We cannot enough congratulate ourselves on having been so fortunate as to fall upon the curious specimens of classical metre and correct sentiment which we have made the subject of our late Jacobinical imitations.

The fashion of admiring and imitating these productions has spread in a surprising degree. Even those who sympathise with the principles of the writer selected as our model, seem to have been struck with the ridicule of his poetry.

There appeared in the Morning Chronicle of Monday a Sapphic Ode, apparently written by a friend and associate of our author, in which he is however travestied most unmercifully. And to make the joke the more pointed, the learned and judicious editor contrived to print the ode en masse, without any order of lines, or division of stanza; so that it was not discovered to be verse till the next day, when it was explained in a hobbling erratum.

We hardly know which to consider as the greater object of compassion in this case—the original Odist, thus parodied by his friend, or the mortified Parodist thus mutilated by his printer. “Et tu, Brute!” has probably been echoed from each of these worthies to his murderer, in a tone that might melt the hardest heart to pity.

We cordially wish them joy of each other, and we resign the modern Lesbian lyre into their hands without envy or repining.

Our author’s Dactylics have produced a second imitation (conveyed to us from an unknown hand), with which we take our leave of this species of poetry also.

THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.^[20]

[The following is the Sapphic Ode alluded to above, which was intended by the poet of the Morning Chronicle as a “retort courteous” to the Friend of Humanity. The printer of that paper, unfortunately, being new to “such branches of learning,” and not dreaming it could be intended for poetry, printed it as below. The mistake seems to have been immediately discovered, for it re-appeared next day (Dec. 12) in the guise of verse.—Ed.]

THE COLLECTOR AND THE HOUSEHOLDER.

H.

Greedy Collector, whither are you going, thus with your inkhorn in your buttonhole, and ledger so snugly underneath your coat? Say, greedy Collector.

C.

Much I rejoice that I have met you here, friend: turn back, I pri’thee, ’tis with you I want to speak; I am come on business of importance—gentle Householder.

H.

Greedy Collector, well I know your business, ’tis for my taxes you are come to dun me; well! ’tis the last time you will have a right to ask me for money. Buggy, no longer do I drive a smart one; smash went my gig, as long [ago] as Easter; down Highgate hill we tumbled altogether, horse, wife, and I, Sir. One broke his knees, and^[23] another broke his collar-bone; there’s an end of pleasuring on Sundays. Take my last payment; there is your two pounds twelve shillings and ninepence.

C.

Gentle householder, much are you mistaken; Order, Religion, Constitution, Laws, and rational freedom, all demand from you a—triple assessment.

H.

Triple Assessment! What beside the old tax?

C.

Certainly: come, deposit, I’m a waiting.

H.

Wait and be damned. What is it you are after?

C.

Ten pounds eleven.

H.

Ten pounds eleven! have I not informed thee gig I have none? I’ve sent it to the hammer; Pay for a gig and not [to] have it!

C.

But you had one at Easter!

H.

Easter is past and gone. I’ll never pay thee.

C.

Gentle Householder, then I must proceed to shew thee a little bit of parchment, called a writ of distringer [for distringas].

[Exit Collector to take possession of the Householder’s bed and furniture.

The verses which we here present to the public were written immediately after the Revolution of the 4th of September. We should be much obliged to any of our classical and loyal correspondents for an English translation of them.

LATIN VERSES
Written immediately after the Revolution of the 4th of September.