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volcanic explosion of wit, ridicule, and satire, that I was almost tempted to believe him inspired. But these sallies only lasted for a moment, and passed like summer clouds over the benevolent sunshine which ever warmed his heart and lighted up his


Time, though it has dealt roughly with his person, has passed lightly over the graces of his mind, and left him in full possession of all the sensibilities of youth. His eye kindles at the relation of a noble or generous action-his heart melts at the story of distress-and he is still a warm admirer of the fair. Like all old bachelors, however, he looks back with a fond and lingering eye on the period of his boyhood, and would sooner suffer the pangs of matrimony than acknowledge that the world, or any thing in it, is half so clever as it was in those good old times that are 66 gone by."

I believe I have already mentioned, that with all his good qualities he is a humourist, and a humourist of the highest order. He has some of the most intolerable whim-whams I ever met with in my life, and his oddities are sufficient to eke out a hundred tolerable originals. But I will not enlarge on them; enough has been told to excite a desire to know more: and I am much mistaken if, in the course of half a dozen of our numbers, he don't tickle, plague, please, and perplex the whole town, and completely establish his claim to the laureateship he has solicited, and with which we hereby invest him, recommending him and his effusions to public reverence and respect.


Dear Launce,


As I find you have taken the quill,

To put our gay town and its fair under drill,

I offer my hopes for success to your cause,

And send you unvarnish'd my mite of applause.

Ah, Launce, this poor town has been wofully fash'd; Has long been be-frenchman'd, be-cockney'd, be-trash'd; And our ladies, be-devill'd, bewilder'd astray,

From the rules of their grand-dames have wander'd away.
No longer that modest demeanour we meet,
Which whilom the eyes of our fathers did greet ;-
No longer be-mobbled, be-ruffled, be-quill'd,
Be-powder'd, be-hooded, be-patch'd and be-frill'd.
No longer our fair ones their grograms display,
And stiff in brocade, strut "like castles " away.

Oh, how fondly my soul forms departed has traced,
When our ladies in stays, and in bodice well laced,
When bishop'd, and cushion'd, and hoop'd to the chin,
Well calash'd without, and well-bolster'd within;
All cased in their buckrams, from crown down to tail,
Like O'Brallaghan's mistress, were shaped like a pail.

Well-peace to those fashions-the joy of our eyesTempora mutantur-new follies will rise;

Yet," like joys that are past," they still crowd on the mind, In moments of thought, as the soul looks behind.

Sweet days of our boyhood, gone by, my dear Launce,
Like the shadows of night, or the forms in a trance:
Yet oft we retrace those bright visions again,
Nos mutamur, 'tis true-but those visions remain.
I recall with delight how my bosom would creep,
When some delicate foot from its chamber would peep;
And when I a neat stocking'd ankle could spy,
-By the sages of old, I was rapt to the sky!
All then was retiring-was modest-discreet;
The beauties, all shrouded, were left to conceit:

To the visions which fancy would form in her eye,
Of graces that snug in soft ambush would lie.
And the heart, like the poets, in thought would
The elysium of bliss, which was veil'd from its view.


We are old-fashion'd fellows, our nieces will say:
Old-fashion'd, indeed, coz-and swear it they may-
For I freely confess that it yields me no pride,
To see them all show what their mothers would hide;
To see them, all shivering, some cold winter's day,
So lavish their beauties and graces display,
And give to each fopling that offers his hand,
Like Moses from Pisgah-a peep at the land.

But a truce with complaining-the object in view
Is to offer my help in the work you pursue;
And as your effusions and labours sublime
May need, now and then, a few touches of rhyme,
I humbly solicit, as cousin and friend,

A quiddity, quirk, or remonstrance to send:
Or should you a laureate want in your plan,
By the muff of my grandmother, I am your man!
You must know I have got a poetical mill,
Which with odd lines, and couplets, and triplets I fill;
And a poem I grind, as from rags white and blue
The paper-mill yields you a sheet fair and new.
I can grind down an ode, or an epic that's long,
Into sonnet, acrostic, conundrum, or song:
As to dull Hudibrastic, so boasted of late,
The doggerel discharge of some muddled-brain'd pate,
I can grind it by wholesale-and give it true point,
With Billingsgate dish'd up in rhymes out of joint.

I have read all the poets-and got them by heart;
Can slit them, and twist them, and take them apart;
Can cook up an ode out of patches and shreds,
To muddle my readers, and bother their heads.
Old Homer, and Virgil, and Ovid I scan,
Anacreon, and Sappho (who changed to a swan) —
Iambics and Sapphics I grind at my will,

And with ditties of love every noddle can fill.

Oh, 'twould do your heart good, Launce, to see my mill


Old stuff into verses, and poems refined;


Dan Spenser, Dan Chaucer, those poets of old,
Though cover'd with dust, are yet true sterling gold;
I can grind off their tarnish, and bring them to view,
New modell'd, new mill'd, and improved in their hue.,

But I promise no more-only give me the place, And I'll warrant I'll fill it with credit and grace: By the powers! I'll figure and cut you a dashAs bold as Will Wizard, or 'Sbidlikens flash!



PERHAPS the most fruitful source of mortification to a merry writer who, for the amusement of himself and the public, employs his leisure in sketching odd characters from imagination, is, that he cannot flourish his pen, but every Jack-pudding imagines it is pointed directly at himself; he cannot, in his gambols, throw a fool's cap among the crowd, but every queer fellow insists upon putting it on his own head; or chalk an outlandish figure, but every outlandish genius is eager to write his own name under it. However we

may be mortified, that these men should each individually think himself of sufficient consequence to engage our attention, we should not care a rush about it, if they did not get into a passion, and complain of having been ill used.

It is not in our hearts to hurt the feelings of one single mortal, by holding him up to public ridicule; and if it were, we lay it down as one of our indisputable facts, that no man can be made ridiculous but by his own folly. As, however, we are aware, that when a man by chance gets a thwack in the crowd he is apt to suppose the blow was intended exclusively for himself, and so fall into unreasonable

anger, we have determined to let these crusty gentry know what kind of satisfaction they are to expect from us. We are resolved not to fight, for three special reasons; first, because fighting is at all events extremely troublesome and inconvenient, particularly at this season of the year; second, because if either of us should happen to be killed, it would be a great loss to the public, and rob them of many a good laugh we have in store for their amusement; and third, because if we should chance to kill our adversary, as is most likely-for we can every one of us split balls upon razors and snuff candles-it would be a loss to our publisher, by depriving him of a good customer. If any gentleman casuist will give three as good reasons for fighting, we promise him a complete set of Salmagundi for nothing.

But though we do not fight in our own proper persons, let it not be supposed that we will not give ample satisfaction to all those who may choose to demand it for this would be a mistake of the first magnitude, and lead very valiant gentlemen, perhaps, into what is called a quandary. It would be a thousand-and-one pities that any honest man, after taking to himself the cap and bells which we merely offered to his acceptance, should not have the privilege of being cudgelled into the bargain. We pride ourselves upon giving satisfaction in every department of our paper; and, to fill that of fighting, have engaged two of those strapping heroes of the theatre, who figure in the retinues of our gingerbread kings and queens-now hurry an old stuff petticoat on their backs, and strut senators of Rome or aldermen of London-and now be-whisker their muffin faces with burnt cork, and swagger right valiant warriors, armed cap-a-pie, in buckram. Should, therefore, any great little man about town take offence at our good

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