At a late meeting under a commission of bankruptcy, at Andover, between
Mr. FLEET and Mr. MANN, both respectable solicitors of that town, some
disagreement arose, which ended in the former sending the latter a
challenge, to which the following answer was returned.
_To Kingston Fleet, Esq._
I am honour’d this day, sir, with challenges two,
The first from friend Langdon, the second from you;
As the one is to _fight_, and the other to _dine_,
I accept _his_ “engagement,” and yours must decline.
Now, in giving this preference, I trust you’ll admit
I have acted with prudence, and done what was fit,
Since encountering _him_, and my weapon a knife,
There is some little chance of _preserving_ my life;
Whilst a bullet from you, sir, _might_ take it away,
And the maxim, you know, is to live while you may.
If, however, you still should suppose I ill-treat you,
By sternly rejecting this challenge to meet you,
Bear with me a moment, and I will adduce
Three powerful reasons by way of excuse:
In the first place, unless I am grossly deceiv’d,
I myself am in conscience the party aggriev’d;
And therefore, good sir, if a challenge _must_ be,
Pray wait till that challenge be _tender’d_ by _me_.
Again, sir, I think it by far the more sinful,
To stand and be shot, than to sit for a skinful;
From whence you’ll conclude (as I’d have you, indeed)
That fighting composes not part of my creed--
And my courage (which, though it was never disputed,
Is not, I imagine, too, too deeply rooted)
Would prefer that its fruit, sir, whate’er it may yield,
Should appear at “_the table_,” and not in “_the field_.”
And, lastly, _my life_, be it never forgot,
Possesses a value which _yours_, sir, does not;[208]
So I mean to preserve it as long as I can,
Being justly entitled “a family _Man_,”
With three or four children, (I scarce know how many,)
Whilst _you_, sir, have not, or _ought_ not, to have any.
Besides, that the contest would be too unequal,
I doubt not will plainly appear by the sequel:
For e’en _you_ must acknowledge it would not be meet
That one small “_Mann_ of war” should engage “a whole _Fleet_.”
_Andover, July 24, 1826._
[208] Mr. Fleet is a batchelor.
* * * * *
_SIGNS_ OF LOVE, AT OXFORD.
_By an Inn-consolable Lover._
She’s as light as the _Greyhound_, and fair as the _Angel_;
Her looks than the _Mitre_ more sanctified are;
But she flies like the _Roebuck_, and leaves me to range ill,
Still looking to her as my true polar _Star_.
_New Inn_-ventions I try, with new art to adore,
But my fate is, alas! to be voted a _Boar_;
My _Goats_ I forsook to contemplate her charms,
And must own she is fit for our noble _King’s Arms_.
Now _Cross’d_, and now _Jockey’d_, now sad, now elate,
The _Chequers_ appear but a map of my fate;
I blush’d like a _Blue-cur_ to send her a _Pheasant_,
But she call’d me a _Turk_, and rejected my present;
So I moped to the _Barley-mow_, griev’d in my mind,
That the _Ark_ from the flood ever rescu’d mankind!
In my dreams _Lions_ roar, and the _Green Dragon_ grins
And fiends rise in shape of the _Seven deadly_ sins.
When I ogle the _Bells_, should I see her approach,
I skip like a _Nag_ and jump into the _Coach_.
She is crimson and white, like a _Shoulder of Mutton_,
Not the red of the _Ox_ was so bright, when first put on:
Like the _Hollybush_ prickles, she scratches my liver,
While I moan, and I die like the _Swan_ by the river!
* * * * *
~Prolific Writers.~
The copiousness and the multiplicity of the writings of many authors,
have shown that too many find a pleasure in the act of composition,
which they do not communicate to others. Great erudition and every-day
application is the calamity of that voluminous author, who, without good
sense, and what is more rare, without that exquisite judgment which we
call good taste is always prepared to write on any subject, but at the
same time on no one reasonably. We are astonished at the fertility and
the size of our own writers of the seventeenth century, when the
theological war of words raged, spoiling so many pages and brains. They
produced folio after folio, like almanacks. The truth is, that it was
then easier to write up to a folio, than in our days to write down to an
octavo; for correction, selection, and rejection, were arts as yet
unpractised. They went on with their work, sharply or bluntly, like
witless mowers, without stopping to whet their scythes. They were
inspired by the scribbling demon of that rabbin, who, in his oriental
style and mania of volume, exclaimed, that were “the heavens formed of
paper, and were the trees of the earth pens, and if the entire sea run
ink, these only could suffice” for the monstrous genius he was about to
discharge on the world.
* * * * *