Th' allusive note, the peristrephic Sketch

Unrolling showed, for which they'd eager watch,-
Since, save where impudence or worse was shown,
Each liked such mention, though but few would own,
Or, as the well-bred militaire Roue',

Good humoured smile, and smoke our sting away.
Now, Alexander, filch for fun may pass,-
His face seem clean by reason of its brass-
And at the head of all his greasy troop,

Drive taste from its old haunts with one fell swoop;
While in what once its temple was, e'en trulls
Learn to look lewder on their boyish gulls,-
And sweeps and butchers' boys roar out encore,
While its great hero sings or dies once more.
Now Dorsey's wit and wants, for both, alas!
He has, though both he hides beneath a glass,
Through which what once was bright, is darkly seen-
As if it mirrored his own dusky mien,-

Like the steel buttons of his Belcour coat,

Save when his ale is swigged, may be forgot ;-
Now when a Henderson, in playful hour,
Paints my boy Bacchante with master's power,
And gives the mother's mien and father's face
A dash of classic and ideal grace;

When Brown or Warren's pencil, or the two, *
Whose names, unrythmical, preclude their due,
Transport-as Davie does-my wintry dreams
To summer haunts, by lochs, and hills, and streams ;-
When Foote to classic lands wends forth his way,
That yet more grace he may impart to clay;
When Harvey comes-the embryo Wilkie-here,
Or Bell describes each spot to hist❜ry dear ;-
Nay, even when a Graham's first picture buys,
And justly vaunts the re-discovered prize.
-All circumstances these without the range
Of party journals, or the chat of 'Change;
But in the circle, wide howe'er of friends,
Will now be oral echoed; he who sends

To some far friend-perchance 'mong palm-tree groves-
The public chit-chat of the home he loves,

Must now increase his sheet to foolscap size,

Heron no more in print the want supplies;

And, ten years hence, should some one seek to know
What Glasgow's tattle was " nine years ago,"
To maiden ladies-reminiscent pests-
Listen he must, since he can't read our jests.
-Now-but 'twere idle one word more to say,
Of what may henceforth noteless strut its day,
Perchance too trifling for the Broad Sheet's ken,
Yet not beneath the man who studies Men.
-What we have done-preceding pages show;
What might be done-it little recks to know;
Still vainer 'twere-what will be done to tell.
Our task is finished!-Hail, and fare ye well!

*Gilfillan and Donaldson.

JAMES CURLL, PRINTER, GLASGOW.