumers, coachmakers, &c. &c., and a speaking acquaintance, at least, with the upper servants at a few great houses. The most essential "material" for this kind of writing is the dialogue, and great care must be taken to observe the nicest proprieties of address between persons of rank, for nothing is so fatal as the clumsy laying on of this part of the material, which should only be used with great discrimination, and at the proper intervals. A great advantage may be derived by the writer from a severe and critical study of the " Court Journal," and other repositories of fashionable learning: and he should also study nature, occasionally, from the pit of the Opera-House, if he has no entrée to the boxes.

The miniature book of science (which may be considered as one of the modern novelties of the trade) is, like the pamphlet, prin

cipally "worked up" out of old materials with the assistance of the scissors. It is usually published in the catechetical form and in small octavo, bound in silk or canvass, (but of this hereafter); and if well done (that is if the thoughts without the language of the plundered original be preserved), it has a rapid and extensive

sale.

I have studiously avoided saying anything in this essay on the heavier productions of the book-trade, because the consumption is so small as to render this branch of the trade hardly worth engaging in, and the little trade there is, is principally confined to Scotland. Alison's "Modern Europe" belongs to this class; a work of undoubted merit, but somewhat too heavy for the market. Little or nothing" is doing" in poetry beyond song-writing for the Magazines. The poetry-market, indeed, appeared to "look up" a few years since, on the publication of the "Omnipresence of the Deity," but suddenly" fell" again on the publication of " Oxford." It is now remarkably dull," and only enlivened by an occasional supply" from the Lakes, or a “ spirt" from L. E. L.

One of the curiosities of modern literature is what are called manuscript sermons. Judging from the numerous advertisements of this article, I should imagine there are as many hands employed in England in transcribing the old Divines, as there are in Turkey in copying the Koran! I have myself seen a copy of MS. sermons which had a considerable run amongst the "hedge-parsons" in Norfolk and Lincoln, that were "composed" (by a little boy who keeps a book-stall in Holywell Street,) out of a volume of sermons addressed to "Charles the First when Prince." The usual forms of "advertising" are as follows:-" To the clergy-fifty-two MS. sermons of a late divine, (adapted to every Sunday in the year), may be had on reasonable terms by applying, &c. &c. &c." "The widow of a deceased clergyman, D.D., is anxious to dispose of a quantity of MS. sermons belonging to her late husband. The sermons are written in elegant language, and are quite sound in doctrine."

But there are other considerations connected with the book-trade, besides the manufacture of the commodity, which it may not be out of place to discuss in this essay; this I shall do under the heads "title," "type," and "binding," " puffing," &c.

The title of a book is, undoubtedly, of considerable importance to its success. Many a book has fallen still-born from the press, solely from having a bad name. Never give a dog, or a book, a bad name-you know the rest. Who do you suppose (unless it were some romantic housemaid) would read a book now-a-days entitled "The Bleeding Nun," "The Knight of the White Banner," "The Spectre Bridegroom," or "The Victim of Sentiment." Imagine a religious work published under the title of " A Paire of Stiltes for the Low in Christ," or "Bentley's Miscellany" edited by " Barebones" instead of " Boz!"

Again, as to type and binding. If a pleasant countenance is " a letter of recommendation" in any case, it is doubly so in the case of a book. It would be a curious and valuable inquiry in the "statistics" of "book-making," to ascertain how many successful books have been ushered into the world, "bound in silk and gilt-lettered!" In no case can it be said that "fine feathers make fine birds" so truly as in the mystery of book craft. Who do you suppose would