But still (you quick rejoin) how sweet the sound To hear the murmur of applause go round,— -"That's He," (the finger pointed all the while)"Renown'd for wit and elegance of style;

Whom Critic Mawman* puffs, whose senseless whine

Boeotian Buchan† quotes, and calls divine.”

Come, Phillips, come, for eloquence hath pow'r, Gale Jones his tub shall lend thee for an hour! Whether thou warble in inflated style,

King Brian's glories in the " Emerald Isle;"

* Mr. Mawman (“ His mind unletter'd, though he dealt in Books!") is suspected of dabbling in the "Critical Review."

+ The Earl of Buchan received Doctor Busby's proposals Iwith a refined frankness."

A certain King of Ireland, one Brian Borhoime, whom Counsellor Phillips describes as a very dove-like, choleric old gentleman:

"Look on Brian's verdant grave-
Brian-the glory and grace of his age;

Brian--the shield of the Emerald Isle ;
The Lion incens'd was a lamb to his rage!!
The Dove was an Eagle compar'd to his smile!!!
Tribute on enemies! hater of war!!

Wide-flaming sword of the warrior throng!!!
Liberty's beacon! religion's bright star!!
Soul of the Seneacha!! Light of the Song!

C

Or "Ireland's hope and England's glory"* praise
In fulsome prose, more fulsome than thy Lays,
With strong mercurial pow'r, which all must dread,
Thy touch turns gold and silver into lead.

Lo, at thy name what hosts of Dunces rise!
Dulness awakes, and rubs her drowsy eyes,
With sleepy haste the

poppy wreath prepares,
To crown her fav'rite bard-while wisdom stares !
Next, to complete thy triumph, even now,
The cap of liberty shall grace thy brow;

It speaks thy prowess, and thy functions tells,
Almost as truly as the Cap and Bells!

Stark metre-mad, the lovesick Edwin sends
Of jingling splayfoot verse, some odds and ends
To driv'lling Asperne,† in whose magazine

* In April, 1812, Counsellor Phillips dedicated (by permission) "The Emerald Isle," to the Prince Regent, whom he designates "Ireland's Hope and England's Ornament." Mr. Phillips, in 1815, imputes to his royal patron enormities that "he cannot speak of without danger, because, thank God (?) he cannot think of them without indig

nation."

+ Doctor Johnson once remarked that an interesting book might be written on the fortunes of Physicians—And why not on that of Booksellers? In illustration, I subjoin the following "Ode," entitled

THOMAS TIBBS.

Thomas Tibbs demands my song,
Thomas lean, and Thomas long!

Th' invet'rate sons of dulness vent their spleen; Proud of the gift so graciously bestow'd,

On a queer, eccentric plan,
Thomas Tibbs (facetious Man!)
Open'd once a shop of mirth,
Where laughter had its pennyworth.
Transplanted to the ward of Cheap,
Books, a miscellaneous heap,

Prose and verse of authors damn'd,
His window deck'd, his counter cramm'd;
Condemn'd a weary watch to keep,
Though letter'd, gilt, and bound in sheep!--
Hark! the weeping Muses cry-
"Spare thy types, Tom, or we die-
Keep, O keep thy distance from us,
Tibbs-whose christian name is Thomas !

Be our lines too long or short;
Thomas makes us suffer for't-
In a typographic whim,

Strains a joint, or lops a limb-
Not Procrustes' torturing bed
Fills our souls with deeper dread!"-

Next, mounted on his rostrum high,
With open mouth, and eager eye,
Uplifted hammer, treble clear,
See Tom transform'd to auctioneer!
Haranguing loud his motley flock
Of Prentice boys at seven o'clock.
To gallop on to fame the faster,
Tom dubs himself of Arts a Master!
And prints a volume smart and trim,
Instructing men and boys to swim.
Although 'tis pretty certain when

He prints the thing which Edwin calls an ode.
How Laura smiles! What less can Laura do?
It gives her beauties that she never knew.
'Tis so pathetic! who unmov'd can read?
Melissa faintly whispers, "Sad, indeed!"
In ecstasies Lucretia dies away,

And Edwin grows immortal-for a day!

And is not now the author truly blest,

To paper Thomas puts his pen,
He teaches best, to people's thinking,
His more congenial Art of Sinking!

By auctions, and by arts enrich'd,
Behold Tom newly cropp'd and breech'd—
He ambles, struts, and sports the dibs,
No longer Tom-but Mister Tibbs!-
Yet more to shake the town with laughter,
By the "All Hail! (Tom Tibbs) Hereafter!"

Dan Momus paints a vision fair,

Of scarlet gown and civic chair;

And bids him sit Lord Midas there!"

* The following sonnet is written in humble emulation of the modern school of Poetry:

Highgate! romantic spot! of old renown
(About a mile from Kentish Town),

Oft have I pac'd thee, pensive, pale, and lorn,
Pilgrim of every valley, hill, and grange;

What time the city coachman winds his horn

By critics flatter'd, by the fair caress'd?

Shall not his praise by future bards be sung, When envious death has stopp'd his tuneful tongue?

F. By trade a censor, and resolv'd to sneer, You drive the jest too far; 'tis too severe To brand a blockhead in your angry strains, For what he cannot help-his want of brains! P. Be answer'd thus-his itching after fame, His bold obtrusive vanity I blame ;

(Music unmeet for solitude, and strange!) To rouse the sons of Mammon, moping souls, From tea and coffee, toast and butter'd rolls, To mount "The Royal Adelaide," that whirls (Cramm'd with puff'd cits, and roof'd with pretty girls!) To Lloyd's, the Bank, the Alley, Mart, Exchange.

And, Hampstead! fair twin sister! on whose heath

Health, gay enchantress, sports, and fancy dwells; Thou, too, hast crown'd thy bard with laurel wreath, Pluck'd from th' Arcadian bow'rs of Kilburn WellsWhere, box'd in woodbine arbour, nymph and swain, Escap'd awhile from turmoil, smoke, and gas, Pour forth th' impassion'd vow, the vocal strain, Warm with the inspiration of the glass! How short the date of human bliss, alas ! For hark, with sound discordant, deep, and sad,

Harsh, and hoarse murm'ring to the whistling wind, Rolls the huge rumbling Omnibus-the Cad

With liquor, dust, half drunk, half-chok'd, half-blind, Roars, with Stentorian voice, "Jump up, my lad! Room for the Lady-hip! hold fast behind!"