The following parody of Dryden’s celebrated Epigram on Milton, is appended; the lines were probably written by the Reverend William Mason:―― “Four forgers, born in one prolific age, Much critical acumen did engage: The first[30] was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d, Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d. The next had all the cunning of a Scot[31] The third, invention, genius――nay, what not[32] Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.” It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale. After _Vortigern and Rowena_ had been once played, and the audience had testified in the most unmistakable manner their disbelief in its authenticity, and contempt for its merits, Ireland yet had the audacity to urge Sheridan and Kemble to have a second trial; Sheridan, however, dismissed him with an emphatic negative. After Ireland had left the room, Kemble said, “Well, Sir, you cannot doubt that the play is a forgery.” “Damn the fellow,” replied Sheridan, “_I believe his face is a forgery_, he is the most specious man I ever saw!”] ――――:o:―――― OLD TUNBELLY’S SOLILOQUY. To stick to Hoy, or not――that is the question, Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer, The pangs and aches of golden hopes deferred; Or, trampling on my ancient principles, Go to the Star at once, To go――to tip the _blunt_, And thus enable Jack to keep in flesh; Nay, more, to have my way, and be revenged, On all those scoundrel writers who have been Maligning me; O what a glorious day! What would I give to see it? To go――to win―― To win――perchance to lose――aye, that’s the job―― For if we win, who cares for all they say, Of rats, and bribes, and Elephants wild and tame, And Kingsland “little affairs,” but if we lose―― And lose we may, in spite of all my weight―― What I shall do, after the poll is o’er Should be considered now, and ere I go Must give me pause. There’s Hoy, I fear he’ll cut The town, if he cut out; and then poor I, Old, friendless, and the mock of all the mob, That once stuck fast to him, but ratting now By hundreds and by thousands from his side, Will hoot and hiss me in the streets and lanes; Unable to enjoy my usual walks, Whereby I have my health and my body huge, By wholesome perspiration keep well down, Within the decent weight of twenty stone―― Shall get no sleep, and then full soon shall sink, Poor, unlamented, to a nameless grave―― Where, stead of epitaph in prose and verse. Briefly dilating on my virtuous deeds, Argus and Obadiah, and the crew, Penleazers vile, will cry to all around, “_Here lies a man, who once upheld Reform; Allured by pelf, he turned, and straight was hither borne._