M-It-no.

Of images the vender poor,

Thus selling wares from door to door (ƒ).
But now he shares of Dons the love,
With Chalcographians hand and glove.
Such change of times records my pen,

And with them too the fates of men ;

For poor to-day is rich to-morrow,

This hour brings mirth-next teems with sorrow.
M-lt-no owes to luck alone

The wealth he now proclaims his own;

(ƒ) M—lt-n—'s next step to honour and printselling fame was filling the envied post of foot-boy to Th-ne and T-rr, whose boots and shoes experienced the efficacy of his manual labours. Under such experienced Chalcographians, it is consequently little to be wondered at that this personage should imbibe the divine cacoëthes, which by progressive gradations has exalted him to the present acme of his greatness.

M-lt-no.

No talent led to fortune's road,

His scull a very pond'rous load (g),

(g) This assertion will become manifest when I acquaint my reader that our vender caused a drawing to be made by Bettilini, of the carrotty headed young master M―lt-no, which was afterwards engraved and published. Upon the first appearance of the print in question, a nobleman chanced to enter our dealer's shop, when seeing the portrait upon the counter, he exclaimed: "What "d-d ugly little wretch have you got here, M-lt-no?" to which the latter, quite abashed, replied, "It is my Son, my "Lord!" This brings to my recollection the anecdote of a gentleman at the Theatre, being seated next to Lord North, with whose person he was unacquainted, and of whom he enquired, after some preliminary conversation, the name of a lady sitting on the opposite side of the house, adding, that she was the ugliest woman he ever beheld-" That," replied his lordship, "is my "sister, Sir." Confounded at the error he had committed, the interrogator stammering, exclaimed, "I do not mean that lady, but the one seated next to her." "Oh!" answered Lord North,

smiling, "That, Sir, is my wife, and we are esteemed the ugliest

"couple in England."

C-1-g-i.

Which naught can ever render clear,

Wherefore till death ends life's career,
His genius ne'er from shop will fly,
Just form'd to sell, to bid, and buy (h).

From sing-song sweet Italia's land,
Another view, who swells our band;

That like the former came sans sous,
With naught but love of pelf in view.

(h) M-It-no and C-1-g-i were originally partners, but the instant the partnership was dissolved, M-lt-no became the purchaser of a very valuable collection, that laid the foundation of his fortune. I had nearly omitted to mention the conduct of Mr. D-nt, M. P. who one day entered the shop of M-lt-no in a towering rage, upon which occasion he abused this print-vender in the most violent manner, because our poor Chalcographian had exposed in his window a portrait of Bonaparte for sale, having placed the same by the side of a fine print of our Saviour.

His calling then to catch our rats (i),
But faith he soon caught better Fiats,
For patronage of weak John Bull,
With coin has stow'd his lockers full;
While native worth is left to pine,
Since Britons ever must incline,

(i) I have been credibly informed that C-1-g-i's debut on the London pavée was in the character of a rat-catcher ; but as to his early connection with Chalcography, I am not enabled to afford my readers any insight into the subject. While engaged on the topic of this Chalcographian vender, I cannot help noticing the licence granted to foreigners to import and export prints, which might equally facilitate the conveyance of political information to our enemies. Prompted by my partiality for the arts, I repaired as well as others to the shop of C-1-g—i, to inspect the highly extolled print of the Gallic Emperor, an impression of which was purchased by the Prince Regent, when in lieu of finding it the ne plus ultra of engraving, I will venture to affirm that it is not equal to the efforts of our Heath or Sharp. The impression is fine, and the paper and ink excellent, and to those essential requisites it stands indebted for its beauty.

C-l-g-i.

To pamper foreign art and trick,

Consigning English worth-to Nick (j):

Did I the helm of state command,

Of vermin straight I'd clear the land.
No fawning foreigner should e'er,

Of ought that 'long'd to me have care;
To Albion's race I'd prove the friend,
Britons on Britons should attend (k);

(j) No subject deserves more pointedly the corrective hand of satire than this shameful predilection of the Great for persons of foreign extraction, while English talent is left to weather the bitterest storms of neglect and adverse fortune. Take the whole circuit of our nobility, nay, even commence with the ramifications from Rty itself, and you will find that our very P————es are the abettors of this partiality. One would really imagine that the affair of Sellis and the Duke of Cumberland would have afforded a wholesome and corrective lesson; but the evil still exists, to the lasting shame of the present æra, and the degradation of that national feeling, which was the boasted pride of our patriotic ancestors.