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There is one further inducement for believing that poetry is merely the unfettered exercise of a peculiarly gifted mind, on a subject over which it feels it has pre-eminent mastery, for the purpose of producing pleasurable emotions. Upon this hypothesis, I cannot help thinking, are only to be explained the many confessedly strange judgments passed by poets upon the works of other poets. A poet loses his critical judgment, as a man who is intoxicated with one sort of wine, loses all nicety of perception as to the merits of another sort. He whose body and soul are saturated with one kind of excitement, cannot, while it lasts, enjoy or appreciate any other. This truth, that simpering but sagacious personage, the Tavern-waiter, well knows; and, accordingly, they, who think to crown their "set-to" of Port or Madeira with a magnum of Claret, are sure to get it bad. The poet has, by some means or other, become possessed with an ardent feeling of admiration for the beauties of the style and subject he has adopted. Whether his yearning arose out of "the force of blood," like that of mysterious relationships in romances, or whether it has worked itself as modern friendships do, by repeated acts of kindness into a permanent warmth, it matters not,-the overpowering predilection is there. It has become a passion, and, as all passions do, colours according to its liking. A poetical subject is not a mere topic of conversation to such a man, but food for strong excitement,-the mere men

tion of the word poetry instantaneous-
ly rouses up a favourite train of ideas.
It is like putting a blazing wisp of
straw under a fire-balloon, which sends
it up into the clouds forthwith, and
keeps it there until the fuel be burnt
out. We have all felt the difficulty of
reconciling ourselves to new fashions
in dress-how we were shocked at first
by the French waists and scuttle-bon-
nets of the ladies! So is it with the
poet, only in a degree ten times worse.
Imagine, for a moment, with what
feelings must Mr Moore sit down to
read a Methodistical hymn by Mr
Montgomery. He has been accustom-
ed, all his life, to see and love the
Muse romping and laughing in short
petticoats and flesh-coloured silk stock-
ings,-pr else, pouting prettily, and
shedding tears, purer than dew, and
more precious, to the roses on which
they fall,-yet he is to make a face,
and pretend to admire her with a de-
mure look, in a stuff gown and leaden-
coloured quaker bonnet:-the thing
is impossible. It is "fine talking,"
to tell us of his knowledge of the art,
and his insight into all the graces of
poetical style. So you may tell me of
the legal knowledge of a prejudiced
judge who is appointed to try me; but
am I to be persuaded that I have not
a fairer chance for justice with a man
of moderate knowledge and unexcited
passions, than with one who has every
reason in nature to array his subtleties
against me, and send me, if he can, to
T. D
Botany Bay or the gallows?

ANOTHER LADLEFUL FROM THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL.

DEAR NORTH,

such suAs "Drouthiness" gave perlative satisfaction, (that is, to myself,) I proceed in the course which Nature has at last pointed out to me. Questionless, I was born a poet, and yet I never found it out till lately. However, I shall spur on Pegasus the faster, to make him fetch up for lost time. I ride light weight, and do not expect that I shall blow him, even if I should push him rather smartly. To say the truth, I possess a spur, which makes him lift his legs nimbly again whenever he slackens. (Allegory apart, this means Walker's Rhyming Dictionary, but it is a profound secret.) As I mean to make you profit

by my journeys, I send herewith the
products of my two last rides, per-
formed at a hand-gallop, in which I
trust you will think that Peggy has
bumpered but seldom. But here al-
low me to get off the great horse, and
talk in a more pedestrian manner.

My first poem is a parody on Sir William Jones's spirited paraphrase of a fragment of Alcæus. His contains a palaver about Liberty, and Rights, and the Fiend Discretion, while mine alludes to the less disputable good of a hearty appetite and a dinner to satisfy it.

I conceive myself to be a dab at a dedication, so I have clapt a label of this kind on the neck of each of the

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lyrics herewith assigned over to you. I inscribe the one I have been speaking of to Dr Kitcheuer, to console him for the roasting he met with when you put him on the spit. Nay, you treated him, I should rather say, as you would a turkey's gizzard, that is, handed him out to be peppered and salted, and then grilled till he looked black in the face-a culinary process, which, as nobody knows better than the Doctor, is called devilling the muscular tid-bit. Doubtless, my little complimentary morsel will set things right again. Here, however, I had better confess before others point it out, that the verses of mine, which are to embed Dr K.'s name in the savory jelly of immortality, belong to that school of poetry which is connate with the school of prose of which the Doctor himself is the Didascalus. My erudite friend Brahdpahntschius Pottinger, father of the beautiful Maria, and erstwhile tutor and law-professor in the university of Gottingen, terms these literary sects, in his Latin correspondence with me, the "Schola Coxovine," equivalent to the Leg-ofmutton schools in our vernacular. It appears as if Bishop Hall did not approve of that which must have existed in his time; namely, the one whose labours came forth in metre; for he says in his satires

