Nor rank, nor order, nor condition, Imperial, lowly, or patrician, Shall, when they see this volume, cry, "The satirist has pass'd us by:" But, with good humour, view our page Depict the manners of the age. Vide Work. INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND VOLUME. BERNARD BLACKMANTLE TO THE PUBLIC. "The Muse's office was by Heaven design'd To please, improve, instruct, reform mankind." --Churchill. Readers!--friends, I may say, for your flattering support has enabled me to continue my Sketches of Society to a second volume with that prospect of advantage to all concerned which makes labour delightful--accept this fresh offering of an eccentric, but grateful mind, to that shrine where alone he feels he owes any submission--the tribunal of Public Opinion. In starting for the goal of my ambition, the prize of your approbation, I have purposely avoided the beaten track of other periodical writers, choosing for my subjects scenes and characters of real life, transactions of our own times, _characteristic, satirical, and humorous_, confined to no particular place, and carefully avoiding every thing like personal ill-nature or party feeling. My associates, the Artists and Publishers, are not less anxious than myself to acknowledge their gratitude; and we intend to prove, by our united endeavours, how highly we appreciate the extensive patronage we have already obtained. BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ODE, CONGRATULATORY AND ADVISIORY, TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ. ON THE COMPLETION OF HIS FIRST VOLUME OF THE SPY. "I smell a rat."--Book of Common Parlance. "More sinned against than sinning."--William Shakspeare. "The very _Spy_ o' the time."--Ibid. Well done, my lad, you've run on strong Amidst the bustle of life's throng, Nor thrown a _spavin_ yet; You've gone at score, your pace has told; I hope, my boy, your wind will hold-- You've others yet to fret. You've told the town that you are _fly_ To cant, and rant, and trickery; And that whene'er you doze, Like Bristol men, you never keep But one eye closed--so you can tweak E'en then a scoundrel's nose. Pull up, and rinse your mouth a bit; It is hot work, this race of wit, And sets the bellows piping; Next Vol. you'll grind _the flats_ again, And file the _sharps_ unto the grain, Their very stomachs griping. ~6~~ But why, good Bernard, do you dream That we Reviewers scorn the cream{1} Arising from your jokes? Upon my soul, we love some fun As well as any 'neath the sun, Although we fight in cloaks.