The future great unmentionable being.—­
      Perhaps thou hast ridden
A scholar poor on St. Augustine’s Back,
Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack
  Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden;
A little hoard of clever simulation,
  That took the town—­and Constable has bidden
Some hundred pounds for a continuation—­
To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.

VI.

I like thy Waverley—­first of thy breeding;
    I like its modest “sixty years ago,”
As if it was not meant for ages’ reading. 
        I don’t like Ivanhoe,
Tho’ Dymoke does—­it makes him think of clattering
      In iron overalls before the king
Secure from battering, to ladies flattering,
  Tuning, his challenge to the gauntlet’s ring—­
Oh better far than all that anvil clang
  It was to hear thee touch the famous string
Of Robin Hood’s tough bow and make it twang,
  Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan,
      Like Sagittarian Pan!

VII.

I like Guy Mannering—­but not that sham son
Of Brown:—­I like that literary Sampson,
Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. 
I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson
          That slew the Gauger;
And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major;
And Merrilies, young Bertram’s old defender,
      That Scottish Witch of Endor,
That doom’d thy fame.  She was the Witch, I take it,
To tell a great man’s fortune—­or to make it!

VIII.

I like thy Antiquary.  With his fit on,
  He makes me think of Mr. Britton,
I like thy Antiquary.  With Ins fit on,
It makes me think
Who has—­or had—­within his garden wall,
A miniature Stone Henge, so very small
    That sparrows find it difficult to sit on;
And Dousterwivel, like Poyais’ M’Gregor;
And Edie Ochiltree, that old Blue Beggar,
          Painted so cleverly,
I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly! 
I like thy Barber—­him that fir’d the Beacon—­
But that’s a tender subject now to speak on!

IX.

  I like long-arm’d Rob Roy.—­His very charms
Fashion’d him for renown!—­In sad sincerity,
  The man that robs or writes must have long arms,
If he’s to hand his deeds down to posterity! 
Witness Miss Biffin’s posthumous prosperity,
Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)
          Bearing the name she bore,
A thing Time’s tooth is tempted to destroy! 
But Roys can never die—­why else, in verity,
Is Paris echoing with “Vive le Roy”! 
  Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di
Vernon, of course, shall often live again—­
Whilst there’s a stone in Newgate, or a chain,
            Who can pass by
Nor feel the Thief’s in prison and at hand? 
There be Old Bailey Jarvies on the stand!