TO AN OLD FRIEND.

DEAR MR. SPECTATOR, we've fancied of late

That your style has been verging too much on the " blate."

I have tried to defend you, and urged that a strain Of just indignation and righteous disdain Was needed to wake honest folk from their trance, And the prod of a biting, but chivalrous lance.

But my wife, she avers that the weapon you carry Is not the keen rapier of fair thrust and parry, But a wild, slashing cutlass, half-blunted by spite, Which you wield with blind vigour to left and to right ; That in dealing with foes, you now deem it your mission To befoul their best deeds with the mire of suspicion,— To be scenting a dodge, and mistrusting a trick, As if everything Tory must smell of "old Nick."

In the old days,'she says, when you'd tickle our palate With sound Liberal lettuce chopped broad for a salad, Your pepper was pungent, your salt it was Attic, Stirred in with a hearty spoon, brisk and emphatic, Running over with oil of good-nature, and just A mere soupcon of vinegar taken on trust.

Now, you empty that cruet, and stint us in oil, While with Radical radish the salad you spoil,— Which it's all very well for your Betsey and Sairey, When bent upon gambols that suit Tipperary, As, with eyes on the teapot, and primed for the strife, They sup up the cool juice with the blade of a knife ; But if for more delicate palates you cater, It may be a good "spec.," but it's not our Spectator.

I tell her, 'twas trying to keep a sweet temper

When the head groom was petting that ugly beast, Empire,—

While good Constitution, our useful old mare, Was just handed on to the stable-boy's care.

But the boy he stuck to her, and kept up her pecker, While the groom did its utmost to ruin and wreck her.

He'd ride his brute Empire, upkicking the sand, In spangles and shorts, and a flag in each hand ; And he'd shout to the crowd, "Here's the National Cirque :" Now he'd pose as Caucasian, and now as a Turk, Till the people, befoozled with glory and beer, Cried. " Hurraw for old Dizzy !" and made him a Peer ; So they stuck a fur cap on their favourite's pate, And sang, "Rule, Britannia!" "We're rich and we're great."

But he'd bucket the mare over plough, ditch, and road, Always hoping some mischief would lame the old toad.

Still she bore herself bravely, and though on low diet, While the bean-fed brute Empire on plenty ran riot, She strained to her work, and her famished old bones Rattled gaily and merrily over the stones, Till one day, when the creature was dying with thirst, He gave pail upon pail, in the hope that she'd burst, Then just got his foot in the stirrup, when, lo !

The master popped in, and Ben saw 'twos no go ; For John rated and stormed, and the groom's in disgrace, And the stable-boy hopes to come in in his place.

Thus I parabled on, till my wife, with a smile, Said, "My dear, that's the irreconcilable style ; You can now well afford to give some one his due, For John Bull is quite sane, and has voted with you."

As I sit writing thus, she looks over my shoulder,—

And, "Now, sir, pray what are you writing ?" I told her.

She laughed, as she said, "Your perceptions are dim ; I don't like the style, but you mustn't blame him ; If he peppers too highly his mustard and cress, He learnt it from some one, whose name you may guess."