Each to his humour,-Comus all allows; Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse.

640

Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade!
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made;
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask,
Nor think of Poverty, except "en masque,"
When, for the night, some lately titled ass
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was.
The curtain dropp'd, the gay Burletta o'er,
The audience take their turn upon the floor;
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep,
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap:
The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim,
The last display the free, unfetter'd limb:
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair,
With art, the charms which Nature could not
spare;

These after husbands wing their eager flight,
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night.

Spain,

660

Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main;
The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the nick,
Or done! a thousand on the coming trick!
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire,
And all your hope or wish is to expire,
Here's Powel's pistol ready for your life,
And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife:
Fit consummation of an earthly race
Begun in foily, ended in disgrace,
While none but menials o'er the bed of death,
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering
breath;

Traduced by liars, and forgot by all,
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,
To live like Clodius,† and like Falkland‡ fall.

Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and guide his hand

670

To drive this pestilence from out the land.
Even I-least thinking of a thoughtless throng,
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong,
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost,
To fight my course through Passion's countless
host,

Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray-
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel
Such scenes, such men destroy the public weal:
Although some kind, censorious friend will say,
"What art thou better, meddling fool, than they ?"
And every Brother Rake will smile to see
That miracle, a Moralist in me.

681

I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospitality; on Wednes day morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant, unsuccessful officer; his faults were the faults of a sailor; as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like a brave man in a better cause; for had he fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, his last moments would have been held up by his countrymen as an example to succeeding heroes.

Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice Be only heard to hail him and rejoice; Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I May feel the lash that virtue must apply.

690

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,
Why should we call them from their dark abode,
In broad St. Giles's, or in Tottenham Road?
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the
Square?

If things of ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight,
What harm? in spite of every critic elf,
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself;
Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try,
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 700
Lords too are Bards, such things at times befall,
And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all.
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times,
Ah! who would take their titles with their rhymes?
Roscommon! Sheffield! with your spirits fled;
No future laurels deck a noble head;"

710

No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile,
The paralytic puling of Carlisle !
The puny Schoolboy and his early lay
Men pardon, if his follies pass away;
But who forgives the Senior's ceaseless verse,
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse?
What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!
Lord, rhymster, petit-maitre, pamphleteer!+
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age,
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage;
But Managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!"
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff.
Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh,
And case his volumes in congenial calf;
Yes! doff that covering where Morocco shines,
And hang a calk-skint on those recreant lines.

720

730

With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead, Who daily scribble for your daily bread; With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. On "all the Talents" vent your venal spleen, Want your defence, let Pity be your screen. Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew, And Melville's Mantle§ prove a blanket too! One common Lethe waits each hapless Bard, And peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. Such damning fame as Dunciads only give Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; But now at once your fleeting labours close, With names of greater note in bless'd repose. Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, Leave wondering comprehension far behind. 740 Though Bell has lost his nightingales and owls, Matilda snivels still, and Hafiz howls,

• What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, the Oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his name assumed by one Stott of Dromore, the most impudent and execrable of literary poachers for the Daily Prints!

The earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state of the Stage, and offers his plan for building a new theatre: it is to be hoped his Lordship will be permitted to bring forward any thing for the Stage, except his own tragedies.

"Doff that lion's hide, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." SHAK. KING JOHN.

Lord C's. works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous ornament to his book-shelves:

"The rest is all but leather and prunella."

8 Melville's Mantle, a parody on "Elijah's Mantle," a poem.

This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K-, seems to be a follower of the Della Crusca School, and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go; besides sundry novels, in the style of the nrst edition of the Monk.

If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest,
"Tis sheer ill nature; don't the world know best?
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme,
And Capel Lofftt declares 'tis quite sublime.
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade!
Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade!
Lo! Burns and Bloomfield,+ nay, a greater far,
Gifford was born beneath an adverse star,
Forsook the labours of a servile state,
Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over
Fate:
760

Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you,
Bloomfield! why not on brother Nathan too?
Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized;
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased:
And now no Boor can seek his last abode,
No common be enclosed without an ode,
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile
On Britain's sons and bless our genial Isle,
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole,
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul:
Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong,
Compose at once a slipper and a song;
So shall the fair your handy-work peruse,
Your sonnets sure shall please-perhaps your shoes.
May Moorland weaverss boast Pindaric skill,
And taylors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual heaux reward the grateful notes,
And pay for poems-when they pay for coats.

770

780

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due,
Neglected Genius! let me turn to you.
Come forth, O Campbell! give thy talents scope;
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?
And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last,"
Recall the pleasing memory of the past;
Arise! let bless'd remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,
Assert thy country's honour and thine own.
What! must deserted Poesy still weep
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep?
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns,
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns!
No! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious
brood,

The race who rhyme from folly, or for food;
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,
Who least affecting, still affect the most;
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel-
Bear witness, Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil.

