LETTER VII. PAGE 588.

The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled "The Book,"[1] of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. Lackington and Co. This rejected Drama however possesses considerable merit and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my Readers.

The first Act opens in a very awful manner--_Time_, three o'clock in the morning--_Scene_, the Bourbon Chamber[2] in Carleton House-- Enter the Prince Regent _solus_--After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims:--

Away--Away-- Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book, I meet thee--trace thee, whereso'er I look. I see thy damned _ink_ in Eldon's brows-- I see thy _foolscap_ on my Hertford's Spouse-- Vansittart's head recalls thy _leathern_ case, And all thy _blank-leaves_ stare from R--d--r's face! While, turning here (_laying his hand on his heart_,) I find, ah wretched elf, Thy _List_ of dire _Errata_ in myself. (_Walks the stage in considerable agitation_.) Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curaçoa! Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh! Delicious drams! why have you not the art To kill this gnawing _Book-worm_ in my heart?

He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiving on the ground some scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and "by the light of two magnificent candelabras" discovers the following unconnected words, "_Wife neglected"--"the Book"--"Wrong Measures"--"the Queen"--"Mr. Lambert"--"the Regent_."

Ha! treason in my house!--Curst words, that wither My princely soul, (_shaking the papers violently_) what Demon brought you hither? "My Wife;"--"the Book" too!--stay--a nearer look-- (_holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras_) Alas! too plain, B, double O, K, Book-- Death and destruction!

He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter. A scene of cursing and swearing (very much in the German style) ensues, in the course of which messengers are despatched, in different directions, for the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Cumberland, etc. The intermediate time is filled up by another Soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid Personages rush on alarmed; the Duke with his stays only half-laced, and the Chancellor with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, "to maintain the becoming splendor of his office."[3] The Regent produces the appalling fragments, upon which the Chancellor breaks out into exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following portentous dream:

'Tis scarcely two hours since I had a fearful dream of thee, my Prince!-- Methought I heard thee midst a courtly crowd Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud, "Worship my whiskers!"--(_weeps_) not a knee was there But bent and worshipt the Illustrious Pair, Which curled in conscious majesty! (_pulls out his handkerchief_)-- while cries Of "Whiskers; whiskers!" shook the echoing skies.-- Just in that glorious hour, me-thought, there came, With looks of injured pride, a Princely Dame And a young maiden, clinging by her side, As if she feared some tyrant would divide Two hearts that nature and affection tied! The Matron came--within her _right_ hand glowed A radiant torch; while from her _left_ a load Of Papers hung--(_wipes his eyes_) collected in her veil-- The venal evidence, the slanderous tale, The wounding hint, the current lies that pass From _Post_ to _Courier_, formed the motley mass; Which with disdain before the Throne she throws, And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose.

(_Weeps_.)

Heavens, how it blazed!--I'd ask no livelier fire, (With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!-- But ah! the Evidence--_(weeps again)_ I mourned to see-- Cast as it burned, a deadly light on thee: And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung, And hissed and crackled, like an old maid's tongue; While _Post_ and _Courier_, faithful to their fame, Made up in stink for what they lackt in flame. When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker, Now singes _one_ now lights the _other_ whisker. Ah! where was then the Sylphid that unfurls Her fairy standard in defence of curls? Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanisht into smoke, The watchman cried "Past One," and--I awoke.

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the Regents (who has been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his hands to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held-- all the Servants, etc. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure the Regent for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of the best superfine _clinquant_ in describing) was the only person who had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly, determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous resolution to be vigorous.

The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers[4]--but as this forms the _under_ plot of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they "_exeunt_ severally" to Prison:--

Go to your prisons--tho' the air of Spring No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring; Tho' Summer flowers shall pass unseen away, And all your portion of the glorious day May be some solitary beam that falls At morn or eve upon your dreary walls-- Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed, To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad! Yet go--for thoughts as blessed as the air Of Spring or Summer flowers await you there; Thoughts such as He who feasts his courtly crew In rich conservatories _never_ knew; Pure self-esteem--the smiles that light within-- The Zeal, whose circling charities begin With the few loved-ones Heaven has placed it near, And spread till all Mankind are in its sphere; The Pride that suffers without vaunt or plea. And the fresh Spirit that can warble free Thro' prison-bars its hymn to Liberty!

The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Workshop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board--Their task evidently of a _royal_ nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, etc., that lie about--They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas to the tune of "Derry Down."

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees, For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease, While I sing of our Prince (and a fig for his railers), The Shop-board's delight! the Maecenas of Tailors! Derry down, down, down derry down.

Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note, While _His_ short cut to fame is--the cut of his coat; Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul, But our Regent's finds room in a laced button-hole. Derry down, etc.

Look thro' all Europe's Kings--those, at least, who go loose-- Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose. So, God keep him increasing in size and renown, Still the fattest and best fitted Prince about town! Derry down, etc.

During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from the Secretary of State's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its development--the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation too which he finally gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel M'Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced and skilfully laid beside the others, the following _billet-doux_ is the satisfactory result of their juxtaposition,

Honored Colonel--my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns, Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns. She sent the wrong Measures too--shamefully wrong-- They're the same used for poor Mr. Lambert, when young; But, bless you! they wouldn’t go half round the Regent-- So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery--the Regent resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual to the satisfaction of all parties.

[1] There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear that anybody had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It was entitled, "_Liber de tribus impostoribus_." (See Morhof. Cap. "_de Libris damnatis_.")

[2] The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fête, and which was ornamented (all "for the Deliverance of Europe") with _fleurs de-lys_.

[3] "To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to maintain it in becoming splendor." (_A loud laugh_.)--Lord CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon the Vice Chancellor's Bill_.

[4] Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

"It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it." --Lord CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment, April 14, 1812_.

Last night I tost and turned in bed, But could not sleep--at length I said, "I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh, "And of his speeches--that's the way." And so it was, for instantly I slept as sound as sound could be. And then I dreamt--so dread a dream! Fuseli has no such theme; Lewis never wrote or borrowed Any horror half so horrid!

Methought the Prince in whiskered state Before me at his breakfast sate; On one side lay unread Petitions, On t'other, Hints from five Physicians! _Here_ tradesmen's bills,--official papers, Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors _There_ plans of Saddles, tea and toast. Death-warrants and _The Morning Post_.

When lo! the Papers, one and all. As if at some magician's call. Began to flutter of themselves From desk and table, floor and shelves, And, cutting each some different capers, Advanced, oh jacobinic papers! As tho' they said, "Our sole design is "To suffocate his Royal Highness!" The Leader of this vile sedition Was a huge Catholic Petition, With grievances so full and heavy, It threatened worst of all the bevy; Then Common-Hall Addresses came In swaggering sheets and took their aim Right at the Regent's well-drest head, As if _determined_ to be read. Next Tradesmen's bills began to fly, And Tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high; Nay even Death-warrants thought they'd best Be lively too and join the rest.

But, oh the basest of defections! His letter about "predilections"!-- His own dear letter, void of grace, Now flew up in its parent's face! Shocked with this breach of filial duty, He just could murmur "_et_ Tu _Brute_?" Then sunk, subdued upon the floor At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked--and prayed, with lifted hand, "Oh! never may this Dream prove true; "Tho' paper overwhelms the land, "Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!"

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1]

At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by; And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I meant before now to have sent you this Letter, But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better To wait till the Irish affairs are decided-- (That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided, With all due appearance of thought and digestion)-- For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question, I thought it but decent, between me and you, That the two _other_ Houses should settle it too.

I need not remind you how cursedly bad Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2] A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me, A more _limited_ Monarchy could not well be. I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle. To choose my own Minister--just as they muzzle A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.

I thought the best way, as a dutiful son, Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3] So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in, The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching: For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4] Would loose all their beauty if purified once; And think--only think--if our Father should find. Upon graciously coming again to his mind,[5] That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser-- That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser-- That R--d--r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter-- Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter-- What a shock to his old royal heart it would be! No!--far were such dreams of improvement from me: And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,[6] There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curaçoa,[7] That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy, And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy.

You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I _would_, By the law of last sessions I _might_ have done good. I _might_ have withheld these political noodles From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles; I _might_ have told Ireland I pitied her lot, Might have soothed her with hope--but you know I did not.

And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous, But find that while he has been laid on the shelf We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself. You smile at my hopes--but the Doctors and I Are the last that can think the King _ever_ will die.[8]

A new era's arrived[9]--tho' you'd hardly believe it-- And all things of course must be new to receive it. New villas, new fêtes (which even Waithman attends)-- New saddles, new helmets, and--why not _new friends_?

* * * * *

I repeat it, "New Friends"--for I cannot describe The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe. Such capering!--Such vaporing!--Such rigor!--Such vigor! North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure, That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears, And leave us no friends--but Old Nick and Algiers.

When I think of the glory they've beamed on my chains, 'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains. It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches, But think how we find our Allies in new breeches! We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted, But then we've got Java, an island much wanted, To put the last lingering few who remain, Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain. Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother! _For_ Papists the one and _with_ Papists the other; _One_ crushing Napoleon by taking a City, While t'other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee. Oh deeds of renown!--shall I boggle or flinch, With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch. No--let _England's_ affairs go to rack, if they will, We'll look after the affairs of the _Continent_ still; And with nothing at home but starvation and riot, Find Lisbon in bread and keep Sicily quiet.

I am proud to declare I have no predilections,[10] My heart is a sieve where some scattered affections Are just danced about for a moment or two, And the _finer_ they are, the more sure to run thro'; Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill To mortal--except (now I think on't) Beau Brummel, Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion, To cut _me_ and bring the old King into fashion. This is all I can lay to my conscience at present; When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant, So royally free from all troublesome feelings, So little encumbered by faith in my dealings (And that I'm consistent the world will allow, What I was at Newmarket the same I am now). When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking), I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking, "To meet with the generous and kind approbation "Of a candid, enlightened, and liberal nation."

By the by, ere I close this magnificent Letter, (No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,) 'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbugged so long[11] With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong, Would a few of them join me--mind, only a few-- To let _too_ much light in on me never would do; But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid, While I've Camden and Eldon to fly to for shade; Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm, While there's Westmoreland near him to weaken the charm. As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it. Sure joining with Hertford and Yarmouth will do it! Between R-d-r and Wharton let Sheridan sit, And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit: And against all the pure public feeling that glows Even in Whitbread himself we've a Host in George Rose! So in short if they wish to have Places, they may, And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.[12] Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose) By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news; And now, dearest Fred (tho' I've no predilection), Believe me yours always with truest affection.

P.S. A copy of this is to Perceval going[13] Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing!

[1] Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York, Feb. 13, 1812.

[2] "I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament.--_Prince's Letter_.

[3] "My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice."-- _Ibid_.

[4] The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.

[5] "I waived any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative," etc.-- _Prince's Letter_.

[6] "And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of persons for whose judgment," etc--_Ibid_.

[7] The letter-writer's favorite luncheon.

[8] I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery."--_Prince's Letter_.

[9] "A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with satisfaction," etc.--_Ibid_.

[10] "I have no predilections to indulge,--no resentments to gratify."-- _Prince's Letter_.

[11] "I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government"-- _Prince's Letter_.

[12] "You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville."-- _Prince's Letter_.

[13] "I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval."- _Prince's Letter_.

ANACREONTIC

TO A PLUMASSIER.

Fine and feathery artisan, Best of Plumists (if you can With your art so far presume) Make for me a Prince's Plume-- Feathers soft and feathers rare, Such as suits a Prince to wear.

First thou downiest of men, Seek me out a fine Pea-hen; Such a Hen, so tall and grand, As by Juno's side might stand, If there were no cocks at hand. Seek her feathers, soft as down, Fit to shine on Prince's crown; If thou canst not find them, stupid! Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due, Pluck me next an old Cuckoo; Emblem of the happy fates Of easy, kind, cornuted mates. Pluck him well--be sure you do-- _Who_ wouldn’t be an old Cuckoo, Thus to have his plumage blest, Beaming on a Royal crest?

Bravo, Plumist!--now what bird Shall we find for Plume the third? You must get a learned Owl, Bleakest of black-letter fowl-- Bigot bird that hates the light,[1] Foe to all that's fair and bright. Seize his quills, (so formed to pen Books[2] that shun the search of men; Books that, far from every eye, In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,) Stick them in between the two, Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo. Now you have the triple feather, Bind the kindred stems together With a silken tie whose hue Once was brilliant Buff and Blue; Sullied now--alas, how much! Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.

There--enough--thy task is done; Present, worthy George's Son; Now, beneath, in letters neat, Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

[1] Perceval.

[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that period.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

_Wednesday_.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now-- Met the _old yellow chariot_[1] and made a low bow. This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil, But got such a look--oh! 'twas black as the devil! How unlucky!--_incog_. he was travelling about, And I like a noodle, must go find him out. _Mem_.--when next by the old yellow chariot I ride, To remember there _is_ nothing princely inside.

_Thursday_.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder-- What _can_ be come over me lately, I wonder? The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife-- "Fine weather," says he--to which I, who _must_ prate, Answered, "Yes, Sir, but _changeable_ rather, of late." He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff, And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough, That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off, And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff!

_Mem_.--to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion To nourish his whiskers--sure road to promotion![3]

_Saturday_.

Last night a Concert--vastly gay-- Given by Lady Castlereagh. My Lord loves music, and we know Has "two strings always to his bow."[4] In choosing songs, the Regent named "_Had I a heart for falsehood framed_." While gentle Hertford begged and prayed For "_Young I am and sore afraid_."

[1] The _incog_. vehicle of the Prince.

[2] Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.

[3] England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."

[4] A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches.

EPIGRAM.

What news to-day?--"Oh! worse and worse-- "Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"-- The Prince's _Purse_! no, no, you fool, You mean the Prince's _Ridicule_.

[1] Colonel M'Mahon.

KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS.

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings, (At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,) But Crack now and then would do heterodox things, And at last took to worshipping _Images_ sadly.

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed In his father's old _Cabinet_, pleased him so much, That he knelt down and worshipt, tho'--such was his taste!-- They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch.

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!-- But his People disdaining to worship such things Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your Godships must pack-- "You'll not do for _us_, tho' you _may_ do for _Kings_."

Then trampling these images under their feet, They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Caesar! "We're willing to worship; but only entreat "That you'll find us some _decenter_ godheads than these are."

"I'll try," says King Crack--so they furnisht him models Of better shaped Gods but he sent them all back; Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles, In short they were all _much_ too godlike for Crack.

So he took to his darling old Idols again, And just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces, In open defiance of Gods and of man, Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

[1] One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

_Quest_. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? _Answ_. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the _Veto_, dear Catholic Neddy?" "Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz, "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

[1] Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers-- Or, (if sweeter that abode) From the King's well-odored Road, Where each little nursery bud Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud. Hither come and gayly twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who rule us, Those who rule and (some say) fool us-- Flora, sure, will love to please England's Household Deities![1]

First you must then, willy-nilly, Fetch me many an orange lily-- Orange of the darkest dye Irish Gifford can supply;-- Choose me out the longest sprig, And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy, Garland gaudy, dull and cool, To crown the head of Liverpool. 'Twill console his brilliant brows For that loss of laurel boughs, Which they suffered (what a pity!) On the road to Paris City.

Next, our Castlereagh to crown, Bring me from the County Down, Withered Shamrocks which have been Gilded o'er to hide the green-- (Such as Headfort brought away From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]-- Stitch the garland thro' and thro' With shabby threads _of every hue_-- And as, Goddess!--_entre nous_-- His Lordship loves (tho' best of men) A little _torture_ now and then, Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens, Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough--away, away-- Had I leisure, I could say How the _oldest rose_ that grows Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose-- How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile Crowned with wreaths of camomile. But time presses--to thy taste I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

[1] The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods.

[2] Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day.

[3] The _sobriquet_ given to Lord Sidmouth.

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S FETE.

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look "If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."-- "We've lost the _Court Guide_, Ma'am, but here's _the Red Book_. "Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour _Places_ in plenty!"

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.[1]

Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains, About what your old crony, The Emperor Boney, Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries: Should there come famine, Still plenty to cram in You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.

Brisk let us revel, while revel we may; For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away, And then people get fat, And infirm, and--all that, And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;

Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!--alas, even they, Tho' so rosy they burn, Too quickly must turn (What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget Your mind about matters you don’t understand? Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot, Because "_you_," forsooth, "_have the pen in your hand_!"

Think, think how much better Than scribbling a letter, (Which both you and I Should avoid by the by,) How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust Of old Charley,[2] my friend here, and drink like a new one;

While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan. To Crown us, Lord Warden, In Cumberland's garden Grows plenty of _monk's hood_ in venomous sprigs: While Otto of Roses Refreshing all noses Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau In that streamlet delicious, That down midst the dishes, All full of gold fishes, Romantic doth flow?-- Or who will repair Unto Manchester Square, And see if the gentle _Marchesa_ be there?

Go--bid her haste hither, And let her bring with her The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going-- Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing, All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, In the manner of--Ackerman's Dresses for May!

[1] This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public--entitled "Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion."

[2] Charles Fox.

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELDON.

The man who keeps a conscience pure, (If not his own, at least his Prince's,) Thro' toil and danger walks secure, Looks big and black and never winces.

No want has he of sword or dagger, Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb; Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger, He doesn’t care one single damn.

Whether midst Irish chairmen going. Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim, Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing, No matter, 'tis all one to him.

For instance, I, one evening late, Upon a gay vacation sally, Singing the praise of Church and State, Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.

When lo! an Irish Papist darted Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big-- I did but frown and off he started, Scared at me even without my wig.

Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog Goes not to Mass in Dublin City, Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog, Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.

Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles, The ragged royal-blood of Tara; Or place me where Dick Martin rules The houseless wilds of Connemara;[1]

Of Church and State I'll warble still, Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble; Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill, So lovingly upon a hill-- Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble![2]

[1] I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a "_malus Jupiter_" of him.

[2] There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) "standing and falling together," than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.

Jack fell down, And broke his _Crown_, And Jill came tumbling after.

THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

--_nova monstra creavit_. OVID. "_Metamorph_." 1. i. v. 417.

Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac, With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back. And such helmets, God bless us! as never deckt any Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni-- "Let's see," said the Regent (like Titus, perplext With the duties of empire,) "whom _shall_ I dress next?"

He looks in the glass--but perfection is there, Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair;[1] Not a single _ex_-curl on his forehead he traces-- For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is, The _falser_ they are, the more firm in their places. His coat he next views--but the coat who could doubt? For his Yarmouth's own Frenchified hand cut it out; Every pucker and seam were made matters of state, And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.

Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother, Great Cumberland's Duke, with some kickshaw or other? And kindly invent him more Christianlike shapes For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes. Ah! no--here his ardor would meet with delays, For the Duke had been lately packt up in new Stays, So complete for the winter, he saw very plain 'Twould be devilish hard work to _un_pack him again.

So what's to be done?--there's the Ministers, bless 'em!-- As he _made_ the puppets, why shouldn’t he _dress_ 'em? "An excellent thought!--call the tailors--be nimble-- "Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and Hertford her thimble; "While Yarmouth shall give us, in spite of all quizzers, "The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors."

So saying, he calls Castlereagh and the rest Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest. While Yarmouth, with snip-like and brisk expedition, Cuts up all at once a large Catholic Petition In long tailors' measures, (the Prince crying "Well-done!") And first _puts in hand_ my Lord Chancellor Eldon.

[1] That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,

UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) "HAVING LAW[1] ON ONE'S SIDE."

_The Gentleman's Proposal_.

_Legge aurea, S'ei piace, ei lice_."

Come fly to these arms nor let beauties so bloomy To one frigid owner be tied; Your prudes may revile and your old ones look gloomy, But, dearest, we've _Law_ on our side.

Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial, Whom no dull decorums divide; Their error how sweet and their raptures how _venial_, When once they've got Law on their side.

'Tis a thing that in every King's reign has been done too: Then why should it now be decried? If the Father has done it why shouldn’t the Son too? For so argues Law on our side.

And even should our sweet violation of duty By cold-blooded jurors be tried, They can _but_ bring it in "misfortune," my beauty, As long as we've Law on our side.

_The Lady's Answer_.

Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly; For grant me so faithless a bride, Such sinners as we, are a little too _lovely_, To hope to have Law on our side.

Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o'er 'em The People should look for their guide, Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum-- You'd always have Law on your side.

Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary, Whose heart tho' it long ago died To the _pleasures_ of vice, is alive to its _glory_-- You still would have Law on your side.

But for _you_, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles; By _my_ advice therefore abide, And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles Who have _such_ a _Law_ on their side.

[1] In allusion to Lord Ellenborough.

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS

FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. STEPHEN,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.

This day a New House for your edification We open, most thinking and right-headed nation! Excuse the materials--tho' rotten and bad, They're the best that for money just now could be had; And if _echo_ the charm of such houses should be, You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.

As for actors, we've got the old Company yet, The same motley, odd, tragicomical set; And considering they all were but clerks t'other day, It is truly surprising how well they can play. Our Manager,[1] (he who in Ulster was nurst, And sung _Erin go Bragh_ for the galleries first, But on finding _Pitt_-interest a much better thing, Changed his note of a sudden to _God save the King_,) Still wise as he's blooming and fat as he's clever, Himself and his speeches as _lengthy_ as ever. Here offers you still the full use of his breath, Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.

You remember last season, when things went perverse on. We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on) One Mr. Vansittart, a good sort of person, Who's also employed for this season to play, In "Raising the Wind," and "the Devil to Pay."[2] We expect too--at least we've been plotting and planning-- To get that great actor from Liverpool, Canning; And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts Like a good _single combat_ brought in 'twixt the acts, If the Manager should, with the help of Sir Popham, Get up new _diversions_ and Canning should stop 'em, Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers, "Grand fight--second time--with additional capers."

Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad, There is plenty of each in this House to be had. Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be, For a _dead hand at tragedy_ always was he; And there never was dealer in dagger and cup, Who so _smilingly_ got all his tragedies up. His powers poor Ireland will never forget, And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.

So much for the actors;--for secret machinery, Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery, Yarmouth and Cum are the best we can find, To transact all that trickery business behind. The former's employed too to teach us French jigs, Keep the whiskers in curl and look after the wigs.

In taking my leave now, I've only to say, A few _Seats in the House_, not as yet sold away, May be had of the Manager, Pat Castlereagh.

[1] Lord Castlereagh.

[2] He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.

THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.

_Instrumenta regni_.--TACITUS.

Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies, They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is; (Except it be _Cabinet-making_;--no doubt, In that delicate service they're rather worn out; Tho' their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will, Would have bungled away with them joyously still.) You see they've been pretty well _hackt_--and alack! What tool is there job after job will not hack? Their edge is but dullish it must be confest, And their temper, like Ellenborough's, none of the best; But you'll find them good hardworking Tools, upon trying, Were't but for their _brass_ they are well worth the buying; They're famous for making _blinds_, _sliders_, and _screens_, And are some of them excellent _turning_ machines.

The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a _Chancellor_), Heavy concern to both purchaser _and_ seller. Tho' made of pig iron yet worthy of note 'tis, 'Tis ready to _melt_ at a half minute's notice.[1] Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest; 'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist; Or else a cramp-iron to stick in the wall Of some church that old women are fearful will fall; Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,) A heavy _drag-chain_ for some Lawyer's old _Tandem_. Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir-- Once, twice,--going, going,--thrice, gone!--it is yours, Sir. To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest, As a _bill_ at _long date_ suits the Chancellor best.

Come, where's the next Tool?-- Oh! 'tis here in a trice-- This implement, Ge'mmen, at first was a _Vice_; (A tenacious and close sort of tool that will let Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;) But it since has received a new coating of _Tin_, Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in. Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on, We'll the sooner get rid of it--going--quite gone. God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knockt down, Might at last cost their owner--how much? why, a _Crown_!

The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had handsel or Trial as yet and is _also_ a Chancellor-- Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross; Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to _shave close_, And like _other_ close shavers, some courage to gather, This _blade_ first began by a flourish on _leather_.[2] You shall have it for nothing--then, marvel with me At the terrible _tinkering_ work there must be, Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it) Is placed by ill luck at the top of _the Budget_!

[1] An allusion to Lord Eldon's lachrymose tendencies.

[2] Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather."--_Ann. Register_.

LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.

A BALLAD.

_To the tune of "There was a little man, and he wooed a little maid."_

DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES ABBOT.

_arcades ambo et cantare pares_

1813.

There was a little Man and he had a little Soul, And he said, "Little Soul, let us try, try, try. "Whether it's within our reach "To make up a little Speech, "Just between little you and little I, I, I, "Just between little you and little I!"

Then said his little Soul, Peeping from her little hole, "I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout, "But, if it's not uncivil, "Pray tell me what the devil, "Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout, "Must our little, little speech be about?"

The little Man lookt big, With the assistance of his wig, And he called his little Soul to order, order, order, Till she feared he'd make her jog in To jail, like Thomas Croggan, (As she wasn't Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her, As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her.

The little Man then spoke, "Little Soul, it is no joke, "For as sure as Jacky Fuller loves a sup, sup, sup, "I will tell the Prince and People "What I think of Church and Steeple. "And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up, "And my little patent plan to prop them up."

Away then, cheek by jowl, Little Man and little Soul Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle, And the world all declare That this priggish little pair Never yet in all their lives lookt so little, little, little. Never yet in all their lives lookt so little!

REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

_suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites_. VERGIL.

1813.

As recruits in these times are not easily got And the Marshal _must_ have them--pray, why should we not, As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him, Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him? There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear, Any men we could half so conveniently spare; And tho' they've been helping the French for years past, We may thus make them useful to England at last. Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces, Being used to the _taking_ and _keeping_ of _places_; And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining, Might show off his talent for sly _under-mining_. Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride, Old Headfort at _horn-works_ again might be tried, And as Chief Justice make a _bold charge_ at his side: While Vansittart could victual the troops _upon tick_, And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf: Tho' thro' narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass, Yet who could resist, if he bore down _en masse_? And tho' oft of an evening perhaps he might prove, Like our Spanish confederates, "unable to move,"[1] Yet there's _one_ thing in war of advantage unbounded, Which is, that he could not with ease be _surrounded_.

In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment: At present no more, but--good luck to the shipment!

[1] The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable despatch.

HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

_odi profanum, valgus et arceo; favete linguis: carmina non prius audila Musarum sacerdos virginibus puerisque canto. regum timendorum in proprios greges, reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis_.

1813.

I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf; To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses, Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself, And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses. Oh! it _is_ not high rank that can make the heart merry, Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap: Tho' the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry, Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

A FRAGMENT.

_persico odi, puer, adparatus; displicent nexae philyra coronae;_ mitte sectari, _Rosa_ quo locorum sera moretur.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries. Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries-- Six by the Horse-Guards!--old Georgy is late-- But come--lay the table-cloth--zounds! do not wait, Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying, At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

* * * * *

IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.

Between Adam and me the great difference is, Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his, While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled, While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do; For while _they_'re in the Council and _you_ in the Field. We've the _babies_ in _them_, and the _thunder_ in _you_!

The following trifles, having enjoyed in their circulation through the newspapers all the celebrity and length of life to which they were entitled, would have been suffered to pass quietly into oblivion without pretending to any further distinction, had they not already been published, in a collective form, both in London and Paris, and, in each case, been mixed up with a number of other productions, to which, whatever may be their merit, the author of the following pages has no claim. A natural desire to separate his own property, worthless as it is, from that of others, is, he begs to say, the chief motive of the publication of this volume.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

_effare causam nominis, utrumne mores hoc tui nomen dedere, an nomen hoc secuta morum regula_. AUSONIUS.

1816.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson _Low_, (By name, and ah! by nature so) As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down--these little men did-- And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!--upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins Amused themselves with sticking pins And needles in the great man's breeches: And how some _very_ little things, That past for Lords, on scaffoldings Got up and worried him with speeches,

Alas, alas! that it should happen To mighty men to be caught napping!-- Tho' different too these persecutions; For Gulliver, _there_, took the nap, While, _here_, the _Nap_, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians!

AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

1826.

BANK.

Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played; When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks, And enjoyed the endearing _advances_ I made!

When left to ourselves, unmolested and free, To do all that a dashing young couple should do, A law against _paying_ was laid upon me, But none against _owing_, dear helpmate, on you.

And is it then vanisht?--that "hour (as Othello So happily calls it) of Love and _Direction_?" And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow, Grow good in our old age and cut the connection?

GOVERNMENT.

Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be; This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing: We've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee There must soon be a stop to our _bill_ing and cooing.

Propagation in reason--a small child or two-- Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to; The issue of some folks is moderate and few-- But _ours_, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to!

So--hard tho' it be on a pair, who've already Disposed of so many pounds, shillings and pence; And in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy,[1] So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense--

The day is at hand, my Papyria[2] Venus, When--high as we once used to carry our capers-- Those soft _billet-doux_ we're now passing between us, Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl-papers:

And when--if we _still_ must continue our love, (After all that has past)--our amour, it is clear, Like that which Miss Danäe managed with Jove, Must all be transacted in _bullion_, my dear!

_February, 1826_.

[1] Honorable Fredrick Robinson.

[2] So called, to distinguish her from the Aure or _Golden_ Venus.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

_"o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres agna lupos, capreaeque leones."_--HOR.

Said a Sovereign to a Note, In the pocket of his coat, Where they met in a neat purse of leather, "How happens it, I prithee, "That, tho' I'm wedded _with_ thee, "Fair Pound, we can never live together?

"Like your sex, fond of _change_ "With Silver you can range, "And of lots of young sixpences be mother; "While with _me_--upon my word, "Not my Lady and my Lord "Of Westmouth see so little of each other!"

The indignant Note replied (Lying crumpled by his side), "Shame, shame, it is _yourself_ that roam, Sir-- "One cannot look askance, "But, whip! you're off to France, "Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

"Your scampering began "From the moment Parson Van, "Poor man, made us _one_ in Love's fetter; "'For better or for worse' "Is the usual marriage curse, "But ours is all 'worse' and no 'better.'

"In vain are laws past, "There's nothing holds you fast, "Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you-- "At the smallest hint in life, "You forsake your lawful wife, "As _other_ Sovereigns did before you.

"I flirt with Silver, true-- "But what can ladies do, "When disowned by their natural protectors? "And as to falsehood, stuff! "I shall soon be _false_ enough, "When I get among those wicked Bank Directors."

The Sovereign, smiling on her, Now swore upon his honor, To be henceforth domestic and loyal; But, within an hour or two, Why--I sold him to a Jew, And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal.

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

_"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?"_ VERGIL.

1826.

How _can_ you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1] When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental, 'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life, On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in? A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"-- At once so confounded _domestic_ and _foreign_.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast; But Peers and such animals, fed up for show, (Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,) Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale, When the force of the agony wrung even a jest From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2]

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave A humor endowed with effects so provoking, That when the whole House looks unusually grave You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth-- Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth, 'Twixt those who have _heir_looms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk _now_ of starving!"--as great Athol said[3]-- (And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,) "When some years ago he and others had fed "Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"

It follows from hence--and the Duke's very words Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are-- That weavers, _once_ rescued from starving by Lords, Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each _row_; But not so the plan of _our_ noble physicians, "No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose, As I shall my poetry--_neither_ convinces; And all we have spoken and written but shows, When you tread on a nobleman's _corn_,[4] how he winces.

[1] See the proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826, when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for making so many speeches against the Corn Laws.

[2] This noble Earl said, that "when he heard the petition came from ladies' boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the 'corns' which they inflicted on the fair sex."

[3] The Duke of Athol said, that "at a former period, when these weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported 1500 of them, it was a poor return for these very men now to petition against the persons who had fed them."

[4] An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.'s joke.

THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

"Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund--these eight millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?" --_The Times_.

Take your bell, take your bell, Good Crier, and tell To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned, That, lost or stolen, Or fallen thro' a hole in The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

O yes! O yes! Can anybody guess What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder? It has Pitt's name on't, All brass, in the front, And Robinson's scrawled with a goose-quill under.

Folks well knew what Would soon be its lot, When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,[1] And said to each other, "Suppose, dear brother, "We make this funny old Fund worth robbing."

We are come, alas! To a very pretty pass-- Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,

With but Five in the till, To discharge the bill, And even that Five, too, whipt away!

Stop thief! stop thief!-- From the Sub to the Chief, These _Gemmen_ of Finance are plundering cattle-- Call the watch--call Brougham, Tell Joseph Hume, That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle.

Whoever will bring This aforesaid thing To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin, Shall be paid, with thanks, In the notes of banks, Whose Funds have all learned "the Art of Sinking."

O yes! O yes! Can anybody guess What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder? It has Pitt's name on't, All brass, in the front, And Robinson's, scrawled with a goose-quill under.

[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new taxes to the sum of five millions.

ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.

"legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."--VERGIL.

Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know, (Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,) Adorned with somniferous poppies to show Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.

Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches. Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesn’t bore thee), Thou'lt read o'er the last of his--_never_-last speeches.

Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted; Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn, 'Tis the _growers_ of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us-- Reviewers, economists--fellows no doubt That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus And Gods of high fashion, know little about.

There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,-- Who thinks just as little of settling a nation As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking (What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2]

There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;-- And whereas Mill Senior makes war on _good_ breeding, Mill Junior makes war on all _breeding_ whatever!

In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided Between _ultra_ blockheads and superfine sages;-- With _which_ of these classes we landlords have sided Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.

For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the "_chaste_ notions"[3] of food That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart, They would scorn any law, be it ever so good, That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day, Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination (Like _Sulky_ and _Silky_, that pair in the play,)[5] Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!

Long life to the Minister!--no matter who, Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he Keeps the ports shut--and the people's mouths too-- We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity,

And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us, Had England but _One_ to stand by thee, Dear Corn, That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas!

[1] A sort of "breakfast-power," composed of roasted corn, was about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.

[2] The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinner walk.

[3] A phrase in one of Sir Thomas's last speeches.

[4] Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of foreign silk.

[5] "Road to Ruin."

[6] This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be, something between the _Bos_ and the _Asinus_, and, as Rees's Cyclopaedia assures us, has a particular liking for everything "chaste."

A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.

_"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."_

And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er-- Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more! Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain! The short eclipse of April-Day Having (God grant it!) past away, Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,-- With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,-- Whate'er the job, prepared to back it; Come, voters of Supplies--bestowers Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers, At eighty mortal pounds the jacket![1]

Come--free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares-- Ye Senators of many Shares, Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary; So fond of aught like _Company_, That you would even have taken _tea_ (Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.[2]

Come, matchless country-gentlemen; Come, wise Sir Thomas--wisest then When creeds and corn-lords are debated; Come, rival even the Harlot Red, And show how wholly into _bread_ A 'Squire is _transubstantiated_,

Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world, That--surely as thy scratch is curled As never scratch was curled before-- Cheap eating does more harm than good, And working-people spoiled by food, The less they eat, will work the more.

Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence (Which thou'dst have made for Peter's Pence) Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter; Two pipes of port (_old_ port, 'twas said By honest _New_port)[3] bought and paid By Papists for the Orange Altar![4]

Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry For peopling Canada from Kerry-- Not so much rendering Ireland quiet, As grafting on the dull Canadians That liveliest of earth's contagions, The _bull_-pock of Hibernian riot!

Come all, in short, ye wondrous men Of wit and wisdom, come again; Tho' short your absence, all deplore it-- Oh, come and show, whate'er men say, That you can _after_ April-Day, Be just as--sapient as _before_ it.

[1] An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavored tog et rid of:-- trumpeters, it appears like the men of All-Souls, must be "_bene vestiti_."

[2] The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his _Joint_-Stock Tea Company all to himself, singing "Te _solo adoro_."

[3] Sir John Newport.

[4] This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental wine is a precious specimen of the sort of rates levied upon their Catholic fellow- parishioners by the Irish Protestants. "The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine."

MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.

The Budget--quite charming and witty--no hearing, For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;-- Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't _cheering_, That all its gay auditors _were_ every minute.

What, _still_ more prosperity!--mercy upon us, "This boy'll be the death of me"--oft as, already, Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us, For _Ruin made easy_ there's no one like Freddy.

TUESDAY.

Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers, Lest--calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts-- The large stock of gold we're to have in three years, Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1]

WEDNESDAY.

Little doing--for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table-- When _the Members_ all meet, to make much of that part, With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appeared, tho', to-night, that--as church-wardens yearly, Eat up a small baby--those cormorant sinners. The Bankrupt Commissioners, _bolt_ very nearly A moderate-sized bankrupt, _tout chaud_, for their dinners![2]

_Nota bene_--a rumor to-day, in the city, "Mr. Robinson just has resigned"--what a pity!

