Part 4 — THE PROGRESS OF CURIOSITY; OR A ROYAL VISIT TO WHITBKEAD'S BREWERY. PETER PINDAR.

Sic transit gloria mundi!—Old Sun Dials.

From House of Buckingham, in grand parade, To Whitbread's Brewhouse, moved the cavalcade.

THE ARGUMENT.—Peter's loyalty.—He suspecteth Mr. Warton [Footnote: The Poet Laureate.] of joking.—Complimenteth the poet Laureate.— Peter differeth in opinion from Mr. Warton.—Taketh up the cudgels for King Edward, King Harry V., and Queen Bess.—Feats on Blackheath and Wimbledon performed by our most gracious sovereign.—King Charles the Second half damned by Peter, yet praised for keeping company with gentlemen.—Peter praiseth himself.—Peter reproved by Mr. Warton.—Desireth Mr. Warton's prayers.—A fine simile.—Peter still suspecteth the Laureate of ironical dealings.—Peter expostulateth with Mr. Warton.—Mr. Warton replieth.—Peter administereth bold advice.—Wittily calleth death and physicians poachers.—Praiseth the king for parental tenderness.—Peter maketh a natural simile.—Peter furthermore telleth Thomas Warton what to say.—Peter giveth a beautiful example of ode-writing.

THE CONTENTS OF THE ODE.—His Majesty's [Footnote: George III.] love for the arts and sciences, even in quadrupeds.—His resolution to know the history of brewing beer.—Billy Ramus sent ambassador to Chiswell street.—Interview between Messrs. Ramus and Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's bow, and compliments to Majesty.—Mr. Ramus's return from his embassy.—Mr. Whitbread's terrors described to Majesty by Mr. Ramus.—The King's pleasure thereat.—Description of people of worship.—Account of the Whitbread preparation.—The royal cavalcade to Chiswell-street.—The arrival at the brewhouse.—Great joy of Mr. Whitbread.—His Majesty's nod, the Queen's dip, and a number of questions.—A West India simile.—The marvelings of the draymen described.—His Majesty peepeth into a pump.—Beautifully compared to a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone.—The MINUTE curiosity of the King.—Mr. Whitbread endeavoreth to surprise Majesty.—His Majesty puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's horse espresseth wonder.—Also Mr. Whitbread's dog.—His Majesty maketh laudable inquiry about Porter.—Again puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.—King noteth NOTABLE things.—Profound questions proposed by Majesty.—As profoundly answered by Mr. Whitbread.—Majesty in a mistake.—Corrected by the brewer.—A nose simile.—Majesty's admiration of the bell.—Good manners of the bell.—Fine appearance of Mr. Whitbread's pigs.—Majesty proposeth questions, but benevolently waiteth not for answers.—Peter telleth the duty of Kings.— Discovereth one of his shrewd maxims.—Sublime sympathy of a water- spout and a king.—The great use of asking questions.—The habitation of truth.—The collation.—The wonders performed by the Royal Visitors.—Majesty proposeth to take leave.—Offereth knighthood to Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's objections.—The king runneth a rig on his host.—Mr. Whitbread thanketh Majesty.—Miss Whitbread curtsieth.—The queen dippeth.—The Cavalcade departeth.

Peter triumpheth.—Admonisheth the Laureate.—Peter croweth over the Laureate.—Discovereth deep knowledge of kings, and surgeons, and men who have lost their legs.—Peter reasoneth.—Vaunteth.—Even insulteth the Laureate.—Peter proclaimeth his peaceable disposition.—Praiseth Majesty, and concludeth with a prayer for curious kings.

Tom, soon as e'er thou strik'st thy golden lyre, Thy brother Peter's muse is all on fire, To sing of kings and queens, and such rare folk Yet, 'midst thy heap of compliments so fine, Say, may we venture to believe a line? You Oxford wits most dearly love a joke.

Son of the Nine, thou writest well on naught; Thy thundering stanza, and its pompous thought, I think, must put a dog into a laugh: Edward and Harry were much braver men Than this new-christened hero of thy pen. Yes, laurelled Odeman, braver far by half;

Though on Blackheath and Wimbledon's wide plain, George keeps his hat off in a shower of rain; Sees swords and bayonets without a dread, Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head:

Although at grand reviews he seems so blest, And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest, Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster; Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming, And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine, With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters.

Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess: His present majesty, whom Heaven long bless With wisdom, wit, and art of choicest quality, Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche As that old queen, though often called old b—ch, In fame's colossal house of immortality.

