ON the afternoon of the day on which the above article appeared, Mr. James Summers, who sat for the portrait of the 'Man of the World,' ordered his paper to be stopped, as he could not 'conscientiously patronize one devoted to Billingsgate interests, and edited by a person who had evidently received a diploma for his proficiencies, from the college of Saint Giles!'
This is a specimen of one class of miseries to which editors are subject. They rack their weary brains for subjects; and when they dissect them properly, it frequently happens that some subscriber, who fancies himself aggrieved, says, with poor Dennis the critic, 'That means _me_!'--and forthwith sends in a peremptory order to have 'his paper discontinued.' And thus the editor not only loses some one's friendship, but, what is of more importance, his subscription.
Subscribers! one word to you. Support your editor through his difficulties; and whatever else you neglect, be sure you do not forget to pay for your intellectual provant; that is, if you would pass decently through this world, and reach heaven at last!
'O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home!'
I HAVE no ties to bind me To any spot on earth; I leave no love behind me, No warm familiar hearth; But I roam with the changeful wind Upon the changeful sea, Mid isles that shed their fragrance forth Like the blessed Araby; And in the deep and cloudless night, We watch each dewy star, And our fancies rove through that shadowy light, Where the gentle spirits are:
Nor while upon the deep We wander far and free, Are we mariners without Our own wild minstrelsy; And the night-breeze seems to catch the song, And bear it on its wing: And the laughing waves seem to echo far The voice of our carolling:
And then we see the unwelcome shark Gliding beneath our lee; Gently he looketh up, but we Trust not his love of harmony; Strange playful fish are gambolling Around our white-winged bark, All harmless, gladsome things are they, Except that soft-eyed shark.
When the foam, torn from the billow, Flies furious and fast, And the good mast, like a sapling, Bends to the mighty blast, With steady heart and ready arm, Fearless, unmoved, we stand-- (Our bright bow flashing through the sea,) My own, my gallant band!