And sets the bellows piping;
Next Vol. you'll grind the flats again,
And file the sharps unto the grain,
Their very stomachs griping.

But why, good Bernard, do you dream
That we Reviewers scorn the cream
Arising from your jokes?
Upon my soul, we love some fun
As well as any 'neath the sun,
Although we fight in cloaks.

Heav'n help thee, boy, we are not they
Who only go to damn a play,

And cackle in the pit ;

Like good Sir William Curtis 2 we
Can laugh at nous and drollery,
Though of ourselves 'twere writ.

Was yours but sky blue milk and water,
We'd hand you over to the slaughter
Of cow committee-men3 ;

For butterflies, and "such small deer,"
Are much beneath our potent spear-
The sharp gray goose-wing'd pen.

1 See my friend Bernard's cracker to the reviewers in No. 12, a perfect fifth of November bit of firework, I can assure you, good people. But it won't go off with me without a brand from the bonfire in return. "Bear this bear all."

2 Have you ever dared the "salt sea ocean," my readers, with the alderman admiral? If not, know that he has as pretty a collection of caricatures in his cabin, and all against his own sweet self, as need be wished to heal sea-sickness. Is not this magnanimity? I think so. The baronet is really "a worthy gentleman."

3 Vide advertisements of "Alderney Milk Company." What company shall we keep next, my masters? Mining companies, or steam brick companies, or washing companies? How many of them will be in the suds anon? Pshaw! throw physic to the projectors-I prefer strong beer well hopped.

But yours we feel is sterner stuff,
And though perchance too much in buff,
More natural you will swear;

It really shows such game and pluck,
That we could take with you "pot luck,"
And deem it decent fare.

But, 'pon our conscience, bonny lad,
(We've got some, boy), it is too bad
So fiercely to show fight;
Gadzooks, 'tis time when comes the foe
To strip and sport a word and blow,
My dear pugnacious wight!

'Tis very wise, I own, to pull
Fast by the horns some butting bull,
When 'gainst yourself he flies;
But to attack that sturdy beast,
When he's no thoughts on you to feast,
Is very otherwise.

But we'll forgive your paper balls,
Which on our jackets hurtless falls,
Like hail upon a tower:

Pray put wet blankets on your ire;
Really, good sir, we've no desire
To blight so smart a flower.

Well, then, I see no reason why
There should be war, good Mister Spy
So, faith! we'll be allies;

And if we must have fights and frays,
We'll shoot at pride and poppinjays,
And folly as it flies.

There's field enough for both to beat Employment for our hands, eyes, feet,

To mark the quarry down,

Black game and white game a full crop,
Fine birds, fine feathers for to lop,
In country and in town.

New city specs, new west-end rigs,

New gas-blown boots, new steam-curl'd wigs,
New fashionable schools,

New dandies, and new Bond-street dons,
And new intrigues, and new crim cons,
New companies of fools.1

Maria Foote and Edmund Kean,
The "lions" just now of the scene,

Shall yield to newer fun;

For all our wonders at the best
Are cast off for a newer vest,
After a nine days' run.

Old beaux at Bath, manoeuvring belles,
And pump-room puppies, Melsom swells,
And Mr. Heaviside,5

6

And Cheltenham carders, every runt,

+ See note 3, page 6.

5 Mr. Heaviside, the polite M. C. of Bath. He has the finest cauliflower head of hair I ever remember; but it covers a world of wit, for all that, and therefore however it may appear, it certainly is not the heavy side of him.

6 Cards, cards, cards, nothing but cards from "rosy morn to dewy eve" at the town of Cheltenham. Whist, with the sun shining upon their sovereigns, one would think a sovereign remedy for their waste of the blessed day—ecarte, whilst the blue sky is mocking the blue countenances of your thirty pound losers in as many seconds. Is it not marvellous? Fathers, husbands, men who profess to belong to the Church. By Jupiter! instead of founding the new university they talk about, they had better make it for the pupilage of perpetual card-players, and let them take their degrees by the cleverness in odd tricks, or their ability in shuffling. "No offence, Gregory." "No wonder they have their decrepit ones, their runters."

The playhouse, Berkeley, and "the hunt,"
With Marshall' by their side.

All these and more I should be loth
To let escape from one or both,

So saddle for next heat:

The bell is rung, the course is clear'd,
Mount on your hobby, "nought afear'd,"
Black-jacket can't be beat.

"Dum spiro spero" shout, and ride
Till you have 'scalp'd old Folly's hide,
And none a kiss will waft her;
Bind all the fools in your new book,
That "I spy I" may lay my hook,
And d-n them nicely after.

AN HONEST REVIEWER.8

Given at my friend "Sir John Barleycorn's" Chambers, Tavistock, Covent Garden, this the 19th day of February, 1825, with morning."

"almost at odds

"Wear him in your

7 Mr. Marshall, the M. C. of Cheltenham. heart's core, Horatio." I knew him well, a "fellow of infinite jest." A long reign and a merry one to him.

8 My anonymous friend will perceive that I estimate his wit and talent quite as much as his honesty: had he not been such a rara avis he would have been consigned to the "tomb of all the Capulets."

CYTHEREAN BEAUTIES.

"The trav'ller, if he chance to stray,
May turn uncensured to his way;
Polluted streams again are pure,
And deepest wounds admit a cure;
But woman no redemption knows-
The wounds of honour never close."

MOORE.

TREMBLE not, ye fair daughters of chastity! frown not, ye moralists! as your eyes rest upon the significant title to our chapter, lest we should sacrifice to curiosity the blush of virtue. We are painters of real life in all its varieties, but our colouring shall not be over-charged, or our characters out of keeping. The glare of profligacy shall be softened down or so neutralized as not to offend the most delicate feelings. In sketching the reigning beauties of the time, we shall endeavour to indulge the lovers of variety without sacrificing the fair fame of individuals, or attempting to make vice respectable. Pleasure is our pursuit, but we are accompanied up the flowery ascent by Contemplation and Reflection, two monitors that shrink back, like sensitive plants, as the thorns press upon them through the ambrosial beds of new-blown roses. In our record of the daughters of Pleasure, we shall only notice those who are distinguished as belles of ton--stars of the first magnitude in the hemisphere of Fashion; and of these the reader may say, with one or two exceptions, they "come like shadows, so depart." We would rather excite sympathy and pity for the