shioned on the outside, the specious covering of a .............chamber-pot.

I am, SIR, your humble servant,

THE SATYR AND PEDLAR,

A FABLE.

WORDS are, so Wollaston defines,
Of our ideas merely signs,

Which have a power at will to vary,
As being vague and arbitrary.
Now Damn'd, for instance... All agree
Damn'd's the superlative degree;
Means that alone, and nothing more,
However taken heretofore.

Damn'd is a word can't stand alone,
Which has no meaning of its own;
But signifies or bad or good,
Just as its neighbour's understood.
Examples we may find enough;

R. L.

Damn'd high, damn'd low, damn'd fine, damn'd stuff.
So fares it too with its relation,

I mean its substantive, Damnation.
The wit with metaphors makes bold
And tells you he's damnation cold:
Perhaps that metaphor forgot,
The self-same wit's damnation hot.

And here a fable I remember.........
Once in the middle of December,
When ev'ry mead in snow is lost,
And ev'ry river bound with frost,
When families got all together.
And feelingly talk o'er the weather;
When...pox of the descriptive rhyme...
In short, it was the winter time.
It was a Pedlar's happy lot
To fall into a Satyr's cot:

Shiv'ring with cold, and almost froze,
With pearly drop upon his nose;
His fingers ends all pinch'd to death,
He blew upon them with his breath.
Friend, quoth the Satyr, what intends
That blowing on thy fingers ends?

"It is to warm them thus I blow,
For they are froze as cold as snow;
And so inclement has it been,
I'm like a cake of ice within."
Come, quoth the Satyr, comfort, man!
I'll cheer thy inside, if I can ;
You're welcome in my homely cottage,
To a warm fire and mess of pottage.
This said, the Satyr, nothing loth
A bowl prepar'd of sav'ry broth;
Which with delight the Pedlar view'd,
As smoking on the board it stood.
But, though the very steam arose
With grateful odour to his nose,
One single sip he ventur'd not,
The gruel was so wond'rous hot.
What can be done ?... with gentle puff

He blows it, till 'tis cold enough.

Why how now, Pedlar, what's the matter? Still at thy blowing? quoth the Satyr.

I blow to cool it, cries the clown,

That I may get the liquor down;

For, though I grant you've made it well,
You've boil'd it Sir, as hot as hell,

Then raising high his cloven stump,
The Satyr smote him on the rump.
"Begone, thou double knave or fool;
With the same breath to warm and cool!
Friendship with such I never hold,

Who're so damn'd hot and so damn'd cold."

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

AGAIN I urge my old objection,
That modern rules obstruct perfection:
And the severity of Taste

Has laid the walk of genius waste,
Fancy's a flight we deal no more in,
Our authors creep instead of soaring:
And all the brave imagination,

Is dwindled into declamation.

But still you cry, in sober sadness,
"There is discretion e'en in madness,"
A pithy sentence, but wants credit,
Because, I find, a Poet said it:

Their verdict makes but small impression,
Who are known liars by profession,

Rise what exalted flights it will,
True genius will be genius still,

And say, that horse would
you prefer,
Which wants a bridle, or a spur?
The mettled steed may lose his tricks;
The jade grows callous to your kicks.

Had Shakspeare crept by modern rules,
We'd lost his witches, fairies, fools;
Instead of all that wild creation,
He'd form'd a regular plantation,
Or garden trim, and all inclos'd
In nicest symmetry dispos'd;
The hedges cut in proper order,
Nor e'en a branch beyond its border.
Now like a forest he appears,

The growth of twice three hundred years,
Where many a tree aspiring shrouds

Its airy summit in the clouds;

Where round its root still loves to twine
The ivy and wild eglantine.

"But Shakspeare's all-creative fancy
Made others love extravagancy,

While cloud-capt Nonsense was their aim
Like Hurlothumbo's mad Lord Flame."
True....Who can stop dull imitators,
Those younger brothers of translators;
Those insects which from genius rise,
And buz about in swarms like flies;
Fashion, that sets the modes of dress,
Sheds too her influence o'er the press;
As formerly the sons of rhyme
Sought Shakspeare's fancy and sublime,
By cool correctness now they hope
To emulate the praise of Pope.

But Pope and Shakspeare both disclaim
These low retainers to their fame.
What task can dulness e'er effect

So easy as to write correct?
Poets,' tis said, are sure to split
By too much or too little wit;

So, to avoid the extremes of either,

They miss their mark and follow neither;

They so exactly poise the scale,

That neither measure will prevail;

And mediocrity the Muse

Did never in her sons excuse.

'Tis true, their tawdry works are grac'd

With all the charms of modern taste,

And ev'ry senseless line is drest
In quaint expression's tinsel vest.
Say, did you never chance to meet
A Monsieur Barber in the street,
Whose ruffle, as it lank depends,
And dangles o'er his fingers ends,
His olive-tann'd complexion graces,
With little dabs of Dresden laces;
While, for the body, Monsieur Puff
Wou'd think ev'n dowlas fine enough?
So fares it with our men of rhymes,
Sweet tinklers of poetic chimes;

For lace, and fringe, and tawdry clothes,
Sure never yet were greater beaux ;
But fairly strip them to the shirt,
They're all made up of rags and dirt.

Shall then such wretches Bards commence,

Without or spirit, taste, or sense?

And when they bring no other treasure,
Shall I admire them for their measure!
Or, do I scorn the critic's rules,
Because I will not learn of fools?
Although Longinus' foul-mouth'd prose
With all the force of genius glows;
Though Dionysius' learned taste
Is ever manly, just and chaste,
Who, like a skilful, wise physician
Dissects each part of composition,
And shews how beauty strikes the soul,
From a just compact of the whole:
Though judgment in Quintilian's page
Holds forth her lamp for every age;
Yet hyper-critics I disdain,
A race of blockheads, dull and vain :
And laugh at all those empty fools
Who cramp a genius with dull rules;
And what their narrow science mocks,
Damn with the name of Het'rodox.
These butchers of a poet's fame,
While they usurp the critic's name,
Cry, "this is taste....that's my opinion;"
And poets dread their mock dominion.
So have you seen, with dire affright,
The

petty monarch of the night,

Seated aloft in elbow-chair,

Command the pris❜ners to appear;

Harangue an hour on watchman's praise,
And on the dire effect of frays;

I REMEMBER a rector of a parish at the court end of the town, who was generally accounted a very fine preacher, that used to aim at delivering himself in the most bold and animated style of oratory. The tone of his voice was nicely accommodated to the different branches of his discourse, and every thing was pronounced with uncommon energy and emphasis: he also indulged himself in equal freedom of action, and abounded in various extraordinary gesticulations; his sermons themselves were sown thick with tropes, metaphors, and similies, and everywhere enriched with apostrophe and prosopopæia.

As I knew that this reverend gentleman had been abroad with a young nobleman in the capacity of a travelling tutor, I did not wonder at the violent exertion of his voice, and the vehemence of his action: this affected air being a piece of clerical foppery, which an itinerant clergyman is apt to adopt, while his pupil is gleaning all the other follies of Paris: at which place it is very common to see a capuchin so heated with the subject, that