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing, When they heard of the fate of poor Cock _Robin_: While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty, A murmuring _Stock_-dove breathed her ditty:--

Alas, poor _Robin_, he crowed as long And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow; But his _note_ was _small_ and the _gold_-finch's song Was a pitch too high for Robin to go. Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank, "While I have a rag, poor _Rob_ shall be rolled in't, "With many a pound I'll paper him round, "Like a plump rouleau--_without_ the gold in it."

[1] "Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a greater number of highway robberies."--_Debate in the Lords_.

[2] Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern bills of the Commissioners of Bankrupts.

ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.

A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD.

(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.)

"The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves itself into a Family Account."--_Sir Robert Peel's Letter_.

Tune--_My banks are all furnisht with bees_.

My banks are all furnisht with rags, So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em; I've torn up my old money-bags, Having little or nought to put in 'em. My tradesmen are smashing by dozens, But this is all nothing, they say; For bankrupts since Adam are cousins,-- So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me. As sages the matter explain;-- Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy Just owes it to Bob back again. Since all have thus taken to _owing_, There's nobody left that can _pay_; And this is the way to keep going,-- All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions, To put in Prosperity's budget; And tho' it were billions or trillions, The generous rogues wouldn’t grudge it. 'Tis all but a family _hop_, 'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay; Hands round!--why the deuce should we stop? 'Tis all in the family way.

My laborers used to eat mutton, As any great man of the State does; And now the poor devils are put on Small rations of tea and potatoes. But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy, The King is your father, they say; So even if you starve for your Daddy, 'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble, My poor ones have nothing to chew; And even if themselves do not grumble Their stomachs undoubtedly do. But coolly to fast _en famille_, Is as good for the soul as to pray; And famine itself is genteel, When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy, A secret for next Budget day; Tho' perhaps he may know it already, As he too's a sage in his way. When next for the Treasury scene he Announces "the Devil to pay," Let him write on the bills, "_nota bene_, "'Tis all in the family way."

BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.

"I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that _whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest_, should give way to the other." --_Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn_.

Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too, No one e'er the fact denied;-- Which is "weakest" of the two, Cambridge can alone decide. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is, Bankes, as much afraid as he; Never yet did two old ladies On this point so well agree. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest. Cambridge, say.

Each a different mode pursues, Each the same conclusion reaches; Bankes is foolish in Reviews, Goulbourn foolish in his speeches. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Each a different foe doth damn, When his own affairs have gone ill; Bankes he damneth Buckingham, Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. Once we know a horse's neigh Fixt the election to a throne, So whichever first shall _bray_ Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own. Choose him, choose him by his bray, Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray.

_June_, 1826.

MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.

1826.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

Sir--Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an _avalanche_, where he had remained, _bien frappe_, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject.--Yours, etc.

_Laudator Temporis Acti_.

What a lucky turn-up!--just as Eldon's withdrawing, To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing To serve for _our_ times quite as well as the Peer;--

To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone Of our Ancestors, such as 'tis found on our shelves, But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown, To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves!

Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home-- Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way; With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come, And our Tories will hail him with "Hear!" and "Hurrah!"

What a God-send to _them_!--a good, obsolete man, Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader;-- Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can, And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader.

Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou _shalt_ be their chosen; And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men, To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen, So altered thou hardly wilt know it again.

And Eldon will weep o'er each sad innovation Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he Has been also laid up in a long congelation, And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee.

COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826.

Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch An official young demon, preparing to go, Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch From the Hell here at Crockford's, to _our_ Hell below--

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic, To say that first having obeyed your directions And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic," My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul, When every good Christian tormented his brother, And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal, From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering besides how it pained thee to part With the old Penal Code--that _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Law, In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art) We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive, (Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,) 'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive, Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;--

That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics, So like is to _ours_, in its spirit and tone. That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics, To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for the original notes Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"[1]

Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command "Such audience, tho' yelled by a _Sans-culotte_ crew "What wonders shall _we_ do, who've men in our band, "That not only wear breeches but petticoats too."

Such _then_ were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness, I'm forced to confess--be the cause what it will, Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,-- Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is no placeman now knows his right key, The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various; And certain _base_ voices, that lookt for a fee At the _York_ music-meeting now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends _might_ have been warmer,-- Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had; Doctor Wise[2]is for instance a charming performer, And _Huntingdon_ Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether however the thing was not hearty;-- Even Eldon allows we got on but so so; And when next we attempt a No-Popery party, We _must_, please your Highness, recruit _from below_.

But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip-- Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;-- The next opportunity shan't be let slip, But, till then, I'm, in haste, your most dutiful DEVIL.

_July, 1826_

[1] _Con fuoco_--a music-book direction.

[2] This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the Reading election.

THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY."

1826

A millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it-- As matters both public and private now go, With multitudes round us all starving or near it. A good, rich Millennium will come _à-propos_.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold, Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold, Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags--

A City where wine and cheap corn[1] shall abound-- A celestial _Cocaigne_ on whose buttery shelves We may swear the best things of this world will be found, As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian, Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision Can cast at the same time a sly look at each;--

Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we May even in our own times a Jubilee share. Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee, And so often postponed, we began to despair.

There was Whiston[2] who learnedly took Prince Eugene For the man who must bring the Millennium about; There's Faber whose pious productions have been All belied ere his book's first edition was out;--

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P., Who discoursed on the subject with signal _eclat_, And, each day of his life sat expecting to see A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh![3]

There was also--but why should I burden my lay With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving, When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way To the last new Millennium of Orator Irving.

Go on, mighty man,--doom them all to the shelf,-- And when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy sconce, Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself Art the Beast (Chapter iv.) that sees nine ways at once.

[1] "A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny."--Rev. vi.

[2] When Whiston presented to Prince Eugene the Essay in which he attempted to connect his victories over the Turks with Revelation, the Prince is said to have replied, that "he was not aware he had ever had ever had honor of being known to St. John".

[3] Mr. Dobbs was a member of the Irish Parliament, and, on all other subjects but the Millennium, a very sensible person: he chose Armagh as the scene of his Millennium on account of the name Armageddon mentioned in Revelation.

THE THREE DOCTORS.

_doctoribus loetamur tribus_.

1826.

Tho' many great Doctors there be, There are three that all Doctors out-top, Doctor Eady, that famous M. D., Doctor Southey, and dear Doctor Slop.[1]

The purger, the proser, the bard-- All quacks in a different style; Doctor Southey writes books by the yard. Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile![2]

Doctor Slop, in no merit outdone By his scribbling or physicking brother, Can dose us with stuff like the one. Ay, and _doze_ us with stuff like the other.

Doctor Eady good company keeps With "No Popery" scribes, on the walls; Doctor Southey as gloriously sleeps With "No Popery" scribes on the stalls.

Doctor Slop, upon subjects divine, Such bedlamite slaver lets drop, Taat if Eady should take the _mad_ line, He'll be sure of a patient in Slop.

Seven millions of Papists, no less, Doctor Southey attacks, like a Turk; Doctor Eady, less bold, I confess, Attacks but his maid-of-all-work

Doctor Southey, for _his_ grand attack, Both a laureate and pensioner is; While poor Doctor Eady, alack, Has been _had up_ to Bow-street for his!

And truly, the law does so blunder, That tho' little blood has been spilt, he May probably suffer as, under The _Chalking_ Act, _known_ to be guilty.

So much for the merits sublime (With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop) Of the three greatest lights of our time, Doctor Eady and Southey and Slop!

Should you ask me, to _which_ of the three Great Doctors the preference should fall, As a matter of course I agree Doctor Eady must go to _the wall_.

But as Southey with laurels is crowned, And Slop with a wig and a tail is, Let Eady's bright temples be bound With a swingeing "Corona _Muralis_!"[3]

[1] The editor of the Morning Herald, so nicknamed.

[2] Alluding to the display of this doctor's name, in chalk, on all the walls round the metropolis.

[3] A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to persons who performed any extraordinary exploits upon wall, such as scaling them, battering them, etc.--No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr. Eady does, would equally establish a claim to the honor.

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one who ne'er preferred A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a _star_ he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took of course to peers' relations; And rather than not sport a Lord Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call; And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For rest his soul! he'd rather be Genteelly damned beside a Duke, Than saved in vulgar company.

ODE TO A HAT.

--_altum aedificat caput_." JUVENAL

1826.

Hail, reverent Hat!--sublime mid all The minor felts that round thee grovel;-- Thou that the Gods "a Delta" call While meaner mortals call the "shovel." When on thy shape (like pyramid, Cut horizontally in two)[1] I raptured gaze, what dreams unbid Of stalls and mitres bless my view!

That brim of brims so sleekly good-- Not flapt, like dull Wesleyans', down, But looking (as all churchmen's should) Devoutly upward--towards the _crown_.

Gods! when I gaze upon that brim, So redolent of Church all over, What swarms of Tithes in vision dim,-- Some-pig-tailed, some like cherubim, With ducklings' wings--around it hover! Tenths of all dead and living things, That Nature into being brings, From calves and corn to chitterlings.

Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks, The very cock most orthodox. To _which_ of all the well-fed throng Of Zion,[2] joy'st thou to belong? Thou'rt _not_ Sir Harcourt Lees's--no- For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em: And hats, on heads like his, would grow Particularly _harum-scarum_.

Who knows but thou mayst deck the pate Of that famed Doctor Ad-mth-te, (The reverend rat, whom we saw stand On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,) Who changed so quick from _blue_ to _yellow_, And would from _yellow_ back to _blue_, And back again, convenient fellow, If 'twere his interest so to do.

Or haply smartest of triangles, Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen; The hat that, to his vestry wrangles, That venerable priest doth go in,-- And then and there amid the stare Of all St. Olave's, takes the chair And quotes with phiz right orthodox The example of his reverend brothers, To prove that priests all fleece their flocks And _he_ must fleece as well as others.

Blest Hat! (whoe'er thy lord may be) Thus low I take off mine to thee, The homage of a layman's _castor_, To the spruce _delta_ of his pastor. Oh mayst thou be, as thou proceedest, Still smarter cockt, still brusht the brighter, Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest Thy sleek possessor to a mitre!

[1] So described by a Reverend Historian of the Church:--"A Delta hat like the horizontal section of a pyramid."--GRANT'S "History of the English Church."

[2] Archbishop Magee affectionately calls the Church Establishment of Ireland "the little Zion."

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper, When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper, But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends As you chance to pick up from political friends- Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better-- His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster) Has just taken Rhodes and despatched off a letter To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master; Engaging to change the old name, if he can, From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan;-- Or if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim) Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are that the Tsar-- Most generous and kind as all sovereigns are, And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose) Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes[1]-- Is now busy collecting with brotherly care The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks, of bestowing One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare) On all the distinguisht old ladies now going. (While I write, an arrival from Riga--the "Brothers"-- Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.)

Last advices from India--Sir Archy, 'tis thought, Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught In N. Lat. 2l.)--and his Highness Burmese, Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees, And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant To pawn his august Golden Foot[2] for the payment.

(How lucky for monarchs, that thus when they choose Can establish a _running_ account with the Jews!) The security being what Rothschild calls "goot," A loan will be shortly, of course, set _on foot_; The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co. With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a toe, And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us _leg_-bail, As he did once before) to pay down _on the nail_.

* * * * *

This is all for the present--what vile pens and paper! Yours truly, dear Cousin--best love to Miss Draper.

_September_, 1826.

[1] A distribution was made of the Emperor Alexander's military wardrobe by his successor.

[2] This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden foot.

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTABEL."

"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray One hasty orison, whirled me away To a Limbo, lying--I wist not where-- Above or below, in earth or air; For it glimmered o'er with a _doubtful_ light, One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night; And 'twas crost by many a mazy track, One didn't know how to get on or back; And I felt like a needle that's going astray (With its _one_ eye out) thro' a bundle of hay; When the Spirit he grinned, and whispered me, "Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!"

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms; (Like bottled-up babes that grace the room Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)-- All of them, things half-killed in rearing; Some were lame--some wanted _hearing_; Some had thro' half a century run, Tho' they hadn't a leg to stand upon. Others, more merry, as just beginning, Around on a _point of law_ were spinning; Or balanced aloft, 'twixt _Bill_ and _Answer_, Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer. Some were so _cross_ that nothing could please 'em;- Some gulpt down _affidavits_ to ease 'em-- All were in motion, yet never a one, Let it _move_ as it might, could ever move _on_, "These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see, "Are what they call suits in Chancery!"

I heard a loud screaming of old and young, Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung; Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore ") At an amateur concert screamed in score;-- So harsh on my ear that wailing fell Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell! It seemed like the dismal symphony Of the shapes' Aeneas in hell did see; Or those frogs whose legs a barbarous cook Cut off and left the frogs in the brook, To cry all night, till life's last dregs, "Give us our legs!--give us our legs!" Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene, I askt what all this yell might mean, When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee, "'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!"

I lookt and I saw a wizard rise,[1] With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes. In his aged hand he held a wand, Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band, And they moved and moved as he waved it o'er, But they never get on one inch the more. And still they kept limping to and fro, Like Ariels round old Prospero-- Saying, "Dear Master, let us go," But still old Prospero answered "No." And I heard the while that wizard elf Muttering, muttering spells to himself, While o'er as many old papers he turned, As Hume e'er moved for or Omar burned. He talkt of his virtue--"tho' some, less nice, (He owned with a sigh) preferred his _Vice_"-- And he said, "I think"--"I doubt"--"I hope," Called God to witness, and damned the Pope; With many more sleights of tongue and hand I couldn't for the soul of me understand. Amazed and posed, I was just about To ask his name, when the screams without, The merciless clack of the imps within, And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din, That, startled, I woke--leapt up in my bed-- Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled, And blest my stars, right pleased to see, That I wasn't as yet in Chancery.

[1] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

1826.

To the people of England, the humble Petition Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing-- That sad, very sad, is our present condition;-- Our jobbing all gone and our noble selves going;--

That forming one seventh, within a few fractions, Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts, We hold it the basest of all base transactions To keep us from murdering the other six parts;--

That as to laws made for the good of the many, We humbly suggest there is nothing less true; As all human laws (and our own, more than any) Are made _by_ and _for_ a particular few:--

That much it delights every true Orange brother To see you in England such ardor evince, In discussing _which_ sect most tormented the other, And burned with most _gusto_ some hundred years since;--

That we love to behold, while old England grows faint, Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows, To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied Saint, Ever truly and really pulled the De'il's nose;

Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the De'il's paw-- Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's odd mother-- And many such points, from which Southey can draw Conclusions most apt for our hating each other.

That 'tis very well known this devout Irish nation Has now for some ages, gone happily on Believing in two kinds of Substantiation, One party in _Trans_ and the other in _Con_;[1]

That we, your petitioning _Cons_, have in right Of the said monosyllable ravaged the lands And embezzled the goods and annoyed, day and night, Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for _Trans_;--

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages, For keeping us still in the same state of mind; Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages, When still smaller syllables maddened mankind;--

When the words _ex_ and _per_[2] served as well to annoy One's neighbors and friends with, as _con_ and _trans_ now; And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for _oi_, Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for _ou_.[3]

That relying on England whose kindness already So often has helpt us to play this game o'er, We have got our red coats and our carabines ready, And wait but the word to show sport as before.

That as to the expense--the few millions or so, Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay-- 'Tis at least a great comfort to John Bull to know That to Orangemen's pockets 'twill all find its way. For which your petitioners ever will pray, Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

[1] Consubstantiation--the true Reformed belief; at least, the belief of Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melancthon also.

[2] When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the time this dispute between "_ex_" and "_per_" was going on), he found the Turks, we are told, "laughing at the Christians for being divided by two such insignificant particles."

[3] The Arian controversy.--Before that time, says Hooker, "in order to be a sound believing Christian, men were not curious what syllables or particles of speech they used."

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day, As they met and exchanged a salute-- (Squire Corn in his carriage so gay, Poor Cotton half famished on foot):

"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil "To hint at starvation before you, "Look down on a poor hungry devil, "And give him some bread, I implore you!"

Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton, Perceiving he meant to make _free_-- "Low fellow, you've surely forgotten "The distance between you and me!

"To expect that we Peers of high birth "Should waste our illustrious acres, "For no other purpose on earth "Than to fatten curst calico-makers!--

"That Bishops to bobbins should bend-- "Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity, "Great dealers in _lawn_, to befriend "Such contemptible dealers in dimity!

"No--vile Manufacture! ne'er harbor "A hope to be fed at our boards;-- "Base offspring of Arkwright the barber, "What claim canst _thou_ have upon Lords?

"No--thanks to the taxes and debt, "And the triumph of paper o'er guineas, "Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet, "May defy your whole rabble of _Jennys_!"

So saying--whip, crack, and away Went Corn in his chaise thro' the throng, So headlong, I heard them all say, "Squire Corn will be _down_ before long."

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH.

"A Christian of the best edition."--RABELAIS.

Canonize him!--yea, verily, we'll canonize him, Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss, Tho' sages may pity and wits may despise him, He'll ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this.

Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea, Descend on our Butterworth's biblical head, Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P.

Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere. And bring little Shiloh--if 'tisn't too far-- Such a sight will to Butterworth's bosom be dear, _His_ conceptions and _thine_ being much on a par.

Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold A world thou hast honored by cheating so many; Thou'lt find still among us one Personage old, Who also by tricks and the _Seals_[1] makes a penny.

Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee![2] Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign; Two "lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he, _One_ hallowing Fleet Street, and _t'other_ Toad Lane![3]

The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood, And Saints may be framed of as handy materials;-- Old women and Butterworths make just as good As any the Pope ever _bookt_ as Ethereals.

Stand forth, Man of Bibles!--not Mahomet's pigeon, When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say, Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day.

Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till they crack again, Bolus on bolus, good man!--and then damns Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again.

How well might his shop--as a type representing The creed of himself and his sanctified clan-- On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting," Bound neatly, and lettered "Whole Duty of Man!"

Canonize him!--by Judas, we _will_ canonize him; For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss; And tho' wise men may pity and wits may despise him, He'll make but the better _shop_-saint for all this.

Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters, Convoke all the _serious_ Tag-rag of the nation; Bring Shakers and Snufflers and Jumpers and Ranters To witness their Butterworth's Canonization!

Yea, humbly I've ventured his merits to paint, Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray, And they form a sum-total for making a Saint. That the Devil's own advocate could not gainsay.

Jump high, all ye Jumpers, ye Ranters all roar, While Butterworth's spirit, upraised from your eyes, Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar, With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!

[1] A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of the Lord's protection which she sold to her followers.

[2] Mrs. Anne Lee, the "chosen vessel" of the Shakers, and "Mother of all the children of regeneration."

[3] Toad Lane, in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. In her "Address to Young Believers," she says, that "it is a matter of no importance with them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad Lane, Manchester."

AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.

Air.--_Come with me, and we will go Where the rocks of coral grow_.

Come with me and we will blow Lots of bubbles as we go; Bubbles bright as ever Hope Drew from fancy--or from soap; Bright as e'er the South Sea sent From its frothy element! Come with me and we will blow Lots of bubbles as we go. Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks, Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1] Mix the lather--who can be Fitter for such tasks than thee, Great M. P. for _Suds_bury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe, Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,-- Thou whom ancient Coventry Once so dearly loved that she Knew not which to her was sweeter, Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;-- Puff the bubbles high in air, Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter More! Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar. Glittering all with golden hues Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;-- Some reflecting mines that lie Under Chili's glowing sky, Some, those virgin pearls that sleep Cloistered in the southern deep; Others, as if lent a ray From the streaming Milky Way, Glistening o'er with curds and whey From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment--who shall first Catch the bubbles ere they burst? Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run, Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;-- John Wilks junior runs beside ye! Take the good the knaves provide ye! See, with upturned eyes and hands, Where the _Share_man, Brogden, stands, Gaping for the froth to fall Down his gullet--_lye_ and all. See!--

But, hark, my time is out-- Now, like some great water-spout, Scattered by the cannon's thunder, Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!

[_Here the stage darkens--a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra --the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the_ Dramatis Personae_, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters--all in the suds_.]

[1] Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so when he wrote "Sir Edward Button, The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton."

[2] The member, during a long period, for Coventry.

[3] An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, thus apostrophizes him--"thou rainbow ruffian!"

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

1826.

'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet I sailed along, when--whom should I meet But a Turtle journeying o'er the sea, "On the service of his Majesty."[1] When spying him first thro' twilight dim, I didn't know what to make of him; But said to myself, as slow he plied His fins and rolled from side to side Conceitedly o'er the watery path-- "'Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath, "And I hear him now, among the fishes, "Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!" But, no--'twas, indeed, a Turtle wide And plump as ever these eyes descried; A turtle juicy as ever yet Glued up the lips of a Baronet! And much did it grieve my soul to see That an animal of such dignity, Like an absentee abroad should roam, When he _ought_ to stay and be ate at home.

But now "a change came o'er my dream," Like the magic lantern's shifting slider; I lookt and saw by the evening beam On the back of that Turtle sat a rider-- A goodly man with an eye so merry, I knew 'twas our Foreign Secretary,[2] Who there at his ease did sit and smile, Like Waterton on his crocodile;[3] Cracking such jokes, at every motion, As made the Turtle squeak with glee And own they gave him a lively notion Of what his _forced_-meat balls would be. So, on the Sec. in his glory went. Over that briny element, Waving his hand as he took farewell With graceful air, and bidding me tell Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he Were gone on a foreign embassy-- To soften the heart of a _Diplomat_, Who is known to dote upon verdant fat, And to let admiring Europe see, That _calipash_ and _calipee_ Are the English forms of Diplomacy.

[1] We are told that the passport of this grand diplomatic Turtle (sent by the Secretary for Foreign Affairs to a certain noble envoy) described him as "on his majesty's service."

[2] Mr. Canning.

[3] _Wanderings in South America_. "It was the first and last time [says Mr. Waterton] I was ever on a crocodile's back."

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

--_"fessus jam sudat asellus, "parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus."_ VERGIL. _Copa_.

A donkey whose talent for burdens was wondrous, So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load, One day had to jog under panniers so ponderous, That--down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy, So easy to drive thro' the dirtiest ways For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hailed" as a "brother")[1] Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other-- When, lo! mid his praises the Donkey came down! But how to upraise him?--_one_ shouts, _t'other_ whistles, While Jenky, the Conjuror, wisest of all, Declared that an "over-production of thistles[2]-- (Here Ned gave a stare)--was the cause of his fall."

Another wise Solomon cries as he passes-- "There, let him alone and the fit will soon cease; "The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses, "And this is his mode of '_transition to peace_.'"

Some lookt at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone-- "Let the blacksmith provide him a _sound metal basis_," (The wise-acres said), "and he's sure to jog on."

Meanwhile, the poor Neddy in torture and fear Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan; And--what was still dolefuller--lending an ear To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length a plain rustic whose wit went so far As to see others' folly, roared out, as he past-- "Quick--off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are, "Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!"

October, 1826.

[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, "I hail thee, brother!"

[2] A certain country gentleman having said in the House, "that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors," somebody asked Mr. T. "what food the gentleman meant?"--"Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

1826.

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions! And oh! above all I admire that Decree, In which thou command'st that all _she_ politicians Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster-- A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts, Who talks with a lisp of "the last new West_minster_," And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts;"

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is, How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;-- And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is In Jeremy's school, of no sort of _utility_.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing-- ART. 1.--"On the _Needle's_ variations," by Pl--ce;[1] ART. 2.--By her Favorite Funblank[2]--"so amusing! "Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a _Law_ case."

ART. 3.--"Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own-- (Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);- ART. 4.--"Upon Honesty," author unknown;-- ART. 5.--(by the young Mr. Mill) "Hints to Breeders."

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho' oft for the bag And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call-- Tho' drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag, I would bag this _she_ Benthamite first of them all!

And lest she should ever again lift her head From the watery bottom, her clack to renew-- As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead, I would hang around her neck her own darling Review.

[1] A celebrated political tailor.

[2] This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore's "_Life of Sheridan_," and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235-- and some _fractions_.

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

_utrum horum dirius_ borun? _Incerti Auctoris_.

What! _still_ those two infernal questions, That with our meals our slumbers mix-- That spoil our tempers and digestions-- Eternal Corn and Catholics!

Gods! were there ever two such bores? Nothing else talkt of night or morn-- Nothing _in_ doors or _out_ of doors, But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests-- While Ministers, still worse than either, Skilled but in feathering their nests, Plague us with both and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet Popery and Corn that oft I doubt, Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat, Or bonded Papists, they let out.

_Here_, landlords, _here_ polemics nail you, Armed with all rubbish they can rake up; _Prices_ and _Texts_ at once assail you-- From Daniel _these_, and _those_ from Jacob,

And when you sleep, with head still torn Between the two, their shapes you mix, Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn-- Then Corn again seems Catholics.

Now Dantsic wheat before you floats-- Now Jesuits from California-- Now Ceres linkt with Titus _Oats_, Comes dancing thro' the "Porta _Corn_ea."[1]

Oft too the Corn grows animate, And a whole crop of heads appears, Like Papists, _bearding_ Church and State-- Themselves, together _by the ears_!

In short these torments never cease, And oft I wish myself transferred off To some far, lonely land of peace Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.

Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole; For--if my fate is to be chosen 'Twixt bores and icebergs--on my soul, I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!

[1] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.

A CASE OF LIBEL.

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel."

A certain Sprite, who dwells below, ('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,) Came up _incog_. some years ago To try for a change the London air.

So well he lookt and drest and talkt, And hid his tail and horns so handy, You'd hardly have known him as he walkt From C----e, or any other Dandy.

(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew; So he has but to take them out of the socket, And--just as some fine husbands do-- Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)

In short, he lookt extremely natty, And even contrived--to his own great wonder-- By dint of sundry scents from Gattie, To keep the sulphurous _hogo_ under.

And so my gentleman hoofed about, Unknown to all but a chosen few At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt He had many _post-obits_ falling due.

Alike a gamester and a wit, At night he was seen with Crockford's crew, At morn with learned dames would sit-- So past his time 'twixt _black_ and _blue_.

Some wisht to make him an M. P., But, finding Wilks was also one, he Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he "Would ever sit in one house with Johnny."

At length as secrets travel fast, And devils, whether he or she, Are sure to be found out at last, The affair got wind most rapidly.

The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers-- Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's, Fired off a squib in the morning papers:

"We warn good men to keep aloof "From a grim old Dandy seen about "With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof "Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out."

Now,--the Devil being gentleman, Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,-- You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran, How much they hurt and shockt his feelings.

Away he posts to a Man of Law, And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em, As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw, And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em.

Straight an indictment was preferred-- And much the Devil enjoyed the jest, When, asking about the Bench, he heard That, of all the Judges, his own was _Best_.[1]

In vain Defendant proffered proof That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil-- Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil.

The Jury (saints, all snug and rich, And readers of virtuous Sunday papers) Found for the Plaintiff--on hearing which The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers.

For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies (As this wily fiend is named in the Bible) To find it settled by laws so wise, That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

[1] A celebrated Judge, so named.

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

Wanted--Authors of all-work to job for the season, No matter which party, so faithful to neither; Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason. Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics; Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat; They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics, And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools-- He can study high life in the King's Bench community; Aristotle could scarce keep him more _within rules_, And of _place_ he at least must adhere to the _unity_.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher) Will meet with encouragement--so much, _per_ page, And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.

No matter with _what_ their remembrance is stockt, So they'll only remember the _quantum_ desired;-- Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, _oct_., Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required.

They may treat us, like Kelly, with old _jeu-d'esprits_, Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic; Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,[1] That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic.

Wanted also a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn By "Farmers" and "Landholders"--(worthies whose lands Enclosed all in bow-pots their attics adorn, Or whose share of the soil maybe seen on their hands).

No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein, Sure of a market;--should they too who pen 'em Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'Sullivan,[2] Something _extra_ allowed for the additional venom.

Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance, All excellent subjects for turning a penny;-- To write upon _all_ is an author's sole chance For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of _any_.

Nine times out of ten, if his _title_ is good, The material _within_ of small consequence is;-- Let him only write fine, and, if not understood, Why--that's the concern of the reader, not his.

_Nota Bene_--an Essay, now printing, to show, That Horace (as clearly as words could express it) Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago, When he wrote thus--"Quodcunque _in Fund is, assess it."_

[1] This lady also favors us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those apothecaries, who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered "_comme pour elle_."

[2] A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence before the Irish Committees.

THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]

1827.

I heard as I lay, a wailing sound, "He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew; And I raised my chain and turned me round, And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass; Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see! For never came joy to them alas! That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night, And askt, "What foe of my race hath died? "Is it he--that Doubter of law and right, "Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide--

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win, "Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt "What suitors for justice he'd keep in, "Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out--

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance, "Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea "Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance "Of shaking him off--is't he? is't he?"

Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled, And thrusting me back to my den of woe, With a laughter even more fierce and wild Than their funeral howling, answered "No."

But the cry still pierced my prison-gate, And again I askt, "What scourge is gone? "Is it he--that Chief, so coldly great, "Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon--

"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words "They link with hate on his native plains; "And why?--they lent him hearts and swords, "And he in return gave scoffs and chains!

"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired, When, hark!--there sounded a Royal knell; And I knew what spirit had just expired, And slave as I was my triumph fell.

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine, He had left to the future nor hope nor choice, But sealed that hate with a Name Divine, And he now was dead and--I _couldn't_ rejoice!

He had fanned afresh the burning brands Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim; He had armed anew my torturers' hands, And _them_ did I curse--but sighed for him.

For, _his_ was the error of head not heart; And--oh! how beyond the ambushed foe, Who to enmity adds the traitor's part, And carries a smile with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends For the fatal fault of an erring head-- Go, learn _his_ fame from the lips of friends, In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

A Prince without pride, a man without guile, To the last unchanging, warm, sincere, For Worth he had ever a hand and smile, And for Misery ever his purse and tear.

Touched to the heart by that solemn toll, I calmly sunk in my chains again; While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!" My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!"

January, 1827.

[1] Written on the death of the Duke of York.

[2] "You fell, said they, into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks."--_Story of Sinbad_.

ODE TO FERDINAND.

1827.

Quit the sword, thou King of men, Grasp the needle once again; Making petticoats is far Safer sport than making war; Trimming is a better thing, Than the _being_ trimmed, oh King! Grasp the needle bright with which Thou didst for the Virgin stitch Garment, such as ne'er before Monarch stitched or Virgin wore, Not for her, oh semster nimble! Do I now invoke thy thimble; Not for her thy wanted aid is, But for certain grave old ladies, Who now sit in England's cabinet, Waiting to be clothed in tabinet, Or whatever choice _étoffe_ is Fit for Dowagers in office. First, thy care, oh King, devote To Dame Eldon's petticoat. Make it of that silk whose dye Shifts for ever to the eye, Just as if it hardly knew Whether to be pink or blue. Or--material fitter yet-- If thou couldst a remnant get Of that stuff with which, of old, Sage Penelope, we're told, Still by doing and undoing, Kept her _suitors_ always wooing-- That's the stuff which I pronounce, is Fittest for Dame Eldon's flounces.

After this, we'll try thy hand, Mantua-making Ferdinand, For old Goody Westmoreland; One who loves, like Mother Cole, Church and State with all her soul; And has past her life in frolics Worthy of our Apostolics. Choose, in dressing this old flirt, Something that won't show the dirt, As, from habit, every minute Goody Westmoreland is in it.

This is all I now shall ask, Hie thee, monarch, to thy task; Finish Eldon's frills and borders, Then return for further orders. Oh what progress for our sake, Kings in millinery make! Ribands, garters, and such things, Are supplied by _other_ Kings-- Ferdinand his rank denotes By providing petticoats.

HAT _VERSUS_ WIG.

1827.

"At the interment of the Duke of York, Lord Eldon, in order to guard against the effects of the damp, stood upon his hat during the whole of the ceremony."

--_metus omnes et inexorabile fatum subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari_.

'Twixt Eldon's Hat and Eldon's Wig There lately rose an altercation,-- Each with its own importance big, Disputing _which_ most serves the nation.

Quoth Wig, with consequential air, "Pooh! pooh! you surely can't design, "My worthy beaver, to compare "Your station in the state with mine.

"Who meets the learned legal crew? "Who fronts the lordly Senate's pride? "The Wig, the Wig, my friend--while you "Hang dangling on some peg outside.

"Oh! 'tis the Wig, that rules, like Love, "Senate and Court, with like _éclat_-- "And wards below and lords above, "For Law is Wig and Wig is Law!

"Who tried the long, _Long_ WELLESLEY suit, "Which tried one's patience, in return? "Not thou, oh Hat!--tho' _couldst_ thou do't, "Of other _brims_[1] than thine thou'dst learn.

"'Twas mine our master's toil to share; "When, like 'Truepenny,' in the play,[2] "He, every minute, cried out 'Swear,' "And merrily to swear went they;--[3]

"When, loath poor WELLESLEY to condemn, he "With nice discrimination weighed, "Whether 'twas only 'Hell and Jemmy,' Or 'Hell and Tommy' that he played.

"No, no, my worthy beaver, no-- "Tho' cheapened at the cheapest hatter's, "And smart enough as beavers go "Thou ne'er wert made for public matters."

Here Wig concluded his oration, Looking, as wigs do, wondrous wise; While thus, full cockt for declamation, The veteran Hat enraged replies:--

"Ha! dost thou then so soon forget "What thou, what England owes to me? "Ungrateful Wig!--when will a debt, "So deep, so vast, be owed thee?

"Think of that night, that fearful night, "When, thro' the steaming vault below, "Our master dared, in gout's despite, "To venture his podagric toe!

"Who was it then, thou boaster, say "When thou hadst to thy box sneaked off, "Beneath his feet protecting lay, "And saved him from a mortal cough?

"Think, if Catarrh had quenched that sun, "How blank this world had been to thee! "Without that head to shine upon, "Oh Wig, where would thy glory be?

"You, too, ye Britons,--had this hope "Of Church and State been ravisht from ye, "Oh think, how Canning and the Pope "Would then have played up 'Hell and Tommy'!

"At sea, there's but a plank, they say, "'Twixt seamen and annihilation; "A Hat, that awful moment, lay "'Twixt England and Emancipation!

"Oh!!!--"

At this "Oh!!!" _The Times_ Reporter Was taken poorly, and retired; Which made him cut Hat's rhetoric shorter, Than justice to the case required.

On his return, he found these shocks Of eloquence all ended quite; And Wig lay snoring in his box, And Hat was--hung up for the night.

[1] "_Brim_--a naughty woman."--GROSE.

[2]"_Ghost_[beneath].--Swear! "_Hamlet_.--Ha, ha! say'st thou so! Art thou there, Truepenny? Come on."

[3] His Lordship's demand for fresh affidavits was incessant.

THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

"To Panurge was assigned the Laird-ship of Salmagundi, which was yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals besides the revenue of the _Locusts_ and _Periwinkles_, amounting one year with another to the value of 2,485,768," etc.--RABELAIS.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say, And they cheered and shouted all the way, As the Laird of Salmagundi went. To open in state his Parliament.

The Salmagundians once were rich, Or thought they were--no matter which-- For, every year, the Revenue From their Periwinkles larger grew; And their rulers, skilled in all the trick And legerdemain of arithmetic, Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10, Such various ways, behind, before, That they made a unit seem a score, And proved themselves most wealthy men! So, on they went, a prosperous crew, The people wise, the rulers clever-- And God help those, like me and you, Who dared to doubt (as some now do) That the Periwinkle Revenue Would thus go flourishing on for ever.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say, And they cheered and shouted all the way, As the Great Panurge in glory went To open his own dear Parliament.

But folks at length began to doubt What all this conjuring was about; For, every day, more deep in debt They saw their wealthy rulers get:-- "Let's look (said they) the items thro' "And see if what we're told be true "Of our Periwinkle Revenue," But, lord! they found there wasn't a tittle Of truth in aught they heard before; For they gained by Periwinkles little And lost by Locusts ten times more! These Locusts are a lordly breed Some Salmagundians love to feed. Of all the beasts that ever were born, Your Locust most delights in _corn_; And tho' his body be but small, To fatten him takes the devil and all! "Oh fie! oh fie!" was now the cry, As they saw the gaudy show go by, As the Laird of Salmagundi went To open his Locust Parliament!

NEW CREATION OF PEERS.

BATCH THE FIRST.

"His 'prentice han' He tried on man, And then he made the lasses."

1827.

"And now," quoth the Minister, (eased of his panics, And ripe for each pastime the summer affords,) "Having had our full swing at destroying mechanics, "By way of _set-off_, let us make a few Lords.

