This is perfectly candid: we should all prefer a new face, if
pretty, every fortnight:


"Come, I pray you, and tell me this,
All good fellows whose beards are grey,
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere
Ever a month had passed away?"


For once Mr. Bayly uttered in his "New Faces" a sentiment not
usually expressed, but universally felt; and now he suffers, as a
poet, because he is no longer a new face, because we have welcomed
his juniors. To Bayly we shall not return; but he has one rare
merit,--he is always perfectly plain-spoken and intelligible.


"Farewell to my Bayly, farewell to the singer
Whose tender effusions my aunts used to sing;
Farewell, for the fame of the bard does not linger,
My favourite minstrel's no longer the thing.
But though on his temples has faded the laurel,
Though broken the lute, and though veiled is the crest,
My Bayly, at worst, is uncommonly moral,
Which is more than some new poets are, at their best."


Farewell to our Bayly, about whose songs we may say, with Mr.