The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory, and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When, in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,—
Ere sorrow came, or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,

And mortals saw, without surprise,
In the mid-air, angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.

Alas, that Passion should profane,
Ev'n then, the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth—
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!

One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side, where hung the ray
Of sunset, brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they look'd, from time to time,
To the far sky, where Daylight furl'd
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world—
Spirits, who once, in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss, near Alla stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from Alla's throne ,

Creatures of light, such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And through their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!

Of Heaven they spoke, and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charm'd them thence;
Till, yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence—
The silent breathing of the flowers—
The melting light that beam'd above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,—
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When, like a bird, from its high nest
Won down by fascinating eyes,
For Woman's smile he lost the skies.

The First who spoke was one, with look
The least celestial of the three—

A Spirit of light mould, that took
The prints of earth most yieldingly;
Who, ev'n in heaven, was not of those
Nearest the Throne , but held a place
Far off, among those shining rows
That circle out through endless space,
And o'er whose wings the light from Him
In Heaven's centre falls most dim.

Still fair and glorious, he but shone
Among those youths the' unheavenliest one—
A creature, to whom light remain'd
From Eden still, but alter'd, stain'd,
And o'er whose brow not Love alone
A blight had, in his transit, cast,
But other, earthlier joys had gone,
And left their foot-prints as they pass'd.

Sighing, as back through ages flown,
Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran,
Lifting each shroud that Time had thrown
O'er buried hopes, he thus began:—

The Mahometans believe, says D'Herbelot, that in that early period of the world, “les hommes n'eurent qu'une seule religion, et furent souvent visités des Anges, qui leur donnoient la main.”

“To which will be joined the sound of the bells hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the Throne, so often as the Blessed wish for music.” —See Sale's Koran, Prelim. Dissert.

The ancient Persians supposed that this Throne was placed in the Sun, and that through the stars were distributed the various classes of Angels that encircled it.

The Basilidians supposed that there were three hundred and sixty-five orders of angels, “dont la perfection alloit en décroissant, à mesure qu'ils s'éloignoient de la première classe d'esprits placés dans le premier ciel.”

See Dupuis, Orig. des Cultes, tom. ii. p. 112.

FIRST ANGEL'S STORY.

“'Twas in a land, that far away
Into the golden orient lies,
Where Nature knows not night's delay,
But springs to meet her bridegroom, Day,
Upon the threshold of the skies.
One morn, on earthly mission sent ,
And mid-way choosing where to light,
I saw, from the blue element—
Oh beautiful, but fatal sight!—
One of earth's fairest womankind,
Half veil'd from view, or rather shrin'd
In the clear crystal of a brook;
Which, while it hid no single gleam
Of her young beauties, made them look
More spirit-like, as they might seem
Through the dim shadowing of a dream.

Pausing in wonder I look'd on,
While, playfully around her breaking
The waters, that like diamonds shone,
She mov'd in light of her own making.
At length, as from that airy height
I gently lower'd my breathless flight,
The tremble of my wings all o'er
(For through each plume I felt the thrill)
Startled her, as she reach'd the shore
Of that small lake—her mirror still—
Above whose brink she stood, like snow
When rosy with a sunset glow.
Never shall I forget those eyes!—
The shame, the innocent surprise
Of that bright face, when in the air
Uplooking, she beheld me there.
It seem'd as if each thought, and look,
And motion were that minute chain'd
Fast to the spot, such root she took,
And—like a sunflower by a brook,
With face upturn'd—so still remain'd!

In pity to the wondering maid,
Though loth from such a vision turning,

Downward I bent, beneath the shade
Of my spread wings to hide the burning
Of glances, which—I well could feel—
For me, for her, too warmly shone;
But, ere I could again unseal
My restless eyes, or even steal
One sidelong look, the maid was gone—
Hid from me in the forest leaves,
Sudden as when, in all her charms
Of full-blown light, some cloud receives
The Moon into his dusky arms.