"'Tis pleasant--while nothing but mercantile fractures, "Some simple, some _compound_, is dinned in our ears-- "To think that, tho' robbed all coarse manufactures, "We still have our fine manufacture of Peers;--

"Those _Gotielin_ productions which Kings take a pride "In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of; "Choice tapestry things very grand on _one_ side, "But showing, on t'other, what rags they are made of.

The plan being fixt, raw material was sought,-- No matter how middling, if Tory the creed be; And first, to begin with, Squire W---, 'twas thought, For a Lord was as raw a material as need be.

Next came with his _penchant_ for painting and pelf The tasteful Sir Charles,[1] so renowned far and near For purchasing pictures and selling himself-- And _both_ (as the public well knows) very dear.

Beside him Sir John comes, with equal _éclat_, in;-- Stand forth, chosen pair, while for titles we measure ye; Both connoisseur baronets, both fond of _drawing_, Sir John, after nature, Sir Charles, on the Treasury.

But, bless us!--behold a new candidate come-- In his hand he upholds a prescription, new written: He poiseth a pill-box 'twixt finger and thumb, And he asketh a seat 'mong the Peers of Great Britain!

"Forbid it," cried Jenky, "ye Viscounts, ye Earls! "Oh Rank, how thy glories would fall disenchanted, "If coronets glistend with pills stead of pearls, "And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb supplanted!

"No--ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor Holford-- "If naught but a Peerage can gladden thy life, "And young Master Holford as yet is too small for't, "Sweet Doctor, we'll make a _she_ Peer of thy wife.

"Next to bearing a coronet on our _own_ brows "Is to bask in its light from the brows of another; "And grandeur o'er thee shall reflect from thy spouse, "As o'er Vesey Fitzgerald 'twill shine thro' his mother."[2]

Thus ended the _First_ Batch--and Jenky, much tired (It being no joke to make Lords by the heap), Took a large dram of ether--the same that inspired His speech 'gainst the Papists--and prosed off to sleep.

[1] Created Lord Farnborough.

[2] Among the persons mentioned as likely to be raised to the Peerage are the mother of Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, etc.

SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.[1]

BY LORD ELDON.

1827.

"_vos_ inumbrelles _video_."--_Ex Juvenil_. GEORGII CANNINGII.[2]

My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that God knows is The last into which at my age I could fall-- Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses, Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all.

My Lords, on the question before us at present, No doubt I shall hear, "'Tis that cursed old fellow, "That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant, "Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!"

God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me; I am ancient--but were I as old as King Priam, Not much, I confess, to your credit 'twould be, To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.

I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous, And long as God spares me will always maintain, That _once_ having taken men's rights, or umbrellas, We ne'er should consent to restore them again.

What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers, If thus you give back Mr. Bell's _parapluie_, That he mayn't with its stick, come about all your ears, And then--_where_ would your Protestant periwigs be?

No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day, Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow, "For God's sake"--at that awful moment I'd say-- "For God's sake, _don't_ give Mr. Bell his umbrella."

["This address," says a ministerial journal, "delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has produced so remarkable an impression."]

[1] A case which interested the public very much at this period. A gentleman, of the name, of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in the House of Lords, the doorkeepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech, which may be considered as a _pendant_ to that of the Learned Earl on the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction.

[2] From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's--

"I say, my good fellows, As you've no umbrellas."

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY JOHN BULL.

_Dublin, March 12, 1827_.--Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.--_Freeman's Journal_.

I have found out a gift for my Erin, A gift that will surely content her:-- Sweet pledge of a love so endearing! Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right, But ill she her wants understood;-- Ball cartridges, morning and night, Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives But we read, in some amiable trials, How husbands make love to their wives Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

_One_ thinks, with his mistress or mate A good halter is sure to agree-- That love-knot which, early and late, I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While _another_, whom Hymen has blest With a wife that is not over placid, Consigns the dear charmer to rest, With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show-- Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed! And, as poison and hemp are too slow, Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken, Ask Roden, that mildest of saints; He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken, Alone can remove thy complaints;--

That, blest as thou art in thy lot, Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant But being hanged, tortured and shot, Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred Thou art yet but half sabred and hung, And I loved him the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills, Dear partner, I herewith inclose; 'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill, From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go, How I wish that, before you set out, The _Devil_ of the Freischütz could know The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead. Into such supernatural wit. That you'd all of you know, as you sped, Where a bullet of sense _ought_ to hit.

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]

_regnis_ EX _sul ademptis_.--Verg. 1827.

To Swanage--that neat little town in whose bay Fair Thetis shows off in her best silver slippers-- Lord Bags[2] took his annual trip t'other day, To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers.

There--learned as he is in conundrums and laws-- Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on), "Why are chancery suitors like bathers?"--"Because Their _suits_ are _put off_, till they haven't a rag on."

Thus on he went chatting--but, lo! while he chats, With a face full of wonder around him he looks; For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats, Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks.

"How is this, Lady Bags?--to this region aquatic "Last year they came swarming to make me their bow, "As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic, "Deans, Rectors, D.D.'s--where the devil are they now?"

"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "_can_ you doubt? "I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant; "But _don't_ you perceive, dear, the Church have found out "That you're one of the people called _Ex's_, at present?"

"Ah, true--you have hit it--I _am_, indeed, one "Of those ill-fated _Ex's_ (his Lordship replies), "And with tears, I confess--God forgive me the pun!-- "We X's have proved ourselves _not_ to be Y's."

[1] A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favorite summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question and, _till this season_, much frequented also by gentlemen of the church.

[2] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

WO! WO![1]

Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it-- That beautiful Light which is now on its way; Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet, Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee! How formed to all tastes are thy various employs. The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee; The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!-- On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy! With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other, Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way; Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition, Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day, Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's _Velluti_ edition.

Come, Roden, who doubtest--so mild are thy views-- Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation; Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose 'Twixt good _old_ Rebellion and _new_ Reformation.

What more from her Saints can Hibernia require? St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire,[2] And Saints keep her _now_ in eternal hot water.

Wo, wo to the man who would check their career, Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us, When blest with an orthodox crop every year, We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.

In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know, Had been trying their talent for many a day; Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show, Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."

And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;-- "Catch your Catholic, first--soak him well in _poteen_, "Add _salary_ sauce,[3] and the thing is complete. "You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean."

"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!" Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow[4] Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!"

[1] Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!" pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.

[2] The inextenguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare.

[3] "We understand that several applications have lately been made to the Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring 'What are they giving a head for converts?'"--_Wexford Post_.

[4] Of the rook species--_Corvus frugilegus_, i.e. a great consumer of corn.

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

"If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of _Fot_, or laugh at the imputed divinity of _Visthnou_."--_Courier, Tuesday. Jan_. 16.

1827.

Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium, When "civil advantages" are to be gained, What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em, Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtained.

In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular) All the good things to good hypocrites fall; And he who in swallowing creeds is particular, Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.

Oh place me where _Fo_ (or, as some call him, _Fot_) Is the god from whom "civil advantages" flow, And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got, I shall soon be on excellent terms with old _Fo_.

Or were I where _Vishnu_, that four-handed god, Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places, I own I should feel it unchristian and odd Not to find myself also in _Vishnu's_ good graces.

For among all the gods that humanely attend To our wants in this planet, the gods to _my_ wishes Are those that, like _Vishnu_ and others, descend In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes![1]

So take my advice--for if even the devil Should tempt men again as an idol to try him, 'Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil, As nobody doubts we should get something by him.

[1] Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god,"--his first Avatar being in the shape of a fish.

ENIGMA.

_monstrum nulla virtute_ redemptum.

Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell me what my name may be. I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old, And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;-- Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told), I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes: Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand, That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, It would take every morsel of _scrip_ in the land But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot. Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature, To cover me nothing but _rags_ will supply; And the doctors declare that in due course of nature About the year 30 in rags I shall die. Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around, An object of _interest_ most painful to all; In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I'm found, Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall. Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree, Come tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book, Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look, And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw! When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo, And expects thro' _another_ to caper and prank it, You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!" How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket. When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow, Lo, "_Eight Hundred Millions_" I write on the wall, And the cup falls to earth and--the gout to his toe! But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres, And knowing who made me the thing that I am, Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers. Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell, if thou know'st, who _I_ may be.

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

_"vox clamantis in deserto."_

1827.

Said Malthus one day to a clown Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,-- "What's the number of souls in this town?"-- "The number! Lord bless you, there's none.

"We have nothing but _dabs_ in this place, "Of them a great plenty there are;-- But the _soles_, please your reverence and grace, "Are all t'other side of the bar."

And so 'tis in London just now, Not a soul to be seen up or down;-- Of _dabs_? a great glut, I allow, But your _soles_, every one, out of town.

East or west nothing wondrous or new, No courtship or scandal worth knowing; Mrs. B---, and a Mermaid[1] or two, Are the only loose fish that are going.

Ah, where is that dear house of Peers That some weeks ago kept us merry? Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears? And thou with thy sense, Londonderry?

Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor, In the dog-days, with _thee_ must be puzzled!-- It being his task to take care That such animals shan't go unmuzzled.

Thou too whose political toils Are so worthy a captain of horse-- Whose amendments[2] (like honest Sir Boyle's) Are "_amendments_, that make matters _worse_;"[3]

Great Chieftain, who takest such pains To prove--what is granted, _nem_. _con_.-- With how moderate a portion of brains Some heroes contrive to get on.

And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where Is the peer with a star at his button, Whose _quarters_ could ever compare With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton?[4]

Why, why have ye taken your flight, Ye diverting and dignified crew? How ill do three farces a night, At the Haymarket, pay us for you!

For what is Bombastes to thee, My Ellenbro', when thou look'st big Or where's the burletta can be Like Lauderdale's wit and his wig?

I doubt if even Griffinhoof[5] could (Tho' Griffin's a comical lad) Invent any joke half so good As that precious one, "This is too bad!"

Then come again, come again Spring! Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train; And--of all things the funniest--bring These exalted Grimaldis again!

[1] One of the shows of London.

[2] More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill: for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register for A. D. 1827.

[3] From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche's, in the Irish House of Commons.

[4] The learning his Lordship displayed on the subject of the butcher's "fifth quarter" of mutton will not speedily be forgotten.

[5] The _nom de guerre_ under which Colman has written some of his best farces.

THE "LIVING DOG" AND "THE DEAD LION."

1828.

Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change.

Tho' the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad," 'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had Of knowing how Lions behave--among friends;

How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks, Is all noted down by this Boswell so small; And 'tis plain from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks That the Lion was no such great things after all.

Tho' he roared pretty well--this the puppy allows-- It was all, he says, borrowed--all second-hand roar; And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour.

'Tis indeed as good fun as a _Cynic_ could ask, To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task, And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.

Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) With sops every day from the Lion's own pan, He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass. And does all a dog so diminutive can.

However, the book's a good book, being rich in Examples and warnings to lions high-bred, How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen, Who'll feed on them living and foul them when dead.

T. PIDCOCK

_Exeter 'Change_,

ODE TO DON MIGUEL.

Et tu, _Brute_!

1828.[1]

What! Miguel, _not_ patriotic! oh, fy! After so much good teaching 'tis quite a _take-in_, Sir; First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye, And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2]

I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;-- Such feasts as you had when you made us a call! Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,-- And now to turn absolute Don after all!!

Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter Of each thing they _write_ suit the way that they _dine_, Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire, And hotchpotch and _trifle_ for rhymes such as mine.

That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;-- Great Despots on _bouilli_ served up _à la Russe_,[3] Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout, And your Viceroy of Hanover always on _goose_.

_Some_ Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable) A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;-- Not content with the common _hot_ meat _on_ a table, They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of _cold under_ it![4]

No wonder a Don of such appetites found Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain; Where the dishes most _high_ that my Lady sends round Are here _Maintenon_ cutlets and soup _à la Reine_.

Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings, Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion, And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion!

The Bulls, in hysterics--the Bears just as bad-- The few men who _have_, and the many who've _not_ tick, All shockt to find out that that promising lad, Prince Metternich's pupil, is--_not_ patriotic!

[1] At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun more openly to declare themselves.

[2] Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court at the close of the year 1827.

[3] Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits--a favorite dish of the Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman.

[4] This quiet case of murder, with all its particulars--the hiding the body under the dinner-table, etc.--is, no doubt, well known to the reader.

THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND.

1828.

Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride, Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride Two stately steeds--standing, with graceful straddle, Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle, While to soft tunes--some jigs and some _andantes_-- He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.

So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant, That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;-- _Papist_ and _Protestant_ the coursers twain, That lend their necks to his impartial rein, And round the ring--each honored, as they go, With equal pressure from his gracious toe--

To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day" And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way, While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks His long-lasht whip to cheer the doubtful hacks. Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art! How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;-- If _Protestant's_ old restive tricks were gone, And _Papist's_ winkers could be still kept on! But no, false hopes--not even the great Ducrow 'Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow: If _solar_ hacks played Phaëton a trick, What hope, alas, from hackneys _lunatic_?

If once my Lord his graceful balance loses, Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chooses; If Peel but gives one _extra_ touch of whip To _Papist's_ tail or _Protestant's_ ear-tip-- That instant ends their glorious horsmanship! Off bolt the severed steeds, for mischief free. And down between them plumps Lord Anglesea!

THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.

A DREAM.

"_Cio che si perde qui, là si raguna_." ARIOSTO.

"---a valley, where he sees Things that on earth were lost." MILTON.

1828.

Knowest thou not him[1] the poet sings, Who flew to the moon's serene domain, And saw that valley where all the things, That vanish on earth are found again-- The hopes of youth, the resolves of age, The vow of the lover, the dream of the sage, The golden visions of mining cits, The promises great men strew about them; And, packt in compass small, the wits Of monarchs who rule as well without them!-- Like him, but diving with wing profound, I have been to a Limbo underground, Where characters lost on earth, (and _cried_, In vain, like Harris's, far and wide,) In heaps like yesterday's orts, are thrown And there, so worthless and flyblown That even the imps would not purloin them, Lie till their worthy owners join them.

Curious it was to see this mass Of lost and torn-up reputations;-- Some of them female wares, alas! Mislaid at _innocent_ assignations; Some, that had sighed their last amen From the canting lips of saints that would be; And some once owned by "the best of men," Who had proved-no better than they should be. 'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied, Once shining fair, now soakt and black-- "No wonder" (an imp at my elbow cried), "For I pickt it out of a butt of sack!"

Just then a yell was heard o'er head, Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons; And lo! a devil right downward sped, Bringing within his claws so red Two statesmen's characters, found, he said, Last night, on the floor of the House of Commons; The which, with black official grin, He now to the Chief Imp handed in;-- _Both_ these articles much the worse For their journey down, as you may suppose; But _one_ so devilish rank--"Odd's curse!". Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose. "Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well "From whom these two stray matters fell;"-- Then, casting away, with loathful shrug, The uncleaner waif (as he would a drug The Invisible's own dark hand had mixt), His gaze on the other[2] firm he fixt, And trying, tho' mischief laught in his eye, To be moral because of the _young_ imps by, "What a pity!" he cried--"so fresh its gloss, "So long preserved--'tis a public loss! "This comes of a man, the careless blockhead, "Keeping his character in his pocket; "And there--without considering whether "There's room for that and his gains together-- "Cramming and cramming and cramming away, "Till--out slips character some fine day!

"However"--and here he viewed it round-- "This article still may pass for sound. "Some flaws, soon patched, some stains are all "The harm it has had in its luckless fall. "Here, Puck!" and he called to one of his train-- "The owner may have this back again. "Tho' damaged for ever, if used with skill, "It may serve perhaps to _trade on_ still; "Tho' the gem can never as once be set, "It will do for a Tory Cabinet."

[1] Astolpho.

[2] Huskisson.

HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.

_qui facit per alium facit per se_.

'Mong our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time When Nobility flourisht, great Barons and Dukes Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme, But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books.

Poor devils were found to do this for their betters;-- And one day a Bishop, addressing a _Blue_, Said, "Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters?" To which the _Blue_ answered--"No, Bishop, have you?"

The same is now done by _our_ privileged class; And to show you how simple the process it needs, If a great Major-General[1] wishes to pass For an author of History, thus he proceeds:--

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well As he can, with a _goose_-quill that claims him as _kin_, He settles his neckcloth--takes snuff--rings the bell, And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.

The Subaltern comes--sees his General seated, In all the self-glory of authorship swelling;-- "There look," saith his Lordship, "my work is completed,-- "It wants nothing now but the grammar and spelling."

Well used to a _breach_, the brave Subaltern dreads Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more; And tho' often condemned to see breaking of heads, He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before.

However, the job's sure to _pay_--that's enough-- So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer, Convinced that there never was job half so tough As the mending a great Major-General's grammar.

But lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view-- New toil for the Sub.--for the Lord new expense: 'Tis discovered that mending his _grammar_ won't do, As the Subaltern also must find him in _sense_!

At last--even this is achieved by his aid; Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and--the story; Drums beat--the new Grand March of Intellect's played-- And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory!

[1] Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.

IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

_"Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di quà, di là, di giu, di su gli mena."_

_Inferno_, canto 5.

I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng Of ghosts came fluttering towards me--blown along, Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms, By many a fitful gust that thro' their forms Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff, And puft as--tho' they'd never puff enough.

"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand On their lean legs while answering my demand. "We once were authors"--thus the Sprite, who led This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said-- "Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter, "Who, early smit with love of praise and--_pewter_,[1] "On C--lb--n's shelves first saw the light of day, "In ---'s puffs exhaled our lives away-- "Like summer windmills, doomed to dusty peace, "When the brisk gales that lent them motion, cease. "Ah! little knew we then what ills await "Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state; "Bepuft on earth--how loudly Str--t can tell-- "And, dire reward, now doubly puft in hell!"

Touched with compassion for this ghastly crew, Whose ribs even now the hollow wind sung thro' In mournful prose,--such prose as Rosa's[2] ghost Still, at the accustomed hour of eggs and toast, Sighs thro' the columns of the _Morning Post_,-- Pensive I turned to weep, when he who stood Foremost of all that flatulential brood, Singling a _she_-ghost from the party, said, "Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,[3] "One of our _lettered_ nymphs--excuse the pun-- "Who gained a name on earth by--having none; "And whose initials would immortal be, "Had she but learned those plain ones, A. B. C.

"Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat, "Wrapt in his own dead rhymes--fit winding-sheet-- "Still marvels much that not a soul should care "One single pin to know who wrote 'May Fair;'-- "While this young gentleman," (here forth he drew A dandy spectre, puft quite thro' and thro', As tho' his ribs were an AEolian lyre For the whole Row's soft _trade_winds to inspire,) "This modest genius breathed one wish alone, "To have his volume read, himself unknown; "But different far the course his glory took, "All knew the author, and--none read the book.

"Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun, "Who rides the blast, Sir Jonah Barrington;-- "In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent, "And now the wind returns the compliment. "This lady here, the Earl of ---'s sister, "Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister-- "Beg pardon--_Honorable_ Mister Lister, "A gentleman who some weeks since came over "In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover. "Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey, "Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away-- "Like a torn paper-kite on which the wind "No further purchase for a puff can find."

"And thou, thyself"--here, anxious, I exclaimed-- "Tell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art named." "Me, Sir!" he blushing cried--"Ah! there's the rub-- "Know, then--a waiter once at Brooks's Club, "A waiter still I might have long remained, "And long the club-room's jokes and glasses drained; "But ah! in luckless hour, this last December, "I wrote a book,[4] and Colburn dubbed me 'Member'-- "'Member of Brooks's!'--oh Promethean puff, "To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff! "With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits, "And half-heard jokes, bequeathed, like half-chewed bits, "To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;-- "With such ingredients served up oft before, "But with fresh fudge and fiction garnisht o'er, "I managed for some weeks to dose the town, "Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down; "And ready still even waiters' souls to damn, "The Devil but rang his bell, and--here I am;-- "Yes--'Coming _up_, Sir,' once my favorite cry, "Exchanged for 'Coming _down_, Sir,' here am I!"

Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop, When, lo! a breeze--such as from ---'s shop Blows in the vernal hour when puffs prevail, And speeds the _sheets_ and swells the lagging _sale_-- Took the poor waiter rudely in the poop, And whirling him and all his grisly group Of literary ghosts--Miss X. Y. Z.-- The nameless author, better known than read-- Sir Jo--the Honorable Mr. Lister, And last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin-sister-- Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes And sins about them, far into those climes "Where Peter pitched his waistcoat"[5] in old times, Leaving me much in doubt as on I prest, With my great master, thro' this realm unblest, Whether Old Nick or Colburn puffs the best.

[1] The classical term for money.

[2] Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to preside--"_regnat Rosa_"--over its pages.

[3] _Not_ the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day.

[4] "History of the Clubs of London," announced as by "a Member of Brooks's."

[5]A _Dantesque_ allusion to the old saying "Nine miles beyond Hell, where Peter pitched his waistcoat."

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD BATHURST'S TAIL.[1]

All _in_ again--unlookt for bliss! Yet, ah! _one_ adjunct still we miss;-- One tender tie, attached so long To the same head, thro' right and wrong. Why, Bathurst, why didst thou cut off That memorable tail of thine? Why--as if _one_ was not enough-- Thy pig-tie with thy place resign, And thus at once both _cut_ and _run_? Alas! my Lord, 'twas not well done, 'Twas not, indeed,--tho' sad at heart, From office and its sweets to part, Yet hopes of coming in again, Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain; But thus to miss that tail of thine, Thro' long, long years our rallying sign-- As if the State and all its powers By tenancy _in tail_ were ours-- To see it thus by scissors fall, _This_ was "the unkindest _cut_ of all!" It seemed as tho' the ascendant day Of Toryism had past away, And proving Samson's story true, She lost her vigor with her _queue_.

Parties are much like fish, 'tis said-- The tail directs them, not the head; Then how could _any_ party fail, That steered its course by Bathurst's tail? Not Murat's plume thro' Wagram's fight E'er shed such guiding glories from it, As erst in all true Tories sight, Blazed from our old Colonial comet! If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were, (As Wellington will be anon) Thou mightst have had a tail to spare; But no! alas! thou hadst but one, And _that_--like Troy, or Babylon, A tale of other times--is gone! Yet--weep ye not, ye Tories true-- Fate has not yet of all bereft us; Though thus deprived of Bathurst's _queue_, We've Ellenborough's _curls_ still left us:-- Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious, His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues; Grand, glorious curls, which in debate Surcharged with all a nation's fate, His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,[2] And oft in thundering talk comes near him; Except that there the _speaker_ nodded And here 'tis only those who hear him. Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil Of that fat cranium may ye flourish, With plenty of Macassar oil Thro' many a year your growth to nourish! And ah! should Time too soon unsheath His barbarous shears such locks to sever, Still dear to Tories even in death, Their last loved relics we'll bequeath, A _hair_-loom to our sons for ever.

[1] The noble Lord, as is well known, cut off this much-respected appendage on his retirement from office some months since.

[2] "Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod."--Pope's _Homer_.

THE CHERRIES.

A PARABLE.[1]

1838.

See those cherries, how they cover Yonder sunny garden wall;-- Had they not that network over, Thieving birds would eat them all.

So to guard our posts and pensions, Ancient sages wove a net, Thro' whose holes of small dimensions Only _certain_ knaves can get.

Shall we then this network widen; Shall we stretch these sacred holes, Thro' which even already slide in Lots of small dissenting souls?

"God forbid!" old Testy crieth; "God forbid!" so echo I; Every ravenous bird that flieth Then would at our cherries fly.

Ope but half an inch or so, And, behold! what bevies break in;-- _Here_ some curst old Popish crow Pops his long and lickerish beak in;

_Here_ sly Arians flock unnumbered, And Socinians, slim and spare, Who with small belief encumbered Slip in easy anywhere;--

Methodists, of birds the aptest, Where there's _pecking_ going on; And that water-fowl, the Baptist-- All would share our fruits anon;

Every bird of every city, That for years with ceaseless din, Hath reverst the starling's ditty, Singing out "I can't get in."

"God forbid!" old _Testy_ snivels; "God forbid!" I echo too; Rather may ten thousand devils Seize the whole voracious crew!

If less costly fruits won't suit 'em, Hips and haws and such like berries, Curse the cormorants! stone 'em, shoot 'em, Anything--to save our cherries.

[1] Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation Acts.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF DEFEAT.[1]

1828.

Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong, If we _must_ run the gantlet thro' blood and expense; Or, Goths as ye are, in your multitude strong, Be content with success and pretend not to sense.

If the words of the wise and the generous are vain, If Truth by the bowstring _must_ yield up her breath, Let Mutes do the office--and spare her the pain Of an Inglis or Tyndal to talk her to death.

Chain, persecute, plunder--do all that you will-- But save us, at least, the old womanly lore Of a Foster, who, dully prophetic of ill, Is at once the _two_ instruments, AUGUR[2] and BORE.

Bring legions of Squires--if they'll only be mute-- And array their thick heads against reason and right, Like the Roman of old, of historic repute,[3] Who with droves of dumb animals carried the fight;

Pour out from each corner and hole of the Court Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves, Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter what sort, Have their consciences tackt to their patents and staves.

Catch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings, Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim; With all the base, time-serving _toadies_ of Kings, Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship even him;

And while on the _one_ side each name of renown That illumines and blesses our age is combined; While the Foxes, the Pitts, and the Cannings look down, And drop o'er the cause their rich mantles of Mind;

Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other, And, counting of noses the quantum desired, Let Paddy but say, like the Gracchi's famed mother, "Come forward, my _jewels_"--'tis all that's required.

And thus let your farce be enacted hereafter-- Thus honestly persecute, outlaw and chain; But spare even your victims the torture of laughter, And never, oh never, try _reasoning_ again!

[1] During the discussion of the Catholic question in the House of Commons last session.

[2] This rhyme is more for the ear than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt _auger_.

[3] Fabius, who sent droves of bullock against the enemy.

ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

BY ONE OF THE BOARD.

1828.

Let other bards to groves repair, Where linnets strain their tuneful throats; Mine be the Woods and Forests where The Treasury pours its sweeter _notes_.

No whispering winds have charms for me, Nor zephyr's balmy sighs I ask; To raise the wind for Royalty Be all our Sylvan zephyr's task!

And 'stead of crystal brooks and floods, And all such vulgar irrigation, Let Gallic rhino thro' our Woods Divert its "course of liquidation."

Ah, surely, Vergil knew full well What Woods and Forests _ought_ to be, When sly, he introduced in hell His guinea-plant, his bullion-tree;[1]--

Nor see I why, some future day, When short of cash, we should not send Our Herries down--he knows the way-- To see if Woods in hell will _lend_.

Long may ye flourish, sylvan haunts, Beneath whose "_branches_ of expense" Our gracious King gets all he wants,-- _Except_ a little taste and sense.

Long, in your golden shade reclined. Like him of fair Armida's bowers, May Wellington some _wood_-nymph find, To cheer his dozenth lustrum's hours;

To rest from toil the Great Untaught, And soothe the pangs his warlike brain Must suffer, when, unused to thought, It tries to think and--tries in vain.

Oh long may Woods and Forests be Preserved in all their teeming graces, To shelter Tory bards like me Who take delight in Sylvan _places_!

[1] Called by Vergil, botanically, "species _aurifrondentis_."

STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.[1]

1828.

"Take back the virgin page." MOORE'S _Irish Melodies_.

No longer dear Vesey, feel hurt and uneasy At hearing it said by the Treasury brother, That thou art a sheet of blank paper, my Vesey, And he, the dear, innocent placeman, another.[2]

For lo! what a service we Irish have done thee;-- Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more; By St. Patrick, we've scrawled such a lesson upon thee As never was scrawled upon foolscap before.

Come--on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke, (Or O'Connell has _green_ ones he haply would lend you,) Read Vesey all o'er (as you _can't_ read a book) And improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send you;

A lesson, in large _Roman_ characters traced, Whose awful impressions from you and your kin Of blank-sheeted statesmen will ne'er be effaced-- Unless, 'stead of _paper_, you're mere _asses' skin_.

Shall I help you to construe it? ay, by the Gods, Could I risk a translation, you _should_ have a rare one; But pen against sabre is desperate odds, And you, my Lord Duke (as you _hinted_ once), wear one.

Again and again I say, read Vesey o'er;-- You will find him worth all the old scrolls of papyrus That Egypt e'er filled with nonsensical lore, Or the learned Champollion e'er wrote of, to tire us.

All blank as he was, we've returned him on hand, Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes, Whose plain, simple drift if they _won't_ understand, Tho' carest at St. James's, they're fit for St. Luke's.

Talk of leaves of the Sibyls!--more meaning conveyed is In one single leaf such as now we have spelled on, Than e'er hath been uttered by all the old ladies That ever yet spoke, from the Sibyls to Eldon.

[1] These verses were suggested by the result of the Clare election, in the year 1828, when the Right Honorable W. Vesey Fitzgerald was rejected, and Mr. O'Connell returned.

[2] Some expressions to this purport, in a published letter of one of these gentlemen, had then produced a good deal of amusement.

THE ANNUAL PILL.

Supposed to be sung by OLD PROSY, the Jew, in the character of Major CARTWRIGHT.

Vill nobodies try my nice _Annual Pill_, Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay? Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill, Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say. 'Tis so pretty a bolus!--just down let it go, And, at vonce, such a _radical_ shange you vill see, Dat I'd not be surprished, like de horse in de show, If your heads all vere found, vere your tailsh ought to be! Vill nobodies try my nice _Annual Pill_, etc.

'Twill cure all Electors and purge away clear Dat mighty bad itching dey've got in deir hands-- 'Twill cure too all Statesmen of dulness, ma tear, Tho' the case vas as desperate as poor Mister VAN'S. Dere is noting at all vat dis Pill vill not reach-- Give the Sinecure Ghentleman van little grain, Pless ma heart, it vill act, like de salt on de leech, And he'll throw de pounds, shillings, and pence, up again! Vill nobodies try my nice _Annual Pill_, etc.

'Twould be tedious, ma tear, all its peauties to paint-- "But, among oder tings _fundamentally_ wrong, It vill cure de Proad Pottom[1]--a common complaint Among M.P.'s and weavers--from _sitting_ too long. Should symptoms of _speeching_ preak out on a dunce (Vat is often de case), it vill stop de disease, And pring avay all de long speeches at vonce, Dat else vould, like tape-worms, come by degrees!

Vill nobodies try my nice _Annual Pill_, Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay? Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let me say vat I vill, Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say!

[1] Meaning, I presume, _Coalition_ Administrations.

"IF" AND "PERHAPS."[1]

Oh tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope! Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea, And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope, From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee.

"_If_ mutely the slave will endure and obey, "Nor clanking his fetters nor breathing his pains, "His masters _perhaps_ at some far distant day "May _think_ (tender tyrants!) of loosening his chains."

Wise "if" and "perhaps!"--precious salve for our wounds, If he who would rule thus o'er manacled mutes, Could check the free spring-tide of Mind that resounds, Even now at his feet, like the sea at Canute's.

But, no, 'tis in vain--the grand impulse is given-- Man knows his high Charter, and knowing will claim; And if ruin _must_ follow where fetters are riven, Be theirs who have forged them the guilt and the shame.

"_If_ the slave will be silent!"--vain Soldier, beware-- There _is_ a dead silence the wronged may assume, When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair, But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom;--

When the blush that long burned on the suppliant's cheek, Gives place to the avenger's pale, resolute hue; And the tongue that once threatened, disdaining to _speak_, Consigns to the arm the high office--to _do_.

_If_ men in that silence should think of the hour When proudly their fathers in panoply stood, Presenting alike a bold front-work of power To the despot on land and the foe on the flood:--

That hour when a Voice had come forth from the west, To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms; And a lesson long lookt for was taught the opprest, That kings are as dust before freemen in arms!

_If_, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet day At length seemed to break thro' a long night of thrall, And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray;--

_If_ Fancy should tell him, that Dayspring of Good, Tho' swiftly its light died away from his chain, Tho' darkly it set in a nation's best blood, Now wants but invoking to shine out again;

_If--if_, I say--breathings like these should come o'er The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come, Then,--_perhaps_--ay, _perhaps_--but I dare not say more; Thou hast willed that thy slaves should be mute--I am dumb.

[1] Written after hearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June 10, 1828, when the motion in favor of Catholic Emancipation, brought forward by the Marquis of Lansdowne, was rejected by the House of Lords.

WRITE ON, WRITE ON.

A BALLAD.

Air.--"_Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear. salvete, fratres Asini_. ST. FRANCIS.

Write on, write on, ye Barons dear, Ye Dukes, write hard and fast; The good we've sought for many a year Your quills will bring at last. One letter more, Newcastle, pen, To match Lord Kenyon's _two_, And more than Ireland's host of men, One brace of Peers will do. Write on, write on, etc.

Sure never since the precious use Of pen and ink began, Did letters writ by fools produce Such signal good to man. While intellect, 'mong high and low, Is marching _on_, they say, Give _me_ the Dukes and Lords who go Like crabs, the _other_ way. Write on, write on, etc.

Even now I feel the coming light-- Even now, could Folly lure My Lord Mountcashel too to write, Emancipation's sure. By geese (we read in history), Old Rome was saved from ill; And now to _quills_ of geese we see Old Rome indebted still. Write on, write on, etc.

Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style, Nor beat for sense about-- Things little worth a Noble's while You're better far without. Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore, Such miracles were done; For, write but four such letters more, And Freedom's cause is won!

SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF TITHE.

"The parting Genius is with sighing sent." MILTON.

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er; I hear a Voice, from shore to shore, From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore, And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone, "Great Tithe and Small are dead and gone!"

Even now I behold your vanishing wings, Ye Tenths of all conceivable things, Which Adam first, as Doctors deem, Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,[1] After the feast of fruit abhorred-- First indigestion on record!-- Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks, Ye pigs which, tho' ye be Catholics, Or of Calvin's most select depraved, In the Church must have your bacon saved;-- Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves, And, whatsoever _himself_ believes, Must bow to the Establisht _Church_ belief, That the tenth is always a _Protestant_ sheaf;-- Ye calves of which the man of Heaven Takes _Irish_ tithe, one calf in seven;[2] Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax, Eggs, timber, milk, fish and bees' wax; All things in short since earth's creation, Doomed, by the Church's dispensation, To suffer eternal decimation-- Leaving the whole _lay_-world, since then, Reduced to nine parts out of ten; Or--as we calculate thefts and arsons-- Just _ten per cent_. the worse for Parsons!

Alas! and is all this wise device For the saving of souls thus gone in a trice?-- The whole put down, in the simplest way, By the souls resolving _not_ to pay! And even the Papist, thankless race Who have had so much the easiest case-- To _pay_ for our sermons doomed, 'tis true, But not condemned to _hear them_, too-- (Our holy business being, 'tis known, With the ears of their barley, not their own,) Even _they_ object to let us pillage By right divine their tenth of tillage, And, horror of horrors, even decline To find us in sacramental wine![3]

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er, Ah! never shall rosy Rector more, Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat, And make of his flock "a prey and meat."[4] No more shall be his the pastoral sport Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court, Thro' various steps, Citation, Libel-- _Scriptures_ all, but _not_ the Bible; Working the Law's whole apparatus, To get at a few predoomed potatoes, And summoning all the powers of wig, To settle the fraction of a pig!-- Till, parson and all committed deep In the case of "Shepherds _versus_ Sheep," The Law usurps the Gospel's place, And on Sundays meeting face to face, While Plaintiff fills the preacher's station, Defendants form the congregation.

So lives he, Mammon's priest, not Heaven's, For _tenths_ thus all at _sixes_ and _sevens_, Seeking what parsons love no less Than tragic poets--a good _distress_. Instead of studying St. Augustin, Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin (Books fit only to hoard dust in), His reverence stints his evening readings To learned Reports of Tithe Proceedings, Sipping the while that port so ruddy, Which forms his only _ancient_ study;-- Port so old, you'd swear its tartar Was of the age of Justin Martyr, And, had he sipt of such, no doubt His martyrdom would have been--to gout.

Is all then lost?--alas, too true-- Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu! My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er-- Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no more."

[1] A reverend prebendary of Hereford, in an Essay on the Revenues of the Church of England, has assigned the origin of Tithes to "some unrecorded revelation made to Adam."

[2] "The tenth calf is due to the parson of common right; and if there are seven he shall have one."--REES'S _Cyclopaedia_, art. "_Tithes_."

[3] Among the specimens laid before Parliament of the sort of Church rates levied upon Catholics in Ireland, was a charge of two pipes of port for sacramental wine.

[4] Ezekiel, xxxiv., 10.--"Neither shall the shepherds feed themselves any more; for I will deliver my flock from their mouth, that they may not be meat for them."

THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN.

"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so why not let us die in peace?" --LORD BEXLEY'S _Letter to the Freeholders of Kent_.

Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop, Ye curst improvements, cease; And let poor Nick Vansittart drop Into his grave in peace.

Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun, Young Freedom, veil thy head; Let nothing good be thought or done, Till Nick Vansittart's dead!

Take pity on a dotard's fears, Who much doth light detest; And let his last few drivelling years Be dark as were the rest.

You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes, Speed not so fast away-- Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats, A few months longer stay.

Together soon, or much I err, You _both_ from life may go-- The notes unto the scavenger, And Nick--to Nick below.

Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan, Be all reforms suspended; In compliment to dear old Van, Let nothing bad be mended.

Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings, Your cry politely cease, And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings That Van may die in peace.

So shall he win a fame sublime By few old rag-men gained; Since all shall own, in Nicky's time, Nor sense nor justice reigned.

So shall his name thro' ages past, And dolts ungotten yet, Date from "the days of Nicholas," With fond and sad regret;--

And sighing say, "Alas, had he "Been spared from Pluto's bowers, "The blessed reign of Bigotry "And Rags might still be ours!"

TO THE REVEREND ----.

ONE OF THE SIXTEEN REQUISITIONISTS OF NOTTINGHAM.

1828.

What, _you_, too, my ******, in hashes so knowing, Of sauces and soups Aristarchus profest! Are _you_, too, my savory Brunswicker, going To make an old fool of yourself with the rest?

Far better to stick to your kitchen receipts; And--if you want _something_ to tease--for variety, Go study how Ude, in his "Cookery," treats Live eels when he fits them for polisht society.

Just snuggling them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, He leaves them to wriggle and writhe on the coals,[1] In a manner that Horner himself would admire, And wish, 'stead of _eels_, they were Catholic souls.

Ude tells us the fish little suffering feels; While Papists of late have more sensitive grown; So take my advice, try your hand at live eels, And for _once_ let the other poor devils alone.

I have even a still better receipt for your cook-- How to make a goose die of confirmed _hepatitis;_[2] And if you'll, for once, _fellow_-feelings o'erlook, A well-tortured goose a most capital sight is.

First, catch him, alive--make a good steady fire-- Set your victim before it, both legs being tied, (As if left to himself he _might_ wish to retire,) And place a large bowl of rich cream by his side.

There roasting by inches, dry, fevered, and faint, Having drunk all the cream you so civilly laid, off, He dies of as charming a liver complaint As ever sleek person could wish a pie made of.

Besides, only think, my dear one of Sixteen, What an emblem this bird, for the epicure's use meant. Presents of the mode in which Ireland has been Made a tid-bit for yours and your brethren's amusement:

Tied down to the stake, while her limbs, as they quiver, A slow fire of tyranny wastes by degrees-- No wonder disease should have swelled up her liver, No wonder you, Gourmands, should love her disease.

[1] The only way, Monsieur Ude assures us, to get rid of the oil so objectionable in this fish.

[2] A liver complaint. The process by which the livers of geese are enlarged for the famous _Pates de foie d'oie_.

IRISH ANTIQUITIES.

According to some learned opinions The Irish once were Carthaginians; But trusting to more late descriptions I'd rather say they were Egyptians. My reason's this:--the Priests of Isis, When forth they marched in long array, Employed, 'mong other grave devices, A Sacred Ass to lead the way; And still the antiquarian traces 'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan, For still in all religious cases They put Lord Roden in the van.

A CURIOUS FACT.

The present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters, For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors) Hath one little oddity well worth reciting, Which puzzleth observers even more than his writing. Whenever Lord Kenyon doth chance to behold A cold Apple-pie--mind, the pie _must_ be cold-- His Lordship looks solemn (few people know why), And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie. This idolatrous act in so "vital" a Peer, Is by most serious Protestants thought rather queer-- Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head (Vide _Crustium_, chap, iv.) of the Worship of Bread. Some think 'tis a tribute, as author he owes For the service that pie-crust hath done to his prose;-- The only good things in his pages, they swear, Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes put there. _Others_ say, 'tis a homage, thro' piecrust conveyed, To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honored shade; As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please) Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green pease,[1] And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that, My Lord Kenyon to apple-pie takes off his hat. While others account for this kind salutation;"-- By what Tony Lumpkin calls "concatenation;" A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties, 'Twixt old _Apple_-women and _Orange_-men lies.

But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague surmises, For thus, we're assured, the whole matter arises: Lord Kenyon's respected old father (like many Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny; And loved so to save,[2] that--there's not the least question-- His death was brought on by a bad indigestion, From cold apple-pie-crust his Lordship _would_ stuff in At breakfast to save the expense of hot muffin. Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes-- Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff To the fishes that carried his kind uncle off-- And while _filial_ piety urges so many on, 'Tis pure _apple_-pie-ety moves my Lord Kenyon.

[1] See the anecdote, which the Duchess of Marlborough relates in her Memoirs, of this polite hero appropriating to himself one day, at dinner, a whole dish of green peas--the first of the season--while the poor Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by vainly entreating with her eyes for a share.

[2] The same prudent propensity characterizes his descendant, who (as is well known) would not even go to the expense of a diphthong on his father's monument, but had the inscription spelled, economically, thus:--"_mors janua vita_"

NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.

Sir,--

Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary _echo_ there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.

As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them.

Yours, etc. S.

1828

_huc coeamus,[1] ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono, coeamus, retulit echo_. OVID.

There are echoes, we know, of all sorts, From the echo that "dies in the dale," To the "airy-tongued babbler" that sports Up the tide of the torrent her "tale."

There are echoes that bore us, like Blues, With the latest smart _mot_ they have heard; There are echoes extremely like shrews Letting nobody have the last word.

In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too. Certain "talented" echoes[2] there dwell, Who on being askt, "How do you do?" Politely reply, “Pretty well,"

But why should I talk any more Of such old-fashioned echoes as these, When Britain has new ones in store, That transcend them by many degrees?

For of all repercussions of sound Concerning which bards make a pother, There's none like that happy rebound When one blockhead echoes an other;--

When Kenyon commences the bray, And the Borough-Duke follows his track; And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!--

And while, of _most_ echoes the sound On our ear by reflection doth fall, These Brunswickers[3] pass the bray round, Without any reflection at all.

Oh Scott, were I gifted like you, Who can name all the echoes there are From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue, From Benledi to wild Uamvar;

I might track thro' each hard Irish name The rebounds of this asinine strain, Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came To the _chief_ Neddy, Kenyon, again;

Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne, How from Dawson it died off genteelly-- How hollow it hung from the crown Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;

How on hearing my Lord of Glandine, Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way, Outdone in their own special line By the forty-ass power of his bray!

But, no--for so humble a bard 'Tis a subject too trying to touch on; Such noblemen's names are too hard, And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.

Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill, Of the dell and the deep-sounding shelves; If in spite of Narcissus you still Take to fools who are charmed with themselves,

Who knows but, some morning retiring, To walk by the Trent's wooded side, You may meet with Newcastle, admiring His own lengthened ears in the tide!

Or, on into Cambria straying, Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf, In his love of _ass_-cendency, braying A Brunswick duet with himself!

[1] "Let us from Clubs."

[2] Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes".

[3] Anti-Catholic associations, under the title of Brunswick Clubs, were at this time becoming numerous both in England and Ireland.

INCANTATION.

FROM THE NEW TRAGEDY OF "THE BRUNSWICKERS."

SCENE.--_Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.-- Enter three Brunswickers_.

_1st Bruns_.--Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,

_2d Bruns_.--Once hath fool Newcastle bawled,

_3d Bruns_.--Bexley snores:--'tis time, 'tis time,

_1st Bruns_.--Round about the caldron go; In the poisonous nonsense throw. Bigot spite that long hath grown Like a toad within a stone, Sweltering in the heart of Scott, Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

_All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

_2d Bruns_.--Slaver from Newcastle's quill In the noisome mess distil, Brimming high our Brunswick broth Both with venom and with froth. Mix the brains (tho' apt to hash ill, Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel, With that malty stuff which Chandos Drivels as no other man does. Catch (_i. e._ if catch you can) One idea, spick and span, From my Lord of Salisbury,-- One idea, tho' it be Smaller than the "happy flea" Which his sire in sonnet terse Wedded to immortal verse.[1] Tho' to rob the son is sin, Put his _one_ idea in; And, to keep it company, Let that conjuror Winchelsea Drop but _half_ another there, If he hath so much to spare. Dreams of murders and of arsons, Hatched in heads of Irish parsons, Bring from every hole and corner, Where ferocious priests like Horner Purely for religious good Cry aloud for Papist's blood, Blood for Wells, and such old women, At their ease to wade and swim in.

_All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

_3d Bruns_.--Now the charm begin to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto Scraps of Lethbridge's old speeches, Mixt with leather from his breeches, Rinsings of old Bexley's brains, Thickened (if you'll take the pains) With that pulp which rags create, In their middle _nympha_ state, Ere, like insects frail and sunny, Forth they wing abroad as money. There--the Hell-broth we've enchanted-- Now but _one_ thing more is wanted. Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice, Castlereagh keeps corkt for use, Which, to work the better spell, is Colored deep with blood of ----, Blood, of powers far more various, Even than that of Januarius, Since so great a charm hangs o'er it, England's parsons bow before it, _All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble. _2d Bruns_.--Cool it now with ----'s blood, So the charm is firm and good. [_exeunt_.

[1] Alluding to a well-known lyric composition of the late Marquis, which, with a slight alteration, might be addressed either to a flea or a fly.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN.

Whene'er you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew, 'Twixt two lines of conduct _which_ course to pursue, Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise, Do the very reverse and you're sure to be wise.

Of the same use as guides the Brunswicker throng; In their thoughts, words and deeds, so instinctively wrong, That whatever they counsel, act, talk or indite, Take the opposite course and you're sure to be right.

So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide you-- Were you even more doltish than any given man is, More soft than Newcastle, more twaddling than Van is. I'd stake my repute, on the following conditions, To make you the soundest of sound politicians.

Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying Tory-- Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory,-- Watch well how he dines, during any great Question-- What makes him feel gayly, what spoils his digestion-- And always feel sure that _his_ joy o'er a stew Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to _you_. Read him backwards, like Hebrew--whatever he wishes Or praises, note down as absurd or pernicious. Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about, When he's _out_ be an _In_-when he's _in_ be an _Out_. Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night and day, Like an Irish barometer turned the wrong way:-- If he's _up_ you may swear that foul weather is nigh; If he's _down_ you may look for a bit of blue sky. Never mind what debaters or journalists say, Only ask what _he_ thinks and then think t'other way. Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely The Small-note Bill's a blessing, tho' _you_ don't know why. Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man. Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan. Is he all for the Turks? then at once take the whole Russian Empire (Tsar, Cossacks and all) to your soul. In short, whatsoever he talks, thinks or is, Be your thoughts, words and essence the contrast of his. Nay, as Siamese ladies--at least the polite ones,-- All paint their teeth black, 'cause the devil has white ones- If even by the chances of time or of tide Your Tory for once should have sense on his side, Even _then_ stand aloof--for be sure that Old Nick When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick.

Such my recipe is--and, in one single verse, I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse, Be all that a Brunswicker _is_ not nor _could_ be, And then--you’ll be all that an honest man should be.

EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE.

FROM A SLAVE-LORD, TO A COTTON-LORD.

Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs! How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights! Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs, Nor must you any more work to death little whites.

Both forced to submit to that general controller Of King, Lords and cotton mills, Public Opinion, No more shall _you_ beat with a big billy-roller. Nor _I_ with the cart-whip assert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffered to do as we please With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let, We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys, And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over;--farewell to the zest Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip; Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best, And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the whip.

Farewell too the Factory's white pickaninnies-- Small, living machines which if flogged to their tasks Mix so well with their namesakes, the "Billies" and "Jennies," That _which_ have got souls in 'em nobody asks;--

Little Maids of the Mill, who themselves but ill-fed, Are obliged, 'mong their other benevolent cares, To "keep feeding the scribblers,"[1]--and better, 'tis said, Than old Blackwood or Fraser have ever fed theirs.

All this is now o'er and so dismal _my_ loss is, So hard 'tis to part from the smack of the throng, That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process), To take to whipt syllabub all my life long.

[1] One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.

THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.

_ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator_. OVID.

The Ghost of Miltiades came at night, And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite, And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame, "If ever the sound of Marathon's name Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow, "Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"

The Benthamite yawning left his bed-- Away to the Stock Exchange he sped, And he found the Scrip of Greece so high, That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye, And oh! 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see, For never was Greek more Greek than he! And still as the premium higher went, His ecstasy rose--so much _per cent_. (As we see in a glass that tells the weather The heat and the _silver_ rise together,) And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip, While a voice from his pocket whispered "Scrip!" The Ghost of Miltiades came again;-- He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro' rain, For his soul was glad at that patriot strain; (And poor, dear ghost--how little he knew The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!) "Blessings and thanks!" was all he said, Then melting away like a night-dream fled!

The Benthamite hears--amazed that ghosts Could be such fools--and away he posts, A patriot still? Ah no, ah no-- Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low, And warm and fond as thy lovers are, Thou triest their passion, when under _par_, The Benthamite's ardor fast decays, By turns he weeps and swears and prays. And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross, Ere _he_ had been forced to sell at a loss. They quote him the Stock of various nations, But, spite of his classic associations, Lord! how he loathes the Greek _quotations_!

"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?" Is now the theme of the patriot's lip, As he runs to tell how hard his lot is To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis, And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake, "Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break "Those dark, unholy _bonds_ of thine-- "If you'll only consent to buy up _mine_!" The Ghost of Miltiades came once more;-- His brow like the night was lowering o'er, And he said, with a look that flasht dismay, "Of Liberty's foes the worst are they, "Who turn to a trade her cause divine, "And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!" Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight, Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite, Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry-- And vanisht away to the Stygian ferry!

ALARMING INTELLIGENCE!

REVOLUTION IN THE DICTIONARY--ONE _GALT_ AT THE HEAD OF IT.

God preserve us!--there's nothing now safe from assault;-- Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer; And accounts have just reached us that one Mr. _Galt_ Has declared open war against English and Grammar!

He had long been suspected of some such design, And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at, Had lately 'mong Colburn's troops of _the line_ (The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private.

There schooled, with a rabble of words at command, Scotch, English and slang in promiscuous alliance. He at length against Syntax has taken his stand, And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.

Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford: In the mean time the danger most imminent grows, He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord, And whom he'll _next_ murder the Lord only knows.

_Wednesday evening_. Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene; Tho' the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection, Has seized a great Powder--no, Puff Magazine, And the explosions are dreadful in every direction.

What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows, As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration) Of lyrical "ichor,"[1] "gelatinous" prose,[2] And a mixture called amber immortalization.[3]

_Now_, he raves of a bard he once happened to meet, Seated high "among rattlings" and churning a sonnet;[4] _Now_, talks of a mystery, wrapt in a sheet, With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it![5]

We shudder in tracing these terrible lines; Something bad they must mean, tho' we can't make it out; For whate'er may be guessed of Galt's secret designs, That they're all _Anti_-English no Christian can doubt.

[1] "That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions."--GALT'S _Life of Byron_.

[2] "The gelatinous character of their effusions." _Ibid_.

[3] "The poetical embalmment or rather amber immortalization."-- _Ibid_.

[4] "Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an inarticulate melody."--_Ibid_.

[5] "He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo."-- _Ibid_.

RESOLUTIONS

PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.

Resolved--to stick to every particle Of every Creed and every Article; Reforming naught, or great or little, We'll stanchly stand by every tittle, And scorn the swallow of that soul Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.[1] Resolved that tho' St. Athanasius In damning souls is rather spacious-- Tho' wide and far his curses fall, Our Church "hath stomach for them all;" And those who're not content with such, May e'en be damned ten times as much.

Resolved--such liberal souls are we-- Tho' hating Nonconformity, We yet believe the cash no worse is That comes from Nonconformist purses. Indifferent _whence_ the money reaches The pockets of our reverend breeches, To us the Jumper's jingling penny Chinks with a tone as sweet as any; And even our old friends Yea and Nay May thro' the nose for ever pray, If _also_ thro' the nose they'll pay.

Resolved that Hooper,[2] Latimer,[3] And Cranmer,[4] all extremely err, In taking such a low-bred view Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:-- All owing to the fact, poor men, That Mother Church was modest then, Nor knew what golden eggs her goose, The Public, would in time produce. One Pisgah peep at modern Durham To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em.

Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords Whose income just enough affords To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey, Are told by Antiquarians prosy How ancient Bishops cut up theirs, Giving the poor the largest shares-- Our answer is, in one short word, We think it pious but absurd. Those good men made the world their debtor, But we, the Church reformed, know better; And taking all that all can pay, Balance the account the other way.

Resolved our thanks profoundly due are To last month's Quarterly Reviewer, Who proves by arguments so clear (One sees how much he holds _per_ year) That England's Church, tho' out of date, Must still be left to lie in state, As dead, as rotten and as grand as The mummy of King Osymandyas, All pickled snug--the brains drawn out-- With costly cerements swathed about,-- And "Touch me not," those words terrific, Scrawled o'er her in good hieroglyphic.

[1] One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was--"Whether the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy Scripture?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks--"Surely they had a wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a _tittle_ amiss, in it."

[2] "They," the Bishops, "know that the primitive Church had no such Bishops. If the fourth part of the bishopric remained unto the Bishop, it were sufficient."--_On the Commandments_, p. 72.

[3] "Since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth, there is no work done, the people starve."--_Lat. Serm_.

[4] "Of whom have come all these glorious titles, styles, and pomps into the Church. But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices," etc.--_Life of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix_.

SIR ANDREW'S DREAM.

"_nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis: cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent_." PROPERT. _lib. iv. eleg_. 7.

As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late, In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate, Being much too pious, as every one knows, To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze, He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man, And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can. He found himself, to his great amaze, In Charles the First's high Tory days, And just at the time that gravest of Courts Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1]

_Sunday_ Sports! what a thing for the ear Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!-- It chanced to be too a Sabbath day When the people from church were coming away; And Andrew with horror heard this song. As the smiling sinners flockt along;-- "Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah! "For a week of work and a Sunday of play "Make the poor man's life run merry away."

"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess," And he grinned with conscious holiness. But the song went on, and, to brim the cup Of poor Andy's grief, the fiddles struck up!

"Come, take out the lasses--let's have a dance-- "For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill, "Well knowing that no one's the more in advance "On the road to heaven, for standing still. "Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces "Should sour the cream of a creed of love; "Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces, "Alone should sit among cherubs above. "Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.

"For Sunday fun we never can fail, "When the Church herself each sport points out;-- "There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale, "And a May-pole high to dance about. "Or should we be for a pole hard driven, "Some lengthy saint of aspect fell, "With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven, "Will do for a May-pole just as well. "Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah! "A week of work and a Sabbath of play "Make the poor man's life run merry away."

To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history, This Sunday scene was a downright mystery; And God knows where might have ended the joke, But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke, And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes) That since that dream--which, one would suppose, Should have made his godly stomach rise. Even more than ever 'gainst Sunday pies-- He has viewed things quite with different eyes; Is beginning to take, on matters divine, Like Charles and his Bishops, the _sporting_ line-- Is all for Christians jigging in pairs, As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers:-- Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley To bring in a Bill enacting duly That all good Protestants from this date May freely and lawfully recreate, Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody, With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.

[1] _The Book of Sports_ drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that "for his good people's recreation, his Majesty's pleasure was, that after the end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women, archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May poles, or other sports therewith used." etc.

A BLUE LOVE SONG.

TO MISS-----.

Air-"_Come live with me and be my love_."

Come wed with me and we will write, My Blue of Blues, from morn till night. Chased from our classic souls shall be All thoughts of vulgar progeny; And thou shalt walk through smiling rows Of chubby duodecimos, While I, to match thy products nearly, Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly. 'Tis true, even books entail some trouble; But _live_ productions give one double.

Correcting children is _such_ bother,-- While printers' devils correct the other. Just think, my own Malthusian dear, How much more decent 'tis to hear From male or female--as it may be-- "How is your book?" than "How's your baby?" And whereas physic and wet nurses Do much exhaust paternal purses, Our books if rickety may go And be well dry-nurst in _the Row_; And when God wills to take them hence, Are buried at _the Row's_ expense.

Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee, In thy own Works, vol. 93.) The march, just now, of population So much outscrips all moderation, That even prolific herring-shoals Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1] Oh far more proper and well-bred To stick to writing books instead; And show the world how two Blue lovers Can coalesce, like two book-covers, (Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,) Lettered at back and stitched together Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em, With naught but--literature betwixt 'em.

[1] See "Ella of Garveloch."--Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the people increased much faster than the produce."

SUNDAY ETHICS.

A SCOTCH ODE.

Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true, We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell, A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.

So at least ye may reckon for one day entire In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh, As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire, An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way, He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;" Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play, An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day. As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries, "Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew! "Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath baked pies, "For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise "In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew!

Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie's the lad To ca' o'er the coals your nobeelity too; That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies,[1] a' clad Like Shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad-- But he's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.

If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right To gang to the deevil--as maist o' 'em do-- To stop them our Andie would think na polite; And 'tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by't) But he'd follow 'em, booing, would Andrew Agnew.

[1] Servants in livery.

AWFUL EVENT.

Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it), Winehelsea's Earl hath _cut_ the British Senate-- Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff, "_That_ for ye all"[snapping his fingers] and exit in a huff!

Disastrous news!--like that of old which spread, From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead," O'er the cross benches (cross from _being_ crost) Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!"

Which of ye, Lords, that heard him can forget The deep impression of that awful threat, "I quit your house!!"--midst all that histories tell, I know but _one_ event that's parallel:--

It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night, When the gay gods too blest to be polite Gods at their ease, like those of learned Lucretius, Laught, whistled, groaned, uproariously facetious-- A well-drest member of the middle gallery, Whose "ears polite" disdained such low canaillerie, Rose in his place--so grand, you'd almost swear Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there-- And like that Lord of dignity and _nous_, Said, "Silence, fellows, or--I'll leave the house!!"

How brookt the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day, That speech so fine should be so thrown away! In vain did this mid-gallery grandee Assert his own two-shilling dignity-- In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray Of his own full-price countenance away-- Fun against Dignity is fearful odds, And as the Lords laugh _now_, so giggled _then_ the gods!

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE, "COME, CLOE, and GIVE ME SWEET KISSES."

"We want more Churches and more Clergymen." _Bishop of London's late Charge_.

_"rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus augent." Claudian in Eutrop_.

Come, give us more Livings and Rectors, For, richer no realm ever gave; But why, ye unchristian objectors, Do ye ask us how many we crave?[1]

Oh there can't be too many rich Livings For souls of the Pluralist kind, Who, despising old Crocker's misgivings, To numbers can ne'er be confined.[2]

Count the cormorants hovering about,[3] At the time their fish season sets in, When these models of keen diners-out Are preparing their beaks to begin.

Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, Flock round when the harvest's in play, And not minding the farmer's distresses, Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven,[4] On the way to some titheable shore; And when so many Parsons you've given, We still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye Must leave us in peace to augment. For the wretch who could number the Clergy, With few will be ever content.

[1] Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses, For sweeter sure never girl gave; But why, in the midst of my blisses, Do you ask me how many I'd have?

[2] For whilst I love thee above measure, To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.

[3] Count the bees that on Hybla are playing, Count the flowers that enamel its fields, Count the flocks, etc.

[4] Go number the stars in the heaven, Count how many sands on the shore, When so many kisses you've given, I still shall be craving for more.

A SAD CASE.

"If it be the undergraduate season at which this _rabies religiosa_ is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulburn against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the full venom of an association with Dissenters?" --_The Times_, March 25.

How sad a case!--just think of it-- If Goulburn junior should be bit By some insane Dissenter, roaming Thro' Granta's halls, at large and foaming, And with that aspect _ultra_ crabbed Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid! God only knows what mischiefs might Result from this one single bite, Or how the venom, once suckt in, Might spread and rage thro' kith and kin. Mad folks of all denominations First turn upon their own relations: So that _one_ Goulburn, fairly bit, Might end in maddening the whole kit, Till ah! ye gods! we'd have to rue Our Goulburn senior bitten too; The Hychurchphobia in those veins, Where Tory blood now redly reigns;-- And that dear man who now perceives Salvation only in lawn sleeves, Might, tainted by such coarse infection, Run mad in the opposite direction. And think, poor man, 'tis only given To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!

Just fancy what a shock 'twould be Our Goulburn in his fits to see, Tearing into a thousand particles His once-loved Nine and Thirty Articles; (Those Articles his friend, the Duke,[1] For Gospel, t'other night, mistook;) Cursing cathedrals, deans and singers-- Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers-- Pelting the church with blasphemies, Even worse than Parson Beverley's;-- And ripe for severing Church and State, Like any creedless reprobate, Or like that class of Methodists Prince Waterloo styles "Atheists!"

But 'tis too much--the Muse turns pale, And o'er the picture drops a veil, Praying, God save the Goulburns all From mad Dissenters great and small!

[1] The Duke of Wellington, who styled them "the Articles of Christianity."

A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN.

--risum _tenaetis, amici_

"The longer one lives, the more one learns," Said I, as off to sleep I went, Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns, And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,[1] On the Irish Church Establishment. But lo! in sleep not long I lay, When Fancy her usual tricks began, And I found myself bewitched away To a goodly city in Hindostan-- A city where he who dares to dine On aught but rice is deemed a sinner; Where sheep and kine are held divine, And accordingly--never drest for dinner.

"But how is this?" I wondering cried-- As I walkt that city fair and wide, And saw, in every marble street, A row of beautiful butchers' shops-- "What means, for men who don't eat meat, "This grand display of loins and chops?" In vain I askt--'twas plain to see That nobody dared to answer me.

So on from street to street I strode: And you can't conceive how vastly odd The butchers lookt--a roseate crew, Inshrined in _stalls_ with naught to do; While some on a _bench_, half dozing, sat, And the Sacred Cows were not more fat. Still posed to think what all this scene Of sinecure trade was _meant_ to mean, "And, pray," askt I--"by whom is paid The expense of this strange masquerade?"-- "The expense!--oh! that's of course defrayed (Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers) "By yonder rascally rice-consumers." "What! _they_ who mustn't eat meat!"-- No matter-- (And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter,) "The rogues may munch their _Paddy_ crop, "But the rogues must still support _our_ shop, "And depend upon it, the way to treat "Heretical stomachs that thus dissent, "Is to burden all that won't eat meat, "With a costly MEAT ESTABLISHMENT."

On hearing these words so gravely said, With a volley of laughter loud I shook, And my slumber fled and my dream was sped, And I found I was lying snug in bed, With my nose in the Bishop of FERNS'S book.

[1] An indefatigable scribbler of anti-Catholic pamphlets.

THE BRUNSWICK CLUB.

A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage, requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a copy.

_Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828_.

_Private_,--Lord Belzebub presents To the Brunswick Club his compliments. And much regrets to say that he Can not at present their Patron be. In stating this, Lord Belzebub Assures on his honor the Brunswick Club, That 'tisn't from any lukewarm lack Of zeal or fire he thus holds back-- As even Lord _Coal_ himself is not[1] For the Orange party more red-hot: But the truth is, still their Club affords A somewhat decenter show of Lords, And on its list of members gets A few less rubbishy Baronets, Lord Belzebub must beg to be Excused from keeping such company.

Who the devil, he humbly begs to know, Are Lord Glandine, and Lord Dunlo? Or who, with a grain of sense, would go To sit and be bored by Lord Mayo? What living creature--_except his nurse_-- For Lord Mountcashel cares a curse, Or think 'twould matter if Lord Muskerry Were 'tother side of the Stygian ferry? Breathes there a man in Dublin town, Who'd give but half of half-a-crown To save from drowning my Lord Rathdowne, Or who wouldn't also gladly hustle in Lords Roden, Bandon, Cole and Jocelyn? In short, tho' from his tenderest years, Accustomed to all sorts of Peers, Lord Belzebub much questions whether He ever yet saw mixt together As 'twere in one capacious tub. Such a mess of noble silly-bub As the twenty Peers of the Brunswick Club. 'Tis therefore impossible that Lord B. Could stoop to such society, Thinking, he owns (tho' no great prig), For one in his station 'twere _infra dig_. But he begs to propose, in the interim (Till they find some properer Peers for him), His Highness of Cumberland, as _Sub_ To take his place at the Brunswick Club-- Begging, meanwhile, himself to dub Their obedient servant, BELZEBUB.

It luckily happens, the Royal Duke Resembles so much, in air and look, The head of the Belzebub family, That few can any difference see; Which makes him of course the better suit To serve as Lord B.'s substitute.

[1] Usually written Cole.

PROPOSALS FOR A GYNAECOCRACY.

ADDRESSED TO A LATE RADICAL MEETING.

--"_quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras_." VERGIL.

As Whig Reform has had its range, And none of us are yet content, Suppose, my friends, by way of change, We try a _Female Parliament_; And since of late with _he_ M.P.'s We've fared so badly, take to she's-- Petticoat patriots, flounced John Russells, Burdetts in _blonde_ and Broughams in _bustles_.

The plan is startling, I confess-- But 'tis but an affair of dress; Nor see I much there is to choose 'Twixt Ladies (so they're thorough-bred ones) In ribands of all sorts of hues, Or Lords in only blue or red ones.

At least the fiddlers will be winners, Whatever other trade advances As then, instead of Cabinet dinners We'll have, at Almack's, Cabinet dances; Nor let this world's important questions Depend on Ministers' digestions.

If Ude's receipts have done things ill, To Weippert's band they may go better; There's Lady **, in one quadrille, Would settle Europe, if you'd let her: And who the deuce or asks or cares When Whigs or Tories have undone 'em, Whether they've _danced_ thro' State affairs, Or simply, dully, _dined_ upon 'em?

Hurrah then for the Petticoats! To them we pledge our free-born votes; We'll have all _she_, and only _she_-- Pert blues shall act as "best debaters," Old dowagers our Bishops be, And termagants our agitators. If Vestris to oblige the nation Her own Olympus will abandon And help to prop the Administration, It _can't_ have better legs to stand on. The famed Macaulay (Miss) shall show Each evening, forth in learned oration; Shall move (midst general cries of "Oh!") For full returns of population: And finally to crown the whole, The Princess Olive, Royal soul,[1] Shall from her bower in Banco Regis, Descend to bless her faithful lieges, And mid our Union's loyal chorus Reign jollily for ever o'er us.

[1] A personage so styled herself who attained considerable notoriety at that period.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE * * *.

Sir,

Having heard some rumors respecting the strange and awful visitation under which Lord Henley has for some time past been suffering, in consequence of his declared hostility to "anthems, solos, duets,"[1] etc., I took the liberty of making inquiries at his Lordship's house this morning and lose no time in transmitting to you such particulars as I could collect. It is said that the screams of his Lordship, under the operation of this nightly concert, (which is no doubt some trick of the Radicals), may be heard all over the neighborhood. The female who personates St. Cecilia is supposed to be the same that last year appeared in the character of Isis at the Rotunda. How the cherubs are managed, I have not yet ascertained.

Yours, etc.

P. P.

[1] In a work, on Church Reform, published by his Lordship in 1832.

LORD HENLEY AND ST. CECILIA

--_in Metii decenaat Judicis aures_. HORAT.

As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay, Revolving much his own renown, And hoping to add thereto a ray By putting duets and anthems down,

Sudden a strain of choral sounds Mellifluous o'er his senses stole; Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!" For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.

Then starting up he saw a sight That well might shock so learned a snorer-- Saint Cecilia robed in light With a portable organ slung before her.

And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings, Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting, So begged they'd sit--but ah! poor things, They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.

"Having heard," said the Saint, "you're fond of hymns, "And indeed that musical snore betrayed you, "Myself and my choir of cherubims "Are come for a while to serenade you."

In vain did the horrified Henley say "'Twas all a mistake--she was misdirected;" And point to a concert over the way Where fiddlers and angels were expected.

In vain--the Saint could see in his looks (She civilly said) much tuneful lore; So at once all opened their music-books, And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.

All night duets, terzets, quartets, Nay, long quintets most dire to hear; Ay, and old motets and canzonets And glees in sets kept boring his ear.

He tried to sleep--but it wouldn't do; So loud they squalled, he _must_ attend to 'em. Tho' Cherubs' songs to his cost he knew Were like themselves and had no end to 'em.

Oh judgment dire on judges bold, Who meddle with music's sacred strains! Judge Midas tried the same of old And was punisht like Henley for his pains.

But worse on the modern judge, alas! Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne; For Midas was given the ears of an ass, While Henley is doomed to keep his own!

ADVERTISEMENT.[1]

1830.

Missing or lost, last Sunday night, A Waterloo coin whereon was traced The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright, Tho' a little by rust of years defaced.

The metal thereof is rough and hard, And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with brass; But it bears the stamp of Fame's award, And thro' all Posterity's hands will pass.

_How_ it was lost God only knows, But certain _City_ thieves, they say, Broke in on the owner's evening doze, And filched this "gift of gods" away!

One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect, If we hadn't that evening chanced to see, At the robbed man's door a _Mare_ elect With an ass to keep her company.

Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows, Is begged to state all facts about it, As the owner can't well face his foes, Nor even his friends just now without it.

And if Sir Clod will bring it back, Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able, He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2] That's left in old King George's stable.

[1] Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished duke, then Prime Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Claudius Hunter, and other City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of dining with the Lord Mayor.

[2] Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Claudius distinguished himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favorite steed vas not the least conspicuous.

MISSING.

Carlton Terrace, 1832.

Whereas, Lord ---- de ---- Left his home last Saturday, And, tho' inquired for round and round Thro' certain purlieus, can't be found; And whereas, none can solve our queries As to where this virtuous Peer is, Notice is hereby given that all May forthwith to inquiring fall, As, once the thing's well set about, No doubt but we shall hunt him out.

His Lordship's mind, of late, they say, Hath been in an uneasy way, Himself and colleagues not being let To climb into the Cabinet, To settle England's state affairs, Hath much, it seems, _un_settled theirs; And chief to this stray Plenipo Hath been a most distressing blow. Already,-certain to receive a Well-paid mission to the Neva, And be the bearer of kind words To tyrant Nick from Tory Lords,- To fit himself for free discussion, His Lordship had been learning Russian; And all so natural to him were The accents of the Northern bear, That while his tones were in your ear, you Might swear you were in sweet Siberia. And still, poor Peer, to old and young, He goes on raving in that tongue; Tells you how much you would enjoy a Trip to Dalnodubrovrkoya;[1] Talks of such places by the score on As Oulisflirmchinagoboron,[2] And swears (for he at nothing sticks) That Russia swarms with Raskolniks, Tho' _one_ such Nick, God knows, must be A more than ample quantity.

Such are the marks by which to know This strayed or stolen Plenipo; And whosoever brings or sends The unhappy statesman to his friends On Carlton Terrace, shall have thanks, And--any paper but the Bank's.

P.S.--Some think the disappearance Of this our diplomatic Peer hence Is for the purpose of reviewing, _In person_, what dear Mig is doing, So as to 'scape all tell-tale letters 'Bout Beresford, and such abetters,-- The only "wretches" for whose aid[3] Letters seem _not_ to have been made.

[1] In the Government of Perm.

[2] Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense.

[3] "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." POPE.

THE DANCE OF BISHOPS;

OR, THE EPISCOPAL QUADRILLE.[1]

A DREAM.

1833.

"Solemn dances were, on great festivals and celebrations, admitted among the primitive Christians, in which even the Bishops and dignified Clergy were performers. Scaliger says, that the first Bishops were called _praesules_[2] for other reason than that they led off these dances."--"_Cyclopaedia_," art. _Dances_.

I've had such a dream--a frightful dream-- Tho' funny mayhap to wags 'twill seem, By all who regard the Church, like us, 'Twill be thought exceedingly ominous!

As reading in bed I lay last night-- Which (being insured) is my delight-- I happened to doze off just as I got to The singular fact which forms my motto. Only think, thought I, as I dozed away, Of a party of Churchmen dancing the hay! Clerks, curates and rectors capering all With a neat-legged Bishop to open the ball! Scarce had my eyelids time to close, When the scene I had fancied before me rose-- An Episcopal Hop on a scale so grand As my dazzled eyes could hardly stand. For Britain and Erin clubbed their Sees To make it a Dance of Dignities, And I saw--oh brightest of Church events! A quadrille of the two Establishments, Bishop to Bishop _vis-à-vis_, Footing away prodigiously.

There was Bristol capering up to Derry, And Cork with London making merry; While huge Llandaff, with a See, so so, Was to dear old Dublin pointing his toe. There was Chester, hatched by woman's smile, Performing a _chaine des Dames_ in style; While he who, whene'er the Lords' House dozes, Can waken them up by citing Moses,[3] The portly Tuam, was all in a hurry To set, _en avant_, to Canterbury.

