“Large were his wishes, but his lot severe; To Tooke he ow’d his fortune and reverse: He gain’d from John, ’twas all his portion――shame; John gain’d from him, ’twas 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.” ALFRED. From _The Morning Post_. London. May 20, 1811. ――――:o:―――― THE PETTIFOGGER, _Written in Westminster Hall, during the long Vacation of_ 1812, _and addressed to a_ LITTLE ATTORNEY! The courts are shut, departed every Judge, Each greedy lawyer gripes the double fee, In doleful mood, the suitors homeward trudge, And leave the hall, to silence, and to me. Now, not a Barrister attracts the sight, And all the dome, a solemn stillness holds, Save, at the entrance, where with all her might, The Barrow-wheeler at the Porter scolds. From every court, with ev’ry virtue crown’d! Where numbers gain, and numbers lose their bread, Elsewhere to squabble, puzzle and confound, Attornies, clerks, and counsel――all are fled. Contending fools! too stubborn to agree, The good warm client, name for ever dear The long-drawn brief, the spirit-stirring fee, No more till Michaelmas, shall send them here. ’Till then, no more the orange nymphs shall ply, Their ripen’d fruit, all glossy as their cheek; Nor strive, with jest, and sportive leering eye, The custom of the youthful clerk, to seek. Let not the pedlar, frown with eyes askew, Nor envy them the profits of the hall; Let him not think, that with a spiteful view, They mean to draw the custom from his stall. The cinder wench, in dust-cart seated high, With hands begrim’d, and dirty as her sieve; The ragged sluts――who sprats and herrings cry―― The meanest wenches, have a right to live! Nor you, ye Belles! impute the fault to these, If at the glittering ball they don’t appear, Where music hath a thousand charms to please, And with its sweetness, almost wounds the ear, Perhaps in their neglected minds, were sown The seeds of worth, from nature’s rich supply; Such seeds of worth, as might in time have grown, And flourish’d lovely, to the ravish’d eye. Full many a rural lass in Britain’s land, The vile unwarrantable b――――s hold; Full many a town-bred damsel walks the Strand, And barters beauty――for a piece of gold. The daring _Pettifogger_, stern of brow, Who might have done due honor to the spade, Whirl’d the tough flail, or grasp’d the peaceful plough, Presumes, the Courts of Justice to parade.