L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

Instil sage precepts in the youthfnl brain,
Cull ev'ry weed, each dawning passion scan:
Maturity shall well requite thy pain,

And dignify with science rising man.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.

Where England's first prince, with a smile on each feature,

Receiv'd ev'ry greeting with cordial good nature.

Sir Saunter then tripp'd to a lady so kind,

O! madam, said he, I've a weight on my mind;
Indeed, now the truth of the matter is this,
I'm only one shade from the regions of bliss;
For had my green coat been but darker one dye,
"Twould have match'd with the prince's as I am like I.

SECTION VI.

OF FOOLISH COUNSELLORS, JUDGES, AND MEN

OF LAW.

To do justice and judgment is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice. SOLOMON.

Il retto giudice più alla giustitia, che à gli huomini ha riguardo.

AND can no quibble law itself excuse;
Must I condemn thee spite of all thy ruse?
A wond'rous tale my chronicle now tells:
For in the place of judge's robe sedate,
The lawyer's garb, the wig* on counsel's pate,
I view a zany's ladle, ears, and bells.

* The owl-like consequence transferred by a copious wig to the physiognomy of the wearer is never more strikingly exemplified than in Westminster Hall, where the tiers of benches are certainly crowded with wigs on blocks; for out of the number of their wearers, half a dozen only render themselves conspicuous: the rest being merely automatons: and of them it may indeed, with truth be said, The

Say what's thy judgment, pr'ythee, silly ass,
Brittle thyself as any Venice glass;

Dar'st thou take life which Heav'n alone

can give?

What are thy quirks, deceitful man of law?
What are thy pleadings, counsel, when a flaw
Condemns the guiltless, bids the guilty live.

wisdom's in the wig, the wig-the wisdom's in the wig. The following little anecdote, being very applicable to our young wearers of the bar gown, is here introduced by way of a friendly hint to those flippant youths, whose bags are as void of briefs as their heads of brains.

A young, pert, prating lawyer one day boasted to the facetious counsellor Costello, that he had received five and twenty guineas, for speaking in a certain cause, "And I," said Mr. Costello, "received double that sum for holding my tongue in the same cause." But to recur to the subject of our note. In delineating the sapience displayed by the human physiognomy, when surrounded by this copious appendage of hair, our Hogarth has proved himself no less excellent, than on every other occasion, wherein he has given scope to his extraordinary talents: for let my reader but refer to that artist's plate concerning wigs, and their wearers; and however unacquainted with the rules of Lavater, he, nevertheless, cannot fail to discover at the first glance stupidity, ignorance, and gluttony, embosomed in the ample wig.

Right is to thee a pleasing masquerade;
Thine object's lucre; justice but a trade :
The fee will win thee, be it foul or fair.
Browbeat* the evidence, turn black to white,
Hoodwink the jury by sophistic flight,

Hear innocence condemn'd: what need'st
thou care.

Sable's thy robe: well fitted to impart
The sabler dye that stains thy callous heart,
Glutted with gold, by fell extortion got.
Thy darling principle is self alone:

The cries of injur'd, and the pris'ner's groan,
Ne'er urge thee to commiserate their lot.

L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

Mark o'er thine head now hangs the steady scale,
Poiz'd in the hand supreme the balance see;

* This plan of browbeating, or to speak more properly, frightening a witness out of his wits, which is merely substituting one letter for another, making him witless instead of witness, is now reduced to a regular system; consequently the grand art of counsel at present is not only to force an upright man to commit perjury by this species of tonguebaiting, but also cause a verdict to be given against the party who has justice on his side.

E

Knock at thy breast, and should stern justice

fail,

Think on that judgment which must wait

on thee.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis, Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.