'Tis not in words to tell the power,
The despotism that, from that hour,
Passion held o'er me. Day and night
I sought around each neighbouring spot;
And, in the chase of this sweet light,
My task, and heaven, and all forgot;—
All, but the one, sole, haunting dream
Of her I saw in that bright stream.

Nor was it long, ere by her side
I found myself, whole happy days,

Listening to words, whose music vied
With our own Eden's seraph lays,
When seraph lays are warm'd by love,
But, wanting that, far, far above!—
And looking into eyes where, blue
And beautiful, like skies seen through
The sleeping wave, for me there shone
A heaven, more worshipp'd than my own.
Oh what, while I could hear and see
Such words and looks, was heaven to me?
Though gross the air on earth I drew,
'Twas blessed, while she breath'd it too;
Though dark the flowers, though dim the sky,
Love lent them light, while she was nigh.
Throughout creation I but knew
Two separate worlds—the one, that small,
Belov'd, and consecrated spot
Where Lea was—the other, all
The dull, wide waste, where she was not!

But vain my suit, my madness vain;
Though gladly, from her eyes to gain
One earthly look, one stray desire,
I would have torn the wings, that hung

Furl'd at my back, and o'er the Fire
In Gehim's pit their fragments flung;—
'Twas hopeless all—pure and unmov'd
She stood, as lilies in the light
Of the hot noon but look more white;—
And though she lov'd me, deeply lov'd,
'Twas not as man, as mortal—no,
Nothing of earth was in that glow—
She lov'd me but as one, of race
Angelic, from that radiant place
She saw so oft in dreams—that Heaven,
To which her prayers at morn were sent,
And on whose light she gaz'd at even,
Wishing for wings, that she might go

Out of this shadowy world below,
To that free, glorious element!

Well I remember by her side
Sitting at rosy even-tide,
When,—turning to the star, whose head
Look'd out, as from a bridal bed,
At that mute, blushing hour,—she said,
“Oh! that it were my doom to be
“The Spirit of yon beauteous star,
“Dwelling up there in purity,
“Alone, as all such bright things are;—
“My sole employ to pray and shine,
“To light my censer at the sun,
“And cast its fire towards the shrine
“Of Him in heaven, the Eternal One!”

So innocent the maid, so free
From mortal taint in soul and frame,
Whom 'twas my crime—my destiny—
To love, aye, burn for, with a flame,
To which earth's wildest fires are tame.
Had you but seen her look, when first
From my mad lips the' avowal burst;

Not anger'd—no—the feeling came
From depths beyond mere anger's flame—
It was a sorrow, calm as deep,
A mournfulness that could not weep,
So fill'd her heart was to the brink,
So fix'd and froz'n with grief, to think
That angel natures—that ev'n I,
Whose love she clung to, as the tie
Between her spirit and the sky—
Should fall thus headlong from the height
Of all that heaven hath pure and bright!

That very night—my heart had grown
Impatient of its inward burning;
The term, too, of my stay was flown,
And the bright Watchers near the throne,
Already, if a meteor shone
Between them and this nether zone,
Thought 'twas their herald's wing returning.
Oft did the potent spell-word, given
To Envoys hither from the skies,
To be pronounc'd, when back to heaven
It is their time or wish to rise,

Come to my lips that fatal day;
And once, too, was so nearly spoken,
That my spread plumage in the ray
And breeze of heaven began to play;—
When my heart fail'd—the spell was broken—
The word unfinish'd died away,
And my check'd plumes, ready to soar,
Fell slack and lifeless as before.

How could I leave a world, which she,
Or lost or won, made all to me?
No matter where my wanderings were,
So there she look'd, breath'd, mov'd about—
Woe, ruin, death, more sweet with her,
Than Paradise itself, without!