789

These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers.

Capel Lofft, Esq. the Mecenas of shoemakers, and Preface-writer-general to distressed versemen; a kind of gratis Accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring it forth.

See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one else chooses to call it, on the en. closure of "Honington Green."

& Vide "Recollections of a Weaver in the Moor. lands of Staffordshire."

It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors of "The Pleasures of Memory" and "The Pleasures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's Essay on Man: but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of Campbell and Rogers are become strange.

Gifford, author of the Baviad and Mæviad, the first satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal. Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon, and Virgil's Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic

poem.

Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular ; particularly "Scotland's Scaith, or the Waes of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month.

800

"Why slumbers Gifford ?" once was ask'd in vain :*
Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again.
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge?
Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet?
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street?
Shall Peers or Princes tread pollution's path,
And 'scape alike the Law's and Muse's wrath?
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime?
Arouse thee, Gifford! be thy promise claim'd,
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed.

810

Unhappy White !t while life was in its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck Eagle stretch'd upon the plain, 821 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart: Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feei He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel, While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

830

There be who say, in these enlighten'd days That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern Bard to sing: "Tis true, that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to Genius-Trite: Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest,

Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best.

And here let Sheet and genius find a place,
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace;
To guide whose hand the sister Arts combine,
And trace the Poet's or the Painter's line;
Whose magic touch can bid the canvass glow,
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow,
While honours doubly merited attend
The Poet's rival, but the Painter's friend.

840

Bless'd is the man who dares approach the bower Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour; [afar, Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, The scenes which glory still must hover o'er; 851 Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore: But doubly bless'd is he, whose heart expands With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands; Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, And views their remnants with a poet's eye! Wright!§ 'twas thy happy lot at once to view Those shores of glory, and to sing them too; And sure no common Muse inspired thy pen To hail the land of Gods and Godlike men.

860

And you, associate Bards! who snatch'd to light, Those Gems too long withheld from modern sight;

Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and Mæviad should not be his last original works; let him remember; "Mox in reluctantes Dracones."

+ Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which Death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that se short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.

Mr. Shee, author of "Rhymes on Art," and "Elements of Art."

§ Mr. Wright, late Consul-general for the Seven Islands, is author of a very beautiful poem just published: it is entitled, "Horæ Ionicæ," and is descriptive of the Isles and the adjacent coast of Greece.

The translators of the Anthology have pub

Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath
Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe,
And all their renovated fragrance flung,
To grace the beauties of your native tongue;
Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse
The glorious Spirit of the Grecian Muse,
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone:
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own.

Let these, or such as these, with just applause,
Restore the Muse's violated laws;
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime,
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme;
Whose gilded cymbals more adorn'd than clear,
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear,
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,
But now worn down, appear in native brass;
While all his train of hovering sylphs around,
Evaporate in similes and sound:
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die:
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.*

870

880

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop,
The meanest object of the lowly group,
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void,
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd :†
Let them but hold my muse, nor dare to teach
A strain, far, far beyond thy humble reach;
The native genius with their feeling given
Will point the path, and peal their notes to
heaven.
890

And thou, too, Scott! resign to minstrels rude,
The wilder slogan of a Border feud:
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire!
Enough for Genius if itself inspire!

Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse,
Prolific every spring, be too profuse;
Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse,
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse;
Let Spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most,
To rouse the Galleries, or to raise a ghost;
Let Moore be lewd; let Strangford steal from
Moore,

900

And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore:
Let Hayley hobble on; Montgomery rave;
And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave;
Let Sonneteering Bowles his strains refine,
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line;
Let Stott, Carlisle,§ Matilda, and the rest

Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best,

lished separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity to attain eminence.

The neglect of the " Botanic Garden," is some proof of returning taste: the scenery is its sole recommendation.

+ Messrs. Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co.

By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or heroine will be less addicted to ""Gramarye," and more to Grammar, than the Lady of the Lay, and her Bravo William of Deloraine.

I

It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years. ago. The guardianship was nominal, at least as far I have been able to discover; the relationship cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as his Lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, I shall not burthen my memory with the recollection. I do not think that personal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler; but I see no reason why they should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has for a series of years beguiled a " discerning public" (as the advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial non sense. Besides, I do not step aside to vituperate the Earl; no-his works come fairly in review with those other Patrician Literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said any thing in favour of his Lordship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord Carlisle: if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated, and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am

praise,

919

Shouldst leave to humbler Bards ignoble lays,
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine,
Demand a hallow'd harp-that harp is thine.
Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield
The glorious record of some nobler field,
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan,
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man?
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food
For outlaw'd Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood?
Scotland, still proudly claim thy native Bard,
And be thy praise his first, his best reward!
Yet not with thee alone his name should live,
But own the vast renown a world can give;
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more,
And tell the tale of what she was before;
To future times her faded fame recall,
And save her glory, though his country fall.

prepared to support if necessary, by quotations from Elegies, Eulogies, Odes, Episodes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark:

"What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards!" So says Pope. Amen!

* Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora. VIRGIL

The" Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries of Whist, Chess, &c. are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the "Plagues of Egypt."

This person, who has lately betrayed the most rapid symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated the " Art of Pleasing," as "Lucus a non lucendo," containing little pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the Satirist. If this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent degree in his university, it might eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary.

§ Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported a considerable body of Vandals."— Gibbon's Decline and Fall, page 83. vol. 2. There

980

For me, who thus unask'd have dared to tell My country, what her sons should know too well, Zeal for her honour bade me here engage The host of idiots that infest her age. No just applause her honour'd name shall lose, As first in freedom, dearest to the Muse. Oh! would thy Bards but emulate thy fame, And rise, more worthy, Albion, of thy name! What Athens was in science, Rome in power, What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, "Tis thine at once, fair Albion, to have been, Earth's chief dictatress, Ocean's mighty queen. But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main; Like these thy strength may sink in ruin hurl'd, And Britain fall, the bulwark of the World. But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, With warning ever scoff'd at, till too late; To themes less lofty still my lay confine,

And urge thy Bards to gain a name like thine. 990

Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers bless'd, The senate's oracles, the people's jest! Still hear thy motley orators dispense The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit, And old dame Portland fills the place of Pitt.

Yet once again adieu! ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; And Afric's coast and Calpe's§ adverse height, And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime,

1001 Where Kaff ** is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows sublime.

But should I back return, no letter'd rage
Shall drag my common-place book on the stage:

is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion; the breed is still in high perfection.

This gentleman's name requires no praise: the man who in translation displays unquestionable genius, may well be expected to excel in original composition, of which it is to be hoped we shall soon see a splendid specimen.

The" Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by Richards.

A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of P. was likened to an old woman? replied, "he supposed it was because he was past bearing." Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar.

Stamboul is the Turkish word for Constanti

nople.

Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. Mount Caucasus.

Let vain Valentia rival luckless Carr,
And equal him whose work he sought to mar;
Let Aberdeen and Elgint still pursue

The shade of fame through regions of Virtu;
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks,
Misshapen monuments, and maim'd antiques, 1010
And make their grand saloons a general mart
For all the mutilated blocks of art:

Of Dardan tours, let Dilettanti tell,

I leave topography to classic Gell;
And, quite content, no more shall interpose,
To stun mankind with Poesy, or Prose.

Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear:

This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own-
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown,
My voice was heard again; though not so loud,
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd,
And now at once I tear the veil away:
Cheer on the pack! the Quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house,
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse,
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in Buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are " penetrable stuff:"
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me, shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would
fall,

1030

From lips that now may seem imbued with gall, Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise

1041

The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes;
But now so callous grown, so changed since youth,
I've learned to think, and sternly speak the truth;
Learned to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me;
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss.
Nay more, though all my rival rhymsters frown,
I too can hunt a Poetaster down:
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared to do; how far my lay
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say:
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. 1050

forthcoming with due decorations, graphical, topoLord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are graphical, and typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of the " Stranger in Ireland."-Oh fy, my Lord! has your Lordship no more feeling for a fellow-tourist? but "two of a trade," they say, &c.

Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias; "Credat Judæus."

Mr. Gell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail to ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well for the information Mr. G. conveys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the respective works display,

I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to the Press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, un resisting Muse, whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodly ribaldry:

"Tantæne animis cælestibus Iræ!"

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Anthony Aguecheek saith, "an' I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus, before the next number has passed the Tweed. But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia.

My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffrey ; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by "lying and slandering," and slake their thirst by "evil speaking?" I have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury;-what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured there "persons of honour and wit about town," but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal; those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas! "the age of chivalry is

over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days.

There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (Sub. audi, Esquire,) a Sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a Denizen of Berwick upon Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been accustomed to meet: he is notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity cotemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and what is worse, the defenceless innocent above-mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name coupled with the Satirist. He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my Bear and my Book, except the Editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, is a gentleman, God wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Mæcenas, Lord Carlisle; I hope not: he was one of the few, who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and whatever he may say or do, pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher, and in the words of Scott, I wish

66

"To all and each a fair good night, And rosy dreams and slumbers light."