success, nor leave the day
To be consum'd in vain. For shy the game,
Nor easy of access: the fowler's toils
Precarious; but inur'd to ev'ry chance,
We urge those toils with glee. E'en the broad sun,
In his meridian brightness, shall not check
Our steady labour; for some rushy pool,
Some hollow willowy bank, the skulking birds
May then conceal, which our stanch dogs shall pierce,
And drive them clam'ring forth. Those tow'ring rocks,
With nodding wood o'erhung, that faintly break
Upon the straining eye, descending deep,
A hollow basin form, the which receives
The foaming torrent from above. Around
Thick alders grow. We steal upon the spot
With cautious step, and peering out, survey
The restless flood. No object meets our eye.
But hark what sound is that approaching near,
"Down close," The wild-ducks come, and darting down,
Throw up on ev'ry side the troubled wave;
Then gayly swim around with idle play,
With breath restrain'd, and palpitating heart,
I view their movements, whilst my well-taught dogs
Like lifeless statues crouch. Now is the time,
Closer they join; nor will the growing light
Admit of more delay--with fiery burst,
The unexpected death invades the flock;
Tumbling they lie, and beat the dashing pool,
Whilst those remoter from the fatal range
Of the swift shot, mount up on vig'rous wing,
And wake the sleeping echoes as they fly.
Quick on the floating spoil my spaniels rush,
And drag them to the shore.

* * * * *

MISCELLANY.

A more lively and yet poignant satire upon the wilful corruption of the
stage, the degeneracy of the public taste, and the reigning follies of
the British nation can scarcely be imagined than the following, which,
with several more under the same signature, has appeared in a celebrated
periodical work in London.

_To the right worshipful John Bull, of the united kingdom of Great
Britain and Ireland._

RESPECTED SIR,

Denied access to your sacred person, I avail myself of the press to
solicit your notice. You have, doubtless, by this time totally forgotten
poor Theobaldus Secundus, for short memories are not the exclusive
property of great wits. Truth is said to lie at the bottom of a well,
and as your worship seldom looks beyond the surface, I am not surprised
that she should hitherto have eluded your researches. If fate has
ordained my inkstand to be the bucket that sha