Turn, Commentator grave, and pore content
To find a meaning where there's nothing meant ;
Than shield from censure undeserving strains,
Because, forsooth, they spring from noble brains.
Not fools alone, as mad examples strike;
This metromania reigns in all alike:

Both wit and dunce the restless muse inspires
With equal rage, though not with equal fires;
Not Byron stands acquitted of the crime,
A promise made in prose, he breaks in rhyme.

"In the shelter of thy side,
Wounded by the cruel spear,

From impending wrath I hide,

Wrath which cannot reach me here.

"From thy head, thy hands, thy feet,
Flows the purifying flood;

See! I plunge-I rise to meet

Justice, reconciled by blood."

How different to this doggerel are the beautiful Lyrics of Watts!

"The Idiot Boy; a Spanish Tale of Pity," written by Mr. Edward Ball.

"O Lady, all the valley sigh

For such a helpless spirit fled,
Who can restrain the humid eye?

Know Clara's Idiot Boy is dead."

Is not this the dramatic Fitz-Ball-an old gentleman of the Dunciad with a new name?

Hark! Printers' Devils say, or seem to say,
"No rest have we, Fitzgerald,* night, or day;
For thee, vain man, a weary watch we keep,
Nor sleep enjoy-although thy readers sleep.
Does Southey pause, or paper-staining Scott
One moment's respite grant, a page to blot;
Thy hobbling Pegasus, a sorry hack,

Still faintly drawls to keep us on the rack.
Should e'er the fates condemn thee for thy crimes,
(For thou to sense art traitor in thy rhymes,)
For paper wasted, ink so idly spilt,

Yet kindly bid thee choose what death thou wilt ;
Think, think on Clarence, he (a bold design!)
Resolv'd to perish by his favorite wine;

Thy volumes round thy neck to make thee sink, O! let 'em drown thee in thy favorite ink!"

Where old Blackfriars pours her sable sons, A mingled tribe of Critics, Bards, and Duns, Dwelt Phillips, an industrious, plodding wight, And by the King's good favor dubb'd a Knight; A bookseller was he, and, sooth to say,

* Mr. Fitzgerald is a very loyal, voluminous, and dull writer. He is Prologue-Speaker to the Literary Fund. His principles in this instance are more to be commended than his poetry.

*

Not Nichols had more authors in his pay.
At verse and prose so ready were the host,
'Twas emulation which should scribble most;

* It is with pleasure I behold, in a green old age, one of the last members of the venerable Johnsonian School.— "Fortunate Senex!" the recollection of past days must be peculiarly grateful, when, in the downhill of life, he beholds those bright stars that once illumined the literary horizon, partaking of the immortality which is reserved for genius and virtue.

Mr. Nichols died at Islington on 26th November, 1826, at the patriarchal age of 82. The following tribute to his memory has already appeared in The Gentleman's Maga

zine :

Sov'reign Parent! Holy Earth!
To thy bosom we commend
Nichols, full of years and worth,
Johnson's last surviving friend!

He was of that glorious time,

Of that bright, transcendent age,
When immortal Truth sublime

Dropp'd like manna from the Sage.

Call'd to fill that honour'd chair
Johnson once so nobly grac'd,

He essay'd with pious care

Still to guide the public taste

Attic wit, and sense profound,
And the muse's humbler lay,
Truth divine, with science crown'd,

All their various pow'rs display.

And Pratt himself would undertake an Ode

In one short ramble on the Hampstead road.
But high above the rest, distinguish'd far,
As Bard and Tourist, shone the mighty Carr !*

Many a name to Learning dear,
Bears his faithful, fond record-
Greet his memory with a tear!

Give his name the like reward!

Rich in Antiquarian lore,

Pageants quaint, and deeds of arms;
He from History's ample store

Drew its most romantic charms.

Blest with candour, liberal praise,
Years beheld his fame increase-
Cheerfulness, and length of days,
Friendship, competence, and peace!

To no quibbling Sect a slave,

His religion was from Heaven;

And to want be freely gave

What to him was freely given.

Thoughts of those that once had been,
Sweet remembrance of the past,
Cheer'd him through life's closing scene-
Of those honour'd names-the last!

England, mourn! for never yet

Time beheld a nobler train;

Thou hast seen thy glory set,

When shall it arise again?

"O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!" exclaims some astonished reader, uninitiated in the mys

Of scribes the chief! and once upon a time
The undisputed Lord of prose and rhyme.
Hist'ries he wrote, and etchings he would draw
Of towns and cities-that he never saw:

And travell'd daily o'er much foreign land,
(More wondrous still!)-in Bridge Street, or the
Strand.-

And hence arose, with all his boasted care,
Some odd mistakes, which made the reader stare.
Thus German dames were beauteous to the sight,
The French profoundly grave, the Dutch polite;
The Scotch sincere, and Ireland's jovial sons
Too dull by half to relish jokes and puns.
Did critics sneer at some unlucky guess?
Sir John's own bulls were-errors of the
And lest upon his back the rod should fall,
The Printers' Devils were to blame for all.
But soon Sir Richard found, (sagacious elf!)
The Knight lov'd money, and his works the shelf;
Whereat Sir Richard, of his bargain sick,
And heartily repenting of the trick,

press:

teries of Sir Richard's manufactory; but his wonder will cease when he is informed that Sir John Carr is one of those gentlemen who perform their travels up four pair of stairs. It was not until the appearance of "My Pocket Book," that the publick were completely let into the secret of Sir John's art of Book-making.