What poor, poor stuff, about the little blackguard boys! what flimsy ecstasies and silly "smacking of lips" about the plovers.

Is this the man who writes for the next age?
O fie! Here is another joke:-- "Sir Maurice.

Mice! zounds, how can I Keep mice! I can't afford it! They were starved To death an age ago.

The last was found Come Christmas three years, stretched beside a bone In that same larder, so consumed and worn By pious fast, 'twas awful to behold it! I canonized its corpse in spirits of wine, And set it in the porch--a solemn warning To thieves and beggars!" Is not this rare wit?
"Zounds! how can I keep mice ?" is well enough for a miser; not too new, or brilliant either; but this miserable dilution of a thin joke, this wretched hunting down of the poor mouse! It is humiliating to think of a man of esprit harping so long on such a mean, pitiful string.

A man who aspires to immortality, too! I doubt whether it is to be gained thus; whether our author's words are not too loosely built to make "starry pointing pyramids of." Horace clipped and squared his blocks more carefully before he laid the monument which imber edax, or aquila impotens, or fuga temporum might assail in vain.