Now, my dear Barnet, for a man who begins so humbly with what my friend Father Prout calls an argamantum ad misericorjam, who ignowledges that his play is bad, that his pore dear helth is bad, and those cussid critix have played the juice with him--I say, for a man who beginns in such a humbill toan, it's rather RICH to see how you end. My dear Barnet, DO you suppose that POLITTICLE DIFFRANCES prejudice pepple against YOU? What ARE your politix? Wig, I presume--so are mine, ontry noo. And what if they ARE Wig, or Raddiccle, or Cumsuvvative? Does any mortial man in England care a phig for your politix? Do you think yourself such a mity man in parlymint, that critix are to be angry with you, and aujences to be cumsidered magnanamous because they treat you fairly? There, now, was Sherridn, he who roat the “Rifles” and “School for Scandle” (I saw the “Rifles” after your play, and, O Barnet, if you KNEW what a relief it was!)--there, I say, was Sherridn--he WAS a politticle character, if you please--he COULD make a spitch or two--do you spose that Pitt, Purseyvall, Castlerag, old George the Third himself, wooden go to see the “Rivles”--ay, and clap hands too, and laff and ror, for all Sherry's Wiggery? Do you spose the critix wouldn't applaud too? For shame, Barnet! what ninnis, what hartless raskles, you must beleave them to be,--in the fust plase, to fancy that you are a politticle genus; in the secknd, to let your politix interfear with their notiums about littery merits! “Put that nonsince out of your head,” as Fox said to Bonypart. Wasn't it that great genus, Dennis, that wrote in Swiff and Poop's time, who fansid that the French king wooden make pease unless Dennis was delivered up to him? Upon my wud, I doan't think he carrid his diddlusion much further than a serting honrabble barnet of my aquentance. And then for the nex age. Respected sir, this is another diddlusion; a gross misteak on your part, or my name is not Y--sh. These plays immortial? Ah, parrysampe, as the French say, this is too strong--the small-beer of the “Sea Capting,” or of any suxessor of the “Sea Capting,” to keep sweet for sentries and sentries! Barnet, Barnet! do you know the natur of bear? Six weeks is not past, and here your last casque is sour--the public won't even now drink it; and I lay a wager that, betwigst this day (the thuttieth November) and the end of the year, the barl will be off the stox altogether, never, never to return. I've notted down a few frazes here and there, which you will do well do igsamin:-- NORMAN. “The eternal Flora Woos to her odorous haunts the western wind; While circling round and upwards from the boughs, Golden with fruits that lure the joyous birds, Melody, like a happy soul released, Hangs in the air, and from invisible plumes Shakes sweetness down!” NORMAN.