PUGILISM.

[From the Oracle.]

"Pugno, pugnas, pugnavi."-BELCHER.

MR. EDITOR,

WALKING into a coffee-houfe at the weft end of the town a short time fince, and being told by the waiter that the Oracle and Daily Advertifer, in which I wanted to fee an account of the late boxingmatch, was engaged by three companies deep, I was compelled to wait patiently my turn; when I reflected that human nature ever has been, and ever will be fubject to quarrels, fome trifling, and others ferious; and that custom has established in every nation a mode of decifion confonant to the manners, genius, and temper of its natives. The ancients fought with infinitely more ferocity than the moderns, ufing the ceftus, which confifted of leather thongs, to each of which was attached a lump of lead, which were hurled round the head with uncommon ftrength and velocity indeed, the elegant bard of Mantua has in his Eneid given fo accurate an account of the Ceftus Fight, that I defy even Burk, the heroic butcher (who is no doubt a Latinift), to read the celebrated combat between Entellus and Dares, without feeling. his teeth chatter, and his jaws ache moft fympathetically.

:

The Greeks boxed, but fo unfairly, that the combatant firft knocked down was beaten upon the ground till he was killed. The Americans feize each other by the hair, and mutually fcrew their thumbs into the eye. The Swedes flap each other open-handed. The French either cut each other down genteelly with fabres, or politely run one another through with fmall fwords. The Dutch, Portugueze, and Spaniards, kindly scarify each other with knives-the Turks with daggers-the Irish with cudgels-and the effeminate

Italian

alian thrills a cadence, and mufically stabs you with ftiletto. So much to prove the general prevalence f fighting! One thing further, Mr. Editor: as here are so many various ways of fighting in this ountry, why thould pugilism be particularly reproated, and why fhould it be more allowable for A Courtier to fight with

A Blood

Bows,

Piftols,

The Fighting Cocks, Hockley-in-the-Hale,

Saturday Night.

Horfes and affes, Lords and Greeks,
Were there, 't is understood;
Behold, fome fell and broke their necks,
And some stuck in the mud.

At twelve o'clock Jem Belcher came
And mounted on the stage;
The Butcher next, a lad of game,
Stripp'd in a furious rage;
And letting drive a vi'lent blow,
Hit Belcher on the cheek,

Who still stood firm; but well I know
'T would have made Sir Fopling squeak
But Belcher 's game, his bottom 's good,
He's active, brifk, and hearty;

And is a lad of as true blood
As even Bonaparte!

Full fifteen rounds, fo hard they fought,
'T would have put me in a fever;
But Jem hit Burk as quick as thought,
And gave his nose a cleaver.

The blows now fhower'd thick as fnow,
And faft as Indian arrows;
The Butcher's kidnies got a blow,
Which brought him on his marrows.
The fifteenth round Burk got á fmack
('T is true, as I am living),
Which laid him flatly on his back,
And caus'd him for to give in!

The battle o'er, the Butcher beat,
All folks began to laugh,

To think that Belcher thus fhould treat
"So capital a calf!"

And now attend, both great and small,
I've done with rhyme and writing-
Huzza! and Fate preferve us all

From fuch knock-down-blow fighting.

Thursday Night, Mutton Hill.

CALEB BALDWIN,

A RAINY

THE

A RAINY SUNDAY.

[From the fame.]

HE whistling winds tempeftuous blow,
The rain defcends, good lack!

The city dame 's compell'd to stow

Her filks into a hack.

Old Squaretoes, growling, views the glass,
And frets as if on thorns,
Oblig'd to dine at home, alas!
Instead of at the Horns!

The fpruce apprentice angry swears,
And bites his nether lip,
He cannot fhew his tonifh airs,
Nor fport his bran new vip.,
The devotee, defpifing mud,
Though fplafh'd up to the fhins,
Demurely walks, in fpacious hood,
To wash away her fins.

The buck, who fcorns the city puts,
And thinks all rich, men noodles,
In Heffian boots fecurely fruts:
To make his bets at Boodle's.

Ye raining pow'rs! then hear me pray,
And fpare! oh fpare us one day!
Throughout the week your fountains play,
And cloudless be each Sunday!

TIM TARTLET.

MONODY

ON FRANCIS DUKE OF BEDFORD, WHO DIED MARCH 2,

1802.

[From the Morning Herald ]

ONCE more, my harp, 1 ftrike thy trembling ftrings,
But not again to joy thy notes I raise!

Grief o'er the chords her hand diftrefsful:
And, faintly pauling, oft the fong delays.

Mourn,

4

Mourn, mourn! around the grave of Ruffell mourn!
Ye great! ye young! ye gay! furround his bier!
Alas! from ev'ry blifs thus early torn,

He fpeaks, though mute, and fondly claims the tear!
Peers of his greatnefs! fellows of his youth!

Approach! approach! lo! fallen from his round
Is earthly dignity! Behold, with truth,

Of rank, of title, pow'r, the narrow bound!
For him no more that! Pomp difplay her charms;
Nor Ceremony greet him with a imile;
In flatt'ry veil'd, no more hall fervile fwarms
Of fycophants attend him to beguile.

No more fall friends around his board repair,
Or join convivial in foft pleasure's train;
The chofen few no more his thoughts thall share,
Nor the still Senate liften to his train.

One tribute paid, and his career fhall clofe:
The fepulchre fhall guard his honour'd duft;
Within the house of death he shall repose,
Nor wake till the revival of the just!

Ye who with grief the holy rites have join'd,"
And feen his corfe in folemn fadness laid,
Inftructed turn!-His ftate, with wealth combin'd;
His fenfe; the beauty in his form difplay'd;
The patriot zeal which glow'd within his heart;
The gentle tear, which tender pity drew;
Avail'd not to repel the fatal dart

The fudden hand of Death remorfeless threw !
Ye poor! who throng one parting look to claim,
In fpeechless energy and broken fighs,
Your grateful forrow fhall enfhrine his name;
Your faithful orgies waft him to the skies!

SIR,

A QUEEN ANNE'S FARTHING.
[From the Morning Chronicle.]

R. E.

I HAVE fo long been a reader of newfpapers, and have derived all the knowledge I poffefs, and all the

comforts