This world is a well-furnish’d table, Where guests are promiscuously set: We all fare as well as we’re able, And scramble for what we can get. _Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Buz the bottle. _Mr. O’Scarum._ Over, by Jupiter! _Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ No. _Mr. O’Scarum._ Yes. _The Rev. Mr. Portpipe._ No. The baronet has a most mathematical eye. Buzzed to a drop! _Mr. Forester._ Fortunately, sir, for the hopes of mankind, every man does not bring his honour and conscience to market, though I admit the majority do: there are some who dare be honest in the worst of times. _Mr. Feathernest._ Perhaps, sir, you are one of those who can _afford to have a conscience_, and are therefore under no necessity of bringing it to market. If so, you should ‘give God thanks, and make no boast of it.’ It is a great luxury certainly, and well worth keeping, _caeteris paribus_. But it is neither meat, clothes, nor fire. It becomes a good coat well; but it will never make one. Poets are verbal musicians, and, like other musicians, they have a right to sing and play, where they can be best paid for their music. _Mr. Forester._ There could be no objection to that, if they would be content to announce themselves as dealers and chapmen: but the poetical character is too frequently a combination of the most arrogant and exclusive assumption of freedom and independence in theory, with the most abject and unqualified venality, servility, and sycophancy in practice. _Mr. Feathernest._ It is _as notorious_, sir, _as the sun at noonday_, that theory and practice are never expected to coincide. If a West Indian planter declaims against the Algerines, do you expect him to lose any favourable opportunity of increasing the number of his own slaves? If an invaded country cries out against spoliation, do you suppose, if the tables were turned, it would show its weaker neighbours the forbearance it required? If an Opposition orator clamours for a reform in Parliament, does any one dream that, if he gets into office, he will ever say another word about it? If one of your reverend friends should display his touching eloquence on the subject of temperance, would you therefore have the barbarity to curtail him of one drop of his three bottles? Truth and liberty, sir, are pretty words, very pretty words—a few years ago they were the gods of the day—they superseded in poetry the agency of mythology and magic: they were the only passports into the poetical market: I acted accordingly the part of a prudent man: I took my station, became my own crier, and vociferated Truth and Liberty, till the noise I made brought people about me, to bid for me: and to the highest bidder I knocked myself down, at less than I am worth certainly; but when an article is not likely to keep, it is by no means prudent to postpone the sale.