But, to return—that very day
A feast was held, where, full of mirth,
Came—crowding thick as flowers that play
In summer winds—the young and gay
And beautiful of this bright earth.
And she was there, and 'mid the young
And beautiful stood first, alone;

Though on her gentle brow still hung
The shadow I that morn had thrown—
The first, that ever shame or woe
Had cast upon its vernal snow.
My heart was madden'd;—in the flush
Of the wild revel I gave way
To all that frantic mirth—that rush
Of desperate gaiety, which they,
Who never felt how pain's excess
Can break out thus, think happiness!
Sad mimicry of mirth and life,
Whose flashes come but from the strife
Of inward passions—like the light
Struck out by clashing swords in fight.

Then, too, that juice of earth, the bane
And blessing of man's heart and brain—
That draught of sorcery, which brings
Phantoms of fair, forbidden things—
Whose drops, like those of rainbows, smile
Upon the mists that circle man,
Bright'ning not only Earth, the while,
But grasping Heaven, too, in their span!—

Then first the fatal wine-cup rain'd
Its dews of darkness through my lips ,
Casting whate'er of light remain'd
To my lost soul into eclipse;
And filling it with such wild dreams,
Such fantasies and wrong desires,
As, in the absence of heaven's beams,
Haunt us for ever—like wild-fires
That walk this earth, when day retires.

Now hear the rest;—our banquet done,
I sought her in the' accustom'd bower,
Where late we oft, when day was gone,
And the world hush'd, had met alone,
At the same silent, moonlight hour.

Her eyes, as usual, were upturn'd
To her lov'd star, whose lustre burn'd
Purer than ever on that night;
While she, in looking, grew more bright,
As though she borrow'd of its light.

There was a virtue in that scene,
A spell of holiness around,
Which, had my burning brain not been
Thus madden'd, would have held me bound,
As though I trod celestial ground.
Ev'n as it was, with soul all flame,
And lips that burn'd in their own sighs,
I stood to gaze, with awe and shame—
The memory of Eden came
Full o'er me when I saw those eyes;
And tho' too well each glance of mine
To the pale, shrinking maiden prov'd
How far, alas, from aught divine,
Aught worthy of so pure a shrine,
Was the wild love with which I lov'd,
Yet must she, too, have seen—oh yes,
'Tis soothing but to think she saw

The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness,
The homage of an Angel's awe
To her, a mortal, whom pure love
Then plac'd above him—far above—
And all that struggle to repress
A sinful spirit's mad excess,
Which work'd within me at that hour,
When, with a voice, where Passion shed
All the deep sadness of her power,
Her melancholy power—I said,
“Then be it so; if back to heaven
“I must unlov'd, unpitied fly,
“Without one blest memorial given
“To soothe me in that lonely sky;
“One look, like those the young and fond
“Give when they're parting—which would be,
“Ev'n in remembrance, far beyond
“All heaven hath left of bliss for me!

“Oh, but to see that head recline
“A minute on this trembling arm,
“And those mild eyes look up to mine,
“Without a dread, a thought of harm!

“To meet, but once, the thrilling touch
“Of lips too purely fond to fear me—
“Or, if that boon be all too much,
“Ev'n thus to bring their fragrance near me!
“Nay, shrink not so—a look—a word—
“Give them but kindly and I fly;
“Already, see, my plumes have stirr'd,
“And tremble for their home on high.
“Thus be our parting—cheek to cheek—
“One minute's lapse will be forgiven,
“And thou, the next, shalt hear me speak
“The spell that plumes my wing for heaven!”

