stoppage on the part of the reciter, or to the criticisms of the friends about us, or some uproarious sympathy analogous to the tumult on board ship, we cannot say; but the thing has clean gone out of our memory. All we can call to mind is a little thin old gentleman, probably a friend of the lecturer's, who kept going about among the benches, smiling, and apparently asking the ladies how they liked it; and exhibiting a hand laden with rings. But now came the "Allegro." Our memory serves us very well on this point, for reasons which will be obvious: "HENCE,-loathed - MEL-ancholy" began Ned, in the most vehement, but at the same time dignified manner you can conceive, absolutely startling us, — his mouth thrust out, his eye fierce, his right arm extended at full length, tossing his head, and then pointing; in short, telling Melancholy to go to the greatest possible distance, and as if showing her whereabouts it was. Of Cerberus — 'and -BLACK-est-midnight born" ("Blackest" excessively black on the first syllable) "In-Stygian cave forlorn Midst — horrid shapes and sights—and shrieks- unholy" "unholy" with an immense emphasis on the o. And so he went on till he came to the words "Come and trip it;" for though the feeling in the poet's mind changes wonderfully from the repelling to the engaging, in that alteration of the measure, where he says, "But come, thou goddess fair and free," yet Ned seemed to think, that, as both the passages were equally good, it was his duty to regard their merits with impartiality, and not risk the appreciation of the cheerfuller lines by any levity of approach. His "Comethou Goddess-fair- and free, was therefore deliv ered in precisely the same tones as the rest, — immeasurably grave, earnest, and emphatical, and as if every syllable he uttered was commissioned to maintain the united dignity of the poetical and reciting characters. But now comes, not only the cheerfulness, but the catastrophe. "Great wits have short memories," said somebody; probably because he had one himself. Ned, however, was at all events a brother instance; for after getting through the "Graces" and "Aurora," and the "fresh-blown roses," and "quips and cranks,” &c., with the most extraordinary solemnity (and it was no great distance to get), he stuck fast at the very spot where he was bound to proceed in his happiest manner; to wit, upon the line, "Come and trip it, as you go." He remembered "Come and trip it; 66 " but he could not, for the life of him, conjure up as you go." The head behind the screen was now heard, prompting, "Come and trip it, as you go." But Ned, it turned out, was unfortunately deaf, and the words were lost upon him. "Come and trip it, as you go," said the voice, still in a whisper, but with greater emphasis. In vain. Ned bent his head again to catch the words, and again they were repeated with emphasis still greater, but always in a whisper, "Come and trip it, AS YOU GO.” In vain again. Once more Ned bent his head, with all its painstaking and powder; and again the words were sent forth, in a sort of whisper in a rage, "Come and trip it, AS YOU GO.” "Good God!" the whisper seemed to say, never hear me?” " will you The reader must imagine the audience all this time hearing what the lecturer could not hear, as plainly as their own words, and ready to burst. At length, he does catch the words; and, with an irresistible air of hilarity and self-satisfaction (as if the little obstacle were removed from between him and his triumphs), resumes his stately way: "Come and trip it—as you go - ("light" very heavy) ("fantastic," imperious ;) "fantastic-toe;" "And-in thy-right hand-lead—with thee And if I give thee - honor — due In-un-reproved-pleasures-free." Alas! while in the act of arriving at these pleasures, and little thinking that he was about to disclose what they were, he unfortunately kept stepping backwarder and backwarder, till in a moment he bolted against the screen, and DOWN IT WENT! exhibiting, — besides the enraged individual to whom the voice belonged, what do you think? A bottle of wine and some cakes? No. A few oranges, perhaps? By no means. A sandwich? Not in the least. What then? A pot of ale, and some bread and cheese. There was no harm in it. Geniuses have made many a hearty meal upon bread and cheese, and been glad that they could get it: only, somehow, the highly poetical dignity of the recitation, the immense idealism of the lecturer, and the aristocracy of the satin small-clothes, had not prepared the spectators for so unsophisticate a refreshment; and they were glad to pretend an outcry of alarm and sympathy, in order to drown what they could of the otherwise inextinguishable laughter which shook the place. What followed we totally forget, perhaps because we came away; but never shall we forget thee, and thy publicities and retirements, honest Ned Pounchy. THE FORTUNES OF GENIUS. IN the "Atlas," the other day, was an article, under the above title, the following passages of which induce us to make some remarks upon them. We regret we cannot copy the whole, it is so well written, and shows such a relish of pleasure, and sympathy with pain. But our limits forbid. "An acquaintance," says the writer, "with the biography of illustrious musicians proves that they reason incorrectly, and with a short sight, who externally talk of having the path of genius smoothed, and of setting it above circumstances; for the lives of eminent men of this class display the most admirable energies developed, and the most enthusiastic projects brought to bear, purely by the pressure of the very annoyances sought to be removed. Possession of the creative faculty presupposes a superiority to adverse circumstances and 'low-thoughted care;' and Goldsmith's poet, sitting in his garret, with a worsted stocking on his head, 'Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay,' — in spite of bailiffs, writs, debts, duns, and milk-scores, the most horrible that even Hogarth imagined, was |