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 young men, all of them fresh from Oxford and Cambridge, most of them more or less born in the purple of good families, banded themselves together to create a sort of aristocratic democracy.  They called themselves “Young England,” and the chronicle of them—­is it not patent to all men in the pages of Disraeli’s Coningsby?  In the hero of that novel people saw a portrait of the leader of the group, the Hon. George Percy Sydney Smythe, to whom also the poems now before us, parvus non parvae pignus amicitiae,