While thus I spoke, the fearfull maid,
Of me, and of herself afraid,
Had shrinking stood, like flowers beneath
The scorching of the south-wind's breath:
But when I nam'd—alas, too well,
I now recall, though wilder'd then,—
Instantly, when I nam'd the spell,
Her brow, her eyes uprose again,
And, with an eagerness, that spoke
The sudden light that o'er her broke,

“The spell, the spell!—oh, speak it now,
“And I will bless thee!” she exlaim'd—
Unknowing what I did, inflam'd,
And lost already, on her brow
I stamp'd one burning kiss, and nam'd
The mystic word, till then ne'er told
To living creature of earth's mould!
Scarce was it said, when, quick as thought,
Her lips from mine, like echo, caught
The holy sound—her hands and eyes
Were instant lifted to the skies,
And thrice to heaven she spoke it out
With that triumphant look Faith wears,
When not a cloud of fear or doubt,
A vapour from this vale of tears,
Between her and her God appears!

That very moment her whole frame
All bright and glorified became,
And at her back I saw unclose
Two wings, magnificent as those
That sparkle around Alla's Throne,
Whose plumes, as buoyantly she rose
Above me, in the moon-beam shone

With a pure light, which—from its hue,
Unknown upon this earth—I knew
Was light from Eden, glistening through!
Most holy vision! ne'er before
Did aught so radiant—since the day
When Eblis, in his downfal, bore
The third of the bright stars away—
Rise, in earth's beauty, to repair
That loss of light and glory there!

But did I tamely view her flight?
Did not I, too, proclaim out thrice
The powerful words that were, that night,—
Oh ev'n for heaven too much delight!—
Again to bring us, eyes to eyes,
And soul to soul, in Paradise?
I did—I spoke it o'er and o'er—
I pray'd, I wept, but all in vain;
For me the spell had power no more.
There seem'd around me some dark chain
Which still, as I essay'd to soar,
Baffled, alas, each wild endeavour:
Dead lay my wings, as they have lain

Since tha sad hour, and will remain—
So wills the' offended God—for ever!

It was to yonder star I trac'd
Her journey up the' illumin'd waste—
That isle in the blue firmament,
To which so oft her fancy went
In wishes and in dreams before,
And which was now—such, Purity,
Thy blest reward—ordain'd to be
Her home of light for evermore!
Once—or did I but fancy so?—
Ev'n in her flight to that fair sphere,
Mid all her spirit's new-felt glow,
A pitying look she turn'd below
On him who stood in darkness here;
Him whom, perhaps, if vain regret
Can dwell in heaven, she pities yet;
And oft, when looking to this dim
And distant world, remembers him.

But soon that passing dream was gone;
Farther and farther off she shone,

Till lessen'd to a point, as small
As are those specks that yonder burn,—
Those vivid drops of light, that fall
The last from Day's exhausted urn.
And when at length she merg'd, afar,
Into her own immortal star,
And when at length my straining sight
Had caught her wing's last fading ray,
That minute from my soul the light
Of heaven and love both pass'd away;
And I forgot my home, my birth,
Profan'd my spirit, sunk my brow,
And revell'd in gross joys of earth,
Till I became—what I am now!”

The Spirit bow'd his head in shame;
A shame, that of itself would tell—
Were there not ev'n those breaks of flame,
Celestial, through his clouded frame—
How grand the height from which he fell!
That holy Shame, which ne'er forgets
The' unblench'd renown it us'd to wear;
Whose blush remains, when Virtue sets,
To show her sunshine has been there.

Once only, while the tale he told,
Were his eyes lifted to behold
That happy stainless star, where she
Dwelt in her bower of purity!
One minute did he look, and then—
As thou he felt some deadly pain
From its sweet light through heart and brain—
Shrunk back, and never look'd again.

It appears that, in most languages, the term employed for an angel means also a messenger. Firischteh, the Persian word for angel, is derived (says D'Herbelot) from the verb Firischtin, to send. The Hebrew term, too, Melak, has the same signification.

The name given by the Mahometans to the infernal regions, over which, they say, the angel Tabhek presides.

