"Our readers, perhaps, may smile at the following, which appears in yesterday's Court Journal:

"We have received a letter, signed " W. Marshall," and dated "York;" claiming for its writer the long-contested authorship of those celebrated verses, which are known by the title of The Devil's Walk on Earth, and to which attention has lately been directed anew, by Lord Byron's imitation of them. There have been so many mystifications connected with the authorship of these clever verses, that, for any thing we know to the contrary, this letter may be only one more.""

A week afterwards there was the following notice :

"We cannot waste any more time about The Devil's Walk.

We happen to know that it is Mr. Southey's; but as he is alive, we refer any body, who is not yet satisfied, to the eminent person himself-we do not mean the Devil-but the Doctor."

The same newspaper contained the ensuing advertisement: -"On Tuesday next, uniform with Robert Cruikshank's Monsieur Tonson, price one shilling: The Devil's Walk, a Poem, by Professor Porson. With additions and variations by Southey and Coleridge: illustrated by seven engravings

from R. Cruikshank. London, Marsh and Miller, 137, Oxford Street; and Constable and Co., Edinburgh."

Professor Porson never had any part in these verses as a writer, and it is for the first time that he now appears in them as the subject of two or three stanzas written some few years ago, when the fabricated story of his having composed them during an evening party at Dr. Vincent's (for that was the original habitat of this falsehood) was revived. A friend of one of the authors, more jealous for him than he has ever been for himself, urged him then to put the matter out of doubt, (for it was before Mr. Coleridge had done so ;) and as much to please that friend as to amuse himself and his domestic circle, in a sportive mood, the part which relates the rise and progress of the Poem was thrown off, and that also touching

the aforesaid Professor. The old vein having thus been opened, some other passages were added; and so it grew to its present length.

THE DEVIL'S WALK.

1.

FROM his brimstone bed at break of day
A walking the Devil is gone,

To look at his little, snug farm of the World,
And see how his stock went on.

2.

Over the hill and over the dale,

And he went over the plain;

And backward and forward he swish'd his tail, As a gentleman swishes a cane.

3.

How then was the Devil dress'd?

Oh, he was in his Sunday's best; His coat was red, and his breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through.

4.

A lady drove by in her pride,

In whose face an expression he spied,

For which he could have kiss'd her; Such a flourishing, fine, clever creature was she, With an eye as wicked as wicked can be: I should take her for my Aunt, thought he; If my dam had had a sister.

--

30.

Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day,
When the caldron of mischief boils,
And I bring them forth in battle array,

And bid them suspend their broils,
That they may unite and fall on the prey,
For which we are spreading our toils.
How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call,
Hark away! hark away to the spoils!
My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks,
My Shields and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Don-
nells,

My joke-smith Sidney, and all of his kidney, My Humes and my Broughams,

My merry old Jerry,

My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles!

31.

At this good news, so great

The Devil's pleasure grew,

That with a joyful swish he rent

The hole where his tail came through.

32.

His countenance fell for a moment
When he felt the stitches go;

Ah! thought he, there's a job now

That I've made for my tailor below.

33.

Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman;
The Devil said, Stop, let me see!
Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil,
The bloodier the better for me.

34.

So he bought the newspaper, and no news
At all for his money he had.

Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick!
But it's some satisfaction, my lad,

To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

35.

And then it came into his head,

By oracular inspiration,

That what he had seen and what he had said,
In the course of this visitation,
Would be published in the Morning Post
For all this reading nation.

36.

Therewith in second-sight he saw

The place, and the manner and time, In which this mortal story

Would be put in immortal rhyme.

37.

That it would happen when two poets
Should on a time be met

In the town of Nether Stowey,
In the shire of Somerset.

38.

There, while the one was shaving, Would he the song begin;

And the other, when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in.

39.

So each would help the other,
Two heads being better than one;
And the phrase and conceit
Would in unison meet,

And so with glee the verse flow free
In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme,
Till the whole were merrily done.

40.

And because it was set to the razor,
Not to the lute or harp,
Therefore it was that the fancy
Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.
41.

But then, said Satan to himself,
As for that said beginner,
Against my infernal Majesty
There is no greater sinner.

42.

He hath put me in ugly ballads

With libellous pictures for sale; He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail.

43.

But this Mister Poet shall find

I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him.

44.

He went to a coffee-house to dine,

And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish.

45.

They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man.

46.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings;
Tell your master, quoth he, what I say;
If he charges at this rate for all things,
He must be in a pretty good way.

47.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter,
I'm a dealer myself in this line,
And his business, between you and me,
Nothing like so extensive as mine.

48.

Now soles are exceedingly cheap;
Which he will not attempt to deny,
When I see him at my fish-market,
I warrant him, by and by.

49.

As he went along the Strand

Between three in the morning and four, He observed a queer-looking person Who stagger'd from Perry's door.

50.

And he thought that all the world over In vain for a man you might seek, Who could drink more like a Trojan, Or talk more like a Greek.

51.

The Devil then he prophesied

It would one day be matter of talk,
That with wine when smitten,

And with wit moreover being happily bitten,
This erudite bibber was he who had written
The story of this Walk.

52.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil;

A pretty mistake, I opine!

I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth; He will never put good ones in mine.

53.

And whoever shall say that to Porson These best of all verses belong,

He is an untruth-telling whoreson, And so shall be call'd in the song.

