There schooled, with a rabble of words at command,
Scotch, English and slang in promiscuous alliance.
He at length against Syntax has taken his stand,
And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.
Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford:
In the mean time the danger most imminent grows,
He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord,
And whom he'll _next_ murder the Lord only knows.
_Wednesday evening_.
Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene;
Tho' the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection,
Has seized a great Powder--no, Puff Magazine,
And the explosions are dreadful in every direction.
What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,
As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration)
Of lyrical "ichor,"[1] "gelatinous" prose,[2]
And a mixture called amber immortalization.[3]
_Now_, he raves of a bard he once happened to meet,
Seated high "among rattlings" and churning a sonnet;[4]
_Now_, talks of a mystery, wrapt in a sheet,
With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it![5]
We shudder in tracing these terrible lines;
Something bad they must mean, tho' we can't make it out;
For whate'er may be guessed of Galt's secret designs,
That they're all _Anti_-English no Christian can doubt.
[1] "That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions.
Pages:
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185