As deadly nightshade creeping on the ground,
He tries to poison what he cannot wound.
Yet Sandy has a most consistent mind,
Too low to rise, too coarse to be refin’d,
Too rough to polish, and too loose to bind:
Yet if * * * * *
On looking over the residue, I conceived that I could not with propriety continue the publication: were I to proceed five or six lines further, ill-natured people might possibly (though erroneously) affect to find a pretence for designation, and I should be very sorry to be considered as capable of becoming an instrument in so improper a procedure. My friend assured me he did not intend to particularise any individual: I, however, returned the copy to my portfolio, and subsequently to the author, mentioning my reasons, and advising him to burn the rest. His reply to me was laconic—“My dear B * * *, qui caput ille facit. If any man adopts it, ’tis not my fault.”
The other trifle is a mere jeu d’esprit, and cannot be disagreeable to any body, unless it may be taken amiss by some West-Indian proprietor, whose probable touchiness at the introduction of the word slavery I do not feel called on to compassionate.
EPIGRAM.
Sir Sidney Smith and Miss Rumbold.