"I am the morning and the evening star, The star thou lovest and thy lover too; I am that star! as once before I told thee, Though thou wouldst not believe me, but I am A spirit and a star--a power--an ill Which doth outbalance being. Look at me! Am I not more than mortal in my form? Millions of years have circled round my brow Like worlds upon their centres;--still I live;-- And age but presses with a halo's weight. This single arm hath dashed the light of Heaven; This one hand dragged the angels from their thrones; Am I not worthy to have loved thee, lady?" Certainly a most noble Paladin. But here we quit Mr Bailey--repeating again our sincere admiration of his poetic genius, and our regret, equally sincere, that it has not been united with better judgment and with better taste; and that he had not waited till his own opinions, theological and philosophical, had settled into _something approaching_ to consistency and harmony, (in a poem we ought perhaps to require no more,) before he had planned this elaborate drama, in order to promulgate them. Those who seek for the beauties, and those who are in search of the monstrosities of literature, may both apply themselves with success to Festus: we wish we could say that the former would be likely to reap the more abundant harvest. CASH AND PEDIGREE.[6] [6] _Sacs et Parchemins._ Par JULES SANDEAU. Paris, 1850. It will hardly be disputed that if the French are more subject than any other nation to fits of political lunacy, upon the other hand no people in the world are prompter to recognise and deride their own temporary folly; although, unfortunately, neither recognition nor derision have hitherto sufficed to prevent recurrence of the paroxysms. The echoes of February's fusillade and of Provisional revelries still filled the air, when satire and caricature began their work, assailing the new order of things with those shafts of ridicule which in France, if skilfully directed, rarely fail to be fatal. It was no fleeting shower of squibs by which the follies of 1848 were assailed, but a steady, well-sustained discharge of missiles much more formidable. M. Louis Reybaud is a pyrotechnist of no ordinary power, and his paper projectiles had the destructive effect of a flight of congreve rockets. We believe that the home-truths, pungent wit, and fearless sarcasm of _Jérome Paturot_ had no small share in convincing the new republicans how monstrous was the folly they had so hastily perpetrated, and which they since have had such abundant reason and leisure to repent. Bloodier pages there have been in the history of France, but scarcely one more pitiable than that on which the events of the last two years are inscribed, and posterity will gaze in amazement, almost with incredulity, on the record of vanity and mischief. The French have not waited till now to discover how completely they have stultified