So, instead of "beaux arts," we may say "la belle passion' For learning, which lately has taken the lead in The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my patience With studying to study your new publications. There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords and Co. With their damnable Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know Whom you speak to? Tra. Right well, boy, and so does "the Row:" You're an author-a poet And think you that I Ink. Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry The Muses? Tra. Excuse me: I meant no offence To the Nine; though the number who make some pretence To their favours is such--but the subject to drop, I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, (Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, As one finds every author in one of those places :) Where I just had been skimming a charming critique, So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek! Where your friend-you know who-has just got such a thrashing, That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely “refreshing. What a beautiful word! Ink. Very true; 'tis so soft And so cooling-they use it a little too oft; And the papers have got it at last-but no matter. So they've cut up our friend, then? Not left him a tatter-Not a rag of his present or past reputation, Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. Tra. Ink. I'm sorry to hear this! for friendship, you know Our poor friend!-but I thought it would terminate so, Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. You don't happen to have the Review in your pocket? Tra. No; I left a round dozen of authors Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. Tra. I have had no great loss, then? Ink. Loss!-such a palaver! I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such labour, That--come-do not make me speak ill of Yes, you! I said nothing until You compell'd me, by speaking the truth- To slip into her hand at the very next rout. Tra. this? Why, Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime? Ink. As sublime? If it be so, no need of my Muse. Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the "Blues.' " Ink. As sublime !-Mr Tracy-I've nothing to say. Stick to prose-As sublime!!-But I wish you good day. Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow-considerI'm wrong; I own it; but, prithee, compose me the song. Ink. As sublime!! Tra. I but used the expression in haste. Ink. That may be, Mr Tracy, but shows damn'd bad taste. Tra. I own it-I know it-acknowledge it— what Can I say to you more? Ink. I see what you'd be at: You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, Till you think you can turn them best to your own use. Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them? Ink. Why that To be sure makes a difference. Tra. I know what is what; To a man of--but come-let us shake hands. Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. And my own grand romance- Ink. I've a card, and shall go; but at present, as soon As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from the moon (Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits), And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation: 'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise. And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not unpleasant. Will you go? There's Miss Lilac will also be present. Tra. That " metal's attractive." Ink. No doubt-to the pocket. Tra. You should rather encourage my passion than shock it. But let us proceed; for I think by the hum---Ink. Very true; let us go, then, before they ECLOGUE THE SECOND. Myself from my wife; for although we are two, Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be done In a style which proclaims us eternally one. But the thing of all things which distresses me more Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore) Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my pains, But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains; A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews, By the rag, tag, and bobtail of those they call BLUES;" A rabble who know not-But soft, here they come! Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be dumb. Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Bluemount, Mr Botherby, Inkel, Tracey, Miss Mazarine, and others, with Scamp the Lecturer, &c. &c. Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Richard, good morning: Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends, I pray ye be seated, sans cérémonie.' Mr Scamp, you're fatigued; take your chair [They all sit. Sir Rich. (aside). If he does, his fatigue is there next me. to come. Mr Tracy Lady Blueb. Lady Bluemount-Miss Lilac-be pleased, pray, to place ye; And you, Mr BotherbyBoth. I obey... Oh, my dear Lady, Lady Blueb. Mr Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye; You were not at the lecture. Tra. Excuse me, I was; But the heat forced me out in the best part-alas! And when Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling; but then AnApartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle. You have lost such a lecture! A Table prepared. Sir Richard Bluebottle solus. Was there ever a man who was married so sorry? Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd; My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void, Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd; The twelve, do I say?-of the whole twenty four, Is there one which I dare call my own any more? What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining, What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling and shining, In science and art, I'll be curst if I know Tra. Why so? Ink. To do justice to what goes before. Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I've no fears on that score. Your parts, Mr Inkel, are– Never mind mine; Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own line. Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, of rhymes? Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes. On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight, Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight. Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common; but time and posterity Will right these great men, and this age's severity Become its reproach. Ink. I've no sort of objection, So I'm not of the party to take the infection. Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they ever will take? Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the lake Have taken already, and still will continue Both. Sir! 'Twas in your defence. Both. If you please, with submission, I can make out my own. Ink. It would be your perdition. While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend. Apropos-Is your play then accepted at last? Both. At last? Ink. Why I thought-that's to say-there had pass'd A few green-room whispers, which hinted,- you know That the taste of the actors at best is so-so. Both. Sir, the green room's in rapture, and so's the Committee. * Scamp. They have merit, I own; Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures? Scamp. It is only time past which comes under my strictures. Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness; -the joy of my heart Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. Wild Nature!-Grand Shakspeare! Both. And down Aristotle! Lady Bluem. Sir George thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle: And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and fruiterer in Piccadilly. asses, Has found out the way to dispense with Par nassus. Tra. And you, Scamp!— Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd. Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so harass'd With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and all schools. Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must be fools. I should like to know who. Ink. Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing control This "feast of our reason and flow of the soul." Tra. This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot Upon earth. Give it way: 'tis an impulse which lifts Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his mountain : 'Tis the source of all sentiment-feeling's true fountain; 'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth: 'tis the gas Of the soul: 'tis the seizing of shades as they pass, And making them substance; 'tis something divine ! Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine? Both. I thank you; not any more, sir, till I dine. * Fact from life, with the words. THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAT TYLER." IT hath been wisely said, that "one fool makes many;" and it hath been poetically observed, "That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."-Pope. If Mr Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, and where he never was before, and never will be again, the following poem would not have been written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and impious cant, of the poem by the author of Wat Tyler, are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself-containing the quintessence of his own attributes. So much for his poem-a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed "Satanic School," the which he doth recommend to the notice of the Legislature; thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an informer. If there exists anywhere, except in his imagination, such a school, is he not suff M |