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form the sublime of himself-containing the quintessence of his own attributes.

So much for his poem-a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed “ Satanic School,” the which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature, thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an infor

If there exists anywhere, excepting in his imagination, such a school, is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have “ talked of him ; for they laughed consumedly.”

I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual capacities, have done more good in the charities of life to their fellow-creatures in any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life; and this is saying a great deal. But I have a few questions to ask.

1stly. Is Mr. Southey the author of Wat Tyler ?

2ndly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest Judge of his beloved England, because it was a blasphemous and seditious publication ?

3dly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full Parliament, “ a rancorous Renegado ?” .

4thly. Is he not Poet Laureate, with his own lines on Martin the Regicide staring him in the face?

And, 5thly. Putting the four preceding items together, with what conscience dare he call the attention of the laws to the publications of others, be they what they may ?

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon the motive, which is neither more nor less, than that Mr. S. has

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been laughed at a little in some recent publications, as he was of yore in the “ Anti-jacobin” by his present patrons. Hence all this “ skimble scamble stuff" about “ Satanic," and so forth. However, it is worthy of him-" Qualis ab incepto."

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opinions of a portion of the public, in the following poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexameters, as he has written every thing else, for aught that the writer cared—had they been upon another subject. But to attempt to canonize a Monarch, who, whatever were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king,-inasmuch as several years of his reign passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon France,-like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in this new

“ Vision,” his public career will not be more favourably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues (although a little expensive to the nation) there can be no doubt.

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the Laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at present.

QUEVEDO Redivivus.

P.S.--It is possible that some readers may object, in these objectionable times, to the freedom with which saints,

angels, and spiritual persons, discourse in this “ Vision.”. But for precedents upon such points I must refer him to Fielding's " Journey from this World to the next,” and to the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or discussed; that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which is more than can be said for the Laureate, who hath thought proper to make him talk, not “ like a school divine," but like the unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of Heaven; and Chaucer's Wife of Bath, Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, Swift's Tale of a Tub, and the other works above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with which "saints, &c. may be permitted to converse in works not intended to be serious.

Q. R.

(*** Mr. Southey, being, as he says, a good Christian and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to this our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties will in the mean time have acquired a little more judgment, properly so called : otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. These apostate jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudeth grievously “ one Mr. Landor,” who cultivates much private renown in the shape of Latin verses; and not long ago, the Poet Laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of a poem called Gebir. Who would suppose, that in this same Gebir, the aforesaid Savage Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a person than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven,-yea, even George the Third! See also how personal Savage becometh, when he hath a mind. The following is his portrait of our late gracious Sovereign

Prince Gebir having descended nto the infernal regions, the shades of his royal ancestors are, at his request, called up to his view, and he exclaims to his ghostly guide):

Aroar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretch
Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow?
Listen! him yonder, who, bound down supine,
Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung.
He too amongst my ancestors! I hate
The despot, but the dastard I despise.
Was he our countryman?"

“Alas, O King!
Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst
Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east.”
“ He was a warrior then, nor feard the gods?"
“ Gebir, he fear'd the Demons, not the Gods,
Though them indeed his daily face ador'd;
And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives
Squander’d, as stones to exercise a sling!
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice-

Oh madness of mankind ! addrest, adored !"-Gebir, p. 28. I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer it; but certainly these teachers of “ great moral lessons” are apt to be found in strange company.]



SAINT Peter sat by the celestial gate,

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, So little trouble had been given of late;

Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era “eighty-eight,”

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
And “a pull altogether," as they say
At sea-which drew most souls another way.


The angels all were singing out of tune,

And hoarse with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,

Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon

Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.


The guardian seraphs had retired on high,

Finding their charges past all care below; Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky

Save the recording angel's black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply

With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripped off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.


His business so augmented of late years,

That he was forced, against his will, no doubt, (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)

For some resource to turn himself about, And claim the help of his celestial peers,

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out By the increased demand for his remarks; Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

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