the instrument of a party. I love the king, but I love
the people as well as the king; and if I am sorry to see his old age
molested, I am much more sorry to see four millions of Catholics
baffled in their just expectations. If I love Lord Grenville and Lord
Howick, it is because they love their country; if I abhor ... it is
because I know there is but one man among them who is not laughing at
the enormous folly and credulity of the country, and that he is an
ignorant and mischievous bigot. As for the light and frivolous jester,
of whom it is your misfortune to think so highly, learn, my dear
Abraham, that this political Killigrew, just before the breaking up of
the last administration, was in actual treaty with them for a place;
and if they had survived twenty-four hours longer, he would have been
now declaiming against the cry of No Popery! instead of inflaming it.
With this practical comment on the baseness of human nature, I bid you
adieu!

JAMES SMITH.

(1775-1839.)

LVI. THE POET OF FASHION.

From the famous _Rejected Addresses_.

His book is successful, he's steeped in renown,
His lyric effusions have tickled the town;
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker's face:
While, proud as Apollo, with peers _tete-a-tete_,
From Monday till Saturday dining off plate,
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.

Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks,
Whose tea-spoons do duty for knives and for forks,
Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o'clock card,
And get up a dinner to peep at the bard;
Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth,
And soup _a la reine_, little better than broth.
While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street,

Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,
Remember'd by starts, and forgotten by fits,
Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.
Now soup _a la reine_ bends the knee to ox-cheek,
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble-and-squeak.
While, still in translation employ'd by "the Row"
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.

Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon's brink,
Toss'd, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,
Now squat city misses their albums expand,
And woo the wor