Victor vanquished; the pains of Pena; the British Lions in the Isle of Leon; the soul-lessness of Soul-(t); and many obvious cognominal puns arising out of the Battle of Barrosa (an unfortunate battle! liable to no quibble). The very last dispatches from Portugal abound in notable opportunities for the exercise of this sublime art. How many happy paragraphs, for instance, might be manufactured out of the following example!

The first stand made by the enemy was at Pombal, not an inapt name for the place where so many balls were discharged. We have next the Convent of Alcobaco (Anglice, All go back-o!) destroyed in the retreat. Then comes General Montbrun, or Mount Brown, the commander of the French cavalry; then a terrible skirmish, offering a rich pun in the Cacadores; and Genera! Erskine, who terrified the enemy into no very savoury pickle at the Sour (Sour) River. Then we have General Nightingale amusing them with his military notes during the pursuit in the night. Then the slaughter at Miranda de Corvo, from the wonderful multitudes of crows hovering about to pick the dead Frenchmen's bones. Then we catch sight of them at Viseu; cut off a guard at Guarda; get nigh Marshal Ney, if so pronounced, or, if you pronounce it otherwise, bring him upon his knee; obtain the pulm of victory at Palma; ram on to surprise General Ramon; collect forces at Portalegre, or Port-o'-leaguer; and do a thousand other feats indicated by the places or generals concerned in this warfare.

We might go on ad infinitum, but "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof !" We have said enough to encourage obstinate punsters; and enough to furnish prophets with the power of predicting from the past what will be the future fates of the rival armies, as they proceed into the interior, or acquire officers of other names. This we may venture to add, that of

Bessy

Bessy Aris (Bessieres, whom we take to be a daughter of Governor Aris)-there will be plenty of prisoners taken; and if King Joseph be driven from Spain, it will be of no avail for him to talk of a Regnier, reign near! A PROFESSOR.

NAPPY AND JOEY.

[From the Morning Post, April 19.]

QUOTH Nap to Joe, with face of woe,
"The game is up in Spain;

Massena 's beat, in full retreat,

And Victor's dish'd again.

"O dire mishap, just as Young Nap
Was christen'd King of Rome,
At future day, the world to sway, i
As Sovereign Prince alone.

"O d'd reverse! O fatal curse!
'Where's now my boasted name,
Which us'd t' inspire my troops with fire,
And lead them on to fame ?

"The charm is broke, and soon forsook
By all will be my lot;

So, Brother Joe, since things are so,
Fly, or you'll go to pot.'

1

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE, I

SIR,

[April 19.]

MY avocations leading me amongst pots and pans,

I have been fortunate enough to pick up these reflections upon crockery, to which you are heartily welcome. After reading them, and being apprized of the determination of many Irish families, to have (in the event of the tax being laid) all their crockery ware

made

made of pewter, I am sure our worthy Chancellor of the Exchequer will not persevere, but turn his attention to other sources of supply. I know of many, but will not reveal them, conceiving myself ill-treated in having been recently refused a small sinecure for my nephew, the secretaryship to the society for the discouragement of vice, and the promotion of religion and virtue, about to be established by Mr. Wilberforce and Lord Sidmouth at Botany Bay.

I am, Sir, yours,

TIMOTHY TINKER.

REFLECTIONS UPON CROCKERY,

SUGGESTED BY SOME RUMOURS RESPECTING THE
INTENDED TAXES.

'TIS said, to raise the ways and means,

A tax on tea-pots and tureens,

Lurks in the corner of the budget

Sing Muse, what classes most will grudge it!
Eaters of turtle soup will grumble,

As through the "deep profound" they fumble
For calipash and calipee-

But folks must pay for luxury.

But, oh ye milliners!, who toil
Through cat-gut, tiffany, and foil,
Ye maids (I speak porticé)

Of every varying degree, ́

Who breakfast, dine, and sup on tea

For you I feel affliction true→

Tea-pots are every thing to you!

And shall the Minister attack
This source of aliment and clack?

Rather than this, let scandal die,

And femmes de chambre cease to pry it base
Rather than this, quit tales impure,nt yii 1994 (0)
And read the works of Hannah More →→

But if the mischief ended here,

I would not drop one sorrowing tear- 20
I cannot hide the direful news!

The Chancellor has further views!

1

The

The fact I'm striving to disclose,

I had from Croker and from Rose-
Yorke swears 'tis true, and so they say
Does that thin peer Lord Castlereagh.
- Lord Eldon hesitated long,

First deem'd it right, then thought it wrong;
But Redesdale calm'd the tumult wild,
And Liverpool look'd up and smil'd.

O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
My guardian angel stand confest,
For pain and anguish wring my breast!--
The rankling secret festers there!
Oh, teach me, sweet retiring fair!
How I may plead your injur'd claim
To that which awe, and blushing shame,
Forbid my falt'ring tongue to name.
Oh, had I Fuller's matchless grace,
Or Doctor Duig'nan's placid face,
Venting his orthodoxious roar,
The bully of the scarlet whore-
Or Foster's jokes that always hit,
Or the Attorney-General's wit;
Then might I hope, with some applause,
To sing of that mysterious vase
Which, by stern Spencer dragg'd to day,
Must soon th' obnoxious impost pay.
Oh, Spencer! tender once and good,
(And used to the melting mood,")
The parent of a numerous brood,
Who all inclin'd their pretty backs
O'er what you now, inhuman, tax,

1

Oh !

Oh! why embarrass and perplex
Each member of that charming sex,
To whose dear tenderness we owe
All we can taste of bliss below,
Or dream of happiness above?

For love is heaven, and heaven is love!
Oh! why at each returning eve
So many gentle bosoms grieve,
Or damp the morning's genial ray
With such a double tax to pay?

Oh, Spencer Perceval, take care
Of meddling with the crockery ware!
Oh! Spencer, Spencer! dread the fate
Of Twiss, before it be too late.
Indignant potters will portray
Thy visage on the ductile clay;
While every little titt'ring miss
(In this place there is a small hiatus.)
Will call thee, Spencer, Dicky Twiss!
Thee, on whose mellifluous tongue
Enraptur'd placemen fondly hung;
Thee, fill'd with the sophistic lore
Of that great statesman now no more ;
Thee, the dispenser of each grace,

Who smil'st a pension here, there nodd'st a place!
But no, it cannot be; each sex, each age

Forbid the deed-man's pride and woman's rage!
Hence! hence! I say; avaunt! unreal mockery!
Spencer will never lay a tax on crockery.

}

THE POOR POET'S CONFESSION.

TIME-Sunset. SCENE-A Garrèt in Grub Street.
Poet seated on a Joint-stool, in a desponding Mood.

[From the British Press, April 20.1

Do not seek a deathless name,
I do not pant for classic fame-
Let others claim the barren bays,
A poor reward for heav'n-born lays!

The

A being