By the seven gates of hell, mentioned in the Koran, the commentators understand seven different departments or wards, in which seven different sorts of sinners are to be punished. The first, called Gehennem, is for sinful Mussulmans; the second, Ladha, for Christian offenders; the third, Hothama, is appointed for Jews; and the fourth and fifth, called Sair and Sacar, are destined to receive the Sabæans and the worshippers of fire: in the sixth, named Gehim, those pagans and idolaters who admit a plurality of gods are placed; while into the abyss of the seventh, called Derk Asfal, or the Deepest, the hypocritical canters of all religions are thrown.

I have already mentioned that some of the circumstances of this story were suggested to me by the eastern legend of the two angels, Harut and Marut, as given by Mariti, who says that the author of the Taalim founds upon it the Mahometan prohibition of wine. I have since found that Mariti's version of the tale (which differs also from that of Dr. Prideaux, in his Life of Mahomet,) is taken from the French Encyclopédie, in which work, under the head “Arot et Marot,” the reader will find it.

The Bahardanush tells the fable differently.

Who was the Second Spirit? he
With the proud front and piercing glance—
Who seem'd, when viewing heaven's expanse,
As though his far-sent eye could see
On, on into the' Immensity
Behind the veils of that blue sky,
Where Alla's grandest secrets lie?—
His wings, the while, though day was gone,
Flashing with many a various hue
Of light they from themselves alone,
Instinct with Eden's brightness, drew.

'Twas Rubi—once among the prime
And flower of those bright creatures, nam'd
Spirits of Knowledge , who o'er Time
And Space and Thought an empire claim'd,
Second alone to Him, whose light
Was, ev'n to theirs, as day to night;
'Twixt whom and them was distance far
And wide, as would the journey be
To reach from any island star
The vague shores of Infinity!

'Twas Rubi, in whose mournful eye
Slept the dim light of days gone by;
Whose voice, though sweet, fell on the ear
Like echoes, in some silent place,
When first awak'd for many a year;
And when he smil'd, if o'er his face
Smile ever shone, 'twas like the grace
Of moonlight rainbows, fair, but wan,
The sunny life, the glory gone.

Ev'n o'er his pride, though still the same,
A softening shade from sorrow came;
And though at times his spirit knew
The kindlings of disdain and ire,
Short was the fitful glare they threw—
Like the last flashes, fierce but few,
Seen through some noble pile on fire!

Such was the Angel, who now broke
The silence that had come o'er all,
When he, the Spirit that last spoke,
Clos'd the sad history of his fall;
And, while a sacred lustre, flown
For many a day, relum'd his cheek—
Beautiful, as in days of old;
And no those eloquent lips alone
But every feature seem'd to speak—
Thus his eventful story told:—

The Kerubiim, as the Mussulmans call them, are often joined indiscriminately with the Asrafil or Seraphim, under one common name of Azazil, by which all spirits who approach near the throne of Alla are designated.

SECOND ANGEL'S STORY.

“You both remember well the day,
When unto Eden's new-made bowers,
Alla convok'd the bright array
Of his supreme angelic powers,
To witness the one wonder yet,
Beyond man, angel, star, or sun,
He must achieve, ere he could set
His seal upon the world, as done—
To see that last perfection rise,
That crowning of creation's birth,
When, mid the worship and surprise
Of circling angels, Woman's eyes
First open'd upon heaven and earth;
And from their lids a thrill was sent,
That through each living spirit went
Like first light through the firmament!

Can you forget how gradual stole
The fresh-awaken'd breath of soul

Throughout her perfect form—which seem'd
To grow transparent, as there beam'd
That dawn of Mind within, and caught
New loveliness from each new thought?
Slow as o'er summer seas we trace
The progress of the noontide air,
Dimpling its bright and silent face
Each minute into some new grace,
And varying heaven's reflections there—
Or, like the light of evening, stealing
O'er some fair temple, which all day
Hath slept in shadow, slow revealing
Its several beauties, ray by ray,
Till it shines out, a thing to bless,
All full of light and loveliness.

