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Mong our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time,

When nobility flourished, great barons and dukes Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme,

But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books.

Poor wretches were found to do this for their betters;

And one day a bishop, addressing a blue, Said, Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters ?''

To which the blue answered, “ No, bishop: have you ?"

The same is now done by our privileged class;

And, to show you how simple the process it needs, If a great major general wishes to pass

For an author of history, thus he proceeds :

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well

As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin, He settles his neckcloth-takes snuff-rings the bell,

And yawningly orders a subaltern in.

The subaltern comes- sees his general seated,

In all the self-glory of authorship swelling ;" There, look,” saith his lordship,“ my work is completed;

It wants nothing now but the grammar and spelling."

Well used to a breach, the brave subaltern dreads

Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more; And, though often condemned to the breaking of heads,

He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian’s before.

However, the job's sure to paythat's enough

So to it he sets with his tinkering hammer, Convinced that there never was job half so tough

As the mending a great major-general's grammar.

But, lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view

New toil for the sub.--for the lord, new expense;

'Tis discovered that mending his grammar won't do,

As the subaltern also must find him in sense!

At last, even this is achieved by his aid;

Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and the story; Drums beat-the new grand march of intellect 's played

And off struts my lord, the historian, in glory!


LEAVING some operatic zany
To celebrate the singers many,
From Billington to Catalini,
Thy voice I still prefer to any,--


Some learned singers, when they try
To spout, become embarrassed, dry,
And want thy copious fluency,


They, when their inward feelings boil,
Scold, storm, vociferate, turmoil,
And make a most discordant coil,-


You, when you 're chafed, but sing the more;
And, when just ready to boil o'er,
In silent steam your passions soar,-


To hear their strains, one needs must bear
Late hours, noise, lassitude, hot air,
And dissipation's dangers share,-


But thine, my mighty Philomel, -
Thine is a voice whose magic spell,
Like Prospero's, can tempests quell,-


Peace, home, content, tranquillity,
Domestic bliss, and friendship's tie,
Own its endearing melody,


Others, of Bacchanalian life,
Find nothing in their cups so rife
As wrath and Lapithæn strife,


Those filled by you a balm bestow,
Warming the heart, whose social glow
Bids all the kindly feelings flow,-


Then is thine inspiration seen,
Then is thy classic tide serene,
My Helicon and Hippocrene,-


For these, and more than I've related,
Joys with thy name associated,
To thee this verse be dedicated,-




Tan. Well, Billy, only rid me of this intolerable Paul, and your wages shall mend. Here has this Mr. Pry, although he has an establishment of his own in the town, been living and sleeping here these six days! But I'm determined to get rid of him; and do you instantly go, Billy, and affront him; do anything with him, so as you make him turn his back upon the house. Eh, here's a coach driven up; it is surely Mr. Oldbutton; run, Billy, run. (Exit Billy.) Roaring times, these. (Billy enters, showing in Mr. Oldbutton.) Welcome, sir, most welcome to the Golden Chariot.

Mr. Oldbutton. Landlord, I have some letters to answer ; which is my apartment?

Tan. Why, sir-confound that Paul Pry, he has the gentleman's room, and I can't get him out of it—why, sir, I did not expect you for some hours yet; if


'll have the kindness to step into this apartment for a few minutes, your own room shall be properly arranged. I really beg ten thousand

Mr. Old. No compliments, Mr. Landlord, and when you speak to me in future, keep yourself upright; I hate tradesmen with backs of whalebone.

Tan. Why, civility, Mr. Oldbutton

Mr. Old. Is this the room? (Tankard bows. Excit Oldbutton.)

Tan. Now such a customer would deeply offend a man, if he had not the ultimate satisfaction of making out his bill.

(Enter Billy.) Oh, you 've just come in time; ask no questions; there's Mr. Pry's room; if you get him out of the house, I'll raise your wages; if you do not, you shall go yourself; now you know the terms. (Exit.) Bill. Then it is either you or myself, Mr. Pry; so here goes.

(Enter Paul Pry.) Paul Pry. Hope I don't intrude; I say, Billy, who is that old gentleman, who just came in?

Bill. Old gentleman ?-why, there's nobody come in.
Paul. Don't fib, Billy; I saw him.

Bill. You saw him !-why, how could you see him, when there's no window in the room ?

Paul. I always guard against such an accident, and carry a gimblet with me. (Producing one.) Nothing like making a little hole in the wainsco.t.

Bill. Why, surely you haven't

Paul. It has been a fixed principle of my life, Billy, never to take a lodging or a house with a brick wall to it. I say, tell me,

who is he? Bill. (Aside.) Well, I'll tell him something. Why, if you must know, I think he's an army lieutenant, on half pay.

Paul. An army lieutenant! half pay! ah! that will never afford ribbons and white feathers.

Bill. Now, Mr. Pry, my master desires me to say, he can't accommodate you any longer; your apartment is wanted, and really, Mr. Pry, you can't think how much you 'll oblige me by going

Paul. To be sure, Billy, I wouldn't wish to intrude for the world-your master's doing a good deal of business in this house—what did he give for the good will of it?

Tan. (Without.) Billy!

Bill. There, now, I'm called—and I've to make ready the room for the Freemasons, that meet to-night-they that wouldn't admit you into their society.

Paul. Yes, I know; they thought I should intrude.
Tan. (Without.) Billy!
Bill. Now you must go-good bye, Mr. Pry—I'm called.
Paul. Oh, good bye-good morning. (Exit.)
Bill. He's gone! I'm coming, sir. (Exit.)

Re-enter Paul Pry.) Paul. An army lieutenant! Who can it be? I shouldn't wonder if it's Mrs. Thomas' husband; who, she says, was killed in India! If it should be, it will break off her flirting with Mr. Cinnamon, the grocer; there's pretty doings in that quarter, for I caught the rheumatism watching them in a frosty night last winter! An army lieutenant ! Mr. Thomas has a daughter; I'll just peep through the key-hole, and see if there's a family likeness between them. (Goes to the door and peeps.) Bless me! why, there certainly is something about

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