Meantime, while pamphlets stuft his pockets, (All out of date like spent skyrockets,) Our Exeter stood forth to caper, As high on the floor as he doth on paper-- like a dapper Dancing Dervise, Who pirouettes his whole church-service-- Performing, midst those reverend souls, Such _entrechats_, such _cabrioles_, Such _balonnés_, such--rigmaroles, Now high, now low, now this, that, That none could guess what the devil he'd be at; Tho', watching his various steps, some thought That a step in the Church was all he sought.

But alas, alas! while thus so gay. These reverend dancers friskt away, Nor Paul himself (not the saint, but he Of the Opera-house) could brisker be, There gathered a gloom around their glee-- A shadow which came and went so fast, That ere one could say "'Tis there," 'twas past-- And, lo! when the scene again was cleared, Ten of the dancers had disappeared! Ten able-bodied quadrillers swept From the hallowed floor where late they stept, While twelve was all that footed it still, On the Irish side of that grand Quadrille!

Nor this the worst:--still danced they on, But the pomp was saddened, the smile was gone; And again from time to time the same Ill-omened darkness round them came-- While still as the light broke out anew, Their ranks lookt less by a dozen or two; Till ah! at last there were only found Just Bishops enough for a four-hands-round; And when I awoke, impatient getting, I left the last holy pair _poussetting_!

N.B.--As ladies in years, it seems, Have the happiest knack at solving dreams, I shall leave to my ancient feminine friends Of the _Standard_ to say what _this_ portends.

[1] Written on the passing of the memorable Bill, in the year 1833, for the abolition of ten Irish Bishoprics.

[2] Literally, First Dancers.

[3] "And what does Moses say?"--One of the ejaculations with which this eminent prelate enlivened his famous speech on the Catholic question.

DICK * * * *

A CHARACTER.

Of various scraps and fragments built, Borrowed alike from fools and wits, Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt, Made up of new, old, motley bits-- Where, if the _Co_. called in their shares, If petticoats their quota got And gowns were all refunded theirs, The quilt would look but shy, God wot.

And thus he still, new plagiaries seeking, Reversed ventriloquism's trick, For, 'stead of Dick thro' others speaking, 'Twas others we heard speak thro' Dick. A Tory now, all bounds exceeding, Now best of Whigs, now worst of rats; One day with Malthus, foe to breeding, The next with Sadler, all for brats.

Poor Dick!--and how else could it be? With notions all at random caught, A sort of mental fricassee, Made up of legs and wings of thought-- The leavings of the last Debate, or A dinner, yesterday, of wits, Where Dick sate by and, like a waiter, Had the scraps for perquisites.

A CORRECTED REPORT OF SOME LATE SPEECHES.

1834.

"Then I heard one saint speaking, and another saint said unto that saint,"

St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth, That he wouldn't give sixpence to Maynooth. He had hated priests the whole of his life, For a priest was a man who had no wife,[1] And, having no wife, the Church was his mother, The Church was his father, sister and brother. This being the case, he was sorry to say That a gulf 'twixt Papist and Protestant lay,[2] So deep and wide, scarce possible was it To say even "how d' ye do?" across it: And tho' your Liberals, nimble as fleas, Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease, 'Twas a jump that naught on earth could make Your proper, heavy-built Christian take. No, no,--if a Dance of Sects _must_ be, He would set to the Baptist willingly,[3] At the Independent deign to smirk, And rigadoon with old Mother Kirk; Nay even, for once, if needs must be, He'd take hands round with all the three; But as to a jig with Popery, no,-- To the Harlot ne'er would he point his toe.

St. Mandeville was the next that rose,-- A saint who round as pedler goes With his pack of piety and prose, Heavy and hot enough, God knows,-- And he said that Papists were much inclined To extirpate all of Protestant kind, Which he couldn't in truth so much condemn, Having rather a wish to extirpate _them_; That is,--to guard against mistake,-- To extirpate them for their doctrine's sake; A distinction Churchman always make,-- Insomuch that when they've prime control, Tho' sometimes roasting heretics whole, They but cook the body for sake of the soul.

Next jumpt St. Johnston jollily forth, The spiritual Dogberry of the North,[4] A right "wise fellow, and what's more, An officer," like his type of yore; And he asked if we grant such toleration, Pray, what's the use of our Reformation? What is the use of our Church and State? Our Bishops, Articles, Tithe and Rate? And still as he yelled out "what's the use?" Old Echoes, from their cells recluse Where they'd for centuries slept, broke loose, Yelling responsive, "_What's the use_?"

[1] "He objected to the maintenance and education of clergy _bound by the particular vows of celibacy, which as it were gave them the Church as their only family, making it fill the places of father and mother and brother_."--Debate on the Grant to Maynooth College, _The Times_, April 19.

[2] "It had always appeared to him that _between the Catholic and Protestant a great gulf_ intervened, with rendered it impossible," etc.

[3] The Baptist might acceptably extend the offices of religion to the Presbyterian and the Independent, or the member of the Church of England to any of the other three; but the Catholic," etc.

[4] "Could he then, holding as he did a spiritual office in the Church of Scotland, (cries of hear, and laughter,) with any consistency give his consent to a grant of money?" etc.

MORAL POSITIONS.

A DREAM.

"His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage had been so long," etc.--Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial Slavery, March 8.

T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration (A treat that comes once a year as May-day does), I dreamt that I saw--what a strange operation! A "moral position" shipt off for Barbadoes.

The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes, Packing the article tidy and neat;-- As their Reverences know that in southerly latitudes "Moral positions" don't keep very sweet.

There was Bathurst arranging the custom-house pass; And to guard the frail package from tousing and routing, There stood my Lord Eldon, endorsing it "Glass," Tho' as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting. The freight was however stowed safe in the hold; The winds were polite and the moon lookt romantic, While off in the good ship "The Truth" we were rolled, With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic. Long, dolefully long, seemed the voyage we made; For "The Truth," at all times but a very slow sailer, By friends, near as much as by foes, is delayed, And few come aboard her tho' so many hail her.

At length, safe arrived, I went thro' "tare and tret," Delivered my goods in the primest condition. And next morning read in the _Bridge-town Gazette_, "Just arrived by 'The Truth,' a new moral position.

"The Captain"--here, startled to find myself named As "the Captain"--(a thing which, I own it with pain, I thro' life have avoided,) I woke--lookt ashamed, Found I _wasn't_ a captain and dozed off again.

THE MAD TORY AND THE COMET.

FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT.

1832-3.

_'mutantem regna cometem."_ LUCAN.[1]

"Tho' all the pet mischiefs we count upon fail, "Tho' Cholera, hurricanes, Wellington leave us, "We've still in reserve, mighty Comet, thy tail;-- "Last hope" of the Tories, wilt thou too deceive us?

"No--'tis coming, 'tis coming, the avenger is nigh; "Heed, heed not, ye placemen, how Herapath flatters; "One whisk from that tail as it passes us by "Will settle at once all political matters;--

"The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers, "(Now turned into two) with their rigmarole Protocols;-- "Ha! ha! ye gods, how this new friend of ours "Will knock, right and left, all diplomacy's what-d'ye-calls!

"Yes, rather than Whigs at our downfall should mock, "Meet planets and suns in one general hustle! "While happy in vengeance we welcome the shock "That shall jerk from their places, Grey, Althorp and Russell."

Thus spoke a mad Lord, as, with telescope raised, His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set: And tho' nothing destructive appeared as he gazed, Much hoped that there _would_ before Parliament met.

And still, as odd shapes seemed to flit thro' his glass, "Ha! there it is now," the poor maniac cries; While his fancy with forms but too monstrous, alas! From his own Tory zodiac peoples the skies:--

"Now I spy a big body, good heavens, how big! "Whether Bucky[2] or Taurus I cannot well say:-- "And yonder there's Eldon's old Chancery wig, "In its dusty aphelion fast fading away.

"I see, 'mong those fatuous meteors behind, "Londonderry, _in vacuo_, flaring about;-- "While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind, "Is the Gemini, Roden and Lorton, no doubt.

"Ah, Ellenborough! 'faith, I first thought 'twas the Comet; "So like that in Milton, it made me quite pale; "The head with the same 'horrid hair' coming from it, "And plenty of vapor, but--where is the tail?"

Just then, up aloft jumpt the gazer elated-- For lo! his bright glass a phenomenon showed, Which he took to be Cumberland, _upwards_ translated, Instead of his natural course, _t'other_ road!

But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken,-- Down dropt the poor Tory in fits and grimaces, Then off to the Bedlam in Charles Street was taken, And is now one of Halford's most favorite cases.

[1] Eclipses and comets have been always looked to as great changers of administrations.

[2] The Duke of Buckingham.

* * * * *

FROM THE HON. HENRY ----, TO LADY EMMA ----.

_Paris, March 30,1833_.

You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell; And the truth is,--as truth you _will_ have, my sweet railer,-- There are two worthy persons I always feel loath To take leave of at starting,--my mistress and tailor,-- As somehow one always has _scenes_ with them both; The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears, She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,-- Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears, A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say. That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away, 'Pon honor you're wrong;--such a mere bagatelle As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fears; And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell, To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;[1] This deluge of coronets frightful to think of; Which England is now for her sins on the brink of; This coinage of _nobles_,--coined all of 'em, badly, And sure to bring Counts to a _dis_-count most sadly.

Only think! to have Lords over running the nation, As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation; No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection, And tadpole young Lords too in every direction,-- Things created in haste just to make a Court list of, Two legs and a coronet all they consist of! The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose (My particular friend) says is perfectly true, That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do; And Sir George even doubts,--could he choose his disorder,-- 'Twixt coffin and coronet, _which_ he would order. This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma, 'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma; And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain, To've left _idol mio_ without an _addio_, Console your sweet heart, and a week hence from Milan I'll send you--some news of Bellini's last trio.

N.B. Have just packt up my travelling set-out, Things a tourist in Italy _can't_ go without-- Viz., a pair of _gants gras_, from old Houbigant's shop, Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap. Small presents for ladies,--and nothing so wheedles The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. A neat pocket Horace by which folks are cozened To think one knows Latin, when--one, perhaps, doesn't; With some little book about heathen mythology, Just large enough to refresh one's theology; Nothing on earth being half such a bore as Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras. Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls, And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.

HENRY.

[1] A new creation of Peers was generally expected at this time.

TRIUMPH OF BIGOTRY.

College.--We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things, harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car." _Dublin Evening Post_, Dec. 20, 1832.

Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car, Ye chosen of Alma Mater's scions;- Fleet chargers drew the God of War, Great Cybele was drawn by lions, And Sylvan Pan, as Poet's dream, Drove four young panthers in his team. Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is, Thus, studious of a like turn-out, He harnesses young sucking dunces, To draw him as their Chief about, And let the world a picture see Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry: Showing us how young College hacks Can pace with bigots at their backs, As tho' the cubs were _born_ to draw Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw, Oh! shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift, Bright spirits whom, in days of yore, This Queen of Dulness sent adrift, As aliens to her foggy shore;--- Shade of our glorious Grattan, too, Whose very name her shame recalls; Whose effigy her bigot crew Reversed upon their monkish walls,[1]-- Bear witness (lest the world should doubt) To your mute Mother's dull renown, Then famous but for Wit turned _out_, And Eloquence _turned upside down_; But now ordained new wreaths to win, Beyond all fame of former days, By breaking thus young donkies in To draw M.P.s amid the brays Alike of donkies and M.A.s;-- Defying Oxford to surpass 'em In this new "_Gradus ad Parnassum_."

[1] In the year 1799, the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, thought proper, as a mode of expressing their disapprobation of Mr. Grattan's public conduct, to order his portrait, in the Great Hall of the University, to be turned upside down, and in this position it remained for some time.

TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE.

_Scripta manet_.

1833.

'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,[1] In letters four and letters three; And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by But those awful letters scared his eye; For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said, "As long as those words by man were read, "The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er "One hour of peace or plenty share." But years on years successive flew, And the letters still more legible grew,-- At top, a T, an H, an E, And underneath, D. E. B. T.

Some thought them Hebrew,--such as Jews More skilled in Scrip than Scripture use; While some surmised 'twas an ancient way Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias, Who had thereto a wonderful bias,) And proved in books most learnedly boring, 'Twas called the Pon_tick_ way of scoring.

Howe'er this be there never were yet Seven letters of the alphabet, That 'twixt them formed so grim a spell, Or scared a Land of Gulls so well, As did this awful riddle-me-ree Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

* * * * *

Hark!--it is struggling Freedom's cry; "Help, help, ye nations, or I die; "'Tis Freedom's fight and on the field "Where I expire _your_ doom is sealed." The Gull-King hears the awakening call, He hath summoned his Peers and Patriots all, And he asks. "Ye noble Gulls, shall we "Stand basely by at the fall of the Free, "Nor utter a curse nor deal a blow?" And they answer with voice of thunder, "No."

Out fly their flashing swords in the air!-- But,--why do they rest suspended there? What sudden blight, what baleful charm, Hath chilled each eye and checkt each arm? Alas! some withering hand hath thrown The veil from off that fatal stone, And pointing now with sapless finger, Showeth where dark those letters linger,-- Letters four and letters three, T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

At sight thereof, each lifted brand Powerless falls from every hand; In vain the Patriot knits his brow,-- Even talk, his staple, fails him now. In vain the King like a hero treads, His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads; And to all his talk of "brave and free," No answer getteth His Majesty But "T. H. E. D. E. B. T."

In short, the whole Gull nation feels They're fairly spell-bound, neck and heels; And so, in the face of the laughing world, Must e'en sit down with banners furled, Adjourning all their dreams sublime Of glory and war to-some other time.

[1] Liafail, or the Stone of Destiny,--for which see Westminster Abbey.

NOTIONS ON REFORM.

BY A MODERN REFORMER.

Of all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches, The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas! It has caused between Wetherel's waistcoat and breeches.

Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity Had oft broken out in that quarter before; But the breach, since the Bill, has attained such immensity, Daniel himself could have scarce wisht it more.

Oh! haste to repair it, ye friends of good order, Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past; Who can doubt that we tread upon Anarchy's border, When the ties that should hold men are loosening so fast?

_Make_ Wetherel yield to "some sort of Reform" (As we all must, God help us! with very wry faces;) And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm About Corporate Rights, so he'll only wear braces.

Should those he now sports have been long in possession, And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear, Advise him at least as a prudent concession To Intellect's progress, to buy a new pair.

Oh! who that e'er saw him when vocal he stands, With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and Lockit's, While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets--

Who that ever has listened thro' groan and thro' cough, To the speeches inspired by this music of pence,-- But must grieve that there's any thing like _falling off_ In that great nether source of his wit and his sense?

Who that knows how he lookt when, with grace debonair, He began first to court--rather late in the season-- Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Reason;[1]

That Goddess whose borough-like virtue attracted All mongers in _both_ wares to proffer their love; Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted, As Wetherel's rants ever since go to prove;

_Who_ in short would not grieve if a man of his graces Should go on rejecting, unwarned by the past, The "moderate Reform" of a pair of new braces, Till, some day,--he'll all fall to pieces at last.

[1] It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself boasted, one night, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair which this allegorical lady had occupied.

TORY PLEDGES.

I pledge myself thro' thick and thin, To labor still with zeal devout To get the Outs, poor devils, in, And turn the Ins, the wretches, out.

I pledge myself, tho' much bereft Of ways and means of ruling ill, To make the most of what are left, And stick to all that's rotten still.

Tho' gone the days of place and pelf, And drones no more take all the honey, I pledge myself to cram myself With all I can of public money.

To quarter on that social purse My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers, Nor, so _we_ prosper, care a curse How much 'tis at the expense of others.

I pledge myself, whenever Right And Might on any point divide, Not to ask which is black or white. But take at once the strongest side.

For instance, in all Tithe discussions, I'm _for_ the Reverend encroachers:- I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,-- Am _for_ the Squires, _against_ the Poachers.

Betwixt the Corn-lords and the Poor I've not the slightest hesitation,-- The People _must_ be starved, to insure The Land its due remuneration.

I pledge myself to be no more With Ireland's wrongs beprosed or shammed,-- I vote her grievances a _bore_, So she may suffer and be damned.

Or if she kick, let it console us, We still have plenty of red coats, To cram the Church, that general bolus, Down any given amount of throats.

I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,-- Think newspapers the worst of crimes; And would, to give some chance of quiet, Hang all the writers of _"The Times;_"

Break all their correspondents' bones, All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder," From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones, To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.

Such are the Pledges I propose; And tho' I can't now offer gold, There's many a way of buying those Who've but the taste for being sold.

So here's, with three times three hurrahs, A toast of which you'll not complain,-- "Long life to jobbing; may the days "Of Peculation shine again!"

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

FIRST VISIT.

1832.

As St. Jerome who died some ages ago, Was sitting one day in the shades below, "I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he, "And shall now take a trip to earth to see "How far they agree in their lives and ways "With our good old bishops of ancient days."

He had learned--but learned without misgivings-- Their love for good living and eke good livings; Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees) That good _living_ means claret and fricassees, While its plural means simply--pluralities.

"From all I hear," said the innocent man, "They are quite on the good old primitive plan. "For wealth and pomp they little can care, "As they all say _'No'_ to the Episcopal chair; "And their vestal virtue it well denotes "That they all, good men, wear petticoats."

Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries, And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury's. The door was oped by a lackey in lace, Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?" "His Grace!" quoth Jerome--for posed was he, Not knowing what _sort_ this Grace could be; Whether Grace _preventing_, Grace _particular_, Grace of that breed called _Quinquarticular_--[1]

In short he rummaged his holy mind The exact description of Grace to find, Which thus could represented be By a footman in full livery. At last, out loud in a laugh he broke, (For dearly the good saint loved his joke)[2] And said--surveying, as sly he spoke, The costly palace from roof to base-- "Well, it isn't, at least, a _saving_ Grace!" "Umph!" said the lackey, a man of few words, "The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords."

"To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son, "For in _my_ time at least there was but one; Unless such many-_fold_ priests as these "Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!"[3] "No time for gab," quoth the man in lace: Then slamming the door in St. Jerome's face With a curse to the single knockers all Went to finish his port in the servants' hall, And propose a toast (humanely meant To include even Curates in its extent) "To all as _serves_ the Establishment."

[1] So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Dort.

[2] Witness his well known pun on the name of his adversary Vigilantius, whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius.

[3] The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation, from this passage.

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

SECOND VISIT.

"This much I dare say, that, since _lording_ and loitering hath come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times. For they preached and _lorded_ not; and now they _lord_ and preach not.... Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve." --_Latimer, "Sermon of the Plough."_

"Once more," said Jerome, "I'll run up and see How the Church goes on,"--and off set he. Just then the packet-boat which trades Betwixt our planet and the shades Had arrived below with a freight so queer, "My eyes!" said Jerome, "what have we here?"-- For he saw, when nearer he explored, They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard.

"They are ghosts of wigs," said Charon, "all, "Once worn by nobs Episcopal.[1] "For folks on earth, who've got a store "Of cast off things they'll want no more, "Oft send them down, as gifts, you know, "To a certain Gentleman here below. "A sign of the times, I plainly see," Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly.

Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more "I'll affect a body as before; "For I think I'd best, in the company "Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be, "And glide unseen from See to See." But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,-- It was more than Rabelais's pen could draw. For instance, he found Exeter, Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,-- For love of God? for sake of King? For good of people?--no such thing; But to get for himself, by some new trick, A shove to a better bishoprick.

He found that pious soul, Van Mildert, Much with his money-bags bewildered; Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese, Because the rogues showed restlessness At having too little cash to touch, While he so Christianly bears too much. He found old Sarum's wits as gone As his own beloved text in John,--[2] Text he hath prosed so long upon, That 'tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven, His name, he'll answer, "John, v. 7."

"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day," Said the weary Saint,--"I must away. "Tho' I own I should like before I go "To see for once (as I'm askt below "If really such odd sights exist) "A regular six-fold Pluralist." Just then he heard a general cry-- "There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!" "Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow," And off he sets with a loud view-hello, At Hodgson's heels, to catch if he can A glimpse of this singular plural man. But,--talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird![3] To compare him with Hodgson is absurd. "Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?"-- "He is now at his living at Hillingdon."-- "No, no,--you're out, by many a mile, "He's away at his Deanery in Carlisle."-- "Pardon me, sir; but I understand "He's gone to his living in Cumberland."-- "God bless me, no,--he can’t be there; "You must try St. George's, Hanover Square."

Thus all in vain the Saint inquired, From living to living, mockt and tired;-- 'Twas Hodgson here, 'twas Hodgson there, 'Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere; Till fairly beat the Saint gave o'er And flitted away to the Stygian shore, To astonish the natives underground With the comical things he on earth had found.

[1] The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with.

[2] 1 John v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend scholar.

[3] It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that "a man could not be in two places at once, unless he was a bird."

THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS.

(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FÊTE.)[1]

1832.

What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised 'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses! And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!"

What a pity we can't, by precautions like these, Clear the air of that other still viler infection; That radical pest, that old whiggish disease, Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.

Stead of barrels, let's light up an _Auto da Fe_ Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;" They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away, And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out! A volcano of nonsense in active display; While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.

And then, for a finish, there's Cumberland's Duke,-- Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air! Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look) He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.

[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fête.--From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.

THE CONSULTATION.[1]

"When they _do_ agree, their unanimity is wonderful. _The Critic_.

1833.

_Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the floor between them_.

_Dr. Whig_.--This wild Irish patient _does_ pester me so. That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know. I've _promist_ him anodynes-- _Dr. Tory_. Anodynes!--Stuff. Tie him down--gag him well--he'll be tranquil enough. That's _my_ mode of practice. _Dr Whig_. True, quite in _your_ line, But unluckily not much, till lately, in _mine_. 'Tis so painful-- _Dr. Tory_.--Pooh, nonsense--ask Ude how he feels, When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels, By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, And letting them wriggle on there till they tire. _He_, too, says "'tis painful"--"quite makes his heart bleed"-- But "Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."-- He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says "No," And--in short--eels were _born_ to be treated just so.[2] 'Tis the same with these Irish,--who're odder fish still,-- Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill; I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise, Used at some operations to blush to the eyes:-- But, in fact, my dear brother,--if I may make bold To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,-- We, Doctors, _must_ act with the firmness of Ude, And, indifferent like him,--so the fish is _but_ stewed,-- _Must_ torture live Pats for the general good. [_Here patient groans and kicks a little_.] _Dr. Whig_.--But what, if one's patient's so devilish perverse, That he _won't_ be thus tortured? _Dr. Tory_. Coerce, sir, coerce. You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin, You can’t think how fast you may train your hand in: And (_smiling_) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf, With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf, He's succeeded by one just as--bad as himself? _Dr. Whig_ (_looking flattered_).-- Why, to tell you the truth, I've a small matter here, Which you helped me to make for my patient last year,-- [_Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait-waistcoat and gag_.] And such rest I've enjoyed from his raving since then That I've made up my mind he shall wear it again. _Dr. Tory_ (_embracing him_).— Oh, charming!—-My dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure, Next to torturing, _myself_, to help _you_ is a pleasure. [_Assisting Dr. Whig_.] Give me leave--I've some practice in these mad machines; There--tighter--the gag in the mouth, by all means. Delightful!--all's snug--not a squeak need you fear,-- You may now put your anodynes off till next year. [_Scene closes_.]

[1] These verses, as well as some others that follow, were extorted from me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion Act.

[2] This eminent artist, in the second edition of the work wherein he propounds this mode of purifying his eels, professes himself much concerned at the charge of inhumanity brought against his practice, but still begs leave respectfully to repeat that it _is_ the only proper mode of preparing eels for the table.

TO THE REV. CHARLES OVERTON,

CURATE OF ROMALDKIRK.

AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH.

1833.

Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckoned, By critics Episcopal, David the Second,[1] If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight, Only think, in a Rectory, how you _would_ write! Once fairly inspired by the "Tithe-crowned Apollo," (Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phoebus hollow, Having gotten, besides the old _Nine's_ inspiration, The _Tenth_ of all eatable things in creation.) There's nothing in fact that a poet like you, So be-_nined_ and be-_tenthed_, couldn't easily do.

Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian[2] they say, While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay, Wild honey-bees swarmed as presage to tell Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards fell. Just so round our Overton's cradle, no doubt, Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about; Goose embryos, waiting their doomed decimation, Came, shadowing forth his adult destination, And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves, Announced the Church poet whom Chester approves. O Horace! when thou, in thy vision of yore, Didst dream that a snowy-white plumage came o'er Thy etherealized limbs, stealing downily on, Till, by Fancy's strong spell, thou wert turned to a swan, Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall, Without any effort of fancy, at all; Little thought'st thou the world would in Overton find A bird, ready-made, somewhat different in kind, But as perfect as Michaelmas' self could produce, By gods yclept _anser_, by mortals a _goose_.

[1] "Your Lordship," says Mr. Overton, in the Dedication of his Poem to the Bishop of Chester," has kindly expressed your persuasion that my Muse will always be a 'Muse of sacred song and that it will be tuned as David's was.'"

[2] Sophocles.

SCENE FROM A PLAY, ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED "MATRICULATION."[1]

[Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him.-- Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.]

_Doctor P_.--There, my lad, lie the Articles--(_Boy begins to count them_) just thirty nine-- No occasion to count--you've now only to sign. At Cambridge where folks are less High-church than we, The whole Nine-and-Thirty are lumped into Three. Let's run o'er the items;--there 'a Justification, Predestination, and Supererogation-- Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian, Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess's Ratification. That is sufficient--now, sign--having read quite enough, You "believe in the full and true meaning thereof?"

(_Boy stares_.)

Oh! a mere form of words, to make things smooth and brief,-- A commodious and short make-believe of belief, Which our Church has drawn up in a form thus articular To keep out in general all who're particular. But what's the boy doing? what! reading all thro', And my luncheon fast cooling!--this never will do. _Boy_ (_poring over the Articles_).-- Here are points which--pray, Doctor, what's "Grace of Congruity?" _Doctor P._ (_sharply_).--You'll find out, young sir, when you've more ingenuity. At present, by signing, you pledge yourself merely. Whate'er it may be, to believe it sincerely, Both in _dining_ and _signing_ we take the same plan,-- First, swallow all down, then digest--as we can. _Boy_ (_still reading_).--I've to gulp, I see, St. Athanasius's Creed, Which. I'm told, is a very tough morsel indeed; As he damns--

_Doctor P. (aside)_.--Ay, and so would _I_, willingly, too, All confounded particular young boobies, like you. This comes of Reforming!--all's o'er with our land, When people won’t stand what they can't _under_-stand; Nor perceive that our ever-revered Thirty-Nine Were made not for men to _believe_ but to _sign_. _Exit Dr. P. in a passion_.

[1] It appears that when a youth of fifteen went to be matriculated at Oxford, he was required first to subscribe the Thirty-Nine Articles of Religious Belief.

LATE TITHE CASE.

_"sic vos non vobis."_

1833.

"The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, _in duty to what he owes to his successors_, he feels bound to preserve the rights of the vicarage." --_Letter from Mr. S. Powell_, August 6.

No, _not_ for yourselves, ye reverend men, Do you take one pig in every ten, But for Holy Church's future heirs, Who've an abstract right to that pig, as theirs; The law supposing that such heirs male Are already seized of the pig, in tail. No, _not_ for himself hath Birmingham's priest His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced: But it is that, before his prescient eyes, All future Vicars of Birmingham rise, With their embryo daughters, nephews, nieces, And 'tis for _them_ the poor he fleeces. He heareth their voices, ages hence Saying, "Take the pig"--"oh take the pence;" The cries of little Vicarial dears, The unborn Birminghamites, reach his ears; And, did he resist that soft appeal, He would _not_ like a true-born Vicar feel. Thou, too, Lundy of Lackington! A rector true, if e'er there was one, Who, for sake of the Lundies of coming ages, Gripest the tenths of laborer's wages.[1] 'Tis true, in the pockets of _thy_ small-clothes The claimed "obvention"[2]of four-pence goes; But its abstract spirit, unconfined, Spreads to all future Rector-kind, Warning them all to their rights to wake, And rather to face the block, the stake, Than give up their darling right _to take_.

One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes (So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms, And a single four-pence, pocketed well, Thro' a thousand rectors' lives will tell. Then still continue, ye reverend souls, And still as your rich Pactolus rolls, Grasp every penny on every side, From every wretch, to swell its tide: Remembering still what the Law lays down, In that pure poetic style of its own. "If the parson _in esse_ submits to loss, he "Inflicts the same on the parson _in posse_."

[1] Fourteen agricultural laborers (one of whom received so little as six guineas for yearly wages, one eight, one nine, another ten guineas, and the best paid of the whole not more than 18_l_. annually) were all, in the course of the autumn of 1832, served with demands of tithe at the rate of 4_d_. in the 1_l_. sterling, on behalf of the Rev. F. Lundy, Rector of Lackington, etc.--_The Times_, August, 1833.

[2] One of the various general terms under which oblations, tithes, etc., are comprised.

FOOLS' PARADISE.

DREAM THE FIRST.

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice, To a realm they call Fool's Paradise, Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense, And seldom blest with a glimmer thence. But they wanted not in this happy place, Where a light of its own gilds every face; Or if some wear a shadowy brow, 'Tis the _wish_ to look wise,--not knowing _how_. Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there, The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air; The well-bred wind in a whisper blows, The snow, if it snows, is _couleur de rose_, The falling founts in a titter fall, And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace The scenes I saw in that joyous place. There were Lords and Ladies sitting together, In converse sweet, "What charming weather!-- "You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure, "Lord Charles has got a good sinecure; "And the Premier says, my youngest brother "(Him in the Guards) shall have another.

"Isn’t this very, _very_ gallant!-- "As for my poor old virgin aunt, "Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist, "We must quarter _her_ on the Pension List." Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled; It seemed like an Age of _real_ gold, Where all who liked might have a slice, So rich was that Fools' Paradise.

But the sport at which most time they spent, Was a puppet-show, called Parliament Performed by wooden Ciceros, As large as life, who rose to prose, While, hid behind them, lords and squires, Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires; And thought it the very best device Of that most prosperous Paradise, To make the vulgar pay thro' the nose For them and their wooden Ciceros.

And many more such things I saw In this Eden of Church and State and Law; Nor e'er were known such pleasant folk As those who had the _best_ of the joke. There were Irish Rectors, such as resort To Cheltenham yearly, to drink--port, And bumper, "Long may the Church endure, "May her cure of souls be a sinecure, "And a score of Parsons to every soul "A moderate allowance on the whole." There were Heads of Colleges lying about, From which the sense had all run out, Even to the lowest classic lees, Till nothing was left but _quantities_; Which made them heads most fit to be Stuck up on a University, Which yearly hatches, in its schools, Such flights of young Elysian fools. Thus all went on, so snug and nice, In this happiest possible Paradise.

But plain it was to see, alas! That a downfall soon must come to pass. For grief is a lot the good and wise Don’t quite so much monopolize, But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are) Even blessed fools must have their share. And so it happened:--but what befell, In Dream the Second I mean to tell.

THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE;

OR, ONE POUND TWO.

"I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR COX-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some trifling balance in my favor."--_Letter of Dismissal from the Rev. Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons_.

The account is balanced--the bill drawn out,-- The debit and credit all right, no doubt-- The Rector rolling in wealth and state, Owes to his Curate six pound eight; The Curate, that _least_ well-fed of men, Owes to his Rector seven pound ten, Which maketh the balance clearly due From Curate to Rector, one pound two.

Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven! But sure to be all set right in heaven, Where bills like these will be checkt, some day, And the balance settled the other way: Where Lyons the curate's hard-wrung sum Will back to his shade with interest come; And Marcus, the rector, deep may rue This tot, in his favor, of one pound two.

PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.

1833.

About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies, That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud, Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies, As good raw material for _settlers_, abroad. Some West-India island, whose name I forget, Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic; And such the success the first colony met, That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore, Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, And thinking of friends whom, but two years before, They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came-- "Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?" While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy!

Can it possibly be?--half amazement--half doubt, Pat listens again--rubs his eyes and looks steady; Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out, "Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!"

Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears, Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures, And thought, what a climate, in less than two years, To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!

MORAL.

'Tis thus,--but alas! by a marvel more true Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,-- Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two, By a _lusus naturae_, all turn into Tories.

And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise, Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady, I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes, "Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!"

COCKER, ON CHURCH REFORM.

FOUNDED UPON SOME LATE CALCULATIONS.

1833.

Fine figures of speech let your orators follow, Old Cocker has figures that beat them all hollow. Tho' famed for his rules _Aristotle_ may be, In but _half_ of this Sage any merit I see, For, as honest Joe Hume says, the "_tottle_" for me!

For instance, while others discuss and debate, It is thus about Bishops _I_ ratiocinate.

In England, where, spite of the infidel's laughter, 'Tis certain our souls are lookt _very_ well after, Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sundered) Of parishes manage two thousand two hundred.-- Said number of parishes, under said teachers, Containing three millions of Protestant creatures,-- So that each of said Bishops full ably controls One million and five hundred thousands of souls.

And now comes old Cocker. In Ireland we're told, _Half_ a million includes the whole Protestant fold; If, therefore, for three million souls, 'tis conceded _Two_ proper-sized Bishops are all that is needed, 'Tis plain, for the Irish _half_ million who want 'em, _One-third_ of _one_ Bishop is just the right quantum. And thus, by old Cocker's sublime Rule of Three, The Irish Church question's resolved to a T; Keeping always that excellent maxim in view, That, in saving men's souls, we must save money too.

Nay, if--as St. Roden complains is the case-- The half million of _soul_ is decreasing apace, The demand, too, for _bishop_ will also fall off, Till the _tithe_ of one, taken in kind be enough. But, as fractions imply that we'd have to dissect, And to cutting up Bishops I strongly object. We've a small, fractious prelate whom well we could spare, Who has just the same decimal worth, to a hair, And, not to leave Ireland too much in the lurch. We'll let her have Exeter, _sole_, as her Church.

LES HOMMES AUTOMATES.

1834.

"We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but (being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of your country parsons."--"_Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus_," chap. xii.

It being an object now to meet With Parsons that don’t want to eat, Fit men to fill those Irish rectories, Which soon will have but scant refectories, It has been suggested,--lest that Church Should all at once be left in the lurch For want of reverend men endued With this gift of never requiring food,-- To try, by way of experiment, whether There couldn’t be made of wood and leather,[1] (Howe'er the notion may sound chimerical,) Jointed figures, not _lay_,[2] but clerical, Which, wound up carefully once a week, Might just like parsons look and speak, Nay even, if requisite, reason too, As well as most Irish parsons do.

The experiment having succeeded quite, (Whereat those Lords must much delight, Who've shown, by stopping the Church's food, They think it isn’t for her spiritual good To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,) The Patentees of this new invention Beg leave respectfully to mention, They now are enabled to produce An ample supply for present use, Of these reverend pieces of machinery, Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery, Or any such-like post of skill That wood and leather are fit to fill.

N.B.--In places addicted to arson, We can’t recommend a wooden parson: But if the Church any such appoints, They'd better at least have iron joints. In parts, not much by Protestants haunted, A figure to _look at_'s all that's wanted-- A block in black, to eat and sleep, Which (now that the eating's o'er) comes cheap.

P.S.--Should the Lords, by way of a treat, Permit the clergy again to eat, The Church will of course no longer need Imitation-parsons that never feed; And these _wood_ creatures of ours will sell For secular purposes just as well-- Our Beresfords, turned to bludgeons stout, May, 'stead of beating their own about, Be knocking the brains of Papists out; While our smooth O'Sullivans, by all means, Should transmigrate into _turning_ machines.

[1] The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man.

[2] The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called "lay figures".

HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER.

ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK,[1]

1834.

Choose some title that's dormant--the Peerage hath many-- Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds nobly as any. Next, catch a dead cousin of said defunct Peer, And marry him, off hand, in some given year, To the daughter of somebody,--no matter who,-- Fig, the grocer himself, if you're hard run, will do; For, the Medici _pills_ still in heraldry tell, And why shouldn't _lollypops_ quarter as well? Thus, having your couple, and one a lord's cousin, Young materials for peers may be had by the dozen; And 'tis hard if, inventing each small mother's son of 'em, You can't somehow manage to prove _yourself_ one of 'em.

Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory, Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory, I've merely to hint, as a secret auricular, One _grand_ rule of enterprise,--_don't_ be particular. A man who once takes such a jump at nobility, Must _not_ mince the matter, like folks of nihility, But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility.

