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horses have won at Newmarket, and then I will come back and finish this directly.


Coming into Mr. Jermyn's room at a time when his compositions ought to have been ready for the press, I found the room empty, and this unfinished essay on the table, where, I was informed by a lower boy, who came in whilst I was there, it had lain ever since the morning. As the Number was very late, and as this vindication itself affords a good practical apology for my accusation of Idleness, which Mr. Jermyn seems so bitterly to resent, I sent it off as it was, without waiting for the return of its volatile author.


No longer sounds the battle cry,

The sword reposes in its sheath ;
No longer peal the rocks on high,

With shouts of strife, and woe, and death :
The chain is on my red right hand,
Another wields my father's brand ;
And, in mid space, 'twixt life and death,
Receive my brief, my parting breath.

The hand is bound, the sword is cold,

The warrior hastens to his grave;
Yet ere the fleeting time be told,

Hark to the death-song of the brave !
I could not do the villain deed,
I could not see my country bleed ;
Nor buy the splendor of a throne,
With widow's curse, and orphan's moan.

Go, tyrants !-seek your distant home,

And traverse back the swelling main ;
Yet, never, o'er its plains of foam,

Behold your country's hills again :

Let wind and storm in fury rise,
And darken round the azure skies;
Nor ocean wave, nor earth, nor air,
The villain and the traitor bear;

Or bear ye back to curse and ban,

To stain with blood your father's land; The pest, the hate, of Gods and man,

To bring the vengeful Furies' brand.
Away! ye bear the seeds of war,
That Guilt hath purchas'd from afar,
And many a harvest, rich in woe,
Shall spring from that ye proudly sow.

Then, when the dales of verdant Spain,

Resounding with the widow's cries, Shall hear the battle-shout again,

In thunder to the heavens rise : Look back along the stream of TimeBehold the blot of dark’ning crime Behold the dust ye bleed to win, The fountain of your country's sin.

Ye men of blood, of iron heart,

Unfeeling as the swords ye wield, Ye knew my swift unerring dart,

Ye knew me in the bloody field ; Ye knew me in the battle-shockI met it like the tow'ring rock ; Ye knew me, when my country's shore Was redd'ning with the Spaniard's gore.

Yet, did this bound and tortur'd hand

Still feel the strength it felt before, Still wield my father's glitt'ring brand,

Still hurl the dart it hurld of yoreSome victims on my tomb should fall, Some mourners bear the fun'ral pall ; And tears of friends, and tears of foes, Bedew me in my last repose.

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I cannot, for the life of me, conceive, why this most useful and agreeable talent should every where be so unmercifully mauled : it is really quite disgusting to hear the way in which some surly rascals abuse it, who, because they themselves never either said or deserved a civil thing, think it proper to dignify all gentle eulogiums with the names of lying stuff, fulsome nonsense, &c.; though they must themselves be conscious that they would leap as eagerly at the most despicable attempt at a panegyric, and swallow it down with as much greediness, as a half-starved cur would the wing of a chicken, or a half-starved author a good beef-steak. But, lest these gentry, who frankly tell you

their mind, and so kindly “inform you as a friend," that veriest fool in the universe, should fall martyrs some day to their considerate and affectionate- openness, I would recommend to them to take a small lesson from a hero, hight Daniel O'Rourke, if they are acquainted with him, if not, to form the acquaintance as soon as possible. “Why, then,' says I, very civilly, because why? I was in his power entirely, Sir,' says I, 'plase your honour's glory, and with submission to your better judgment,'”-and so forth. It is quite delightful to contemplate the perseverance with which he, under every circumstance, “thinks it best to keep a civil tongue in his head any way.” Poor man! that so much urbanity should meet so little return !

you are the

I will try, however, for the benefit of those who are not blinded enough to slight this estimable pursuit, to draw up a few rules, and right well shall I be pleased, if I aid in the slightest degree any young aspirant after these honours.

In the first place, flattery may be well divided into two great branches, the practical and the colloquial. And now first for the practical.

This species of flattery requires hardly any of that ability, without which the colloquial sinks into nothing ; the chief requisite is an imperturbable patience. It consists chiefly in permitting the intended gull to win in

every trial of skill, strength, or learning, which may be proposed ; particularly, of course, on those points of which he is, justly or unjustly, vain. For example ; if he be a gentleman of the fancy, you must, with unshrinking fortitude, put on the gloves with him, as long and as often as he pleases, and must bear, like any martyr,

, the head-aches and bloody noses which will be the natural consequences of your exhibition, always taking care to display just as much skill as you can without foiling him. If he piqué himself on being an excellent pedestrian (for these trifles are of course the things in which he is to be indulged), and, with intent to prove his prowess, takes you a walk of a few miles, you, on your return, must throw yourself eagerly in an arm-chair, declare you were never só “ done” before in your life, that you never felt such a fagging walk; - seasoning the whole (though this belongs more properly to the col(loquial), with suitable compliments to his own" irón frame” and : indefatigable powers.”

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