vertisement of all Lord Byron's works; and for drawing it up, Mr Murray ought, I am sure, to be grateful to me, for it will save him I know not what in paper and printing, as there is little doubt of its being got by heart by all those for whom he stitches up his announcements. I have secured this, by making my dedication so diffusive-it is to the reading public, that abstract Helluo librorum, to whom Mr Coleridge has such an antipathy; but Mr Murray has a fellow-feeling for the omnivorous monster, and supplies him with frequent supplies of papyrus, which is the fodder he delights in. Indeed, this pamphlet-perusing prosopopoeia the reading public aforesaid seems to squat like the night-mare on the chest of the author of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan; and I much wish that so powerful a somnoversifier would harrow up our souls with some of the dreams, (all probably ready tagged with rhyme for the press,) which that incubus has occasioned.

You will observe that this copy of verses is wholly composed in double rhymes, a feat on which I pride myself, for they are sometimes monstrously hard to find. With one line, which I was determined not to alter, and to whose finale I could find nothing correspondent in the compass of the language, I was so vexed, that in an unversifying and unguarded moment I was all but tempted to jump headlong into the Devil's Punch Bowl, that huge circular abyss in my neighbourhood-" and there an end!" But the catastrophe was prevented by a timely discovery of the required ending. A happy termination this; I may well call it so, both of the couplet, (which now jingles most musically) and of my perplexity, which thus evanished without a dive of some fathoms downwards. In some cases, however, the will must be taken for the deed, I fear; but you will be pleased, according to the dictum of a sage critic, to crush the syllables, if they are refractory, and then they will fit much better. If my Lord B. should make you the channel of communication, in returning his grateful thanks on this occasion, let no time be lost in conveying them to yours,

BLAISE FITZTRAVESTY. Ladle Court, near the Devil's Punch Bowls

Such hunger-starven trencher-poetry, O let it never live or timely die. This is by no means flattering; but at the same time it proves that the institution is somewhat venerable for its antiquity, and so is not, like the Cockney school, a mere mushroom of today-no, no, like mushroom-ketchup, it was known long and merry ago, as well as it is now. Indeed, I do not think that either eating to live or living to eat is a modern invention. As to the latter art, Jeremy Taylor remarks, that "strange it is, that for the stomach, which is scarce a span long, there should be provided so many furnaces and ovens, huge fires, and an army of cooks, cellars swimming with wine, and granaries sweating with corn; and that into one belly should enter the vintage of many nations, the spoils of distant provinces, and the shell-fishes of several seas.' (House of Feasting, or the Epicure's Measures, Part 1.)

My second poem is a metrical ad

Dedication

TO THE PHYSICIAN WHO PENNED

PEPTIC PRECEPTS,

AND PRESCRIBED THOSE PILULAR PRODUCTIONS OF THE PESTLE,

PRENOMINATED

PERISTALIC PERSUADERS,

THIS PRETTY POEM IS PRESENTED

BY ITS PARENT.

VOL. IX.

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Be it onion, fiery root,

Whose rank effluvia draws unbidden tears;

Potato, Erin's fruit,

With which the bogtrotter his stomach cheers;

Be it cabbage, flabby leaf!

Which cross-legg'd tailors smack with liquorish chops;

Or oatmeal porridge, chief,

Undoubted chief of Scotland's rustic slops.

Yet in these meals so plain,

Let but sharp appetite as guest attend,
And napkin'd Aldermen

May grudge the goût with which the bits descend.
This constitutes a feast,

To experience hunger and have wherewithal
(Though it be not of the best)

To stop the void bread-basket's healthy call.

Χ

LORD BYRON'S COMBOLIO. (1)

INTRODUCTION.

Reading public! whose hunger,
Thou egregious bookmonger,
Gets monthly large parcels
Of fresh sheets, for thy morsels;
And though publishers race, yet
Thou never art satiate
Of new poems, new histories,
New dramas, new Mysteries,
New romances, new novels,
New voyages, new travels,
New tourifications,

New post prandium orations; (2)
New lives and new memoirs,

Lose available labour

In blurring white paper,-
To thee do I dedi-

And we do not disparage
The rolls of the Peerage

Him, thou, Reading Demus!
Hast been pleased to make famous ;
So take to thy favour

New guide-books, new grammars,
New systems of science,
(Some writ in defiance

This industrious endeavour
To make out a list of

Has long time been untwining,
Of verses so genuine,

Of the sense that's called common) (3) The hanks, which his distaff
New endeavours to hum one,
Of old lies new editions,
Of old follies new visions,
New modes of abusing,
(Peep for these the Reviews in),
New revivals of scandal,
By some right or wrong handle;
In short, what is new, Sir,
Finds in thee a peruser.
Reader General! thou patron
Of many a squadron,

That renown they must e'en win.
Let some fame too o'erbubble
On his pate, who great trouble
(Behold it) hath taken
In this catalogue making.

