THE CONVERSAZIONE.

THE cards dispers'd, the guests invited,
The curtains drawn, the candles lighted;
In silver state, the port, the sherry,
The strong bohea, the fragrant berry;
A crowd of Literati rush,

And storm the door of Mr. Brush!
Say, wherefore, Muse, this outward din,
This pomp and circumstance within?
Lo, Brush—who gives to City Madam
As many charms, as if she had 'em
And tricks out Aldermanic phiz

;

With sense and meaning-what a quiz!

And makes a form, however queer,

Start forth Apollo Belvidere

Lo, Brush, a man of paint and letters

In imitation of his betters

Brush-in th' Academy, a star, a
Wit, craniologist, and R. A.--
Must have his little batch of Bards
To conversation, tea, and cards.

Lightly tripping up the stairs,
The motley party mount in pairs,
Economics, from Lombard Street,
And Metaphysics, from the Fleet!
Whitechapel prose, and verse that smacks
Of Ludgate, and St. Mary-Axe!
Yon dapper coxcomb, sprucely drest,
Is one, whose rhyme is in request ;
While he, who creeps from loftier stories,
Is one, whose poetry a bore is.

Yet here, like sprites, they mingle may,

The wit, the dunce, the

gay;

grave, the The young, the old, the short, the tall;

To Mr. Brush they're welcome, all.

They reach the drawing-room; where, lo, Sits Mr. Brush, in statu quo,

Lord of his Tusculum-Soho!

His wife and daughters either side,

Apollo's playthings and his pride!

Around, about, above, beneath,

See "Friendship's Off'ring," "Winter's Wreath," "The Keepsake," "Amulet," and " Bijou,"

Brimful of pretty prints to please you!

Smart periodical bouquets,

That bloom and wither while we gaze,

Then sink in Dulness' lap to rest,

For she takes first what she loves best!
Though in the desart, drear and dry,
A limpid stream conceal'd may lie,
'Tis hardly worth our while to grope
Pandora's box, in search of " Hope.'

Now mutual compliments begin,
The weekly critic cocks his chin,
For as a Mag. transcends a journal,
Your seven-days' scribe precedes diurnal.
Where'er he rolls in awkward state,
The smaller wits attendant wait,
Fearing an Informatem fulmen,
For critics are the dread of dull men.
A virgin Muse her off'ring brings,
A tender Ode in leading strings;
A smile intreats, a corner begs,
To set the bantling on its legs.
Bowing and scraping, from his attic,
With humble suit, the bard dramatic,
Beseeches Aristarch to say

A word in favour of his play-
For, now-a-days, a friendly puff,
And Madame Vestris, half in buff,
And Liston's face, are quantum suff,

* The author of " Anastatius."

To make a comedy legitimate,

Say Mr. Mathews and his witty mate.

Woman's scorn, and manhood's shame,*
A nondescript, without a name,

A pompous gig, it takes its round,
Repulsive, leaden, and profound.
With all its gravity of mien,
It dearly loves a jest obscene,
And if a fool profanely sin,

*This obscene infidel has been going the round of our Literary and Scientific Institutions, for the purpose of wriggling its insignificance into notoriety. It smuggled itself into "The Literary Union," or Clarence, or Clearance Club!-It infected the " Literary Fund," (keeping away many patrons from a late anniversary dinner,) with the leprosy of its name;-and it has, by means of a bribe, (that might have been more honestly applied towards the liquidation of the unpaid ten shillings in the pound to its creditors,) fastened itself on "The Mechanics." So plausible is its tact, and so profound its hypocrisy, that nothing but long experience, and the closest personal observation can fathom the dangerous depths of its character. Its literary pretensions, which are not the smallest part of its inordinate vanity and self-love, have been scouted with derision; and to its moral conduct-let one of its near kindred, bear loathsome testimony! In the absence of a full-length portrait, it may, for the present, be briefly described, as,

"A dull, prim prater of the sceptic race,
Guilt in its heart, and famine in its face!"

Good Lord, how horrible its grin!
Ungrateful, selfish, vainly blind,
It cheats itself, and not mankind ;
Who pass from theory to fact,
Compare its scribbling, with its act,-
And find the one, as much with sense
At war, as t'other with pretence.
With ambiguity of speech,

Arraigning truths above its reach,
Propounding queries, splitting straws,
Chance, fate, free-will, effect and cause;
Whichever way its humour leans,
The more it talks, the less it means.

Sly Reynard left, by odd mishap,
His tail behind him in a trap;
And wishing not to look exclusive,
He tried, by argument conclusive,
To prove to all the Reynards round,
That tails were better lost, than found!
But nought his sophistry avails,

They heard the wag, and wagg'd their tails!
Admiring much the fashion new,

Yet thought it best to keep them too!
And we, who know what orthodox is,
And what, without a tail, a fox is!
Laugh, when the sceptic would persuade us
Out of the Providence that made us.