'Tis true, to a would-be descendant from Kings, Parish-registers sometimes are troublesome things; As oft, when the vision is near brought about, Some goblin, in shape of a grocer, grins out; Or some barber, perhaps, with my Lord mingles bloods, And one's patent of peerage is left in the suds.

But there _are_ ways--when folks are resolved to be lords-- Of expurging even troublesome parish records. What think ye of scissors? depend on't no heir Of a Shamdos should go unsupplied with a pair, As whate'er _else_ the learned in such lore may invent, Your scissors does wonders in proving descent. Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears With which Atropos snips off both bumpkins and peers, But they're naught to that weapon which shines in the hands Of some would-be Patricians, when proudly he stands O'er the careless churchwarden's baptismal array, And sweeps at each cut generations away. By some babe of old times is his peerage resisted?

One snip,--and the urchin hath _never_ existed! Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere With his one sublime object of being a Peer? Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride,-- No such people have ever lived, married or died!

Such the newest receipt for those high minded elves, Who've a fancy for making great lords of themselves. Follow this, young aspirer who pant'st for a peerage, Take S--m for thy model and B--z for thy steerage, Do all and much worse than old Nicholas Flam does, And--_who_ knows but you'll be Lord Baron of Shamdos?

[1] The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by the late Sir Egerinton Brydges.

THE DUKE IS THE LAD.

Air.--"A master I have, and I am his man, Galloping dreary dun." "_Castle of Andalusia_."

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass. Galloping, dreary duke; The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass, He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass, With his charger prancing, Grim eye glancing, Chin, like a Mufti, Grizzled and tufty, Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood Of this galloping dreary Duke; Avoid him, all who see no good In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood. For, surely, no nymph is Fond of a grim phiz. And of the married, Whole crowds have miscarried At sight of this dreary Duke.

EPISTLE

FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES.

Southampton.

As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post, Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost, And how deucedly odd this live world all appears, To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years, I take up my pen, and with news of this earth Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.

In my way to these shores, taking Italy first, Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst, I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore. Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse, To discuss the rich merits of _rôtis_ and stews, And preferred to all honors of triumph or trophy, A supper on prawns with that rogue, little Sophy.

Having dwelt on such classical musings awhile, I set off by a steam-boat for this happy isle, (A conveyance _you_ ne'er, I think, sailed by, my Tully, And therefore, _per_ next, I'll describe it more fully,) Having heard on the way what distresses me greatly, That England's o'errun by _idolaters_ lately, Stark, staring adorers of wood and of stone, Who will let neither stick, stock or statue alone. Such the sad news I heard from a tall man in black, Who from sports continental was hurrying back, To look after his tithes;--seeing, doubtless, 'twould follow, That just as of old your great idol, Apollo, Devoured all the Tenths, so the idols in question, These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion, And the idolatrous crew whom this Rector despises, May eat up the tithe-pig which _he_ idolizes.

London.

'Tis all but too true--grim Idolatry reigns In full pomp over England's lost cities and plains! On arriving just now, as my first thought and care Was as usual to seek out some near House of Prayer, Some calm holy spot, fit for Christians to pray on, I was shown to--what think you?--a downright Pantheon!

A grand, pillared temple with niches and halls, Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul's;-- Tho' 'tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew Whom the Rector complained of, their dark rites pursue; And, 'mong all the "strange gods" Abr'ham's father carved out,[1] That he ever carv'd _stranger_ than these I much doubt.

Were it even, my dear TULLY, your Hebes and Graces, And such pretty things, that usurpt the Saints' places, I shouldn’t much mind,--for in this classic dome Such folks from Olympus would feel quite at home. But the gods they've got here!--such a queer omnium gatherum Of misbegot things that no poet would father 'em;-- Britannias in light summer-wear for the skies,-- Old Thames turned to stone, to his no small surprise,-- Father Nile, too,--a portrait, (in spite of what's said, That no mortal e'er yet got a glimpse of his _head_,) And a Ganges which India would think somewhat fat for't, Unless 'twas some full-grown Director had sat for't;-- Not to mention the _et caeteras_ of Genii and Sphinxes, Fame, Victory, and other such semi-clad minxes;-- Sea Captains,[2]--the idols here most idolized; And of whom some, alas! might too well be comprized Among ready-made Saints, as they died _cannonized_; With a multitude more of odd cockneyfied deities, Shrined in such pomp that quite shocking to see it 'tis; Nor know I what better the Rector could do Than to shrine there his own beloved quadruped too; As most surely a tithe-pig, whate'er the world thinks, is A much fitter beast for a church than a Sphinx is.

But I'm called off to dinner--grace just has been said, And my host waits for nobody, living or dead.

[1] Joshua xxiv 2.

[2] Captains Mosse, Riou etc.

LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORD CASTLEREAGH AND STEWART FOR THE CONTINENT.[1]

_at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis. vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas_. OVID. _Metam. lib_. xiii. v. 202.

Go, Brothers in wisdom--go, bright pair of Peers, And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions! The _one_, the best lover we have--_of his years_, And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee; Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile, And all tailors but him who so well _dandifies_ thee.

Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff, Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee, But show the young Misses thou'rt scholar enough To translate "_Amor Fortis_" a love, _about forty_!

And sure 'tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars, From the battle you came, with the Orders you'd earned in't, That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out "_My stars_!" And forget that the _Moon_, too, was some way concerned in't.

For not the great Regent himself has endured (Tho' I've seen him with badges and orders all shine, Till he lookt like a house that was _over_ insured) A much heavier burden of glories than thine.

And 'tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is, Or _any_ young ladies can so go astray, As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies, The _stars_ are in fault, my Lord Stewart, not they!

Thou, too, t'other brother, thou Tully of Tories, Thou _Malaprop_ Cicero, over whose lips Such a smooth rigmarole about; "monarchs," and "glories," And "_nullidge_," and "features," like syllabub slips.

Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours, Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks metaphors.

Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers, And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions! The one, the best lover we have--_of his years_, And the other, Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

[1] This and the following squib, which must have been written about the year 1815-16, have been by some oversight misplaced.

[2] Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was "at Paris" these rapacious transactions took place--we should read "at Vienna."

TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD CASTLEREAGH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT.

_Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3_.

So may my Lady's prayers prevail, And Canning's too, and _lucid_ Bragge's, And Eldon beg a favoring gale From Eolus, that _older_ Bags, To speed thee on thy destined way, Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh, Our gracious Regent's better half And _therefore_ quarter of a King-- (As Van or any other calf May find without much figuring). Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes, Waft this Lord of place and pelf, Any where his Lordship pleases, Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!

Oh, what a face of brass was his. Who first at Congress showed his phiz-- To sign away the Rights of Man To Russian threats and Austrian juggle; And leave the sinking African To fall without one saving struggle-- 'Mong ministers from North and South, To show his lack of shame and sense, And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth" For blunders and for eloquence!

In vain we wish our _Secs_, at home To mind their papers, desks, and shelves, If silly _Secs_, abroad _will_ roam And make such noodles of themselves.

But such hath always been the case-- For matchless impudence of face, There's nothing like your Tory race! First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her A taste for famine, fire and slaughter. Then came the Doctor, for our ease, With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies, And other deadly maladies. When each in turn had run their rigs, Necessity brought in the Whigs:

And oh! I blush, I blush to say, When these, in turn, were put to flight, too, Illustrious TEMPLE flew away With _lots of pens he had no right to_.[1] In short, what _will_ not mortal man do? And now, that--strife and bloodshed past-- We've done on earth what harm we can do, We gravely take to heaven at last And think its favoring smile to purchase (Oh Lord, good Lord!) by--building churches!

[1] This alludes to the 1200_l_. worth of stationery, which his Lordship is said to have ordered, when on the point of _vacating_ his place.

SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA.

"And now," quoth the goddess, in accents jocose, "Having got good materials, I'll brew such a dose "Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say, "They've not known its equal for many a long day." Here she winkt to her subaltern imps to be steady, And all wagged their fire-tipt tails and stood ready.

"So, now for the ingredients:--first, hand me that bishop;" Whereupon, a whole bevy of imps run to fish up From out a large reservoir wherein they pen 'em The blackest of all its black dabblers in venom; And wrapping him up (lest the virus should ooze, And one "drop of the immortal"[1] Right Rev.[2] they might lose) In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews, Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first!

"Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor," muttered the dame-- "He who's called after Harry the Older, by name." "The Ex-Chancellor!" echoed her imps, the whole crew of 'em-- "Why talk of _one_ Ex, when your Mischief has _two_ of 'em?" "True, true," said the hag, looking arch at her elves, "And a double-_Ex_ dose they compose, in themselves." This joke, the sly meaning of which was seen lucidly, Set all the devils a laughing most deucedly. So, in went the pair, and (what none thought surprising) Showed talents for sinking as great as for rising; While not a grim phiz in that realm but was lighted With joy to see spirits so twin-like united-- Or (plainly to speak) two such birds of a feather, In one mess of venom thus spitted together. Here a flashy imp rose--some connection, no doubt, Of the young lord in question--and, scowling about, "Hoped his fiery friend, Stanley, would not be left out; "As no schoolboy unwhipt, the whole world must agree, "Loved mischief, _pure_ mischief, more dearly than he."

But, no--the wise hag wouldn’t hear of the whipster; Not merely because, as a shrew, he eclipst her, And nature had given him, to keep him still young, Much tongue in his head and no head in his tongue; But because she well knew that, for change ever ready, He'd not even to mischief keep properly steady: That soon even the _wrong_ side would cease to delight, And, for want of a change, he must swerve to the _right_; While, on _each_, so at random his missiles he threw, That the side he attackt was most safe, of the two.-- This ingredient was therefore put by on the shelf, There to bubble, a bitter, hot mess, by itself. "And now," quoth the hag, as her caldron she eyed. And the tidbits so friendlily rankling inside, "There wants but some seasoning;--so, come, ere I stew 'em, "By way of a relish we'll throw in John Tuam.' "In cooking up mischief, there's no flesh or fish "Like your meddling High Priest, to add zest to the dish." Thus saying, she pops in the Irish Grand Lama-- Which great event ends the First Act of the Drama.

[1] To lose no drop of the immortal man.

[2] The present Bishop of Exeter.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

Tho' famed was Mesmer, in his day, Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet, To say nothing of all the wonders done By that wizard, Dr. Elliotson, When, standing as if the gods to invoke, he Up waves his arm, and--down drops Okey![1] Tho' strange these things, to mind and sense, If you wish still stranger things to see-- If you wish to know the power immense Of the true magnetic influence, Just go to her Majesty's Treasury, And learn the wonders working there-- And I'll be hanged if you don’t stare! Talk of your animal magnetists, And that wave of the hand no soul resists, Not all its witcheries can compete With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street, Which a Premier gives to one who wishes To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes. It actually lifts the lucky elf, Thus acted upon, _above_ himself;-- He jumps to a state of _clairvoyance_, And is placeman, statesman, all, at once!

These effects, observe (with which I begin), Take place when the patient's motioned _in_; Far different of course the mode of affection, When the wave of the hand's in the _out_ direction; The effects being then extremely unpleasant, As is seen in the case of Lord Brougham, at present; In whom this sort of manipulation, Has lately produced such inflammation, Attended with constant irritation, That, in short--not to mince his situation-- It has workt in the man a transformation That puzzles all human calculation! Ever since the fatal day which saw That "pass" performed on this Lord of Law-- A pass potential, none can doubt, As it sent Harry Brougham to the right about-- The condition in which the patient has been Is a thing quite awful to be seen. Not that a casual eye could scan This wondrous change by outward survey; It being, in fact, the _interior_ man That's turned completely topsy-turvy:-- Like a case that lately, in reading o'er 'em, I found in the _Acta Eruditorum_, Of a man in whose inside, when disclosed, The whole order of things was found transposed; By a _lusus naturae_, strange to see, The liver placed where the heart should be, And the _spleen_ (like Brougham's, since laid on the shelf) As diseased and as much _out of place_ as himself.

In short, 'tis a case for consultation, If e'er there was one, in this thinking nation; And therefore I humbly beg to propose, That those _savans_ who mean, as the rumor goes, To sit on Miss Okey's wonderful case, Should also Lord Parry's case embrace; And inform us, in _both_ these patients' states, Which _ism_ it is that predominates, Whether magnetism and somnambulism, Or, simply and solely, mountebankism.

[1] The name of the heroine of the performances at the North London Hospital.

THE SONG OF THE BOX.

Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans, And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock; They were all, I confess, in _my_ eye, Betty Martins Compared to George Grote and his wonderful Box.

Ask, where Liberty now has her seat?--Oh, it isn't By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks;-- Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprisoned, She's slyly shut up in Grote's wonderful Box.

How snug!--'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions, Blown _this_ way and _that_, by the "_populi vox_," To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions, And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box.

Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom-- So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes; But mute be _our_ troops, when to ambush we lead 'em, "For Mum" is the word with us Knights of the Box.

Pure, exquisite Box! no corruption can soil it; There's Otto of Rose in each breath it unlocks; While Grote is the "Betty," that serves at the toilet, And breathes all Arabia around from his Box.

'Tis a singular fact, that the famed Hugo Grotius (A namesake of Grote's--being both of Dutch stocks), Like Grote, too, a genius profound as precocious, Was also, like him, much renowned for a Box;--

An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great Grotius When suffering in prison for views heterodox, Was packt up incog. spite of jailers ferocious,[1] And sent to his wife,[2] carriage free, in a Box!

But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf, Since a rival hath risen that all parallel mocks;-- _That_ Grotius ingloriously saved but himself, While _ours_ saves the whole British realm by a Box!

And oh! when, at last, even this greatest of Grotes Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks, May he drop in the urn like his own "silent votes," And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box.

While long at his shrine, both from county and city, Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks, And sing, while they whimper, the appropriate ditty, "Oh breathe not his _name_, let it sleep--in the Box."

[1] For the particulars of this escape of Grotius from the Castle of Louvenstein, by means of a box (only three feet and a half long, it is said) in which books used to be occasionally sent to him and foul linen returned, see any of the Biographical Dictionaries.

[2] This is not quite according to the facts of the case; his wife having been the contriver of the stratagem, and remained in the prison herself to give him time for escape.

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA.

ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

When erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue The terrible tale of Thalaba sung-- Of him, the Destroyer, doomed to rout That grim divan of conjurors out, Whose dwelling dark, as legends say, Beneath the roots of the ocean lay, (Fit place for deep ones, such as they,) How little thou knewest, dear Dr. Southey, Altho' bright genius all allow thee, That, some years thence, thy wondering eyes Should see a second Thalaba rise-- As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine, Tho' his havoc lie in a different line, And should find this new, improved Destroyer Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer; A sort of an "alien," _alias_ man, Whose country or party guess who can, Being Cockney half, half Jonathan; And his life, to make the thing completer, Being all in the genuine Thalaba metre, Loose and irregular as thy feet are;-- First, into Whig Pindarics rambling, Then in low Tory doggrel scrambling; Now _love_ his theme, now _Church_ his glory (At once both Tory and ama-tory), Now in the Old Bailey-_lay_ meandering, Now in soft _couplet_ style philandering; And, lastly, in lame Alexandrine, Dragging his wounded length along, When scourged by Holland's silken thong.

In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second May fairly a match for the First be reckoned; Save that _your_ Thalaba's talent lay In sweeping old conjurors clean away, While ours at aldermen deals his blows, (Who no great conjurors are, God knows,) Lays Corporations, by wholesale, level, Sends Acts of Parliament to the devil, Bullies the whole Milesian race-- Seven millions of Paddies, face to face; And, seizing that magic wand, himself, Which erst thy conjurors left on the shelf, Transforms the boys of the Boyne and Liffey All into _foreigners_, in a jiffy-- Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em, Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em?

Never in short did parallel Betwixt two heroes _gee_ so well; And among the points in which they fit, There's one, dear Bob, I can’t omit. That hacking, hectoring blade of thine Dealt much in the _Domdaniel_ line; And 'tis but rendering justice due, To say that ours and his Tory crew _Damn Daniel_ most devoutly too.

RIVAL TOPICS.[1]

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

Oh Wellington and Stephenson, Oh morn and evening papers, _Times_, _Herald_, _Courier_, _Globe_, and _Sun_, When will ye cease our ears to stun With these two heroes' capers? Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington," The everlasting two!-- Still doomed, from rise to set of sun, To hear what mischief one has done, And t'other means to do:-- What bills the banker past to friends, But never meant to pay; What Bills the other wight intends, As honest, in their way;-- Bills, payable at distant sight, Beyond the Grecian kalends, When all good deeds will come to light, When Wellington will do what's right, And Rowland pay his balance.

To catch the banker all have sought, But still the rogue unhurt is; While t'other juggler--who'd have thought? Tho' slippery long, has just been caught By old Archbishop Curtis;-- And, such the power of papal crook, The crosier scarce had quivered About his ears, when, lo! the Duke Was of a Bull delivered! Sir Richard Birnie doth decide That Rowland "must be mad," In private coach, with crest, to ride, When chaises could be had. And t'other hero, all agree, St. Luke's will soon arrive at, If thus he shows off publicly, When he might pass in private. Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson, Ye ever-boring pair, Where'er I sit, or stand, or run, Ye haunt me everywhere. Tho' Job had patience tough enough, Such duplicates would try it; Till one's turned out and t'other off, We Shan’ have peace or quiet. But small's the chance that Law affords-- Such folks are daily let off; And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords, They both, I fear, will get off.

[1] The date of this squib must have been, I think, about 1828-9.

THE BOY STATESMAN.

BY A TORY.

"That boy will be the death of me." _Matthews at Home_.

Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near, With Stanley to help us, we can’t but fall; Already a warning voice I hear, Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear, "That boy--that boy'll be the death of you all."

He will, God help us!--not even Scriblerius In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be; And our case is growing exceeding serious, For, all being in the same boat as he, If down my Lord goes, down go we, Lord Baron Stanley and Company, As deep in Oblivion's swamp below As such "Masters Shallow," well could go; And where we shall all both low and high, Embalmed in mud, as forgotten lie As already doth Graham of Netherby! But that boy, that boy!--there's a tale I know, Which in talking of him comes à_propos_. Sir Thomas More had an only son, And a foolish lad was that only one, And Sir Thomas said one day to his wife, "My dear, I can’t but wish you joy. "For you prayed for a boy, and you now have a boy, "Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life."

Even such is our own distressing lot, With the ever-young statesman we have got; Nay even still worse; for Master More Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before, While _ours_ such power of boyhood shows, That the older he gets the more juvenile he grows, And at what extreme old age he'll close His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;-- Some century hence, should he reach so far, And ourselves to witness it heaven condemn, We shall find him a sort of _cub_ Old Parr, A whipper-snapper Methusalem; Nay, even should he make still longer stay of it, The boy'll want _judgment_, even to the day of it! Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction; And day and night with awe I recall The late Mr. Matthews' solemn prediction, "That boy'll be the death, the death of you all."

LETTER

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTHAGH O'MULLIGAN.

Arrah, where were _you_, Murthagh, that beautiful day?-- Or how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf, When that poor craythur, Bobby--as _you_ were away-- Had to make _twice_ as big a Tomfool of _himself_.

Troth, it wasn’t at all civil to lave in the lurch A boy so deserving your tindhr'est affection:-- Too such iligant Siamase twins of the Church, As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection.

If thus in two different directions you pull, 'Faith, they'll swear that yourself and your riverend brother Are like those quare foxes, in Gregory's Bull, Whose tails were joined _one_ way, while they lookt _another_![1]

Och blest be he, whosomdever he be, That helpt soft Magee to that Bull of a Letther! Not even my own self, tho' I sometimes make free At such bull-manufacture, could make him a betther.

To be sure, when a lad takes to _forgin_', this way, 'Tis a thrick he's much timpted to carry on gayly; Till, at last, his "injanious devices,"[2] Show him up, not at Exether Hall, but the Ould Bailey.

That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd, And (as if somethin' "odd" in their _names_, too, must be,) _One_ forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod, "While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.[3]

But, no matther _who_ did it all blessin's betide him, For dishin' up Bob, in a manner so nate; And there wanted but _you_, Murthagh 'vourneen, beside him, To make the whole grand dish of _bull_-calf complate.

[1] "You will increase the enmity with which they are regarded by their associates in heresy, thus tying these foxes by the tails, that their faces may tend in opposite directions."--Bob's _Bull_ read, at Exeter Hall, July 14.

[2] "An ingenious device of my learned friend."--Bob's _Letter to Standard_.

[3] Had I consulted only my own wishes, I should not have allowed this hasty at tack on Dr. Todd to have made its appearance in this Collection; being now fully convinced that the charge brought against that reverend gentleman of intending to pass off as genuine his famous mock Papal Letter was altogether unfounded. Finding it to be the wish, however, of my reverend friend--as I am now glad to be permitted to call him--that both the wrong and the reparation, the Ode and, the Palinode, should be thus placed in juxtaposition, I have thought it but due to him, to comply with his request.

MUSINGS OF AN UNREFORMED PEER.

Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age, The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;-- Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star, Did not get on exceedingly well as we are, And perform all the functions of noodles by birth As completely as any born noodles on earth.

How _acres_ descend, is in law-books displayed, But we as _wise_acres descend, ready made; And by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature, Are all of us born legislators by nature;-- Like ducklings to water instinctively taking, So we with like quackery take to lawmaking; And God forbid any reform should come o'er us, To make us more wise than our sires were before us.

The Egyptians of old the same policy knew-- If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too: Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it, Poisoners _by right_ (so no more could be said of it), The cooks like our lordships a pretty mess made of it; While, famed for _conservative_ stomachs, the Egyptians Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.

It is true, we've among us some peers of the past, Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast-- Fruits that ripen beneath the new light now arising With speed that to _us_, old conserves, is surprising. Conserves, in whom--potted, for grandmamma uses-- 'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices. 'Tis true too. I fear, midst the general movement, Even _our_ House, God help it, is doomed to improvement, And all its live furniture, nobly descended But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended. With _movables_ 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham, No wonder even _fixtures_ should learn to bestir 'em; And distant, ye gods, be that terrible day, When--as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say, Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm-- So _ours_ may be whipt off, some night, by Reform; And as up, like Loretto's famed house,[1] thro' the air, Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear, Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky, Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by," While perched up on clouds little imps of plebeians, Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Paeans.

[1] The _Casa Santa_, supposed to have been carried by angels through the air from Galilee to Italy.

THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

A ROMANTIC BALLAD.

Oh, have you heard what hapt of late? If not, come lend an ear, While sad I state the piteous fate Of the Reverend Pamphleteer.

All praised his skilful jockeyship, Loud rung the Tory cheer, While away, away, with spur and whip, Went the Reverend Pamphleteer.

The nag he rode--how _could_ it err? 'Twas the same that took, last year, That wonderful jump to Exeter With the Reverend Pamphleteer.

Set a beggar on horseback, wise men say, The course he will take is clear: And in _that_ direction lay the way Of the Reverend Pamphleteer,

"Stop, stop," said Truth, but vain her cry-- Left far away in the rear, She heard but the usual gay "Good-by" From her faithless Pamphleteer.

You may talk of the jumps of Homer's gods, When cantering o'er our sphere-- I'd back for a _bounce_, 'gainst any odds, This Reverend Pamphleteer.

But ah! what tumbles a jockey hath! In the midst of his career, A file of the _Times_ lay right in the path Of the headlong Pamphleteer.

Whether he tript or shyed thereat, Doth not so clear appear: But down he came, as his sermons flat-- This Reverend Pamphleteer!

Lord King himself could scarce desire To see a spiritual Peer Fall much more dead, in the dirt and mire, Than did this Pamphleteer.

Yet pitying parsons many a day Shall visit his silent bier, And, thinking the while of Stanhope, say "Poor dear old Pamphleteer!

"He has finisht at last his busy span, "And now _lies coolly_ here-- "As often he did in life, good man, "Good, Reverend Pamphleteer!"

RECENT DIALOGUE.

1825.

A Bishop and a bold dragoon, Both heroes in their way, Did thus, of late, one afternoon, Unto each other say:-- "Dear bishop," quoth the brave huzzar, "As nobody denies "That you a wise logician are, "And I am--otherwise, "'Tis fit that in this question, we "Stick each to his own art-- "That _yours_ should be the sophistry, "And _mine_ the _fighting_ part. "My creed, I need not tell you, is "Like that of Wellington, "To whom no harlot comes amiss, "Save her of Babylon; "And when we're at a loss for words, "If laughing reasoners flout us, "For lack of sense we'll draw our swords-- "The sole thing sharp about us."--

"Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said, "'Tis true for war thou art meant; "And reasoning--bless that dandy head! "Is not in thy department. "So leave the argument to me-- "And, when my holy labor "Hath lit the fires of bigotry, "Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre. "From pulpit and from sentrybox, "We'll make our joint attacks, "I at the head of my _Cassocks_, "And you, of your _Cossacks_. "So here's your health, my brave huzzar, "My exquisite old fighter-- "Success to bigotry and war, "The musket and the mitre!" Thus prayed the minister of heaven-- While York, just entering then, Snored out (as if some _Clerk_ had given His nose the cue) "Amen."

THE WELLINGTON SPA.

"And drink _oblivion_ to our woes." Anna Matilda.

1829.

Talk no more of your Cheltenham and Harrowgate springs, 'Tis from _Lethe_ we now our potations must draw; Yon _Lethe_'s a cure for--all possible things, And the doctors have named it the Wellington Spa.

Other physical waters but cure you in part; _One_ cobbles your gout--_t'other_ mends your digestion-- Some settle your stomach, but _this_--bless your heart!-- It will settle for ever your Catholic Question.

Unlike too the potions in fashion at present, This Wellington nostrum, restoring by stealth, So purges the memory of all that's unpleasant, That patients _forget_ themselves into rude health. For instance, the inventor--his having once said "He should think himself mad if at _any one's_ call, "He became what he is"--is so purged from his head That he now doesn’t think he's a madman at all. Of course, for your memories of very long standing-- Old chronic diseases that date back undaunted To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing-- A devil of a dose of the _Lethe_ is wanted.

But even Irish patients can hardly regret An oblivion so much in their own native style, So conveniently planned that, whate'er they forget, They may go on remembering it still all the while!

A CHARACTERLESS

1834.

Half Whig, half Tory, like those mid-way things, 'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings; A mongrel Stateman, 'twixt two factions nurst, Who, of the faults of each, combines the worst-- The Tory's loftiness, the Whigling's sneer, The leveller's rashness, and the bigot's fear: The thirst for meddling, restless still to show How Freedom's clock, repaired by Whigs, will go; The alarm when others, more sincere than they, Advance the hands to the true time of day.

By Mother Church, high-fed and haughty dame, The boy was dandled, in his dawn of fame; Listening, she smiled, and blest the flippant tongue On which the fate of unborn tithe-pigs hung. Ah! who shall paint the grandam's grim dismay, When loose Reform enticed her boy away; When shockt she heard him ape the rabble's tone, And in Old Sarum's fate foredoom her own! Groaning she cried, while tears rolled down her cheeks, "Poor, glib-tongued youth, he means not what he speaks. "Like oil at top, these Whig professions flow, "But, pure as lymph, runs Toryism below. "Alas! that tongue should start thus, in the race, "Ere mind can reach and regulate its pace!-- "For, once outstript by tongue, poor, lagging mind, "At every step, still further limps behind. "But, bless the boy!--whate'er his wandering be, "Still turns his heart to Toryism and me. "Like those odd shapes, portrayed in Dante's lay. "With heads fixt on, the wrong and backward way, "His feet and eyes pursue a diverse track, "While _those_ march onward, _these_ look fondly back." And well she knew him--well foresaw the day, Which now hath come, when snatched from Whigs away The self-same changeling drops the mask he wore, And rests, restored, in granny's arms once more.

But whither now, mixt brood of modern light And ancient darkness, canst thou bend thy flight? Tried by both factions and to neither true, Feared by the _old_ school, laught at by the _new_; For _this_ too feeble and for _that_ too rash, _This_ wanting more of fire, _that_ less of flash, Lone shalt thou stand, in isolation cold, Betwixt two worlds, the new one and the old, A small and "vext Bermoothes," which the eye Of venturous seaman sees--and passes by.

A GHOST STORY.

To THE AIR OF "UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY."

1835.

Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain, When, as his lamp burned dimly, The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,[1] Stood by his bedside grimly. Dead aldermen who once could feast, But now, themselves, are fed on, And skeletons of mayors deceased, This doleful chorus led on:-- Oh Lord Lyndhurst, "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst, "Corpses we, "All burkt by thee, "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst!"

"Avaunt, ye frights!" his Lordship cried, "Ye look most glum and whitely." "Ah, Lyndhurst dear!" the frights replied, "You've used us unpolitely. "And now, ungrateful man! to drive "Dead bodies from your door so, "Who quite corrupt enough, alive, "You've made by death still more so. "Oh, Ex-Chancellor, "Destructive Ex-Chancellor, "See thy work, "Thou second Burke, "Destructive Ex-Chancellor!"

Bold Lyndhurst then, whom naught could keep Awake or surely _that_ would, Cried "Curse you all"--fell fast asleep-- And dreamt of "Small _v_. Attwood." While, shockt, the bodies flew downstairs, But courteous in their panic Precedence gave to ghosts of mayors, And corpses aldermanic, Crying, "Oh, Lord Lyndhurst, "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst, "Not Old Scratch "Himself could match "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst."

[1] Referring to the line taken by Lord Lyndhurst, on the question of Municipal Reform.

THOUGHTS ON THE LATE DESTRUCTIVE PROPOSITIONS OF THE TORIES.[1]

BY A COMMON-COUNCILMAN.

1835.

I sat me down in my easy chair, To read, as usual, the morning papers; But--who shall describe my look of despair, When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers! That _he_--that, of all live men, Lefroy Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!" Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said, On Orange conserve was chiefly fed, And never, till now, a movement made That wasn’t manfully retrograde! Only think--to sweep from the light of day Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away; To annihilate--never to rise again-- A whole generation of aldermen, Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls, To keep together their bodies and souls!-- At a time too when snug posts and places Are falling away from us one by one, Crash--crash--like the mummy-cases Belzoni, in Egypt, sat upon, Wherein lay pickled, in state sublime, Conservatives of the ancient time;-- To choose such a moment to overset The few snug nuisances left us yet; To add to the ruin that round us reigns, By knocking out mayors' and town-clerks' brains; By dooming all corporate bodies to fall, Till they leave at last no bodies at all-- Naught but the ghosts of by-gone glory, Wrecks of a world that once was Tory!-- Where pensive criers, like owls unblest, Robbed of their roosts, shall still hoot o'er them: Nor _mayors_ shall know where to seek a _nest_, Till Gaily Knight shall _find_ one for them;-- Till mayors and kings, with none to rue 'em, Shall perish all in one common plague; And the _sovereigns_ of Belfast and Tuam Must join their brother, Charles Dix, at Prague.

Thus mused I, in my chair, alone, (As above described) till dozy grown, And nodding assent to my own opinions, I found myself borne to sleep's dominions, Where, lo! before my dreaming eyes, A new House of Commons appeared to rise, Whose living contents, to fancy's survey, Seemed to me all turned topsy-turvy-- A jumble of polypi--nobody knew Which was the head or which the queue. _Here_, Inglis, turned to a sansculotte, Was dancing the hays with Hume and Grote; _There_, ripe for riot, Recorder Shaw Was learning from Roebuck "Çaira:" While Stanley and Graham, as _poissarde_ wenches, Screamed "_à-bas_!" from the Tory benches; And Peel and O'Connell, cheek by jowl, Were dancing an Irish carmagnole.

The Lord preserve us!--if dreams come true, What _is_ this hapless realm to do?

[1] These verses were written in reference to the Bill brought in at this time, for the reform of Corporations, and the sweeping amendments proposed by Lord Lyndhurst and other Tory Peers, in order to obstruct the measure.

ANTICIPATED MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION IN THE YEAR 1836.

1836

After some observations from Dr. M'Grig On that fossil reliquium called Petrified Wig, Or _Perruquolithus_--a specimen rare Of those wigs made for antediluvian wear, Which, it seems, stood the Flood without turning a hair-- Mr. Tomkins rose up, and requested attention To facts no less wondrous which he had to mention.

Some large fossil creatures had lately been found, Of a species no longer now seen above ground, But the same (as to Tomkins most clearly appears) With those animals, lost now for hundreds of years, Which our ancestors used to call "Bishops" and "Peers," But which Tomkins more erudite names has bestowed on, Having called the Peer fossil the _Aris_-tocratodon,[1] And, finding much food under t'other one's thorax, Has christened that creature the Episcopus Vorax.

Lest the _savantes_ and dandies should think this all fable, Mr. Tomkins most kindly produced, on the table, A sample of each of these species of creatures, Both tolerably human, in structure and features, Except that the Episcopus seems, Lord deliver us! To've been carnivorous as well as granivorous; And Tomkins, on searching its stomach, found there Large lumps, such as no modern stomach could bear, Of a substance called Tithe, upon which, as 'tis said, The whole _Genus Clericum_ formerly fed; And which having lately himself decompounded, Just to see what 'twas made of, he actually found it Composed of all possible cookable things That e'er tript upon trotters or soared upon wings-- All products of earth, both gramineous, herbaceous, Hordeaceous, fabaceous and eke farinaceous, All clubbing their quotas, to glut the oesophagus Of this ever greedy and grasping Tithophagus.[2] "Admire," exclaimed Tomkins. "the kind dispensation "By Providence shed on this much-favored nation, "In sweeping so ravenous a race from the earth, "That might else have occasioned a general dearth-- "And thus burying 'em, deep as even Joe Hume would sink 'em, "With the Ichthyosaurus and Paloeorynchum, "And other queer _ci-devant_ things, under ground-- "Not forgetting that fossilized youth,[3] so renowned, "Who lived just to witness the Deluge--was gratified "Much by the sight, and has since been found _stratified_!"

This picturesque touch--quite in Tomkins's way-- Called forth from the _savantes_ a general hurrah; While inquiries among them, went rapidly round, As to where this young stratified man could be found. The "learned Theban's" discourse next as livelily flowed on, To sketch t'other wonder, the _Aris_tocratodon-- An animal, differing from most human creatures Not so much in speech, inward structure or features, As in having a certain excrescence, T. said, Which in form of a coronet grew from its head, And devolved to its heirs, when the creature was dead; Nor mattered it, while this heirloom was transmitted, How unfit were the _heads_, so the _coronet_ fitted.

He then mentioned a strange zoölogical fact, Whose announcement appeared much applause to attract. In France, said the learned professor, this race Had so noxious become, in some centuries' space, From their numbers and strength, that the land was o'errun with 'em, Every one's question being, "What's to be done with em?" When, lo! certain knowing ones--_savans_, mayhap, Who, like Buckland's deep followers, understood _trap_,[4] Slyly hinted that naught upon earth was so good For _Aris_tocratodons, when rampant and rude, As to stop or curtail their allowance of food. This expedient was tried and a proof it affords Of the effect that short commons will have upon lords; For this whole race of bipeds, one fine summer's morn, Shed their coronets, just as a deer sheds his horn, And the moment these gewgaws fell off, they became Quite a new sort of creature--so harmless and tame, That zoölogists might, for the first time, maintain 'em To be near akin to the _genius humanum_, And the experiment, tried so successfully then, Should be kept in remembrance when wanted again.

[1] A term formed on the model of the Mastodon, etc.

[2] The zoölogical term for a tithe-eater.

[3] The man found by Scheuchzer, and supposed by him to have witnessed the Deluge ("_homo diluvii testis_"), but who turned out, I am sorry to say, to be merely a great lizard.

[4] Particularly the formation called _Transition_ Trap.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE CHURCH.

No. 1.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

"We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, '_leave us alone_.' The Established Church is part and parcel of the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this constitution. We ask of you nothing more:--_let us alone_." --Letter in _The Times_, Nov. 1838.

1838.

Come, list to my pastoral tones, In clover my shepherds I keep; My stalls are well furnisht with drones, Whose preaching invites one to sleep. At my _spirit_ let infidels scoff, So they leave but the _substance_ my own; For in sooth I'm extremely well off If the world will but let me alone.

Dissenters are grumblers, we know;-- Tho' excellent men in their way, They never like things to be _so_, Let things be however they may. But dissenting's a trick I detest; And besides 'tis an axiom well known, The creed that's best paid is the best, If the _un_paid would let it alone.

To me, I own, very surprising Your Newmans and Puseys all seem, Who start first with rationalizing, Then jump to the other extreme. Far better, 'twixt nonsense and sense, A nice _half_-way concern, like our own, Where piety's mixt up with pence, And the latter are _ne'er_ left alone.

