What justice! when both to the Old Bailey brought; By the gods! I’ll enjoy it, though ’tis but in thought, Both are plac’d at the bar with all proper decorum, With bunches of fennel and nosegays before ’em; Both cover their faces with mobs and all that, But the judge bids them, angrily, take off their hat. When uncover’d, a buzz of inquiry runs round: “Pray what are their crimes?” “They’ve been pilfering found.” “But, pray, whom have they pilfer’d?” “A Doctor, I hear.” “What, that solemn-fac’d, odd-looking man that stands near?” “The same.” “What a pity! How does it surprise one: Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on!” Then their friends all come round me, with cringing and leering, To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing. First, Sir Charlès advances, with phrases well strung: “Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young.” “The younger the worse,” I return him again; “It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain.” “But then they ’re so handsome; one’s bosom it grieves.” “What signifies handsome, when people are thieves?” “But where is your justice? their cases are hard.” “What signifies justice? I want the reward. “There’s the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds--there’s the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pounds--there’s the parish of Tyburn offers forty pounds: I shall have all that, if I convict them.” “But consider their case, it may yet be your own; And see how they kneel: is your heart made of stone?” This moves: so at last I agree to relent, For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent. I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot: it cuts deep. But now for the rest of the letter: and next--but I want room--so I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week. I don’t value you all! O. G. FOOTNOTES: [48] To Mrs. Bunbury. [Illustration: ON SEEING A LADY PERFORM A CERTAIN CHARACTER.] For you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays, And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise; The heartfelt power of every charm divine, Who can withstand their all-commanding shine? See how she moves along with every grace, While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face. She speaks! ’tis rapture all, and nameless bliss; Ye gods! what transport e’er compar’d to this? As when, in Paphian groves, the Queen of Love With fond complaint address’d the listening Jove-- ’Twas joy and endless blisses all around, And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound. Then first, at last, even Jove was taken in, And felt her charms, without disguise, within. [Illustration] [Illustration: BIRDS]