Who, with goose quills ink laden,
(Which their stands had best staid

in,)

cate, now this most edi-
fying sample of doggrel,
Which will sure catalogue well
The works now abundant,
Of an Author redundant;

In saying, though they strive all
To discover a rival;
And be Horace Walpole
Stirr'd up with a tall pole, (4)
And his book's last edition
Put in due requisition; (5)
Let the Lords not be hindered
From including their kindred,-
Yet they will not environ
Such a Poet as Byron.

THE ROSARY.

The first stretch of his powers
Was made in "The Hours"
'Clept "of Idlesse,” that syren,
"By George Gordon Lord Byron.'
No need of diviner,

To shew that" a Minor"
The book had compounded;
But to warn us, we found it
Printed under and over,
On the back on the cover,
On the title-page ominous,
And in prose prologomenous.
'Twas, in spite of the pother

(1) As his lordship imported this word from the East, it is but justice that he should have the benefit of it. In the Bride of Abydos, where it is used, he tells us it means the rosary which the Turks use. Here, of course, it is figuratively applied to the series of his poems, which are to be looked upon as the beads of this combolio, (what a mouthful the word is!) and they are beautifully strung upon the golden thread of my verses. Et ego in Arcadia! ahem.

(2) Beware of mistaking,-no allusion here to brandy,―gin being the drink of our indigenous orators. Indeed, one of the speechifying Radicals averred in public, that "English gin," (sink the circumstance that he was a vender thereof,)" is as nutritive as mother's milk to an Englishman." Radical harangues are not generally specimens of after-dinner eloquence, they are oftencr orationes impransæ, or ad prandium adipiscendum.

(3) Let us humbly request, that Sir Richard Phillips will, when he writes on philosophical matters, divest himself of the jocular sobriquet of "Common Sense," assumed by him, "quasi lucus a non lucendo, et mons a non movendo."

(4) Tall is surely synonymous with long, which is, I know, the epithet in commonest use in menageries, whence we borrow the metaphor.

(5) His Royal and noble authors," which Mr Park lately edited.

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Neither one thing nor t'other; And though it was poorish, It deserved not the flourish Of that tomahawk cruel In the saffron and cerule, Which notch'd it and nick'd it; In short those wits wicked Had their sport with the lordling, Whom they thought a soft bardling, Too meek to retort it; But they were not so sorted, For his next was a stinger; Master Frank found his finger Had been burnt in the venture With one, not a flincher When his Pegasus skittish Gave a filing at "Bards British." If the "Hours" failed in merit, There was talent and spirit In this nettle stuff'd satire; And the blows, like the platter Of hail, fell by dozens On our splenetic cousins Dun-Edin's Reviewers, Those paddlers in sewers, Where their mud-ammunition (Hooting, hissing, derision,) Is mix'd up for griming All those who won't chime in With jacobin shoutings, And infidel doubtings.

Then came doughty Childe Harold, With whom the world quarrel'd, Because this aspirant, Though observant, enquirant, Shrewd, keen, energetic, Sublime, and patheticContriving to wedge in all, In one word, original; Yet betray'd the foot cloven, Scepticism being inwoven In his talk upon matters Best left to his betters.

How plain folks roll'd their gogglers!

How the learned prov'd bogglers!
At the name of the "Giaour."
For sure ne'er to that hour
Did four-fifths of the vowels
Congregate in the bowels
Of a syllable single;
Even yet how to mingle
Their sounds in one's muzzle,
Continues a puzzle.
But the fragments are clever,-
Surpass'd has he never,
In his loftiest of stretches,
Two or three of the sketches.

"The Bride of Abydos"
Next sprang up beside us;
From the first time I met her,
The Giaour pleased me better;

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To each "Hebrew Melody," Alas! and Ah, well-a-day! For most are but rudish, And a scantling are goodish; So let Messrs Braham And Nathan enjoy 'em.

"The Siege," next, " of Corinth," Illustrates a war in th' Morea;-but I dare say, From perusal or hearsay, Most now think on the munching Of the dogs, and their "crunching," (On what, in his jargon, Dr Gall calls an organ,) Stripping off the scalp, rot 'em! "As ye peel figs in autuinn."

With Alp to the arena
Came the fair" Parisina."
That he should not have written,
On this subject forbidden,
Still sticks in my gizzard,
'Spite of "gruff General Izzard,"

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