The English Spy: An Original Work Characteristic, Satirical, And Humorous. C. M. Westmacott

tutor to Sir Peter Burrell, who then listened to his instructions, and has not since forgotten them.

      As a tutor, he was somewhat young; but the suavity of his manners took away the comparison of equality; and his real knowledge rendered him capable of instructing those who might be even older than himself.

APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON.{1}

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      T'other night, as Apollo was quaffing a gill

       With his pupils, the Muses, from Helicon's rill,

       (For all circles of rank in Parnassus agree

       In preferring cold water to coffee or tea)

       The discourse turned as usual on critical matters,

       And the last stirring news from the kingdom of letters.

       But when poets, and critics, and wits, and what not,

       From Jeffery and Byron, to Stoddart and Stott,{2}

       Had received their due portion of consideration,

       Cried Apollo, "Pray, ladies, how goes education?

       For I own my poor brain's been so muddled of late,

       In transacting the greater affairs of the state;

       And so long every day in the courts I've been stewing,

       I've had no time to think what the children were doing.

       There's my favorite Byron my presence inviting,

       And Milman, and Coleridge, and Moore, have been writing;

       And my ears at this moment confoundedly tingle,

       From the squabbling of Blackwood with Cleghorn and Pringle:

       But as all their disputes seem at length at an end,

       And the poets my levee have ceased to attend;

       Since the weather's improving, and lengthen'd the days,

       For a visit to Eton I'll order my chaise:

       1 This poem, the reader will perceive, is an humble

       imitation of Leigh Hunt's "Feast of the Poets;" and the

       lines distinguished by asterisks are borrowed or altered

       from the original.

       2 A writer in "The Morning Post," mentioned by Lord Byron,

       in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers."

      There's my sister Diana my day coach to drive,

       And I'll send the new Canto to keep you alive.

       So my business all settled, and absence supply'd,

       For an earthly excursion to-morrow I'll ride."

       Thus spoke king Apollo; the Muses assented;

       And the god went to bed most bepraised and contented.

       'Twas on Saturday morning, near half past eleven,

       When a god, like a devil,4 came driving from heaven,

       And with postboys, and footmen, and liveries blazing,

       Soon set half the country a gaping and gazing.

       When the carriage drove into the Christopher yard,

       How the waiters all bustled, and Garraway stared;

       And the hostlers and boot-catchers wonder'd, and swore

       "They'd ne'er seen such a start in their lifetime before!"

       I could tell how, as soon as his chariot drew nigh,

       Every cloud disappear'd from the face of the sky;

       And the birds in the hedges more tunefully sung,

       And the bells in St. George's spontaneously rung;

       And the people, all seized with divine inspiration,

       Couldn't talk without rhyming and versification.

       But such matters, though vastly important, I ween,

       Are too long for the limits of your magazine.

       Now it soon got abroad that Apollo was come,

       And intended to be, for that evening, "at home;"

       And that cards would be issued, and tickets be given,

       To all scholars and wits, for a dinner at seven.

       So he'd scarcely sat clown, when a legion came pouring

       Of would-be-thought scholars, his favor imploring.

       First, Buller stept in, with a lengthy oration

       About "scandalous usage," and "hard situation:"

       And such treatment as never, since Eton was started,

      Had been shown to a genius, like him, "broken-hearted."

       He'd " no doubt but his friends in Parnassus must know

       How his fine declamation was laugh'd at below;

       And how Keate, like a blockhead ungifted with brains,

       Had neglected to grant him a prize for his pains.

       He was sure, if such conduct continued much longer,

       The school must grow weaker, and indolence stronger;

       That the rights of sixth form would be laid in the dust,

       And the school after that, he thought, tumble it must.

       But he knew that Apollo was learned and wise,

       And he hoped that his godship would give him a prize;

       Or, at least, to make up for his mortification,

       Would invite him to dinner without hesitation."

       Now Apollo, it seems, had some little pretence

       To a trifling proportion of wisdom and sense:

       So without ever asking the spark to be seated,

       He thus cut short his hopes, and his projects defeated.

       "After all, Mr. Buller, you've deign'd to repeat,

       I'm afraid that you'll think me as stupid as Keate:

       But to wave all disputes on your talents and knowledge,

       Pray what have you done as the captain of college?

       Have you patronized learning, or sapping commended?

       Have you e'er to your fags, or their studies, attended?

       To the school have you given of merit a sample,

       And directed by precept, or led by example?"

      What Apollo said more I'm forbidden to say,

       But Buller dined not at his table that day.

       Next, a smart little gentleman march'd with a stare up,

       A smoothing his neckcloth, and patting his hair up;

       And with bows and grimaces quadrillers might follow,

       Said, " he own'd that his face was unknown to Apollo;

      But he held in hand what must be his apology,

       A short treatise he'd written on British Geology; And this journal, he hoped, of his studies last week, In philosophy, chemistry, logic, and Greek, Might appear on perusal: but not to go far In proclaiming his merits—his name was Tom Carr: And for proofs of his talents, deserts, and what not, He appeal'd to Miss Baillie, Lord Byron, and Scott." Here his speech was cut short by a hubbub below, And in walk'd Messrs. Maturin, Cookesly, and Co., And begg'd leave to present