have got into a house of ill fame in the neighbourhood of Pall-Mall, like _Miss Clarissa Harlowe_, but they will defend their honour to the last gasp with their pens against that old bawd, Legitimacy, as she did hers with a pen-knife against the old Lady in Duke’s place; or if the opiates and provocatives unfairly administered, and almost unavoidable when people get into such company and such situations, should for an instant rob them of what they hold most dear, their immaculate purity, they will, like Richardson’s heroine, die a lingering death of grief and shame for the trick that has been played upon their unsuspecting credulity!—See, here comes one of them to answer for himself. It is the same person who in the year 1800 was for making an example of the whole House of Commons (in spite of the humble petition and remonstrance of the writer of this article in favour of a small minority), for being the echoes of the King’s speeches for carrying on the war against the French Revolution. What is that _thing_ he has in his hand? It is not, nor it cannot be, a sonnet to the King, celebrating his ‘royal fortitude,’ in having brought that war to a successful close fourteen years after! ‘Such recantation had no charms for him, ‘Nor could he brook it.’ Nor is it the same consistent person whose deep-toned voice rebellows among the mountain echoes with peals of ideot rage and demon laughter— ‘Proud Glaramara northward caught the sound, ‘And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head, ‘That there was strange commotion in the hills,’— at the infamy and madness of Sir Robert Wilson’s gallant conduct in having rescued one of its victims from the fangs of that Bourbon despotism which that royal fortitude had restored.—Is not _that_ Mr. Southey, with something of the glow on his cheek which he had in writing _Joan of Arc_, and with the beaked curl of his nose which provoked him to write the _Inscription on Old Sarum_, returning in disgrace from the Prince’s Levee, for having indignantly noticed in one of his Birth-day Odes, Ferdinand’s treatment of the Spanish Patriots?—Just yonder, at the corner of Paternoster-row, you may see Mr. Coleridge, the author of the eclogue called FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER, who has been to his bookseller’s to withdraw his ‘Lay Sermon,’ or Statesman’s Manual in praise of Fire, Slaughter, and Famine! But who is he ‘whose grief ‘Bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow ‘Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand ‘Like wonder-wounded hearers?’