54.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame, Any one else should put in a claim

In this comical competition,

That excellent poem will prove

A man-trap for such foolish ambition,

INSCRIPTIONS.

THE three utilities of Poetry: the praise of Virtue and Goodness, the memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the Affections. Welsh Triad.

1.

FOR A COLUMN AT NEWBURY. CALLEST thou thyself a Patriot?-On this field Did Falkland fall, the blameless and the brave, Beneath the banners of that Charles whom thou Abhorrest for a Tyrant. Dost thou boast Of loyalty? The field is not far off Where, in rebellious arms against his King, Hambden was kill'd, that Hambden at whose name The heart of many an honest Englishman Beats with congenial pride. Both uncorrupt, Friends to their common country both, they fought, They died in adverse armies. Traveller! If with thy neighbor thou shouldst not accord, Remember these, our famous countrymen, And quell all angry and injurious thoughts. Bristol, 1796.

II.

FOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE RIVER AVON.

ENTER this cavern, Stranger! Here, awhile
Respiring from the long and steep ascent,
Thou mayst be glad of rest, and haply too
Of shade, if from the summer's westering sun

55.

Now the morning air was cold for him, Who was used to a warm abode; And yet he did not immediately wish, To set out on his homeward road.

56.

For he had some morning calls to make
Before he went back to Hell;

So, thought he, I'll step into a gaming-house,
And that will do as well;

But just before he could get to the door
A wonderful chance befell.

57.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General

-'s burning face; And it struck him with such consternation, That home in a hurry his way did he take, Because he thought by a slight mistake 'Twas the general conflagration.

Round the rude portal clasping its rough arms
The antique ivy spreads a canopy,

From whose gray blossoms the wild bees collect
In autumn their last store. The Muses love
This spot; believe a Poet who hath felt
Their visitation here. The tide below
Rising or refluent scarcely sends its sound
Of waters up; and from the heights beyond,
Where the high-hanging forest waves and sways,
Varying before the wind its verdant hues,
The voice is music here. Here thou mayst feel
How good, how lovely, Nature! And when hence
Returning to the city's crowded streets,

Thy sickening eye at every step revolts
From scenes of vice and wretchedness, reflect
That Man creates the evil he endures.
Bristol, 1796.

May here detain thee, Traveller! from thy road
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
Some Warrior sleeps below, whose gallant deeds
Haply at many a solemn festival

The Scald hath sung; but perish'd is the song
Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs
The wind that passes and is heard no more.
Go, Traveller, and remember, when the pomp
Of earthly Glory fades, that one good deed,
Unseen, unheard, unnoted by mankind,
Lives in the eternal register of Heaven.
Bristol, 1796.

IV.

FOR A MONUMENT IN THE NEW

FOREST.

THIS is the place where William's kingly power
Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel,
Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,
The habitants of all the fertile track
Far as these wilds extend. He levell'd down
Their little cottages; he bade their fields
Lie waste, and forested the land, that so
More royally might he pursue his sports.
If that thine heart be human, Passenger!
Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips
Will mutter curses on him. Think thou then
What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred
Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power
Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Man;
And as thy thoughts anticipate that day
When God shall judge aright, in charity
Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.
Bristol, 1796.

VI.

FOR THE CENOTAPH AT ERMENONVILLE.

*

STRANGER! the MAN of NATURE lies not here:
Enshrined far distant by the Scoffer's side
His relics rest, there by the giddy throng
With blind idolatry alike revered.
Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet

Explored the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAU
Loved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace;
Here he has heard the murmurs of the lake,
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,
When o'er its bending boughs the passing wind
Swept a gray shade. Here, if thy breast be full,
If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,
His SPIRIT shall behold thee, to thine home
From hence returning, purified of heart.
Bristol, 1796.

VII.

FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFORD.

HERE Latimer and Ridley in the flames
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd
Uprightly through the world, just thoughts of joy
May fill thy breast in contemplating here
Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved
From the straight path of even rectitude,
Fearful in trying seasons to assert

The better cause, or to forsake the worse
Reluctant, when perchance therein enthrall'd
Slave to false shame, oh! thankfully receive
The sharp, compunctious motions that this spot
May wake within thee, and be wise in time,
And let the future for the past atone.

Batn, 1797.

V.

FOR A TABLET ON THE BANKS OF A STREAM.

[speed

STRANGER! awhile upon this mossy bank
Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze,
That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,
Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound
Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear
They sparkle o'er the shallows, and behold
Where o'er their surface wheels with restless
Yon glossy insect, on the sand below
How its swift shadow flits. In solitude
The rivulet is pure, and trees and herbs
Bend o'er its salutary course refresh'd;
But passing on amid the haunts of men,
It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence
A tainted stream. Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS?
Go, Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot
Of INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.

Bristol, 1796.

VIII.

FOR A MONUMENT IN THE VALE OF EWIAS.

HERE was it, Stranger, that the patron Saint
Of Cambria pass'd his age of penitence,
A solitary man; and here he made

His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink
Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy
youth

Has read with eager wonder how the Knight
Of Wales in Ormandine's enchanted bower
Slept the long sleep; and if that in thy veins
Flow the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood
Hath flow'd with quicker impulse at the tale
Of David's deeds, when through the press of war
His gallant comrades follow'd his green crest
To victory. Stranger! Hatterill's mountain heights,
And this fair vale of Ewias, and the stream

* Voltaire.