She pass’d from the east to the west, and paused
  In New Burlington-street awhile,
To inspire a few puffs for Colburn and Co. 
And indite some dozen novels or so
  In the fashionable style.

* * * * *

Then turning her own Magazine to inspect,
  She was rather at fault, as of late
The colour and series both were new;
But the Goddess, with discernment true,
  Detected it by the weight.

She cross’d the Channel next, and peep’d
  At Dublin; but the zeal
Of the liberty boys soon put her to flight. 
And she dropp’d her mantle in her fright,
  Which fell on Orator Shiel.

Thence sped she to the Land of Cakes,
  The land she loves and its possessors;
She loves its Craniologists,
Political Economists,
  And all Scotch mists and Scotch Professors.

And chiefly she on McCulloch smiled,
As a mother smiles on her darling child,
  Or a lady on her lover;
Then, bethinking her of Parliament,
She hasten’d South, but ere she went,
She promised if nothing occurr’d to prevent,
  To return when the Session was over.

Blackwood’s Magazine.

* * * * *

CANNIBALISM.

In great cities, cannibalism takes an infinite variety of shapes.  In the neighbourhood of St. James’s-street there are numerous slaughter-houses, where men are daily consumed by the operation of cards and dice; and where they are caught by the same bait, at which Quin said he should have infallibly bitten.  A similar process is likewise carried on in ’Change Alley, on a great scale; not to speak of that snare especially set for widows and children, called a “joint stock speculation.”  But your cannibal of cannibals is a parliament patron.  Here, a great borough proprietor swallows a regiment at a single gulp; and there, the younger son of a lord ruminates over a colony till the very crows cannot find a dinner in it; and there again, a duke or a minister, himself and his family, having first “supped full of horrors,” casts a diocese to the side-table, to be mumbled at leisure by his son’s tutor.  The town is occasionally very indignant and very noisy against the gouls of Surgeons’ Hall, because they live upon the dead carcasses of their fellow-creatures; while, strange to say, it takes but little account of the hordes of wretches who openly, and in the face of day, hunt down living men in their nefarious dealings as porter brewers, quack doctors, informers, attorneys, manufacturers of bean flour, alum, and Portland stone; and torture their subjects like so many barbacued pigs, in the complicated processes of their cookery.—­New Month.  Mag.

* * * * *

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

“They say this town is full of cozenage,
As nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,
And many such like libertines of sin.” 
SHAKSPEARE.