[From the Morning Post, May-20.]

THE Judges toll the knell of Burdett's fame,
The rabble-rout disperse with lack of glee;
The Counsel homeward plod just as they came,
And leave the Hall to darkness and to me.
Now fades each fairy prospect on my sight;
All nature now appears to make a pause,
Save where the wits the Chronicle who write
Weave drowsy paragraphs to patch my cause.
Beneath these ancient walls, once vocal made
By vote of thanks, which late I found so cheap,
Indignant Justice bids my laurels fade,
The dull copartners of my folly weep.

For me no more the flaming press shall teem,
Nor busy printers ply their evening care;
No patriots flock to propagate my theme,

Nor lick my feet the ill-got wreath to share:
The fulsome strain of incense-breathing puff,
The snuffman bawling to the throng misled;
Cobbett's foul Register, nor all the stuff

Of weekly scribes, can raise my drooping head.
Oft did the thoughtless to their judgments yield,
Their railings oft disloyal rage provoke ;
How jocund each his secret soul reveal'd,
How laugh'd the crowd at ev'ry hackney'd joke!
Now you, ye loyal, fix on them the fault,
If memory to my name no trophies raise,
Where in the ample page, with zeal unbought,
The pen historic gives the meed of praise.

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Can golden box *, though worth a hundred pound,

Back to poor Burdett bring his forfeit fame ?
Can honour's voice now on his side be found,
Or flatt'ry shield him from contempt and shame?

The boast of popularity's short hour,

And all that faction gains by means most base, Await alike exposure, dreaded power!

The paths of folly lead but to disgrace.

Yes; still my name to rescue from neglect,
Some frail memorials that on bookstalls lie,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd
Implore the passing tribute of a sigh.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
Such pleasing transient laurels e'er resign'd,
Left his proud height, the idol of a day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some frail prop sedition still relies,

Some pious souls its frustrate arm admires;
E'en from the grave its fetid stench will rise,
E'en in its ashes live its wonted fires.

For ye, who mindful of my honours dead,
Do in your lines my hapless tale relate,
If by kind feeling to your office led,

Some crazy patriot shall inquire my fate,

Ah, woe is me! some wicked wit will tell,
"Oft have we seen him, ere the evening fall,
Brushing with hasty steps along Pall Mall,
To meet Lloyd Wardle at the House's call.

"There to the nodding Members, luckless wights!.
In hackney'd strains, till midnight would he preach
'Bout Magna Charta, and the Bill of Rights,
And prate of things far, far, beyond his reach.

The City Box, refused by the Prince Regent, was 'proposed by draper Waithman to be given to the Baronet if his cause had suc ceeded; but, alas! it is destined again to go a-begging.



To prison sent, he swore they'd us'd him ill, The room * was powerless, as all should see ; The trial came, and British Judges still

Refus'd to change the House's just decree.

And now with judgment due, in sad dismay, He sees himself consign'd to public scorn; Approach and read, if thou canst read, the lay Penn'd in the Post, to Jacobins a thorn:


"Here hides his head, now humbled to the earth, A man to John Horne and his Faction known; Fair talents never smil'd upon his birth,


And Disappointment mark'd him for her own.. "Large were his wishes, but his lot severe ;: To Tooke he ow'd his fortune and reverse: He gain'd from John, 't was all his portion-shame ;: John gain'd from him, 't was all he wish'd-his purse..

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode ; Where they have met the awful test he chose, The judgment of his country and his God."




[From the General Evening Post, May 21.]


AM astonished at the assertion, that paper-money is depreciated. The following fact will, I trust,. convince you that you are mistaken. You must know, Sir, that I find it convenient to live upon my shifts, as the phrase is; I have tried various ones, but not

*Room- -a name given by the Baronet to the British House of Commons.

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any with so much success as the following: About a month ago I sold a guinea, or rather bought a pound note," by which I netted 4s. The odd silver purchased me two dinners. On the third day I called at the same chop-house, ate my dinner as usual, and pulled out my one-pound note: "Oh, Sir," said the waiter, we have no change; I had much rather trust you." This was good-I finished my porter, and went away. Not having been able to raise the wind in shillings, I went the following day to another chop-house; ate my dinner-produced my note :-

Upon my word, Sir, we must trust you-we have not five shillings in the house: d-n the Bank and its paper too, we shall all be ruined!"-" Bless the Bank and its paper too," thought I; and then left the waiter biting his lips with vexation at losing his "odd halfpence." This circumstance happened the day following at a third house; when I began to find that my one-pound note was as valuable to me as Fortunatus's Purse. I have only to eat my dinner, show my paper, curse the Bank, and live like a gentleman. Who now will say that paper-money is 'depreciated? Besides, the moral effects of this new system of "Ways and Means" are incalculable.I who, for these twenty years past, have been compelled to invent a weekly succession of frauds, have now reduced them to this simple one, of exhibiting a single one-pound note, which I came honestly by, in part of payment for a solitary bit of gold, which would hardly have furnished me with as many dinners as I have lived weeks on the credit of Mr. Henry Hase.

I am, Sir, your most obedient,




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ALTHOUGH I do not profess to be an advocate for the managers of our theatres in all their mea sures, yet the attempts now making to excite a clamour against them, on account of the quadruped performers, are not, in my humble opinion, entirely reconcilable to the strict principles of justice. That all the blame should rest with those who have introduced horses, and none with the public which encourage them, is a paradox that demands some explanation. But it is not the only one which has arisen out of the present convulsed state of our theatrical repubJic; and I should suppose there must be something very ominous at the present crisis, since we see as many reformers and capitalists gathering about the stage, as gathered about France previous to her RevoJution.

As to the question between the managers and the public, with respect to matters of taste, I am much inclined to think that the latter are more reprehensible than the former. What the facetious Jack Fuller says of the people, with regard to currency, I should be disposed to apply to them with regard to theatrical amusements:-"They will take tallow candles; they will take oyster-shells, or any thing." And without going farther back than about thirty years, the period of my own remembrance, I think I may venture to say, without danger of contradiction, that the public has taken any thing. In 1781, they submitted to; but that is a weak word; they eagerly patronized, the transformation, as it was called, of the Beggar's Opera; when the male characters were performed by women, and vice versa; which was surely as gross a violation


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