Victor vanquished; the pains of Pena; the British Lions in the Isle of Leon; the soul-lessness of Soul-(t); and many obvious cognominal puns arising out of the Battle of Barrosa (an unfortunate battle! liable to no quibble). The very last dispatches from Portugal abound in notable opportunities for the exercise of this sublime art. How many happy paragraphs, for instance, might be manufactured out of the following example! The first stand made by the enemy was at Pombal, not an inapt name for the place where so many balls were discharged. We have next the Convent of Alcobaco (Anglice, All go back-o!) destroyed in the retreat. Then comes General Montbrun, or Mount Brown, the commander of the French cavalry; then a terrible skirmish, offering a rich pun in the Cacadores; and Genera! Erskine, who terrified the enemy into no very savoury pickle at the Sour (Sour) River. Then we have General Nightingale amusing them with his military notes during the pursuit in the night. Then the slaughter at Miranda de Corvo, from the wonderful multitudes of crows hovering about to pick the dead Frenchmen's bones. Then we catch sight of them at Viseu; cut off a guard at Guarda; get nigh Marshal Ney, if so pronounced, or, if you pronounce it otherwise, bring him upon his knee; obtain the pulm of victory at Palma; ram on to surprise General Ramon; collect forces at Portalegre, or Port-o'-leaguer; and do a thousand other feats indicated by the places or generals concerned in this warfare. We might go on ad infinitum, but "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof !" We have said enough to encourage obstinate punsters; and enough to furnish prophets with the power of predicting from the past what will be the future fates of the rival armies, as they proceed into the interior, or acquire officers of other names. This we may venture to add, that of Bessy Bessy Aris (Bessieres, whom we take to be a daughter of Governor Aris)-there will be plenty of prisoners taken; and if King Joseph be driven from Spain, it will be of no avail for him to talk of a Regnier, reign near! A PROFESSOR. NAPPY AND JOEY. [From the Morning Post, April 19.] QUOTH Nap to Joe, with face of woe, Massena 's beat, in full retreat, And Victor's dish'd again. "O dire mishap, just as Young Nap "O d'd reverse! O fatal curse! "The charm is broke, and soon forsook So, Brother Joe, since things are so, 1 TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE, I SIR, [April 19.] MY avocations leading me amongst pots and pans, I have been fortunate enough to pick up these reflections upon crockery, to which you are heartily welcome. After reading them, and being apprized of the determination of many Irish families, to have (in the event of the tax being laid) all their crockery ware made made of pewter, I am sure our worthy Chancellor of the Exchequer will not persevere, but turn his attention to other sources of supply. I know of many, but will not reveal them, conceiving myself ill-treated in having been recently refused a small sinecure for my nephew, the secretaryship to the society for the discouragement of vice, and the promotion of religion and virtue, about to be established by Mr. Wilberforce and Lord Sidmouth at Botany Bay. I am, Sir, yours, TIMOTHY TINKER. REFLECTIONS UPON CROCKERY, SUGGESTED BY SOME RUMOURS RESPECTING THE 'TIS said, to raise the ways and means, A tax on tea-pots and tureens, Lurks in the corner of the budget Sing Muse, what classes most will grudge it! As through the "deep profound" they fumble But folks must pay for luxury. But, oh ye milliners!, who toil Of every varying degree, ́ Who breakfast, dine, and sup on tea For you I feel affliction true→ Tea-pots are every thing to you! And shall the Minister attack Rather than this, let scandal die, And femmes de chambre cease to pry it base But if the mischief ended here, I would not drop one sorrowing tear- 20 The Chancellor has further views! 1 The The fact I'm striving to disclose, I had from Croker and from Rose- First deem'd it right, then thought it wrong; O woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; 1 Oh ! Oh! why embarrass and perplex For love is heaven, and heaven is love! Oh, Spencer Perceval, take care Who smil'st a pension here, there nodd'st a place! Forbid the deed-man's pride and woman's rage! } THE POOR POET'S CONFESSION. TIME-Sunset. SCENE-A Garrèt in Grub Street. [From the British Press, April 20.1 Do not seek a deathless name, The A being |