As for John Dryden's Charles—that king Indeed was never any mighty thing; He merited few honors from the pen: And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow, Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow, And mind—kept company with GENTLEMEN:

For, like some kings, in hobby grooms, Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms, Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight— Nor joked by day with pages, servant-maids, Large, red-polled, blowzy, hard two-handed jades: Indeed I know not what Charles did by night.

Thomas, I AM of CANDOR a GREAT lover; In short, I'm candor's self all over; Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe; Make it a rule that Virtue shall be praised, And humble Merit from the ground be raised: What thinkest thou of Peter now?

Thou cryest "Oh! how false! behold thy king, Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing; That king has virtues that should make thee stare." Is it so?—Then the sin's in me— 'Tis my vile optics that can't see; Then pray for them when next thou sayest a prayer.

But, p'rhaps aloft on his imperial throne, So distant, O ye gods! from every one, The royal virtues are like many a star, From this our pigmy system rather far: Whose light, though flying ever since creation, Has not yet pitched upon our nation. [Footnote: Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer, Huygens]

Then may the royal ray be soon explored— And Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming, I'll take my spying-glass and bring thee word The instant I behold it coming. But, Thomas Warton, without joking, Art thou, or art thou not, thy sovereign smoking?

How canst thou seriously declare, That George the Third With Cressy's Edward can compare, Or Harry?—'Tis too bad, upon my word: George is a clever king, I needs must own, And cuts a jolly figure on the throne.

Now thou exclaim'st, "God rot it! Peter, pray What to the devil shall I sing or say?"

I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom: Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying, His gracious eyes and ears was edifying, By abbey company and kettle drum: Leaving that son to death and the physician, Between two fires-a forlorn-hope condition; Two poachers, who make man their game, And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim.

Say, though the monarch did not see his son, He kept aloof through fatherly affection; Determined nothing should be done, To bring on useless tears, and dismal recollection. For what can tears avail, and piteous sighs? Death heeds not howls nor dripping eyes; And what are sighs and tears but wind and water, That show the leakiness of feeble nature?

Tom, with my simile thou wilt not quarrel; Like air and any sort of drink, Whizzing and oozing through each chink, That proves the weakness of the barrel.

Say—for the prince, when wet was every eye, And thousands poured to heaven the pitying sigh Devout; Say how a King, unable to dissemble, Ordered Dame Siddons to his house, and Kemble, To spout:

Gave them ice creams and wines, so dear! Denied till then a thimble full of beer; For which they've thanked the author of this meter, Videlicet, the moral mender, Peter Who, in his Ode on Ode, did dare exclaim, And call such royal avarice, a shame.

Say—but I'll teach thee how to make an ode; Thus shall thy labors visit fame's abode, In company with my immortal lay; And look, Tom—thus I fire away—

BIRTH-DAY ODE.

This day, this very day, gave birth, Not to the brightest monarch upon earth, Because there are some brighter and as big; Who love the arts that man exalt to heaven, George loves them also, when they're given To four-legged Gentry, christened dog and pig.* Whose deeds in this our wonder-hunting nation Prove what a charming thing is education. *[Footnote: The dancing dogs and wise pig have formed a considerable part of the royal amusement.]

Full of the art of brewing beer, The monarch heard of Mr. Whitbread's fame: Quoth he unto the queen "My dear, my dear, Whitbread hath got a marvelous great name; Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew— Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew: Shame, shame, we have not yet his brewhouse seen!" Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen!

Red-hot with novelty's delightful rage, To Mr. Whitbread forth he sent a page, To say that majesty proposed to view, With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed, His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed, And learn the noble secret how to brew.

Of such undreamt-of honor proud, Meet reverently the brewer bowed; So humbly (so the humble story goes,) He touched even terra firma with his nose;

Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus, "Happy are we that our great king should name us, As worthy unto majesty to show, How we poor Chiswell people brew."

Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought, To majesty tha welcome tidings brought, How Whitbread, staring, stood like any stake, And trembled—then the civil things he said— On which the king did smile and nod his head: For monarchs like to see their subjects quake:

Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are, Proclaiming reverence and humility: High thoughts, too, all those shaking fits declare Of kingly grandeur and great capability!

People of worship, wealth, and birth, Look on the humbler sons of earth, Indeed in a most humble light, God knows! High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs, Where ships below appear like little skiffs, While people walking on the strand like crows.

