when the affair had ended, and march straight out of school. And thus terminated my school education. Before night I had avenged myself, in a copy of satiric verses, entitled "The Pedagogue," which--as they had some little cleverness in them, regarded as the work of a boy, and as the known eccentricities of their subject gave me large scope--occasioned a good deal of merriment in the place; and of the verses a fair copy, written out by Finlay, was transmitted through the Post-Office to the pedagogue himself. But the only notice he ever took of them was incidentally, in a short speech made to the copyist a few days after. "I _see_, Sir," he said,--"I _see_ you still associate with that fellow Miller; perhaps he will make you a poet!" "I had thought, Sir," said Finlay very quietly, in reply, "that poets were born--not made." As a specimen of the rhyme of this period, and as in some degree a set-off against my drubbing, which remains till this day an unsettled score, I submit my pasquinade to the reader:-- THE PEDAGOGUE. With solemn mien and pious air, S--k--r attends each call of grace; Loud eloquence bedecks his prayer, And formal sanctity his face. All good; but turn the other side, And see the smirking beau displayed; The pompous strut, exalted air, And all that marks the fop, is there. In character we seldom see Traits so diverse meet and agree: Can the affected mincing trip, Exalted brow, and pride-pressed lip, In strange incongruous union meet, With all that stamps the hypocrite? We see they do: but let us scan Those secret springs which move the man. Though now he wields the knotty birch, His better hope lies in the Church: For this the sable robe he wears, For this in pious guise appears. But then, the weak will cannot hide Th' inherent vanity and pride; And thus he acts the coxcomb's part, As dearer to his poor vain heart: Nature's born fop! a saint by art!! But hold! he wears no fopling's dress Each seam, each thread, the eye can trace His garb all o'er;--the dye, though true, Time-blanch'd, displays a fainter hue: Dress forms the fopling's better part; Reconcile this, and prove your art. "Chill penury represses pride;"-- A maxim by the wise denied; For 'tis alone tame plodding souls, Whose spirits bend when it controls,-- Whose lives run on in one dull same, Plain honesty their highest aim. With him it merely can repress-- Tailor o'er-cow'd--the pomp of dress; His spirit, unrepressed, can soar High as e'er folly rose before; Can fly pale study, learn'd debate, And ape proud fashion's idle state: Yet fails in that engaging grace That lights the practised courtier's face. His weak affected air we mark, And, smiling, view the would-be spark; Complete in every act and feature,-- An ill-bred, silly, awkward creature.