INHUMANITY OF ANGLING. 195 



Vain, vain is my prayer! The powers will not save ! 



I 'm fated in flame to expire ! 

 So I '11 die like a hero, as modest as brave. 

 My beard is now singed without water I shave 

 Contented my carcass I give to the grave, 



While my spirit flares up with the fire ! " 

 # # # # 



Oh you, whom broiled oysters at supper delight, 



Remember this dying one's moan 5 

 And whenever to chambers you chance to invite, 

 Or at gay civic feasts are for 'making a night,' 

 Be sure that no shell-fish, in desperate plight, 



Hath curst you with death's frantic groan." 



What effect this singular production may have on the 

 reader we know not. For ourselves we can, in perfect 

 candour, declare, that (though much addicted to the luxury 

 here denounced) we shall never behold a broiled oyster in 

 future without bearing shuddering testimony to the truth 

 and power of Baron Bolland's portrayal of this ruthless 

 torture of unoffending innocence. So, also, of the lobster. 

 The piteous squeaks of this devoted creature would, we 

 think, take away the appetite of any young lady or gen- 

 tleman whose hearts are not yet indurated by the demora- 

 lising influence of dining out. But on this point we shall 

 let Baron Bolland speak in his own soul-piercing language. 

 His poem is somewhat quaintly entitled The Negro's dying 

 Blush, and reminds one, in its metrical structure, of 

 Cowper's verses, entitled The Negro's Complaint. In one 

 particular, the poet of the Task and the learned judge 