Of all our tormentors, the Press is The one that most tears us to bits; And now, Mrs. Woolfrey's "excesses" Have thrown all its imps into fits. The devils have been at us, for weeks, And there's no saying when they'll have done;-- Oh dear! how I wish Mr. Breeks Had left Mrs. Woolfrey alone!

If any need pray for the dead, 'Tis those to whom post-obits fall; Since wisely hath Solomon said, 'Tis "money that answereth all." But ours be the patrons who _live_;- For, once in their glebe they are thrown, The dead have no living to give, And therefore we leave them alone.

Tho' in morals we may not excel, Such perfection is rare to be had; A good life is, of course, very well, But good living is also-not bad. And when, to feed earth-worms, I go. Let this epitaph stare from my stone, "Here lies the Right Rev. so and so; "Pass, stranger, and--leave him alone."

EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM.

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London, You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane, No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said-- That he ne'er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet, Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street, Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces, Didn’t burst out a laughing in each other's faces. What Cato then meant, tho' 'tis so long ago, Even we in the present times pretty well know; Having soothsayers also, who--sooth to say, John-- Are no better in some points than those of days gone, And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me), Might laugh in their sleeves, too--all lawn tho' they be.

But this, by the way--my intention being chiefly In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly, That, seeing how fond you of _Tuum_[1] must be, While _Meum's_ at all times the main point with me, We scarce could do better than form an alliance, To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance: You, John, recollect, being still to embark, With no share in the firm but your title and _mark_; Or even should you feel in your grandeur inclined To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldn’t much mind; While _my_ church as usual holds fast by your Tuum, And every one else's, to make it all Suum.

Thus allied, I've no doubt we shall nicely agree, As no twins can be liker, in most points, than we; Both, specimens choice of that mixt sort of beast, (See Rev. xiii. I) a political priest: Both mettlesome _chargers_, both brisk pamphleteers, Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears; And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer By any given cause than I found it the stronger, And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel, When the tone ecclesiastic won’t do, try the _civil_.

In short (not to bore you, even _jure divino_) We've the same cause in common, John--all but the rhino; And that vulgar surplus, whate'er it may be, As you're not used to cash, John, you'd best leave to me. And so, without form--as the postman won’t tarry-- I'm, dear Jack of Tuain, Yours, EXETER HARRY.

[1] So spelled in those ancient versicles which John, we understand, frequently chants:-- "Had every one _Suum_, You wouldn’t have _Tuum_, But I should have _Meum_, And sing _Te Deum_."

SONG OF OLD PUCK.

"And those things do best please me, That befall preposterously." PUCK Junior, _Midsummer Night's Dream_.

Who wants old Puck? for here am I, A mongrel imp, 'twixt earth and sky, Ready alike to crawl or fly; Now in the mud, now in the air, And, so 'tis for mischief, reckless where.

As to my knowledge, there's no end to't, For, where I haven't it, I pretend to't: And, 'stead of taking a learned degree At some dull university, Puck found it handier to commence With a certain share of impudence, Which passes one off as learned and clever, Beyond all other degrees whatever; And enables a man of lively sconce To be Master of _all_ the Arts at once. No matter what the science may be-- Ethics, Physics, Theology, Mathematics, Hydrostatics, Aerostatics or Pneumatics-- Whatever it be, I take my luck, 'Tis all the same to ancient Puck; Whose head's so full of all sorts of wares, That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears If I had but of _law_ a little smattering, I'd then be _perfect_--which is flattering.

My skill as a linguist all must know Who met me abroad some months ago; (And heard me _abroad_ exceedingly, In the moods and tenses of _parlez vous_) When, as old Chambaud's shade stood mute, I spoke such French to the Institute As puzzled those learned Thebans much, To know if 'twas Sanscrit or High Dutch, And _might_ have past with the unobserving As one of the unknown tongues of Irving. As to my talent for ubiquity, There's nothing like it in all antiquity. Like Mungo (my peculiar care) "I'm here, I'm dere, I'm ebery where."

If any one's wanted to take the chair Upon any subject, any where, Just look around, and--Puck is there! When slaughter's at hand, your bird of prey Is never known to be out of the way: And wherever mischief's to be got, There's Puck _instanter_, on the spot.

Only find me in negus and applause, And I'm your man for _any_ cause. If _wrong_ the cause, the more my delight; But I don’t object to it, even when _right_, If I only can vex some old friend by't; There's Durham, for instance;--to worry _him_ Fills up my cup of bliss to the brim!

(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.)

Those who are anxious to run a muck Can’t do better than join with Puck. They'll find him _bon diable_--spite of his phiz-- And, in fact, his great ambition is, While playing old Puck in first-rate style, To be _thought_ Robin Good-fellow all the while.

POLICE REPORTS.

CASE OF IMPOSTURE.

Among other stray flashmen disposed of, this week, Was a youngster named Stanley, genteelly connected, Who has lately been passing off coins as antique, Which have proved to be _sham_ ones, tho' long unsuspected.

The ancients, our readers need hardly be told, Had a coin they called "Talents," for wholesale demands; And 'twas some of said coinage this youth was so bold As to fancy he'd got, God knows how, in his hands.

People took him, however, like fools, at his word; And these talents (all prized at his own valuation,) Were bid for, with eagerness even more absurd Than has often distinguisht this great thinking nation.

Talk of wonders one now and then sees advertised, "Black swans"--"Queen Anne farthings"--or even "a child's caul"-- Much and justly as all these rare objects are prized, "Stanley's talents" outdid them--swans, farthings and all!

At length some mistrust of this coin got abroad; Even quondam believers began much to doubt of it; Some rung it, some rubbed it, suspecting a fraud-- And the hard rubs it got rather took the shine out of it.

Others, wishing to break the poor prodigy's fall, Said 'twas known well to all who had studied the matter, That the Greeks had not only _great_ talents but _small_, And those found on the youngster were clearly _the latter_.

While others who viewed the grave farce with a grin-- Seeing counterfeits pass thus for coinage so massy, By way of a hint to the dolts taken in, Appropriately quoted Budaeus "de _Asse_."

In short, the whole sham by degrees was found out, And this coin which they chose by such fine names to call, Proved a mere lackered article--showy, no doubt, But, ye gods! not the true Attic Talent at all.

As the impostor was still young enough to repent, And, besides, had some claims to a grandee connection, Their Worships--considerate for once--only sent The young Thimblerig off to the House of Correction.

REFLECTIONS.

ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLE OF THE CHURCH IN THE LAST NUMBER OF _The Quarterly Review_.

I'm quite of your mind;--tho' these Pats cry aloud That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff; For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed That even _too much_ of it's not quite enough.

Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;-- Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills, Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity.

I verily think 'twould be worth England's while To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether 'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.

The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant; The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1] And now if King William would make them a present To t'other chaste lady--ye Saints, just imagine it!

Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief, Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches; While colonels in black would afford some relief From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's.

Think how fierce at a _charge_ (being practised therein) The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on! How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin, To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!

For in one point alone do the amply fed race Of bishops to beggars similitude bear-- That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase, And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time--you know where.

But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much, Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way; And a good stanch Conservative's system is such That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway.

I am therefore, dear _Quarterly_, quite of your mind;-- Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour: And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind. The more let's repeat it--"Black dose, as before."

Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother; And, covering with prisons and churches the land, All that won't _go_ to _one_, we'll put _into_ the other.

For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclined To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously, Is to treat her like ladies who've just been confined (Or who _ought_ to be so), and to _church_ her prodigiously.

[1] Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian.

NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view An exact and natural representation (Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo[1]) Of the Lords and Commons of this here nation.

There they are--all cut out in cork-- The "Collective Wisdom" wondrous to see; My eyes! when all them heads are at work, What a vastly weighty consarn it must be.

As for the "wisdom,"--_that_ may come anon; Tho', to say truth, we sometimes see (And I find the phenomenon no uncommon 'un) A man who's M.P. with a head that's M.T.

Our Lords are _rather_ too small, 'tis true; But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves; And, besides,--_what's_ a man with creeturs to do That make such _werry_ small figures themselves?

There--don’t touch those lords, my pretty dears--(_Aside_.) Curse the children!--this comes of reforming a nation: Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers, I must lay in more cork for a new creation.

Them yonder's our bishops--"to whom much is given," And who're ready to take as much more as you please: The seers of old time saw visions of heaven, But these holy seers see nothing but Sees.

Like old Atlas[2](the chap, in Cheapside, there below,) 'Tis for so much _per cent_, they take heaven on their shoulders; And joy 'tis to know that old High Church and Co., Tho' not capital priests, are such capital-holders.

There's one on 'em, Phillpotts, who now is away, As we're having him filled with bumbustible stuff, Small crackers and squibs, for a great gala-day, When we annually fire his Right Reverence off.

'Twould do your heart good, ma'am, then to be by, When, bursting with gunpowder, 'stead of with bile, Crack, crack, goes the bishop, while dowagers cry, "How like the dear man, both in matter and style!"

Should you want a few Peers and M.P.s, to bestow, As presents to friends, we can recommend these:-- Our nobles are come down to nine-pence, you know, And we charge but a penny a piece for M.P.s.

Those of _bottle_-corks made take most with the trade, (At least 'mong such as my _Irish_ writ summons,) Of old _whiskey_ corks our O'Connells are made, But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are _rum_ 'uns. So, step in, gentlefolks, etc. _Da Capo_.

[1] One of the most interesting and curious of all the exhibitions of the day.

[2] The sign of the Insurance Office in Cheapside.

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW GRAND ACCELERATION COMPANY FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE SPEED OF LITERATURE.

Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times, Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes, A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan, First proposed by the great firm of Catch-'em-who-can, Beg to say they've now ready, in full wind and speed, Some fast-going authors, of quite a new breed-- Such as not he who _runs_ but who _gallops_ may read-- And who, if well curried and fed, they've no doubt, Will beat even Bentley's swift stud out and out.

It is true in these days such a drug is renown, We've "Immortals" as rife as M.P.s about town; And not a Blue's rout but can offhand supply Some invalid bard who's insured "not to die." Still let England but once try _our_ authors, she'll find How fast they'll leave even these Immortals behind; And how truly the toils of Alcides were light, Compared with _his_ toil who can read all they write.

In fact there's no saying, so gainful the trade, How fast immortalities now may be made; Since Helicon never will want an "Undying One," As long as the public continues a Buying One; And the company hope yet to witness the hour. When, by strongly applying the mare-motive[1] power, A three-decker novel, midst oceans of praise, May be written, launched, read and--forgot, in three days!

In addition to all this stupendous celerity, Which--to the no small relief of posterity-- Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame, Nor troubles futurity even with a name (A project that won’t as much tickle Tom Tegg as _us_, Since 'twill rob _him_ of his second-priced Pegasus); We, the Company--still more to show how immense Is the power o'er the mind of pounds, shillings, and pence; And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day, Could get up a _lay_ without first an _out_-lay-- Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare, In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham ware, And it doesn’t at all matter in either of these lines, How _sham_ is the article, so it but _shines_,-- We keep authors ready, all perched, pen in hand, To write off, in any given style, at command. No matter what bard, be he living or dead, Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said: There being on the establishment six Walter Scotts, One capital Wordsworth and Southeys in lots;-- Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens, While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord Byrons. Then we've ***s and ***s (for whom there's small call), And ***s and ***s (for whom no call at all). In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be, We've a Bottom who'll copy his _roar_[2] to a T, And so well, that not one of the buyers who've got 'em Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom.

N. B.--The company, since they set up in this line, Have moved their concern and are now at the sign Of the Muse's Velocipede, _Fleet_ Street, where all Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call.

[1] "'Tis money makes the mare to go."

[2] "Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale."

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN.

From tongue to tongue the rumor flew; All askt, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?" But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable: And still the unholy rumor ran, From Tory woman to Tory man, Tho' none to come at the truth was able-- Till, lo! at last, the fact came out, The horrible fact, beyond all doubt, That Dan had dined at the Viceroy's table; Had flesht his Popish knife and fork In the heart of the Establisht mutton and pork!

Who can forget the deep sensation That news produced in this orthodox nation? Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed, If Dan was allowed at the Castle to feed, 'Twas clearly _all up_ with the Protestant creed! There hadn’t indeed such an apparition Been heard of in Dublin since that day When, during the first grand exhibition Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play, There appeared, as if raised by necromancers, An _extra_ devil among the dancers! Yes--every one saw with fearful thrill That a devil too much had joined the quadrille; And sulphur was smelt and the lamps let fall A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball, And the poor _sham_ devils didn’t like it at all; For they knew from whence the intruder had come, Tho' he left, that night, his tail at home.

This fact, we see, is a parallel case To the dinner that some weeks since took place. With the difference slight of fiend and man, It shows what a nest of Popish sinners That city must be, where the devil and Dan May thus drop in at quadrilles and dinners!

But mark the end of these foul proceedings, These demon hops and Popish feedings. Some comfort 'twill be--to those, at least, Who've studied this awful dinner question-- To know that Dan, on the night of that feast, Was seized with a dreadful indigestion; That envoys were sent post-haste to his priest To come and absolve the suffering sinner, For eating so much at a heretic dinner; And some good people were even afraid That Peel's old confectioner--still at the trade-- Had poisoned the Papist with _orangeade_.

NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

With all humility we beg To inform the public, that Tom Tegg-- Known for his spunky speculations In buying up dead reputations, And by a mode of galvanizing Which, all must own, is quite surprising, Making dead authors move again, As tho' they still were living men;-- All this too managed, in a trice, By those two magic words, "Half Price," Which brings the charm so quick about, That worn-out poets, left without A second _foot_ whereon to stand, Are made to go at second _hand_;-- 'Twill please the public, we repeat, To learn that Tegg who works this feat, And therefore knows what care it needs To keep alive Fame's invalids, Has oped an Hospital in town, For cases of knockt-up renown-- Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic _fits_ (By some called _Cantoes_), stabs from wits; And of all wounds for which they're nurst, _Dead cuts_ from publishers, the worst;-- All these, and other such fatalities, That happen to frail immortalities, By Tegg are so expertly treated, That oft-times, when the cure's completed, The patient's made robust enough To stand a few more rounds of _puff_, Till like the ghosts of Dante's lay He's puft into thin air away! As titled poets (being phenomenons) Don’t like to mix with low and common 'uns, Tegg's Hospital has separate wards, Express for literary lords, Where _prose_-peers, of immoderate length, Are nurst, when they've outgrown their strength, And poets, whom their friends despair of, Are--put to bed and taken care of.

Tegg begs to contradict a story Now current both with Whig and Tory, That Doctor Warburton, M.P., Well known for his antipathy, His deadly hate, good man, to all The race of poets great and small-- So much, that he's been heard to own, He would most willingly cut down The holiest groves on Pindus' mount, To turn the timber to account!-- The story actually goes, that he Prescribes at Tegg's Infirmary; And oft not only stints for spite The patients in their copy-right, But that, on being called in lately To two sick poets suffering greatly, This vaticidal Doctor sent them So strong a dose of Jeremy Bentham, That one of the poor bards but cried, "Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" and then died; While t'other, tho' less stuff was given, Is on his road, 'tis feared, to heaven!

Of this event, howe'er unpleasant, Tegg means to say no more at present,-- Intending shortly to prepare A statement of the whole affair, With full accounts, at the same time, Of some late cases (prose and rhyme), Subscribed with every author's name, That's now on the Sick List of Fame.

RELIGION AND TRADE.

"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House." --_Church Extension_, May 22, 1830.

Say, who was the wag, indecorously witty, Who first in a statute this libel conveyed; And thus slyly referred to the selfsame committee, As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?

Oh surely, my Phillpotts, 'twas thou didst the deed; For none but thyself or some pluralist brother, Accustomed to mix up the craft with the creed, Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each other.

And yet, when one thinks of times present and gone, One is forced to confess on maturer reflection That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone That the shrine and the shop seem to have some connection.

Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fair land, Whose civil list all is in "god-money" paid; And where the whole people, by royal command, Buy their gods at the government mart, ready made;[1]--

There was also (as mentioned, in rhyme and in prose, is) Gold heaped throughout Egypt on every shrine, To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses-- Just such as, my Phillpotts, would look well in thine.

But one needn't fly off in this erudite mood; And 'tis clear without going to regions so sunny That priests love to do the _least_ possible good For the largest _most_ possible quantum of money.

"Of him," saith the text, "unto whom much is given, "Of him much, in turn, will be also required:"-- "By _me_," quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven-- "Give as much as you will--more will still be desired."

More money! more churches!--oh Nimrod, hadst thou 'Stead of _Tower_-extension, some shorter way gone-- Hadst thou known by what methods we mount to heaven _now_, And tried _Church_-extension, the feat had been done!

[1] The Birmans may not buy the sacred marble in mass but must purchase figures of the deity already made.--_SYMES_.

MUSINGS.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE PROMOTION OF MRS. NETHERCOAT.

"The widow of Nethercoat is appointed jailer of Loughrea, in the room of her deceased husband."--_Limerick Chronicle_.

Whether as queens or subjects, in these days, Women seem formed to grace alike each station:-- As Captain Flaherty gallantly says, "You ladies, are the lords of the creation!"

Thus o'er my mind did prescient visions float Of all that matchless woman yet may be; When hark! in rumors less and less remote, Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea, The important news--that Mrs. Nethercoat Had been appointed jailer of Loughrea; Yes, mark it, History--Nethercoat is dead, And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead; Hers the high task to wield the uplocking keys, To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees!

Thus, while your blusterers of the Tory school Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule, One meek-eyed matron in Whig doctrines nurst Is all that's askt to curb the maddest, worst!

Show me the man that dares with blushless brow Prate about Erin's rage and riot now; Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess; When long-loved whiskey, fading from her sight, "Small by degrees and beautifully less," Will soon like other _spirits_ vanish quite; When of red coats the number's grown so small, That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes, No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all, Save that which she of Babylon supplies;-- Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be, Of Ireland's _red_ defence the sole remains; While of its jails bright woman keeps the key, And captive Paddies languish in her chains!

Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine! Oh yes--if even this world, tho' bright it shine, In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be, At least let woman's hand our fetters twine, And blithe I'll sing, more joyous than if free, The Nethercoats, the Nethercoats for me!

INTENDED TRIBUTE

TO THE AUTHOR OF AN ARTICLE IN THE LAST NUMBER OF _The Quarterly Review_, ENTITLED "ROMANISM IN IRELAND."

It glads us much to be able to say, That a meeting is fixt for some early day, Of all such dowagers--_he_ or _she_-- (No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,) Whose opinions concerning Church and State From about the time of the Curfew date-- Stanch sticklers still for days bygone, And admiring _them_ for their rust alone-- To whom if we would a leader give, Worthy their tastes conservative, We need but some mummy-statesman raise, Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days; For _that's_ the man, if waked from his shelf, To conserve and swaddle this world like himself. Such, we're happy to state, are the old _he_-dames Who've met in committee and given their names (In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent To pay some handsome compliment To their sister author, the nameless he, Who wrote, in the last new _Quarterly_, That charming assault upon Popery; An article justly prized by them As a perfect antediluvian gem-- The work, as Sir Sampson Legend would say, Of some "fellow the Flood couldn’t wash away."[1]

The fund being raised, there remained but to see What the dowager-author's gift was to be. And here, I must say, the Sisters Blue Showed delicate taste and judgment too. For finding the poor man suffering greatly From the awful stuff he has thrown up lately-- So much so indeed to the alarm of all, As to bring on a fit of what doctors call The Antipapistico-monomania (I'm sorry with such a long word to detain ye), They've acted the part of a kind physician, By suiting their gift to the patient's condition; And as soon as 'tis ready for presentation, We shall publish the facts for the gratification Of this highly-favored and Protestant nation.

Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbors, He still continues his _Quarterly_ labors; And often has strong No-Popery fits, Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits. Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play,[2] "Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day; Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens, And shies at him heaps of High-church pens;[3] Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter) Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter. 'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the druggist's, He _will_ keep raving of "Irish Thuggists;"[4] Tells us they all go murdering for fun From rise of morn till set of sun, Pop, pop, as fast as a minute-gun![5] If askt, how comes it the gown and cassock are Safe and fat, mid this general massacre-- How hap sit that Pat's own population But swarms the more for this trucidation-- He refers you, for all such memoranda, To the "_archives of the Propaganda_!"

This is all we've got, for the present, to say-- But shall take up the subject some future day.

[1] See Congreve's "Love for Love."

[2] "Beaux' Stratagem."

[3] "Pray, may we ask, has there been any rebellious movement of Popery in Ireland, since the planting of the Ulster colonies, in which something of the kind was not visible among the Presbyterians of the north."-- _Quarterly Review_.

[4] "Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists," etc.--_Quarterly Review_.

[5] "Observe how murder after murder is committed like minute-guns."-- _Ibid_.

GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO.

A POOR POET'S DREAM.[1]

As I sate in my study, lone and still, Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill, And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made, In spirit congenial, for "the Trade," Sudden I sunk to sleep and lo! Upon Fancy's reinless nightmare flitting, I found myself, in a second or so, At the table of Messrs. Type and Co. With a goodly group of diners sitting;-- All in the printing and publishing line, Drest, I thought, extremely fine, And sipping like lords their rosy wine; While I in a state near inanition With coat that hadn't much nap to spare (Having just gone into its second edition), Was the only wretch of an author there. But think, how great was my surprise, When I saw, in casting round my eyes, That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks, Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books; Large folios--God knows where they got 'em, In these _small_ times--at top and bottom; And quartos (such as the Press provides For no one to read them) down the sides. Then flasht a horrible thought on my brain, And I said to myself, "'Tis all too plain, "Like those well known in school quotations, "Who ate up for dinner their own relations, "I see now, before me, smoking here, "The bodies and bones of my brethren dear;-- "Bright sons of the lyric and epic Muse, "All cut up in cutlets, or hasht in stews; "Their _works_, a light thro' ages to go,-- "_Themselves_, eaten up by Type and Co.!"

While thus I moralized, on they went, Finding the fare most excellent: And all so kindly, brother to brother, Helping the tidbits to each other: "A slice of Southey let me send you"-- "This cut of Campbell I recommend you"-- "And here, my friends, is a treat indeed, "The immortal Wordsworth fricasseed!" Thus having, the cormorants, fed some time, Upon joints of poetry--all of the prime-- With also (as Type in a whisper averred it) "Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as preferred it"-- They rested awhile, to recruit their force, Then pounced, like kites, on the second course, Which was singing-birds merely--Moore and others-- Who all went the way of their larger brothers; And, numerous now tho' such songsters be, 'Twas really quite distressing to see A whole dishful of Toms--Moore, Dibdin, Bayly,-- Bolted by Type and Co. so gayly!

Nor was this the worst--I shudder to think What a scene was disclosed when they came to drink. The warriors of Odin, as every one knows, Used to drink out of skulls of slaughtered foes: And Type's old port, to my horror I found, Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round. And still as each well-filled cranium came, A health was pledged to its owner's name; While Type said slyly, midst general laughter, "We eat them up first, then drink to them after." There was _no_ standing this--incensed I broke From my bonds of sleep, and indignant woke, Exclaiming, "Oh shades of other times, "Whose voices still sound, like deathless chimes, "Could you e'er have foretold a day would be, "When a dreamer of dreams should live to see "A party of sleek and honest John Bulls "Hobnobbing each other in poets' skulls!"

[1] Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.

CHURCH EXTENSION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

Sir--A well-known classical traveller, while employed in exploring, some time since, the supposed site of the Temple of Diana of Ephesus, was so fortunate, in the course of his researches, as to light upon a very ancient bark manuscript, which has turned out, on examination, to be part of an old Ephesian newspaper;--a newspaper published, as you will see, so far back as the time when Demetrius, the great Shrine-Extender,[1] flourished.

I am, Sir, yours, etc.

EPHESIAN GAZETTE.

_Second edition_.

Important event for the rich and religious! Great Meeting of Silversmiths held in Queen Square;-- Church Extension, their object,--the excitement prodigious;-- Demetrius, head man of the craft, takes the chair!

_Third edition_.

The Chairman still up, when our devil came away; Having prefaced his speech with the usual state prayer, That the Three-headed Dian would kindly, this day, Take the Silversmiths' Company under her care.

Being askt by some low, unestablisht divines, "When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?" He manfully answered, "Let _us_ build the shrines,[2] "And we care not if flocks are found for them or not."

He then added--to show that the Silversmiths' Guild Were above all confined and intolerant views-- "Only _pay_ thro' the nose to the altars we build, "You may _pray_ thro' the nose to what altars you choose."

This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer's lip (Tho' a tolerance mixt with due taste for the till)-- So much charmed all the holders of scriptural scrip, That their shouts of "Hear!" "Hear!" are re-echoing still.

_Fourth edition_.

Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phoebus Are going dog-cheap--may be had for a rebus. Old Dian's, as usual, outsell all the rest;-- But Venus's also are much in request.

[1] "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen: whom he called together with the workmen of like occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth[...to be completed...

[2] The "shrines" are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples.

LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

As news from Olympus has grown rather rare, Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to _touch_ there, We extract for our readers the intelligence given, In our latest accounts from that _ci-devant_ Heaven-- That realm of the By-gones, where still sit in state Old god-heads and nod-heads now long out of date.

Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o'er, Seems to find immortality rather a bore; Tho' he still asks for news of earth's capers and crimes, And reads daily his old fellow-Thunderer, _the Times_. He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-_peckt_ are, And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration, And packt off to earth on a _puff_ speculation. The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim, Since bards lookt to Bentley and Colburn, not him. So he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags. Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the _Mags_; Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to linger in't, From which men could guess that the god had a finger in't.

There are other small facts, well deserving attention, Of which our Olympic despatches make mention. Poor Bacchus is still very ill, they allege, Having never recovered the Temperance Pledge. "What, the Irish!" he cried--"those I lookt to the most! "If they give up the _spirit_, I give up the ghost:" While Momus, who used of the gods to make fun, Is turned Socialist now and declares there are none!

But these changes, tho' curious, are all a mere farce Compared to the new "_casus belli_" of Mars, Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet, Uncheered by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot! In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow, Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row:" But the joke wouldn't take--the whole world had got wiser; Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser; And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot, Without very well knowing for whom or for what. The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing, Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King; While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard to gain, Nobody's left to fight _with_, but Lord Cardigan.

'Tis needless to say then how monstrously happy Old Mars has been made by what's now on the _tapis_; How much it delights him to see the French rally, In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali; Well knowing that Satan himself could not find A confection of mischief much more to his mind Than the old _Bonnet Rouge_ and the Bashaw combined. Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were attackers, Whatever their cause, that they didn’t find backers; While any slight care for Humanity's woes May be soothed by that "_Art Diplomatique_," which shows How to come in the most approved method to blows.

This is all for to-day--whether Mars is much vext At his friend Thiers's exit, we'll know by our next.

THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

Our earth, as it rolls thro' the regions of space, Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny; And poor human life runs the same sort of race, Being sad on one side--on the other side, funny.

Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie, To weep o'er the woes of Macready;--but scarce Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy past from the eye, When lo! we're all laughing in fits at the Farce.

And still let us laugh--preach the world as it may-- Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow; Heroics are very grand things in their way, But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow.

For instance, what sermon on human affairs Could equal the scene that took place t'other day 'Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs-- The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied, And whose worship not even among Christians declines, In our senate thou'st languisht since Sheridan died, But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits, And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at! Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits, Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?

And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave-- A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read; While he _laughs_, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave, We shall then think the Church is in danger _indeed_.

Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing To teach _other_ bishops to "seek the right way;"[1] And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing, Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.

For our parts, gravity's good for the soul, Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on, We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll," Than _coach_ it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

[1] "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and N. E. you had turned about," etc.--SYDNEY SMITH'S _Last Letter to the Bishop of London_.

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.

What, _thou_, my friend! a man of rhymes, And, better still, a man of guineas, To talk of "patrons," in these times, When authors thrive like spinning-jennies, And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no--those times are past away, When, doomed in upper floors to star it. The bard inscribed to lords his lay,-- Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret. No more he begs with air dependent. His "little bark may sail attendant" Under some lordly skipper's steerage; But launched triumphant in the Row, Or taken by Murray's self in tow. Cuts both _Star Chamber_ and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail Is whiskt from England by the gale. But bears on board some authors, shipt For foreign shores, all well equipt With proper book-making machinery, To sketch the morals, manners, scenery, Of all such lands as they shall see, Or _not_ see, as the case may be:-- It being enjoined on all who go To study first Miss Martineau, And learn from her the method true,[too. To _do_ one's books--and readers, For so this nymph of _nous_ and nerve Teaches mankind "How to Observe;" And, lest mankind at all should swerve, Teaches them also "_What_ to Observe."

No, no, my friend--it can’t be blinkt-- The Patron is a race extinct; As dead as any Megatherion That ever Buckland built a theory on. Instead of bartering in this age Our praise for pence and patronage, We authors now more prosperous elves, Have learned to patronize ourselves; And since all-potent Puffing's made The life of song, the soul of trade. More frugal of our praises grown, We puff no merits but our own.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise Which critics blew in former days, Our modern puffs are of a kind That truly, really _raise the wind;_ And since they've fairly set in blowing, We find them the best _trade_-winds going. 'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy As her old haunts near Aganippe, The Muse now taking to the till Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill (Far handier than the Hill of Pindus, As seen from bard's back attic windows): And swallowing there without cessation Large draughts (_at sight_) of inspiration, Touches the _notes_ for each new theme, While still fresh "_change_ comes o'er her dream."

What Steam is on the deep--and more-- Is the vast power of Puff on shore; Which jumps to glory's future tenses Before the present even commences; And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us Before the world has read one line of us. In old times, when the God of Song Drove his own two-horse team along, Carrying inside a bard or two, Bookt for posterity "all thro';"-- Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes, (Like yours, my friend,) for after-times-- So slow the pull to Fame's abode, That folks oft slept upon the road;-- And Homer's self, sometimes, they say, Took to his night-cap on the way. Ye Gods! how different is the story With our new galloping sons of glory, Who, scorning all such slack and slow time, Dash to posterity in _no_ time! Raise but one general blast of Puff To start your author--that's enough. In vain the critics set to watch him Try at the starting post to catch him: He's off--the puffers carry it hollow-- The _critics_, if they please, may follow. Ere _they_'ve laid down their first positions, He's fairly blown thro' six editions! In vain doth Edinburgh dispense Her blue and yellow pestilence (That plague so awful in my time To young and touchy sons of rhyme)-- The _Quarterly_, at three months' date, To catch the Unread One, comes too late; And nonsense, littered in a hurry, Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray. But bless me!--while I thus keep fooling, I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling." That postman too (who, truth to tell, 'Mong men of letters bears the bell,) Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally That I _must_ stop-- Yours sempiternally.

THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.

BY LORD STANLEY.

(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)

"Evil, be thou my good." --MILTON.

How various are the inspirations Of different men in different nations! As genius prompts to good or evil, Some call the Muse, some raise the devil. Old Socrates, that pink of sages, Kept a pet demon on board wages To go about with him incog., And sometimes give his wits a jog. So Lyndhurst, in _our_ day, we know, Keeps fresh relays of imps below, To forward from that nameless spot; His inspirations, hot and hot.

But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings-- Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings-- Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will, I'd show you mischief prettier still; Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks With age's sourest politics; The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall, Both duly mixt, and matchless all; A compound naught in history reaches But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform, Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm, Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee-- No livelier lackey could they find thee. And, Goddess, as I'm well aware, So mischief's _done_, you care not _where_, I own, 'twill most _my_ fancy tickle In Paddyland to play the Pickle; Having got credit for inventing A new, brisk method of tormenting-- A way they call the Stanley fashion, Which puts all Ireland in a passion; So neat it hits the mixture due Of injury and insult too; So legibly it bears upon't The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.

Ireland, we're told, means the land of _Ire_; And _why_ she's so, none need inquire, Who sees her millions, martial, manly, Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley. Already in the breeze I scent The whiff of coming devilment; Of strife, to me more stirring far Than the Opium or the Sulphur war, Or any such drug ferments are. Yes--sweeter to this Tory soul Than all such pests, from pole to pole, Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;" And thanks to practice on that land I stir it with a master-hand.

Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!" How Caravats and Shanavests Shall swarm from out their mountain nests, With all their merry moonlight brothers, To whom the Church (_step_-dame to others) Hath been the best of nursing mothers. Again o'er Erin's rich domain Shall Rockites and right reverends reign; And both, exempt from vulgar toil, Between them share that titheful soil; Puzzling ambition _which_ to climb at, The post of Captain, or of Primate.

And so, long life to Church and Co.-- Hurrah for mischief!--here we go.

EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.

Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,-- But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at, Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private-- Namely, never to let the old regions of riot, Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet, But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her To love more than meat, drink, or clothing--_hot water_.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it, Is simply, that _you_ make the law and _I_ break it; And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two Played so well into each other's hands as we do; Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture, Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture. Not Birmingham's self--to her shame be it spoken-- E'er made things more neatly contrived to be broken; And hence, I confess, in this island religious, The breakage of laws--and of heads _is_ prodigious.

And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,-- Tho', of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by; As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport, Some rector--a cool hand at pistols and port, Who "keeps dry" his _powder_, but never _himself_-- One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf, Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges, Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges; Except when some hero of this sort turned out, Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs[1] about-- A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery, Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery; So neat, that even _I_ might be proud, I allow, To have bit off so rich a receipt for a _row_;-- Except for such rigs turning up, now and then, I was actually growing the dullest of men; And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase, Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace. Like you, Reformation in Church and in State Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate. If once these curst Ministers do as they like, All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike, And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, Just to show what _such_ Captains and Chancellors were worth.

But we must not despair--even already Hope sees You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you, Who have boxt the whole compass of party right thro', And care not one farthing, as all the world knows, So we _but_ raise the wind, from what quarter it blows. Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare My own small resources with thine to compare: Not even Jerry Diddler, in "raising the wind," durst Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst.

But, hark, there's a shot!--some parsonic practitioner? No--merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner; The Courts having now, with true law erudition, Put even Rebellion itself "in commission." As seldom, in _this_ way, I'm any man's debtor, I'll just _pay my shot_ and then fold up this letter. In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks! Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks! Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres, And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers!

[1] Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion.--_Chronicle_.

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.[1]

Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more, Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before: For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew, You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do; So ready they're always, when dull we are growing, To set our old concert of discord a-going, While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face, To play in such concert the true _double-base_. I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning To tire of his course of political sinning, And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past, Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last. But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides All reform in himself as in most things besides; And, by using _two_ faces thro' life, all allow, Has acquired face sufficient for _any_-thing now.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe, My "Lord Harry" himself--who's the leader, we know, Of another red-hot Opposition below-- If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs, We shall soon such a region of devilment make it, That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it. Even already--long life to such Bigwigs, say I, For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die--

He has served our right riotous cause by a speech Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach; As it shows off both _his_ and _my_ merits alike, Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike; Mixes up, with a skill which one can’t but admire, The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire, And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner, Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner! Oh Terry, my man, let this speech _never_ die; Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly; Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered. Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood, But "_You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;_" While voices, from sweet Connemara afar, Shall answer, like true _Irish_ echoes, "We are!" And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it, Still the echoes may quote _Law_ authority for it, And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion So he, in the end, touches cash "for the _opinion_."

But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now, Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their __row_. They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin, They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.

[1] The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred, And wept for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won, And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done, And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.

Even now if one harsher emotion intrude, 'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state, Had known what he was--and, content to be _good_, Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be _great_.

So, left thro' their own little orbit to move, His years might have rolled inoffensive away; His children might still have been blest with his love, And England would ne'er have been curst with his sway.

TO THE EDITOR OF "THE MORNING CHRONICLE."

_Sir_,--In order to explain the following Fragment, it is necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, "FUM, _The Chinese Bird of Royalty_," is a principal ornament. I am, Sir, yours, etc. MUM.

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM, Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM, In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?) Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.-- Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation (The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation); Both, full-crawed Legitimates--both, birds of prey, Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way 'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh. While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea, Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM.--are sacred to thee So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton, The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome Where so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home,"-- And when, turning, he saw Bishop L--GE, "Zooks, it is." Quoth the Bird, "Yes--I know him--a Bonze, by his phiz- "And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low "Can be none but our round-about god-head, fat Fo!" It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,[1] Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head, And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed, Which so dimmed the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye, That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!"

But a truce to digression;--these Birds of a feather Thus talkt, t'other night, on State matters together; (The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for't, His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,) "I say, HUM," says FUM--FUM, of course, spoke Chinese, But, bless you! that's nothing--at Brighton one sees Foreign lingoes and Bishops _translated_ with ease-- "I say, HUM, how fares it with Royalty now? "Is it _up_? is it _prime_? is it _spooney_-or how?" (The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree Under BARRYMORE, YARMOUTH, and young Master L--E,) "As for us in Pekin"--here, a devil of a din From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin, Castlereagh (whom FUM calls the _Confucius_ of Prose), Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose.