Can you forget her blush, when round
Through Eden's lone, enchanted ground
She look'd, and saw, the sea—the skies—
And heard the rush of many a wing,
On high behests then vanishing;
And saw the last few angel eyes,
Still lingering—mine among the rest,—
Reluctant leaving scenes so blest?

From that miraculous hour, the fate
Of this new, glorious Being dwelt
For ever, with a spell-like weight,
Upon my spirit—early, late,
Whate'er I did, or dream'd, or felt,
The thought of what might yet befall
That matchless creature mix'd with all.—
Nor she alone, but her whole race
Through ages yet to come—whate'er
Of feminine, and fond, and fair,
Should spring from that pure mind and face,
All wak'd my soul's intensest care;
Their forms, souls, feelings, still to me
Creation's strangest mystery!

It was my doom—ev'n from the first,
When witnessing the primal burst
Of Nature's wonders, I saw rise
Those bright creations in the skies,—
Those worlds instinct with life and light,
Which Man, remote, but sees by night,—
It was my doom still to be haunted
By some new wonder, some sublime
And matchless work, that, for the time
Held all my soul, enchain'd, enchanted,

And left me not a thought, a dream,
A word, but on that only theme!

The wish to know—that endless thirst,
Which ev'n by quenching is awak'd,
And which becomes or blest or curst,
As is the fount whereat 'tis slak'd—
Still urg'd me onward, with desire
Insatiate, to explore, inquire—
Whate'er the wondrous things might be,
That wak'd each new idolatry—
Their cause, aim, source, whence-ever sprung—
Their inmost powers, as though for me
Existence on that knowledge hung.

Oh what a vision were the stars,
When first I saw them burn on high,
Rolling along, like living cars
Of light, for gods to journey by!

They were my heart's first passion—days
And nights, unwearied, in their rays
Have I hung floating, till each sense
Seem'd full of their bright influence.
Innocent joy! alas, how much
Of misery had I shunn'd below,
Could I have still liv'd blest with such;
Nor, proud and restless, burn'd to know
The knowledge that brings guilt and woe.
Often—so much I lov'd to trace
The secrets of this starry race—
Have I at morn and evening run
Along the lines of radiance spun
Like webs, between them and the sun,
Untwisting all the tangled ties
Of light into their different dyes—
Then fleetly wing'd I off, in quest
Of those, the farthest, loneliest,

That watch, like winking sentinels ,
The void, beyond which Chaos dwells;
And there, with noiseless plume, pursued
Their track through that grand solitude,
Asking intently all and each
What soul within their radiance dwelt,
And wishing their sweet light were speech,
That they might tell me all they felt.

Nay, oft, so passionate my chase
Of these resplendent heirs of space,
Oft did I follow—lest a ray
Should 'scape me in the farthest night—
Some pilgrim Comet, on his way
To visit distant shrines of light,
And well remember how I sung
Exultingly, when on my sight

New worlds of stars, all fresh and young,
As if just born of darkness, sprung!

Such was my pure ambition then,
My sinless transport, night and morn;
Ere yet this newer world of men,
And that most fair of stars was born
Which I, in fatal hour, saw rise
Among the flowers of Paradise!
Thenceforth my nature all was chang'd,
My heart, soul, senses turn'd below;
And he, who but so lately rang'd
Yon wonderful expanse, where glow
Worlds upon worlds,—yet found his mind
Ev'n in that luminous range confin'd,—
Now blest the humblest, meanest sod
Of the dark earth where Woman trod!
In vain my former idols glisten'd
From their far thrones; in vain these ears
To the once-thrilling music listen'd,
That hymn'd around my favourite spheres—
To earth, to earth each thought was given,
That in this half-lost soul had birth;

Like some high mount, whose head's in heaven,
While its whole shadow rests on earth!

