"Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied, And whose worship not ev'n among Christians

declines,

In our senate thou'st languish'd since Sheridan died, But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

Rare Sydney! thrice honour'd the stall where he sits,

And be his ev'ry honour he deigneth to climb at! Had England a hierarchy form'd all of wits,

Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?

And long may he flourish, frank, merry, and brave— A Horace to hear, and a Paschal to read * ; While he laughs, all is safe, but, when Sydney

grows grave,

We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.

* Some parts of the Provinciales may be said to be of the highest order of jeux d'esprit, or squibs.

Meanwhile, it much glads us to find he's preparing

To teach other bishops to "seek the right way* ;" And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing,

Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.

For our parts, though gravity's good for the soul, Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun

on,

We'd rather with Sydney south-west take a "stroll," Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

"This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and N. E. you had turned about," &c. &c. -SYDNEY SMITH's Last Letter to the Bishop of London.

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM T. M. TO S. R.

WHAT, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,
And, better still, a man of guineas,
To talk of "patrons," in these times,
When authors thrive, like spinning-jennies,
And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page
Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no-those times are past away,
When, doom'd in upper floors to star it,
The bard inscrib'd to lords his lay,-
Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.
No more he begs, with air dependent,
His "little bark may sail attendant"
Under some lordly skipper's steerage;

But launch'd triumphant in the Row,
Or ta'en by Murray's self in tow,

Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whisk'd from England by the gale,
But bears on board some authors, shipp'd
For foreign shores, all well equipp’d
With proper book-making machinery,
To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,
Of all such lands as they shall see,
Or not see, as the case may be:

It being enjoin'd on all who go
To study first Miss M********,
And learn from her the method true,
To do one's books-and readers, too.
For so this nymph of nous and nerve
Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"
And, lest mankind at all should swerve,
Teaches them also "What to Observe."

No, no, my friend-it can't be blink'd—

The Patron is a race extinct;

As dead as any Megatherion

That ever Buckland built a theory on.
Instead of bartering, in this age,

Our praise for pence and patronage,

We, authors, now, more prosperous elves,
Have learn'd to patronise ourselves;
And since all-potent Puffing's made

The life of song, the soul of trade,
More frugal of our praises grown,
We puff no merits but our own.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really raise the wind;
And since they've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse, now, taking to the till,
Has open'd shop on Ludgate Hill
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows);
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,
Touches the notes for each new theme,

While still fresh "change comes o'er her dream."