(_Nota bene_--his Lordship and LIVERPOOL come, In collateral lines, from the old Mother HUM, CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug--LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum,) The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH. Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away! Thro' the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby, Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.

[1] In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his Royal Highness.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.

_principibus placuisse viris_! --HORAT.

Yes, grief will have way--but the fast falling tear Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career. And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:--

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave;-- Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, And spirits so mean in the great and high-born; To think what a long line of titles may follow The relics of him who died--friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the funeral array Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow:-- How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, Whose palls shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!

And Thou too whose life, a sick epicure's dream, Incoherent and gross, even grosser had past, Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:--

No! not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine;-- No! not for the riches of all who despise thee, Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence mine;--

Would I suffer what--even in the heart that thou hast-- All mean as it is--must have consciously burned. When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last, And which found all his wants at an end, was returned![1]

"Was this then the fate,"--future ages will say, When _some_ names shall live but in history's curse; When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day Be forgotten as fools or remembered as worse;--

"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, "The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall, "The orator,--dramatist,--minstrel,--who ran "Thro' each mode of the lyre and was master of all;--

"Whose mind was an essence compounded with art "From the finest and best of all other men's powers;- "Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart, "And could call up its sunshine or bring down its showers;--

"Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light, "Played round every subject and shone as it played;-- "Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, "Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;--

"Whose eloquence--brightening whatever it tried, "Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,-- "Was as rapid, as deep and as brilliant a tide, "As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!"

Yes--such was the man and so wretched his fate;-- And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve, Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great, And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve.

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh;[2] Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they, First feed on thy brains and then leave thee to die!

[1] The sum was two hundred pounds--offered when Sheridan could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends.

[2] Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them,--_History of Poland_.

EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN.[1]

CONCERNING SOME FOUL PLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION.[2]

_"Ahi, mio Ben!"_ --METASTASIO.[3]

What! BEN, my old hero, is this your renown? Is _this_ the new _go_?--kick a man when he's down! When the foe has knockt under, to tread on him then-- By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN! "Foul! foul!" all the lads of the Fancy exclaim-- CHARLEY SHOCK is electrified--BELCHER spits flame-- And MOLYNEUX--ay, even BLACKY[4] cries "shame!"

Time was, when JOHN BULL little difference spied 'Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side: When he found (such his humor in fighting and eating) His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating. But this comes, Master BEN, of your curst foreign notions, Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions; Your Noyaus, Curacoas, and the devil knows what-- (One swig of _Blue Ruin_[5] is worth the whole lot!)

Your great and small _crosses_--my eyes, what a brood! (A _cross_-buttock from _me_ would do some of them good!) Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise, Of pure English _claret_ is left in your _corpus_; And (as JIM says) the only one trick, good or bad, Of the Fancy you're up to, is _fibbing_, my lad. Hence it comes,--BOXIANA, disgrace to thy page!-- Having floored, by good luck, the first _swell_ of the age, Having conquered the _prime one_, that _milled_ us all round, You kickt him, old BEN, as he gaspt on the ground! Ay--just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any-- Kickt him and jawed him and _lagged_[6] him to Botany! Oh, shade of the _Cheesemonger_![7] you, who, alas! _Doubled up_ by the dozen those Moun-seers in brass, On that great day of _milling_, when blood lay in lakes, When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes, Look down upon BEN--see him, _dung-hill_ all o'er, Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more! Out, cowardly _spooney_!--again and again, By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN. To _show the white feather_ is many men's doom, But, what of _one_ feather?--BEN shows a _whole Plume_.

[1] A nickname given, at this time, to the Prince Regent.

[2] Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St. Helena.

[3] Tom, I suppose, was "assisted" to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going.

[4] Names and nicknames of celebrated pugilists at that time.

[5] Gin.

[6] Transported.

[7] A Life-Guardsman, one of _the Fancy_ who distinguished himself and was killed in the memorable _set-to_ at Waterloo.

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

_tu Regibus alas eripe_ VERGIL, _Georg. lib_. iv.

--Clip the wings Of these high-flying arbitrary Kings. DRYDEN'S _Translation_.

DEDICATION.

TO LORD BYRON.

Dear Lord Byron,--Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your eyes, than that of reminding you of the short time we passed together at Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, I am sure, receive the dedication of it with pleasure, and believe that I am,

My dear Lord,

Ever faithfully yours,

T. B.

PREFACE.

Though it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who have lately done me the honor of electing me their Secretary) that I should prefix my name to the following Miscellany, it is but fair to them and to myself to state, that, except in the "painful pre-eminence" of being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a distinction in the title-page is not greater than that of any other gentleman, who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume.

I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account of the origin and objects of our Institution, the names and characters of the different members, etc.--but as I am at present preparing for the press the First Volume of the "Transactions of the Pococurante Society," I shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject, and content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, to a Song which will be found at the end of this work and which is sung to us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician,) either "Nancy Dawson" or "He stole away the Bacon."

It may be as well also to state for the information of those critics who attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to such assailants, than is contained in the three words "_non curat Hippoclides_" (meaning, in English, "Hippoclides does not care a fig,") which were spoken two thousand years ago by the first founder of Poco- curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading _dictum_ of the sect.

THOMAS BROWN.

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

FABLE I.

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A DREAM.

I've had a dream that bodes no good Unto the Holy Brotherhood. I may be wrong, but I confess-- As far as it is right or lawful For one, no conjurer, to guess-- It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood A beautiful Ice Palace stood, A dome of frost-work, on the plan Of that once built by Empress Anne,[1] Which shone by moonlight--as the tale is-- Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnisht all And lighted as the best on land are, I dreamt there was a splendid Ball, Given by the Emperor Alexander, To entertain with all due zeal, Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a Regard so kind for Europe's weal, At Troppau, Laybach and Verona.

The thought was happy--and designed To hint how thus the human Mind May, like the stream imprisoned there, Be checkt and chilled, till it can bear The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it. And all were pleased and cold and stately, Shivering in grand illumination-- Admired the superstructure greatly, Nor gave one thought to the foundation. Much too the Tsar himself exulted, To all plebeian fears a stranger, For, Madame Krudener, when consulted, Had pledged her word there was no danger So, on he capered, fearless quite, Thinking himself extremely clever, And waltzed away with all his might, As if the Frost would last forever.

Just fancy how a bard like me, Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled To see that goodly company, At such a ticklish sport assembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded My loyal soul, at all unfounded-- For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy Were seized with an ill-omened dripping, And o'er the floors, now growing glassy, Their Holinesses took to slipping. The Tsar, half thro' a Polonaise, Could scarce get on for downright stumbling; And Prussia, tho' to slippery ways Well used, was cursedly near tumbling.

Yet still 'twas, _who_ could stamp the floor most, Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.-- And now, to an Italian air, This precious brace would, hand in hand, go; Now--while old Louis, from his chair, Intreated them his toes to spare-- Called loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had, At which they all set to, like mad! Never were Kings (tho' small the expense is Of wit among their Excellencies) So out of all their princely senses, But ah! that dance--that Spanish dance-- Scarce was the luckless strain begun, When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance Shot from an angry Southern sun, A light thro' all the chambers flamed, Astonishing old Father Frost, Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed, "A thaw, by Jove--we're lost, we're lost! "Run, France--a second _Water_loo "Is come to drown you-_sauve qui peut_!"

Why, why will monarchs caper so In palaces without foundations?-- Instantly all was in a flow, Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations-- Those Royal Arms, that lookt so nice, Cut out in the resplendent ice-- Those Eagles, handsomely provided With double heads for double dealings-- How fast the globes and sceptres glided Out of their claws on all the ceilings! Proud Prussia's double bird of prey Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away; While--just like France herself, when she Proclaims how great her naval skill is-- Poor Louis's drowning fleurs-de-lys Imagined themselves _water_-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves, But--still more fatal execution-- The Great Legitimates themselves Seemed in a state of dissolution. The indignant Tsar--when just about To issue a sublime Ukase, "Whereas all light must be kept out"-- Dissolved to nothing in its blaze. Next Prussia took his turn to melt, And, while his lips illustrious felt The influence of this southern air, Some word, like "Constitution"--long Congealed in frosty silence there-- Came slowly thawing from his tongue. While Louis, lapsing by degrees, And sighing out a faint adieu To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese And smoking _fondus_, quickly grew, Himself, into a _fondu_ too;-- Or like that goodly King they make Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake, When, in some urchin's mouth, alas! It melts into a shapeless mass!

In short, I scarce could count a minute, Ere the bright dome and all within it, Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone-- And nothing now was seen or heard But the bright river, rushing on, Happy as an enfranchised bird, And prouder of that natural ray, Shining along its chainless way-- More proudly happy thus to glide In simple grandeur to the sea, Than when, in sparkling fetters tied, 'Twas deckt with all that kingly pride Could bring to light its slavery!

Such is my dream--and, I confess, I tremble at its awfulness. That Spanish Dance--that southern beam-- But I say nothing--there's my dream-- And Madame Krüdener, the she-prophet, May make just what she pleases of it.

[1] "It is well-known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect."--PINKERTON.

FABLE II.

THE LOOKING-GLASSES.

PROEM.

Where Kings have been by mob-elections Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see What different and what odd perfections Men have required in Royalty. Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy, Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight;-- Some wisht them tall, some thought your Dumpy, Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.[1] The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said, Prefer what's called a jolterhead:[2] The Egyptians weren't at all partic'lar, So that their Kings had _not_ red hair-- _This_ fault not even the greatest stickler For the blood-royal well could bear.

A thousand more such illustrations Might be adduced from various nations. But, 'mong the many tales they tell us, Touching the acquired or natural right Which some men have to rule their fellows, There's one which I shall here recite:--

FABLE.

There was a land--to _name_ the place Is neither now my wish nor duty-- Where reigned a certain Royal race, By right of their superior beauty.

What was the cut legitimate Of these great persons' chins and noses, By right of which they ruled the state, No history I have seen discloses.

But so it was--a settled case-- Some Act of Parliament, past snugly, Had voted _them_ a beauteous race, And all their faithful subjects ugly.

As rank indeed stood high or low, Some change it made in visual organs; Your Peers were decent--Knights, so so-- But all your _common_ people, gorgons!

Of course, if any knave but hinted That the King's nose was turned awry, Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted-- The judges doomed that knave to die.

But rarely things like this occurred, The people to their King were duteous, And took it, on his Royal word, That they were frights and He was beauteous.

The cause whereof, among all classes, Was simply this--these island elves Had never yet seen looking-glasses, And therefore did not _know themselves_.

Sometimes indeed their neighbors' faces Might strike them as more full of reason, More fresh than those in certain places-- But, Lord, the very thought was treason!

Besides, howe'er we love our neighbor, And take his face's part, 'tis known We ne'er so much in earnest labor, As when the face attackt's our own.

So on they went--the crowd believing-- (As crowds well governed always do) Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving-- So old the joke, they thought 'twas true.

But jokes, we know, if they too far go, Must have an end--and so, one day, Upon that coast there was a cargo Of looking-glasses cast away.

'Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere, Had laid their wicked heads together, And forced that ship to founder there,-- While some believe it was the weather.

However this might be, the freight Was landed without fees or duties; And from that hour historians date The downfall of the Race of Beauties.

The looking-glasses got about, And grew so common thro' the land, That scarce a tinker could walk out, Without a mirror in his hand.

Comparing faces, morning, noon, And night, their constant occupation-- By dint of looking-glasses, soon, They grew a most reflecting nation.

In vain the Court, aware of errors In all the old, establisht mazards, Prohibited the use of mirrors And tried to break them at all hazards:--

In vain--their laws might just as well Have been waste paper on the shelves; That fatal freight had broke the spell; People had lookt--and knew themselves.

If chance a Duke, of birth sublime, Presumed upon his ancient face, (Some calf-head, ugly from all time,) They popt a mirror to his Grace;--

Just hinting, by that gentle sign, How little Nature holds it true, That what is called an ancient line, Must be the line of Beauty too.

From Dukes' they past to regal phizzes, Compared them proudly with their own, And cried. "How _could_ such monstrous quizzes "In Beauty's name usurp the throne!"--

They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books, Upon Cosmetical Oeconomy, Which made the King try various looks, But none improved his physiognomy.

And satires at the Court were levelled, And small lampoons, so full of slynesses, That soon, in short, they quite bedeviled Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.

At length--but here I drop the veil, To spare some royal folks' sensations;-- Besides, what followed is the tale Of all such late-enlightened nations;

Of all to whom old Time discloses A truth they should have sooner known-- That kings have neither rights nor noses A whit diviner than their own.

[1] The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their King.--Munster, "_Cosmog." lib_. iii. p. 164.

[2] "In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable."--_Oriental Field Sports_.

FABLE III.

THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.

I saw it all in Fancy's glass-- Herself, the fair, the wild magician, Who bade this splendid day-dream pass, And named each gliding apparition.

'Twas like a torch-race--such as they Of Greece performed, in ages gone, When the fleet youths, in long array, Past the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw the expectant nations stand, To catch the coming flame in turn;-- I saw, from ready hand to hand, The clear tho' struggling glory burn.

And oh! their joy, as it came near, 'Twas in itself a joy to see;-- While Fancy whispered in my ear. "That torch they pass is Liberty!"

And each, as she received the flame, Lighted her altar with its ray; Then, smiling, to the next who came, Speeded it on its sparkling way.

From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine Was furnisht with the fire already, COLUMBIA caught the boon divine, And lit a flame, like ALBION'S, steady.

The splendid gift then GALLIA took, And, like a wild Bacchante, raising The brand aloft, its sparkles shook, As she would set the world _a-blazing_!

Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high Her altar blazed into the air, That ALBION, to that fire too nigh, Shrunk back and shuddered at its glare!

Next, SPAIN, so new was light to her, Leapt at the torch--but, ere the spark That fell upon her shrine could stir, 'Twas quenched--and all again was dark.

Yet, no--_not_ quenched--a treasure worth So much to mortals rarely dies: Again her living light lookt forth, And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.

Who next received the flame? alas! Unworthy NAPLES--shame of shames, That ever thro' such hands should pass That brightest of all earthly flames!

Scarce had her fingers touched the torch. When, frighted by the sparks it shed, Nor waiting even to feel the scorch, She dropt it to the earth--and fled.

And fallen it might have long remained; But GREECE, who saw her moment now, Caught up the prize, tho' prostrate, stained, And waved it round her beauteous brow.

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er Her altar, as its flame ascended, Fair, laurelled spirits seemed to soar, Who thus in song their voices blended:--

"Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame, "Divinest gift of Gods to men! "From GREECE thy earliest splendor came, "To GREECE thy ray returns again.

"Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round, "When _dimmed_, revive, when lost, return, "Till not a shrine thro' earth be found, "On which thy glories shall not burn."

FABLE IV.

THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK.

PROEM.

Of all that, to the sage's survey, This world presents of topsy-turvy, There's naught so much disturbs one's patience, As little minds in lofty stations. 'Tis like that sort of painful wonder. Which slender columns, laboring under Enormous arches, give beholders;-- Or those poor Caryatides, Condemned to smile and stand at ease, With a whole house upon their shoulders.

If as in some few royal cases, Small minds are _born_ into such places-- If they are there by Right Divine Or any such sufficient reason, Why--Heaven forbid we should repine!-- To wish it otherwise were treason; Nay, even to see it in a vision, Would be what lawyers call _misprision_.

SIR ROBERT FILMER saith--and he, Of course, knew all about the matter-- "Both men and beasts love Monarchy;" Which proves how rational the latter. SIDNEY, we know, or wrong or right. Entirely differed from the Knight: Nay, hints a King may lose his head. By slipping awkwardly his bridle:-- But this is treasonous, ill-bred, And (now-a-days, when Kings are led In patent snaffles) downright idle.

No, no--it isn’t right-line Kings, (Those sovereign lords in leading strings Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,) That move my wrath--'tis your pretenders, Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth, Who--not, like t'others, bores by birth, Establisht _gratiâ Dei_ blockheads, Born with three kingdoms in their pockets-- Yet, with a brass that nothing stops, Push up into the loftiest stations, And, tho' too dull to manage shops, Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!

This class it is, that moves my gall, And stirs up bile, and spleen and all. While other senseless things appear To know the limits of their sphere-- While not a cow on earth romances So much as to conceit she dances-- While the most jumping frog we know of, Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off-- Your ***s, your ***s dare, Untrained as are their minds, to set them To _any_ business, _any_ where, At _any_ time that fools will let them.

But leave we here these upstart things-- My business is just now with Kings; To whom and to their right-line glory, I dedicate the following story.

FABLE

The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies; And even when they most condescended to teach, They packt up their meaning, as they did their mummies, In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach.

They were also, good people, much given to Kings-- Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery; But blue-bottle flies were their best beloved things-- As will partly appear in this very short history.

A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say, To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,) Stept into a temple at Memphis one day, To have a short peep at their mystical farces.

He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar, Made much of, and worshipt, as something divine; While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter, Before it lay stabbed at the foot of the shrine.

Surprised at such doings, he whispered his teacher-- "If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask why "Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature, "Be thus offered up to a bluebottle Fly?"

"No wonder"--said t'other--"you stare at the sight, "But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it-- "That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right, "And that Bullock, the People that's sacrificed to it."

FABLE V.

CHURCH AND STATE.

PROEM

"The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them." --SOAME JENYNS

Thus did SOAME JENYNS--tho' a Tory, A Lord of Trade and the Plantations; Feel how Religion's simple glory Is stained by State associations.

When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles, Appealed to the benign Divinity; Then cut them up in protocols, Made fractions of their very souls-- All in the name of the blest Trinity; Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER, That mighty Northern salamander,[1] Whose icy touch, felt all about, Puts every fire of Freedom out-- When he, too, winds up his Ukases With God and the Panagia's praises-- When he, of royal Saints the type, In holy water dips the sponge, With which, at one imperial wipe, He would all human rights expunge; When LOUIS (whom as King, and eater, Some name _Dix-huit_, and some _Deshuitres_.) Calls down "St. Louis's God" to witness The right, humanity, and fitness Of sending eighty thousand Solons, Sages with muskets and laced coats, To cram instruction, _nolens volens_, Down the poor struggling Spaniards' throats-- I can’t help thinking, (tho' to Kings I must, of course, like other men, bow,) That when a Christian monarch brings Religion's name to gloss these things-- Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow![2]

Or--not so far for facts to roam, Having a few much nearer home- When we see Churchmen, who, if askt, "Must Ireland's slaves be tithed, and taskt, "And driven, like Negroes or Croats, "That _you_ may roll in wealth and bliss?" Look from beneath their shovel hats With all due pomp and answer "Yes!" But then, if questioned, "Shall the brand "Intolerance flings throughout that land,-- "Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow 'Betwixt her palaces and hovels, "Be ever quenched?"--from the same shovels Look grandly forth and answer "No."-- Alas, alas! have _these_ a claim To merciful Religion's name? If more you seek, go see a bevy Of bowing parsons at a levee-- (Choosing your time, when straw's before Some apoplectic bishop's door,) Then if thou canst with life escape That rush of lawn, that press of crape, Just watch their reverences and graces, As on each smirking suitor frisks, And say, if those round shining faces To heaven or earth most turn their disks? This, this it is--Religion, made, Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade-- This most ill-matched, unholy _Co_., From whence the ills we witness flow; The war of many creeds with one-- The extremes of _too_ much faith and none-- Till, betwixt ancient trash and new, 'Twixt Cant and Blasphemy--the two Rank ills with which this age is curst-- We can no more tell which is worst, Than erst could Egypt, when so rich In various plagues, determine which She thought most pestilent and vile, Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle, Croaking their native mud-notes loud, Or her fat locusts, like a cloud Of pluralists, obesely lowering, At once benighting and devouring!--

This--this it is--and here I pray Those sapient wits of the Reviews. Who make us poor, dull authors say, Not what we mean, but what they choose; Who to our most abundant shares Of nonsense add still more of theirs, And are to poets just such evils As caterpillars find those flies,[3] Which, not content to sting like devils, Lay eggs upon their backs like wise-- To guard against such foul deposits Of other's meaning in my rhymes, (A thing more needful here because it's A subject, ticklish in these times)-- I, here, to all such wits make known, Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory, 'Tis _this_ Religion--this alone-- I aim at in the following story:--

FABLE.

When Royalty was young and bold, Ere, touched by Time, he had become-- If 'tisn't civil to say _old_, At least, a _ci-devant jeune homme_;

One evening, on some wild pursuit Driving along, he chanced to see Religion, passing by on foot, And took him in his vis-à-vis.

This said Religion was a Friar, The humblest and the best of men, Who ne'er had notion or desire Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"--quoth Royalty, who rather Enjoyed a masquerading joke-- "I say, suppose, my good old father, "You lend me for a while your cloak."

The Friar consented--little knew What tricks the youth had in his head; Besides, was rather tempted too By a laced coat he got instead.

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash, Scampering like mad about the town; Broke windows, shivered lamps to smash, And knockt whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they, whose heads were broke, Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore," Except that 'twas Religion's cloak The gentleman, who crackt them, wore,

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turned By the laced coat, grew frisky too; Lookt big--his former habits spurned-- And stormed about, as great men do:

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses-- Said "Damn you" often, or as bad-- Laid claim to other people's purses-- In short, grew either knaves or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting, And flesh and blood no longer bore it, The Court of Common Sense, then sitting, Summoned the culprits both before it.

Where, after hours in wrangling spent (As Courts must wrangle to decide well). Religion to St. Luke's was sent, And Royalty packt off to Bridewell.

With this proviso--should they be Restored, in due time, to their senses, They both must give security, In future, against such offences-- Religion ne'er to _lend his cloak_, Seeing what dreadful work it leads to; And Royalty to crack his joke,-- But _not_ to crack poor people's heads too.

[1] The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by its natural coldness and moisture.

[2] A well-known publisher of irreligious books.

[3] "The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings into its body--at every dart they deposit an egg"--GOLDSMITH.

FABLE VI.

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.

PROEM.

Novella, a young Bolognese, The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,[1] Who had with all the subtleties Of old and modern jurists stockt her, Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said, And over hearts held such dominion, That when her father, sick in bed, Or busy, sent her, in his stead, To lecture on the Code Justinian, She had a curtain drawn before her, Lest, if her charms were seen, the students Should let their young eyes wander o'er her, And quite forget their jurisprudence. Just so it is with Truth, when _seen_, Too dazzling far,--'tis from behind A light, thin allegoric screen, She thus can safest leach mankind.

FABLE.

In Thibet once there reigned, we're told, A little Lama, one year old-- Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness Had cut--as near as can be reckoned-- Some say his _first_ tooth, some his _second_. Chronologers and Nurses vary, Which proves historians should be wary. We only know the important truth, His Majesty _had_ cut a tooth. And much his subjects were enchanted,-- As well all Lamas' subjects _may_ be, And would have given their heads, if wanted, To make tee-totums for the baby. Throned as he was by Right Divine-- (What Lawyers call _Jure Divino_, Meaning a right to yours and mine And everybody's goods and rhino.) Of course, his faithful subjects' purses Were ready with their aids and succors; Nothing was seen but pensioned Nurses; And the land groaned with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet, Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye Gods! what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates! What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pinafores, in nightly battles! What calls for papers to expose The waste of sugar-plums and rattles! But no--if Thibet _had_ M.P.s, They were far better bred than these; Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm;--for, just when he, Had reached the alarming age of three, When Royal natures and no doubt Those of _all_ noble beasts break out-- The Lama, who till then was quiet, Showed symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh; Tweakt the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turned all the Judges' wigs awry, And trod on the old Generals' toes; Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode cock-horse on the City maces, And shot from little devilish guns, Hard peas into the subjects' faces. In short, such wicked pranks he played, And' grew so mischievous, God bless him! That his Chief Nurse--with even the aid Of an Archbishop--was afraid. When in these moods, to comb or dress him. Nay, even the persons most inclined Thro' thick and thin, for Kings to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind; Which they did _not_) an odious pickle.

At length some patriot lords--a breed Of animals they've got in Thibet, Extremely rare and fit indeed For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit-- Some patriot lords, who saw the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penned a manly, plain and free, Remonstrance to the Nursery; Protesting warmly that they yielded To none that ever went before 'em, In loyalty to him who wielded The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em; That, as for treason, 'twas a thing That made them almost sick to think of-- That they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chincough, When others, thinking him consumptive, Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive!-- But, still--tho' much admiring Kings (And chiefly those in leading-strings), They saw, with shame and grief of soul, There was no longer now the wise And constitutional control Of _birch_ before their ruler's eyes; But that of late such pranks and tricks And freaks occurred the whole day long, As all but men with bishoprics Allowed, in even a King, were wrong. Wherefore it was they humbly prayed That Honorable Nursery, That such reforms be henceforth made, As all good men desired to see;-- In other words (lest they might seem Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme For putting all such pranks to rest, And in its bud the mischief nipping-- They ventured humbly to suggest His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read, no Congreve rocket, Discharged into the Gallic trenches E'er equalled the tremendous shock it Produced upon the Nursery benches. The Bishops, who of course had votes, By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss-- "What, whip a Lama! suffer birch "To touch his sacred--infamous! "Deistical!--assailing thus "The fundamentals of the Church!-- "No--no--such patriot plans as these, "(So help them Heaven--and their Sees!) "They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread thro' the land, till, such a pother, Such party squabbles, far and wide, Never in history's page had been Recorded, as were then between The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. Till, things arriving at a state, Which gave some fears of revolution, The patriot lords' advice, tho' late, Was put at last in execution. The Parliament of Thibet met-- The little Lama, called before it, Did, then and there, his whipping get, And (as the _Nursery Gazette_ Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And tho', 'mong Thibet Tories, some Lament that Royal Martyrdom (Please to observe, the letter D In this last word's pronounced like B), Yet to the example of that Prince So much is Thibet's land a debtor, That her long line of Lamas, since, Have all behaved themselves _much_ better.

[1] Andreas.

FABLE VII.

THE EXTINGUISHERS.

PROEM.

Tho' soldiers are the true supports, The natural allies of Courts, Woe to the Monarch, who depends Too _much_ on his red-coated friends; For even soldiers sometimes _think_-- Nay, Colonels have been known to _reason_,--

And reasoners, whether clad in pink Or red or blue, are on the brink (Nine cases out of ten) of treason

Not many soldiers, I believe, are As fond of liberty as Mina; Else--woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever Once turns into a _Scarletina_! For then--but hold--'tis best to veil My meaning in the following tale:--

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great, Just come into a large estate, Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors, Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers, Whose fires, beneath his very nose, In heretic combustion rose. But Lords of Persia can, no doubt, Do what they will--so, one fine morning, He turned the rascal Ghebers out, First giving a few kicks for warning. Then, thanking Heaven most piously, He knockt their Temple to the ground, Blessing himself for joy to see Such Pagan ruins strewed around. But much it vext my Lord to find, That, while all else obeyed his will, The Fire these Ghebers left behind, Do what he would, kept burning still. Fiercely he stormed, as if his frown Could scare the bright insurgent down; But, no--such fires are headstrong things, And care not much for Lords or Kings. Scarce could his Lordship well contrive The flashes in _one_ place to smother, Before--hey presto!--all alive, They sprung up freshly in another.

At length when, spite of prayers and damns, 'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him, His stewards came, with low _salams_, Offering, by _contract_, to provide him Some large Extinguishers, (a plan, Much used, they said, at Ispahan, Vienna, Petersburg--in short, Wherever Light's forbid at court), Machines no Lord should be without, Which would at once put promptly out All kinds of fires,--from staring, stark Volcanoes to the tiniest spark; Till all things slept as dull and dark, As in a great Lord's neighborhood 'Twas right and fitting all things should.

Accordingly, some large supplies Of these Extinguishers were furnisht (All of the true Imperial size), And there, in rows, stood black and burnisht, Ready, where'er a gleam but shone Of light or fire, to be clapt on.

But ah! how lordly wisdom errs, In trusting to extinguishers! One day, when he had left all sure, (At least, so thought he) dark, secure-- The flame, at all its exits, entries, Obstructed to his heart's content, And black extinguishers, like sentries, Placed over every dangerous vent-- Ye Gods, imagine his amaze, His wrath, his rage, when, on returning, He found not only the old blaze, Brisk as before, crackling and burning,-- Not only new, young conflagrations, Popping up round in various stations-- But still more awful, strange and dire, The Extinguishers themselves on fire!![1] They, they--those trusty, blind machines His Lordship had so long been praising, As, under Providence, the means Of keeping down all lawless blazing, Were now, themselves--alas, too true, The shameful fact--turned blazers too, And by a change as odd as cruel Instead of dampers, served for fuel! Thus, of his only hope bereft, "What," said the great man, "must be done?"-- All that, in scrapes like this, is left To great men is--to cut and run. So run he did; while to their grounds, The banisht Ghebers blest returned; And, tho' their Fire had broke its bounds, And all abroad now wildly burned, Yet well could they, who loved the flame, Its wandering, its excess reclaim; And soon another, fairer Dome Arose to be its sacred home, Where, cherisht, guarded, not confined, The living glory dwelt inshrined, And, shedding lustre strong, but even, Tho' born of earth, grew worthy heaven.

MORAL.

The moral hence my Muse infers Is, that such Lords are simple elves, In trusting to Extinguishers, That are combustible themselves.

[1] The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant _mots_, which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the "Letters to Julia,"--a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.

FABLE VIII.

LOUIS FOURTEENTH'S WIG.

The money raised--the army ready-- Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy Valiantly braying in the van, To the old tune "_"Eh, eh, Sire Àne_!"[1]-- Naught wanting, but some _coup_ dramatic, To make French _sentiment_ explode, Bring in, at once, the _goût_ fanatic, And make the war "_la dernière mode_"-- Instantly, at the _Pavillon Marsan_, Is held an Ultra consultation-- What's to be done, to help the farce on? What stage-effect, what decoration, To make this beauteous France forget, In one, grand, glorious _pirouette_, All she had sworn to but last week, And, with a cry of _Magnifique_!" Rush forth to this, or _any_ war, Without inquiring once--"What for?" After some plans proposed by each. Lord Chateaubriand made a speech, (Quoting, to show what men's rights are, Or rather what men's rights _should be_, From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Tsar, And other friends to Liberty,) Wherein he--having first protested 'Gainst humoring the mob--suggested (As the most high-bred plan he saw For giving the new War _éclat_) A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame, To be got up at Notre Dame, In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness! Had by his _hilt_ acquired such fame, 'Twas hoped that he as little shyness Would show, when to _the point_ he came,) Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted, Be christened _Hero_, ere he started; With power, by Royal Ordonnance, To bear that name--at least in France. Himself--the Viscount Chateaubriand-- (To help the affair with more _esprit_ on) Offering, for this baptismal rite, Some of his own famed Jordan water[2]-- (Marie Louise not having quite Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her.) The baptism, in _this_ case, to be Applied to that extremity, Which Bourbon heroes most expose; And which (as well all Europe knows) Happens to be, in this Defender Of the true Faith, extremely tender.

Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme Too rash and premature should seem-- If thus discounting heroes, _on_ tick-- This glory, by anticipation, Was too much in the _genre romantique_ For such a highly classic nation, He begged to say, the Abyssinians A practice had in their dominions, Which, if at Paris got up well. In full _costume_, was sure to tell. At all great epochs, good or ill, They have, says BRUCE (and BRUCE ne'er budges From the strict truth), a Grand Quadrille In public danced by the Twelve Judges[3]-- And he assures us, the grimaces, The _entre-chats_, the airs and graces Of dancers, so profound and stately, Divert the Abyssinians greatly.

"Now (said the Viscount), there's but few "Great Empires where this plan would do: "For instance, England;--let them take "What pains they would--'twere vain to strive-- "The twelve stiff Judges there would make "The worst Quadrille-set now alive. "One must have seen them, ere one could "Imagine properly JUDGE WOOD, "Performing, in hie wig, so gayly, "A _queue-de chat_ with JUSTICE BAILLY! "_French_ Judges, tho', are, by no means, "This sort of stiff, be-wigged machines; "And we, who've seen them at _Saumur_ "And _Poitiers_ lately, may be sure "They'd dance quadrilles or anything, "That would be pleasing to the King-- "Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do, "To please the little Duc de Bordeaux!"

After these several schemes there came Some others--needless now to name, Since that, which Monsieur planned, himself, Soon doomed all others to the shelf, And was received _par acclamation_ As truly worthy the _Grande Nation_.

It seems (as Monsieur told the story) That LOUIS the Fourteenth,--that glory, That _Coryphée_ of all crowned pates,-- That pink of the Legitimates-- Had, when, with many a pious prayer, he Bequeathed unto the Virgin Mary His marriage deeds, and _cordon bleu_, Bequeathed to her his State Wig too-- (An offering which, at Court, 'tis thought, The Virgin values as she ought)-- That Wig, the wonder of all eyes, The Cynosure of Gallia's skies, To watch and tend whose curls adored, Re-build its towering roof, when flat, And round its rumpled base, a Board Of sixty barbers daily sat, With Subs, on State-Days, to assist, Well pensioned from the Civil List:-- That wondrous Wig, arrayed in which, And formed alike to awe or witch. He beat all other heirs of crowns, In taking mistresses and towns, Requiring but a shot at _one_, A smile at _t'other_, and 'twas done!--

"That Wig" (said Monsieur, while his brow Rose proudly,) "is existing now;-- "That Grand Perruque, amid the fall "Of every other Royal glory, "With curls erect survives them all, "And tells in every hair their story. "Think, think, how welcome at this time "A relic, so beloved, sublime! "What worthier standard of the Cause "Of Kingly Right can France demand? "Or who among our ranks can pause "To guard it, while a curl shall stand? "Behold, my friends"--(while thus he cried, A curtain, which concealed this pride Of Princely Wigs was drawn aside) "Behold that grand Perruque--how big "With recollections for the world-- "For France--for us--Great Louis's Wig, "By HIPPOLYTE new frizzed and curled-- "_New frizzed_! alas, 'tis but too true, "Well may you start at that word _new_-- "But such the sacrifice, my friends, "The Imperial Cossack recommends; "Thinking such small concessions sage, "To meet the spirit of the age, "And do what best that spirit flatters, "In Wigs--if not in weightier matters. "Wherefore to please the Tsar, and show "That _we_ too, much-wronged Bourbons, know "What liberalism in Monarchs is, "We have conceded the New Friz! "Thus armed, ye gallant Ultras, say, "Can men, can Frenchmen, fear the fray? "With this proud relic in our van, "And D'ANGOULEME our worthy leader, "Let rebel Spain do all she can, "Let recreant England arm and feed her,-- "Urged by that pupil of HUNT'S school, "That Radical, Lord LIVERPOOL-- "France can have naught to fear--far from it-- "When once astounded Europe sees "The Wig of LOUIS, like a Comet, "Streaming above the Pyrenées, "All's o'er with Spain--then on, my sons, "On, my incomparable Duke, "And, shouting for the Holy Ones, "Cry _Vive la Guerre--et la Perrugue!"_

[1] They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the ass, finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this elegant anthem, "_Eh, eh, eh, Sire Àne, eh, eh, eh. Sire Àne_."-- WARTEN'S Essay on Pope.

[2] Brought from the river Jordan by M. Chateaubriand, and presented to the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon.

[3] "On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the figure-dance," etc.--Book. v.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

_Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo travestimento_. CASTIGLIONE.

PREFACE.

In what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. FUDGE'S Second Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose _Secret Services_ in Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord CASTLEREAGH, have been so amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, THOMAS REYNOLDS, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend the training of that _Delatorian Cohort_ which Lord SIDMOUTH, in his wisdom and benevolence, has organized.

Whether Mr. FUDGE, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear from the following pages. But much may be expected from a person of his zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to _him_, Lord SIDMOUTH, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of _discoveries_ are now most anxiously directed.

I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BOB FUDGE'S Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, etc.; --but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette's thin drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-meaning persons, the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision and had not returned when the last sheet was put to press.

It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this opportunity of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the public. Dr. KING wrote a treatise to prove that BENTLEY "was not the author of his own book," and a similar absurdity has been asserted of _me_, in almost all the best-informed literary circles. With the name of the real author staring them in the face, they have yet persisted in attributing my works to other people; and the fame of the "Twopenny Post- Bag"--such as it is--having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it, I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him.

I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245 Piccadilly, I shall have the honor of assuring them, _in propriâ personâ_, that I am--his, or her,

Very obedient and very humble Servant,

_April_ 17, 1818.

THOMAS BROWN THE YOUNGER.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS