poverty, the well-deserved scorn of his
intolerable sneers at Perdita Robinson's crutches:

_Hate Woman, thou block in the path of fair feet;
If Fate want a hand to distress them, thine be it;
When the Great, and their flourishing vices, are mention'd
Say people "impute" 'em, and show thou art pension'd;
But meet with a Prince's old mistress_ discarded,
_And_ then _let the world see how vice is rewarded_--

the indications of the satirist's acquaintance with the private life
of his victim, all these must have stung the editor of the _Quarterly_
to the quick, and are very little in Hunt's usual manner, though he
had examples for them in Peter Pindar and others. There is a very
early allusion to "Mr. Keats and Mr. Shelley," where, "calm, up above
thee, they soar and they shine." This was written immediately after
the review of _Endymion_ in the _Quarterly_.

At the close is printed an extremely vigorous onslaught of Hazlitt's
upon Gifford, which is better known than the poem which it
illustrates. In itself, in its preface, and in its notes alike this
very rare pamphlet presents us with a genuine curiosity of literature.

THE DUKE OF RUTLAND'S POEMS

ENGLAND'S TRUST AND OTHER POEMS. _By Lord John Manners. London:
printed for J.G. & J. Rivington, St. Paul's Church Yard, and Waterloo
Place, Pall Mall_. 1841.

My newspaper informed me this morning that Lord John Manners took his
seat last night, in the Upper House, as the Duke of Rutland. These
little romantic surprises are denied to Americans, who do not find
that old friends get new names, which are very old names, in the
course of a night. My Transatlantic readers will never have to grow
accustomed to speak of Mr. Lowell as the Earl of Mount Auburn, and I
firmly believe that Mr. Howells would consider it a chastisement to
be hopelessly ennobled. But my thoughts went wanderting back at my
breakfast to-day to those far-away times, the fresh memory of which
was still reverberating about my childhood, when the last new Duke was
an ardent and ingenuous young patriot, who never dreamed of being a
peer, and who hoped to refashion his country to the harp of Amphion.
So I turned, with assuredly no feeling of disrespect, to that corner
of my library where the _peches de jeunesse_ stand--the little books
of early verses which the respectable authors of the same would
destroy if they could--and I took down _England's Trust_.

Fifty years ago a group of you