"No extract can, however, convey an adequate idea of this grand poem, on which, as on the bed rock, Mr. CHEPSTOWE's fame is established for ever, SHAKSPEARE himself might have been proud to have written it." I may remark, parenthetically, that in his "Ode" CHEPSTOWE pictured himself as a sort of animate skeleton:-- "Sockets where light once shone grinned emptiness; The teeth Were fallen from the gaping, gumless jaws; nathless Beneath The cold smooth skull, the brain retained her throne." Amid these uncomfortable surroundings CHEPSTOWE described himself as penetrated with raptures of fierce joy at having shaken himself free from the world and its puling insincerities to dwell amid "Unpitying shapes of death's dread twin despair," where "Rapine and slaughter raged, and none rebuked." Another reviewer observed that "The soul of ARCHER's, the tavern-brawler's glorious victim, KIT MARLOWE, has taken again a habitation of clay. She speaks trumpet-tongued by the mouth of Mr. CHEPSTOWE. We note in these outpourings of dramatic passion an audacity, an energy, an enthusiasm, that are calculated to shake Peckham Rye to its centre, and make Balham tremble in its ridiculous carpet slippers. Who--to take only one example--but Mr. CHEPSTOWE or MARLOWE could have written thus of 'Rapture'?-- "'Not in the mouths of prating men who deem That God dwells in the senseless clay they mould, Who live their little lives and die their deaths, Lapped in a smug respectability; Who never dreamt of breaking puny laws Formed for a puny race of grovellers; But in the blood-stained track of flaming swords, Wielded by knotty arms in Man's despite, Or on the wings of crashing battle-balls, Bone-shattering dealers of a thousand wounds, The roaring heralds of indignant God, There rapture dwells, and there I too would dwell.' "Here is power that would furnish forth a whole legion of the poetasters who crawl through our effete literature!" But I cannot pursue these memories. They are too painful. For who speaks of CHEPSTOWE now? Who cares to cumber his bookshelves with the volumes in which this inflated arm-chair prophet of the tin pots delivered his shrieking message? His very name has flickered out; and when I spoke of him the other day, I was asked, by a person of some intelligence, if I referred to CHEPSTOWE who had just made 166 playing cricket for the Gentlemen against the Players. Not even the lion and the lizard keep his courts, and yet JAMSHYD CHEPSTOWE gloried and drank deep in his day. He blustered through many editions, he bellowed his contempt at a shrinking world, he outraged conventionality, he swung himself by the aid of newly-fashioned metres to lofty peaks of poetic daring, and to-day the dust lies thick upon his books, and his name is confounded with that of an eminent cricket-player! My excellent SWAGGER, it was meanly done. If you meant to wipe him out so swiftly, why did you ever exalt him?