Oh, gaily did we hasten to the London Institution,

Expecting some amusement in our inartistic way,

And little did we reckon on the awful retribution

Which Mr. Henry Blackburn had in store for us that day.

We'd fondly looked towards him for an eulogistic blessing,

But got instead a general and comprehensive curse,

We are, as he informed us, with an emphasis distressing,

By nature inartistic, and are daily getting worse.

Thereafter he directed magisterial attention

Upon the hapless authors who a fleeting fame had got;

He drew no nice distinctions, nor selected some for mention,

But, with superb simplicity, he just condemned the lot.

Every man of them is sinning with an ignorance persistent,

Poet, novelist and critic, or whatever be their sphere,

Their "individuality" is almost non-existent,

And only on occasions, if at all, are they "sincere."

Well, what, then, is the remedy? Will Mr. Blackburn fix it?

Must all our fiction travel from the cultured Continent?

Or dares we snap our fingers at this haughty ipse dixit,

And read our inartistic books in very great content?