Muse, sing the stir that Mr. Whitbread made; Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid He should not charm enough his guests divine: He gave his maids new aprons, gowns and smocks; And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks, To make the apprentices and draymen fine:

Busy as horses in a field of clover, Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over, Amid the Whitbread rout of preparation, To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand, To visit the first brewer in the land; Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat In a snug corner christened Chiswell-street; But oftener charmed with fashionable air, Amid the gaudy great of Portman-square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's Lord ALSO, His grace the Duke of Montague LIKEWISE. With Lady Harcourt joined the raree-show, And fixed all Smithfield's marveling eyes: For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters, Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.

Arrived, the king broad grinned, and gave a nod To smiling Whitbread, who, had God Come with his angels to behold his beer, With more respect he never could have met— Indeed the man was in a sweat, So much the brewer did the king revere.

Her majesty contrived to make a dip: Light as a feather then the king did skip, And asked a thousand questions, with a laugh, Before poor Whitbread comprehended half.

Reader, my Ode should have a simile— Well, in Jamaica, on a tamarind tree, Five hundred parrots, gabbling just like Jews, I've seen—such noise the feathered imps did make, As made my very pericranium ache— Asking and telling parrot news:

Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise, Whilst draymen and the brewer's boys, Devoured the questions that the king did ask: In different parties were they staring seen, Wondering to think they saw a king and queen! Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon) Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon; And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye, To view, and be assured what sort of things Were princesses, and queens, and kings, For whose most lofty station thousands sigh! And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan, Few were the mouths that had not got a man! Now majesty into a pump so deep Did with an opera-glass so curious peep: Examining with care each wondrous matter That brought up water!

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, A chattering bird we often meet, A bird for curiosity well known; With head awry, And cunning eye, Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone.

And now his curious majesty did stoop To count the nails on every hoop; And, lo! no single thing came in his way, That, full of deep research, he did not say, "What's this! hae, hae? what's that? what's this? what's that?" So quick the words, too, when he deigned to speak, As if each syllable would break his neck.

Thus, to the world of GREAT whilst others crawl, Our sovereign peeps into the world of SMALL; Thus microscopic genuises explore Things that too oft provoke the public scorn, Yet swell of useful knowledges the store, By finding systems in a pepper-corn.

Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, To make the majesty of England stare, That he had butts enough, he knew, Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew: On which the king with wonder swiftly cried, "What, if they reach to Kew then, side by side, What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?" To whom with knitted, calculating brow, The man of beer most solemnly did vow, Almost to Windsor that they would extend; On which the king, with wondering mien, Repeated it unto the wondering queen: On which, quick turning round his haltered head, The brewer's horse, with face astonished neighed; The brewer's dog too poured a note of thunder, Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder.

Now did the king for other beers inquire, For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire And, after talking of these different beers, Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs?

This was a puzzling, disagreeing question; Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion: A kind of question to the man of cask, That not even Solomon himself would ask.

Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took A very pretty memorandum-book, With gilded leaves of asses' skin so white, And in it legibly began to write—

MEMORANDUM. A charming place beneath the grates For roasting chestnuts or potates.

MEM. 'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer— Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

QUOERE. Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell? Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?

MEM. To try it soon on our small beer— 'Twill save us several pound a year.

MEM. To remember to forget to ask Old Whitbread to my house one day

MEM. Not to forget to take of beer the cask, The brewer offered me, away.

Now having penciled his remarks so shrewd, Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin, His majesty his watch most sagely viewed, And then put up his asses' skin.

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say, "Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay!" "Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes, The brewer answered—"also, sir, of oats: Another thing my horses too maintains, And that, an't please your majesty, are grains."

"Grains, grains," said majesty, "to fill their crops? Grains, grains?—that comes from hops—yes, hops, hops? hops?"

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault— "Sire," cried the humble brewer, "give me leave Your sacred majesty to undeceive; Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt."

"True," said the cautious monarch, with a smile: "From malt, malt, malt—I meant malt all the while." "Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer, "An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure." "Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply, "I did, I did, I did I, I, I, I."

Now this was wise in Whitbread—here we find A very pretty knowledge of mankind; As monarchs never must be in the wrong, 'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue, To tell a little fib, or some such thing, To save the sinking credit of a king. Some brewers, in a rage of information, Proud to instruct the ruler of a nation, Had on the folly dwelt, to seem damned clever! Now, what had been the consequence? Too plain! The man had cut his consequence in twain; The king had hated the WISE fool forever!

Reader, whene'er thou dost espy a nose That bright with many a ruby glows, That nose thou mayest pronounce, nay safely swear, Is nursed on something better than small-beer.

Thus when thou findest kings in brewing wise, Or natural history holding lofty station, Thou mayest conclude, with marveling eyes, Such kings have had a goodly education.

Now did the king admire the bell so fine, That daily asks the draymen all to dine: On which the bell rung out (how very proper!) To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.

