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Esteeming it a more delicious
Feast, than those of old Apicius,
Crassus's savoury symposia,
Or even Jupiter's ambrosia.
One day a leg arrived from Brighton,

A true South Down legitimate,
When he enlarged with much delight on

The fat and grain, and shape and weight,
Pronounced on each a learned stricture,
Declared the joint a perfect picture ;
And as his eye its outline follow'd,

Callid it a prize-a lucky hit-

gem-a pearl more exquisite
Than ever Cleopatra swallow'd,
Promulging finally this fiat-
“ I'll dine at five, and ask Jack Wyatt."
The cover raised, the meat he eyed

With new enjoyment-next the cloth he Tuck'd in his button-hole, and cried,

“ Done to a tittle-brown and frothy!" Then seized the carving-knife elate, But lo! it would not penetrate The skin—(the anatomic term is The what-dye-call ?-ay-Epidermis.) He felt the edge--'twas like a dump,

Whereat with passion-crimson'd frown, He reach'd the stair-head at a jump,

And threw the blade in fury down,
Venting unnumber'd curses on
His thoughtless lazy rascal John.
His guest, observing this disclosure
Of temper, threw with great composure
The dish, with mutton, spoons and all,
Down helter-skelter to the hall,
Where it arrived with fearful clatter.

“ Zounds!" cried the Cit“ why, what's the matter?"

Nothing whatever," with a quiet Look and accent, answer'd Wyatt: “ I hope I haven't unawares

Made a mistake; but, when you threw

The knife below in such a stew,
I thought you meant to dine down stairs !"


Second Letter from Miss Hebe Hoggins.

Miss Caustic, I am sorry to say, is elected a member of our society, in spite of my blackball, and has already begun to gratify her envy, hatred, and malice. Mr. Skinner, the tanner, of Norton Falgate, has undertaken a poem of the most comprehensive and daring kind, entitled “The Creation,” which promises completely to eclipse Sir Richard Blackmore's, and of which the headings of the different chapters are already composed. We are told, exclaimed Miss Caustic, after reading the plan of this noble work, that at the creation every thing was made out of nothing, but it appears to me, that this author has made nothing of every thing. In answer to my

observation, that Mr. Schweitzkoffer's verses were destined to immortality, she cried with a sneer—" Yes, because he writes them to no end ;” and when an erudite sonnet of Mr. M‘Quill's was pronounced to smell of the lamp, she peevishly whispered—“Ay, it would smell of the fire if it were treated as it deserves.” But the chief object of her illnatured ridicule is a literary phenomenon whom I am patronizing, a genius of the first order, although at present in the humble occupation of carman to Messrs. Tierce and Sweetman, grocers in Whitechapel. This prodigy, if I be not grievously mistaken, will speedily eclipse all the Bristol milkwomen, farmers' boys, Ettrick shepherds, Northamptonshire peasants, and Dumfries stonecutters, that ever burst their bonds, and set themselves to work with their heads instead of their hands; and yet the members of our club make him the subject of their jealous banter and illiberal sarcasm, venting their misplaced jokes upon his employment, which constitutes his principal claim to admiration. Miss Caustic observes that he will be able to drive a good bargain with the booksellers, and that, as he goes every morning to take orders, he will be soon qualified for the living of Horselydown, or the curacy of Whitehall, in which case he would be quite at home in the Stable-yard; but Mr. M‘Quill suggests that he may be one of Horace's Carmen Seculare, and of course ineligible to spiritual dignities, although by the nails in his shoes he seems already to be of the order of Pegasus. This gentleman sneeringly calls him the philosopher Descartes, and at other times terms him my Lord Shaftsbury, observing that his bad grammar is one of his Characteristics. Even Mr. Schweitzkoffer, who ought to have been superior to such vulgar raillery, anticipates that his wit will be attic, because he must always have dwelt in garrets, and have frequently been to Grease, unless his wheels were scandalously neglected.

My bosom beat high at the interesting moment when I first introduced him to our Academus that he might recite one of his poems, and I felt assured that he would make these jeerers ashamed of their witticisms, which, after all, were nothing but a string of miserable puns. He appeared with his whip in his hand, to which instant exception was taken, as completely reversing the established order of things, and the customary relation between poets and critics, it being exclusively reserved to Lord Byron to lash his reviewers. Mr. M‘Quill accordingly went up to him, and exclaiming—“ Parce, puer, stimulis,” took the instrument from him, and deposited it on the table. George Crump, for that is the name of the phenomenon, then drew a paper from his pocket, and very unaffectedly began by scratching his skull, at which an ignorant titter was heard, and Miss Caustic, addressing herself to me, flippantly cried—“ Well, I am agreeably disappointed, for I begin to think the man really has something in his head.” A young lady by her side hinted that he was only pulling out verses with his nails, as a skull, like any other territory, must be ploughed to make it productive ; but I silenced these stupid sarcasms, by informing the sneerers that this species of application is particularly recommended to authors by Aretæus, and is a recorded poetical practice of such high antiquity, that it is presumed to have suggested the mythological allegory

of Jupiter wounding his head in order to let out Minerva.

Mr. Crump having cleared his throat by a loud Hem! and spit upon the ground, at which Miss Caustic affected a ridiculous disgust, began with a loud voice to read his

Evening, an Elegy. Apollo now, Sol's carman, drives his stud

Home to the Mews that's seated in the West, And Customs' clerks, like him, through Thames-street mud,

Now westering wend, in Holland trowsers dress’d.
So from the stands the empty carts are dragg’d,

The horses homeward to their stables go,
And mine, with hauling heavy hogsheads fagg’d,

Prepare to “ taste the luxury of-Wo!"
Now from the slaughter-houses cattle roar,

Knowing that with the morn their lives they yields, And Mr. Sweetman's gig is at the door,

To take him to his house in Hackney Fields. Closed are the gates of the West India Docks,

Rums, Sugars, Coffee, find at length repose, And I, with other careless carmen, flocks

To the King's Head, the Chequers, or the Rose. They smoke a pipe the shepherd's pipe I wakes,

Them skittles pleases-me the Muse invites, They in their ignorance to drinking takes,

1, bless'd with learning, takes a pen and writes. Here there was such an unmannerly burst of laughter that Mr. Crump was unable to proceed, and several voices at once declared that it would be disreputable to the society to admit such ungrammatical compo

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