nd bravest of us of the halo of heroism
that surrounds us at a distance; and the fact that the great mysteries
of dress, the paraphernalia of our dignity and decency, and the chief
emblems of our manhood and domestic authority, emerge exclusively from
the hands of this insignificant but indispensable maker of men, are
enough to extinguish within him all sentiment of respect for any thing
human or divine. The Cockney arrives at a similar state of easy and
impudent _non-chalance_ by a different process. Littered in London, and
living there all his life, he is proud of its position among cites; and
he comes, by a natural process of reasoning, to ascribe its importance
to its connexion with his own person and people, and to see nothing
better or greater in the universe than himself and what belongs to him.
The feeling grows with his growth, and is fed by a full indulgence in
all the good things with which the land of Cockayne abounds, and which
the most morose of mortals must admit to be eminently conducive to
self-complacency.

The Cockney, thus devoid of all diffidence in himself, is prepared for
every thing in the scale of human thought or action; pleasuring or
politics, theatricals or theology, an Epping hunt or an Epic poem. In
literature we may say of him, nearly in the words applied by Dr Johnson
to Goldsmith, that there is scarcely any kind of composition that he
does not handle, and none that he handles which he does not adorn with
graces all his own.

It is wonderful, however, to see with what success a Cockney can
sometimes disguise himself. He will write you a book, in which, several
pages on end, you think you are reading the thoughts of some ordinary
mortal. But the cloven foot always appears before you are done with him.
In poetry, indeed, you can go but a short way till the cat is let out of
the bag. That unfortunate letter R! No lessons in elocution, no change
of climate, can eradicate the deep-seated mischief of its
mispronunciation in a Cockney whose years of pupilarity have been passed
on the spot of his birth.

These remarks have been elicited by a disappointment we have recently
suffered, in being led to purchase the book referred to at the
commencement of this article. We saw it advertised by an alluring
title--"REYNARD THE FOX--a renowned Apologue of the Middle Ages
reproduced in Rhyme." We bought the book, and were delighted with its
appearance. A quaint, antique, cream-coloured binding--a golden