And now before their sovereign's curious eye, Parents and children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs, All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their style, Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs: On which the observant man, who fills a throne, Declared the pigs were vastly like his own:

On which, the brewer, swallowed up in joys, Tears and astonishment in both his eyes, His soul brim full of sentiments so loyal, Exclaimed, "O heavens! and can my swine Be deemed by majesty so fine! Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?" To which the king assented with a nod; On which the brewer bowed, and said, "Good God!" Then winked significant on Miss; Significant of wonder and of bliss; Who, bridling in her chin divine, Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid, And then her lowest courtesy made For such high honor done her father's swine.

Now did his majesty so gracious say To Mr. Whitbread, in his flying way, "Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then? Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade? Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid? What, what's the matter with the men?

"D'ye hunt!—hae, hunt? No, no, you are too old— You'll be lord mayor—lord mayor one day— Yes, yes, I've heard so—yes, yes, so I'm told: Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay? I'll prick you every year, man, I declare: Yes, Whitbread-yes, yes-you shall be lord mayor.

"Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray? Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best You put your liveries on the draymen-hee? Hae, Whitbread? you have feather'd well your nest. What, what's the price now, hee, of all your stock? But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?"

Now Whitbread inward said, "May I be cursed If I know what to answer first;" Then searched his brains with ruminating eye: But e'er the man of malt an answer found, Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round, Skipped off, and baulked the pleasure of reply.

Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong- From curiosity doth wisdom flow: For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long, The more a man inquires, the more he'll know.

Reader, didst ever see a water-spout? 'Tis possible that thou wilt answer, "No." Well then! he makes a most infernal rout; Sucks, like an elephant, the waves below, With huge proboscis reaching from the sky, As if he meant to drink the ocean dry: At length so full he can't hold one drop more-. He bursts-down rush the waters with a roar On some poor boat, or sloop, or brig, or ship, And almost sinks the wand'rer of the deep: Thus have I seen a monarch at reviews, Suck from the tribe of officers the news, Then bear in triumph off each WONDROUS matter, And souse it on the queen with such a clatter!

I always would advise folks to ask questions; For, truly, questions are the keys of knowledge: Soldiers, who forage for the mind's digestions, Cut figures at the Old Bailey, and at college; Make chancellors, chief justices, and judges, Even of the lowest green-bag drudges.

The sages say, Dame Truth delights to dwell, Strange mansion! in the bottom of a well, Questions are then the windlass and the rope That pull the grave old gentlewoman up: Damn jokes then, and unmannerly suggestions, Reflecting upon kings for asking questions.

Now having well employed his royal lungs On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels, and their bungs, The king and Co. sat down to a collation Of flesh and fish, and fowl of every nation. Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork, That merciless fell like tomahawks to work, And fearless scalped the fowl, the fish, and cattle, While Whitbread, in the rear, beheld the battle.

The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath Amidst the regiments of death, Now turned to Whitbread with complacence round, And, merry, thus addressed the man of beer "Whitbread, is't true? I hear, I hear, You're of an ancient family—renowned— What? what? I'm told that you're a limb Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym: What Whitbread, is it true what people say? Son of a round-head are you? hae? hae? hae? I'm told that you send Bibles to your votes— A snuffling round-headed society— Prayer-books instead of cash to buy them coats— Bunyans, and Practices of Piety: Your Bedford votes would wish to change their fare— Rather see cash—yes, yes—than books of prayer. Thirtieth of January don't you FEED? Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head."

Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish, Whole hosts o'erturned—and seized on all supplies; The royal visitors expressed a wish To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes.

But first the monarch, so polite, Asked Mr. Whitbread if he'd be a KNIGHT. Unwilling in the list to be enrolled, Whitbread contemplated the knights of Peg, Then to his generous sovereign made a leg, And said, "He was afraid he was too old. He thanked however his most gracious king, For offering to make him SUCH A THING." But, ah! a different reason 'twas I fear! It was not age that bade the man of beer The proffered honor of the monarch shun: The tale of Margaret's knife, and royal fright, Had almost made him damn the NAME of knight, A tale that farrowed such a world of fun.

He mocked the prayer too by the king appointed, Even by himself the Lord's Anointed:— A foe to FAST too, is he, let me tell ye; And though a Presbyterian, can not think Heaven (quarrelling with meat and drink) Joys in the grumble of a hungry belly!

