malignant caviller might be disposed to cast upon it— an Epistle which must, at least, be allowed the credit of one strong evidence of impartiality; namely, the undeniable fact, that it is not partial.

A

METRICAL EPISTLE

To one BARTHOLOMEW BOUVERIE,

ON THE MERITS OF A PUBLICATION CALLED "THE ETON MISCELLANY."

For trump and drum shall surely see
That gentle youth's catastrophe,

Where headsman's axe pours forth the flood
Of Freedom's veins, in Quincy's blood!
'Gainst Willoughby and Rice I'd weigh
The hundredth of an author's pay,
And fear the shavings of a feather
Would overbalance all together.
Then, given to the public view,
Comes modest Mr. Montague;
Yet prithee, sith so modest, why
Join'd he the Bouv'rie fox-hounds' cry?
And, sith so kindly, why translate
1 Things worthy of a milder fate?

Nay, friend, your Poet, Mr. Jermyn,
Is, to my mind, but sorry vermin;
And future ages will, 'tis said,
For Heaviside read Heavyheadastrofu A
If future ages e'er shall see
The works of Bartle Bouverie.

Behold the line! the goodly band
As waiting for their sentence, stand.
Mark Antony and David's bump,
That Cambro-Plinlimmonian thump;
Next let the Critic, judge-like, rise,
With stern judicial wand and eyes;
To rake and search the scribblers' mine,
From Number One to Number Nine.
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« ‹ No doubt my readers wish to see
Who is this Bartle Bouverie :"
Thus thou beginn'st, audacious elf,
With puff oblique upon thyself; M
Yet might the truth be told you stare-
Your readers neither know nor care.
And grant, thine head above the wave,

Thy trunk is in the wat'ry grave
And sans a trunk, a man must be
Nor more nor less than Nobody.

"In Dull Clubs does thy genius shine? No club is duller, friend, than thine. In thee Hibernian readers spy Prediction,' sans a prophecy;

And Bulls for member of their clan,

Shall hail the parchment-colour'd' man. Who half so fit to tell of thee,

Fair Nothing, as this Nobody?...

And yet the tale, though worn and old, Might, certes, have been better told.

"If Homer's close be lame a few, One foot, say-thine is lame of two; Yes-thou may'st climb for life, and still Stand low on the Parnassian hill. Thy modest tongue reveals thy state, 'A poet not so very great'— Yet soon the thin disguises fall, And show that thou art-none at all! Hark, friend! thy list of crimes is large, But none lay this one to thy charge! They who thy parting line obey, And hie to vender's shops away, Shall swiftly find their fare' the worse, And wish their shillings-in their purse." "For many things we find but few And scant, to praise in Number Two.A Go, seek from Bear and Blacking brood A tongue to tell thy gratitude; Well would they thine occasions fit,

For Ford and Gifford, noble pair,
In copious Extracts figure there.
Then, Measter Ploughtail's mother-wit-
For thee a Correspondent fit-

But wherefore thus from page to page
Drawls on the Critic's vengeful rage?
Or wherefore should so cruel doom
Molest thine essays in their tomb!
Yet Justice owns, that Peter Puff,'
And Philomyst,' are good enough.
But though Utopia nowhere dwells,
With magic wisdom Bartle tells,
Some find it 'mid the groves and trees,
And some amid the swelling seas;
And truth if Orange standard be
Fair Britain's only panoply,"
Through silken armour many a dart
Will make poor Britain's sides to smart.
And, prithee, what thyself dost deem,
With Mushroom Gentlemen' for theme?
For all shall see, who Bartle scan,
A Mushroom-not a Gentleman.
If Virgil breath'd our upper air,
He came to little purpose there;
Thy Postmen are a bitter pill,
And Master Pleadwell pleadeth ill.
The Monarch of the Lion-heart
Hath perish'd by ignoble dart;
For thou hast kill'd him or hast tried,
By badly singing how he died..
But hail, Conclusion, Labours done!
Thou brightest gem of Volume One !
But brightest be my reason pass'd-
Brightest because thou wert the last!

"In Number Six doth Bartle dare
Ancients with Moderns to compare?
Yet who will judge, that hath not read,
Or speak malignly of the dead?
We'll freely own we skipp'd the bout,!
And left them there to fight it out.

For none could better teach the art,
Than who so oft had play'd the part.
But how? what's here? Misnomer sad!
'Good Writing' is but writing bad!
Thy lips would water, as thine eye
Did yonder words, "On Dinners," spy;
Your 'Ada' sits in shady bow'r,
Where cabbage springs, and cauliflow'r,
And soothes her woes by homely means—
With thoughts on Raymond—and on greens!
Good Bartle, too, his reader woos
With lines from Beelzebub and Shoes;
Fit reading for the fry that dwell
In Mother Eton's holy dell!

"See Introduction's threat'ning phiz,
And Victim,' that no victim is :
Shipwrecks of Hope and vain desire
Are wrecks that best befit thy lyre;
Let thistle bloom, and nettle wave,

O'er Bouv'rie's, Jermyn's, Quincy's grave!
Next, Letter from the Country,' see;

Far happier had it been for thee,

If, since produc'd, 'neath rural shade,
Still in the Country thou had'st staid!

And canst thou dare to write On Tea,^
Most milk-and-water Bouverie?

Yet whence should Gothic Fragments' come, Save from the brain of Gothic chum?