Now from the table with Caesarean air Up rose the monarch with his laureled brow, When Mr. Whitbread, waiting on his chair, Expressed much thanks, much joy, and made a bow. Miss Whitbread now so quick her curtsies drops, Thick as her honored father's Kentish hops; Which hop-like curtsies were returned by dips That never hurt the royal knees and hips; For hips and knees of queens are sacred things, That only bend on gala days Before the best of kings, When odes of triumph sound his praise.—

Now through a thundering peal of kind huzzas, Proceeding some from hired* and unhired jaws, The raree-show thought proper to retire; Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air, For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher *[Footnote: When his majesty goes to a play-house, or brew-house, or parliament, the Lord Chamberlain provides some pounds' worth of mob to huzza their beloved monarch. At the play-house about forty wide- mouthed fellows are hired on the night of their majesties' appearance, at two shillings and sixpence per head, with the liberty of seeing the play GRATIS. These STENTORS are placed in different parts of the theater, who, immediately on the royal entry into the stage-box, set up [illeg.] of loyalty; to whom their majesties, with sweetest smiles, acknowledge the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy. This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many, particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard—P. P.]

Such, Thomas, is the way to write! Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite; Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky: No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti.

Thus should an honest laureate write of kings— Not praise them for IMAGINARY THINGS; I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme Call every king a character sublime; For conscience will not suffer me to wander So very widely from the paths of candor. I know full well SOME kings are to be seen, To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen, Should that bold verse declare they wanted BRAINS I won't say that they NEVER brains possessed— They MAY have been with such a present blessed, And therefore fancy that some STILL remains;

For every well-experienced surgeon knows, That men who with their legs have parted, Swear that they've felt a pain in all their TOES, And often at the twinges started; They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain! Fancying the toes were all come back again.

If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned, Can fancy those same toes at times returned; So kings, in matters of intelligences, May fancy they have stumbled on their senses. Yes, Tom—mine is the way of writing ode— Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to God!

Strange disappointment in thy looks I read; And now I hear thee in proud triumph cry, "Is this an action, Peter, this a deed To raise a monarch to the sky? Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng, Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!"

Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels— Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife, But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact— Thy Caesar never did an act More wise, more glorious in his life.

Now God preserve all wonder-hunting kings, Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house: And may they never do more foolish things Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse.

THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN [ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.]

While at the helm of state you ride, Our nation's envy, and its pride; While foreign courts with wonder gaze, And curse those councils which they praise; Would you not wonder, sir, to view Your bard a greater man than you? Which that he is you can not doubt, When you have read the sequel out. You know, great sir, that ancient fellows, Philosophers, and such folks, tell us, No great analogy between Greatness and happiness is seen. If then, as it might follow straight, WRETCHED to be, is to be GREAT; Forbid it, gods, that you should try What'tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest, Is in our street esteem'd the greatest; But latest hours must surely fall 'Fore him who never dines at all.

Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admired by friend and foe: But can your earthly domes compare With all my castles—in the air?

We're often taught it doth behoove as To think those greater who're above us; Another instance of my glory, Who live above you, twice two story; And from my garret can look down On the whole street of ARLINGTON.

Greatness by poets still is painted With many followers acquainted: This too doth in my favor speak; YOUR levee is but twice a week; From mine I can exclude but one day, My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance, Doth your great bard claim less ascendance Familiar you to admiration May be approached by all the nation; While I, like the Mogul in INDO, Am never seen but at my window. If with my greatness you're offended, The fault is easily amended; For I'll come down, with wondrous ease, Into whatever PLACE you please. I'm not ambitious; little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures.

Suppose a secretary o' this isle, Just to be doing with a while; Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop: Or I can foreign treaties dish up. If the good genius of the nation Should call me to negotiation, Tuscan and French are in my head, LATIN I write, and GREEK—I read.

If you should ask, what pleases best? To get the most, and do the least. What fittest for?—You know, I'm sure; I'm fittest for—a SINE-CURE.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE GRINDER. [Footnote: Some stanzas of the original poem, by Southey, are here subjoined:]

ANTI-JACOBIN. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. [Footnote: The "Friend of Humanity" was intended for Mr. Tierney, M.P. for Southwark, who in early times was among the more forward of the Reformers. "He was," says Lord Brougham, "an assiduous member of the Society of Friends of the People, and drew up the much and justly celebrated Petition in which that useful body laid before the House of Commons all the more striking particulars of its defective title to the office of representing the people, which that House then, as now, but with far less reason, assumed.]

"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order— Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches!"

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHIOS

Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell: Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked; When a poor wand'rer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom: She had no home, the world was all before her. She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her: "Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer, "Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish."

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 'Knives and "'Scissors to grind O!'

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story."

KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

"Constables came up, for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish— Stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir."

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

"I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first— Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance— Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!"

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]