Nor was it Love, ev'n yet, that thrall'd
My spirit in his burning ties;
And less, still less could it be call'd
That grosser flame, round which Love flies
Nearer and nearer, till he dies—
No, it was wonder, such as thrill'd
At all God's works my dazzled sense;
The same rapt wonder, only fill'd
With passion, more profound, intense,—
A vehement, but wandering fire,
Which, though nor love, nor yet desire,—
Though through all womankind it took
Its range, as lawless lightnings run,
Yet wanted but a touch, a look,
To fix it burning upon One.

Then, too, the ever-restless zeal,
The' insatiate curiosity
To know how shapes, so fair, must feel—
To look, but once, beneath the seal
Of so much loveliness, and see

What souls belong'd to such bright eyes—
Whether, as sun-beams find their way
Into the gem that hidden lies,
Those looks could inward turn their ray,
And make the soul as bright as they:
All this impell'd my anxious chase,
And still the more I saw and knew
Of Woman's fond, weak, conquering race,
The' intenser still my wonder grew.

I had beheld their First, their Eve,
Born in that splendid Paradise,
Which sprung there solely to receive
The first light of her waking eyes.
I had seen purest angels lean
In worship o'er her from above;
And man—oh yes, had envying seen
Proud man possess'd of all her love.

I saw their happiness, so brief,
So exquisite,—her error, too,
That easy trust, that prompt belief
In what the warm heart wishes true;

That faith in words, when kindly said,
By which the whole fond sex is led—
Mingled with—what I durst not blame,
For 'tis my own—that zeal to know,
Sad, fatal zeal, so sure of woe;
Which, though from heaven all pure it came,
Yet stain'd, misus'd, brought sin and shame
On her, on me, on all below!

I had seen this; had seen Man, arm'd,
As his soul is, with strength and sense,
By her first words to ruin charm'd;
His vaunted reason's cold defence,
Like an ice-barrier in the ray
Of melting summer, smil'd away.
Nay, stranger yet, spite of all this—
Though by her counsels taught to err,
Though driv'n from Paradise for her,
(And with her—that, at least, was bliss,)
Had I not heard him, ere he crost
The threshold of that earthly heaven,
Which by her wildering smile he lost—
So quickly was the wrong forgiven!—

Had I not heard him, as he prest
The frail, fond trembler to a breast
Which she had doom'd to sin and strife,
Call her—ev'n then—his Life! his Life!
Yes, such the love-taught name, the first,
That ruin'd Man to Woman gave,
Ev'n in his outcast hour, when curst
By her fond witchery, with that worst
And earliest boon of love, the grave!
She, who brought death into the world,
There stood before him, with the light
Of their lost Paradise still bright
Upon those sunny locks, that curl'd
Down her white shoulders to her feet—
So beautiful in form, so sweet
In heart and voice, as to redeem
The loss, the death of all things dear,
Except herself—and make it seem
Life, endless Life, while she was near!

Could I help wondering at a creature,
Thus circled round with spells so strong—
One, to whose every thought, word, feature,
In joy and woe, through right and wrong,
Such sweet omnipotence heaven gave,
To bless or ruin, curse or save?

Nor did the marvel cease with her—
New Eves in all her daughters came,
As strong to charm, as weak to err,
As sure of man through praise and blame,
Whate'er they brought him, pride or shame,
He still the' unreasoning worshipper,
And they, throughout all time, the same
Enchantresses of soul and frame,
Into whose hands, from first to last,
This world with all its destinies,
Devotedly by heaven seems cast,
To save or ruin, as they please!
Oh, 'tis not to be told how long,
How restlessly I sigh'd to find
Some one, from out that witching throng,
Some abstract of the form and mind

Of the whole matchless sex, from which,
In my own arms beheld, possest,
I might learn all the powers to witch,
To warm, and (if my fate unblest
Would have it) ruin, of the rest!
Into whose inward soul and sense
I might descend, as doth the bee
Into the flower's deep heart, and thence
Rifle, in all its purity,
The prime, the quintessence, the whole
Of wondrous Woman's frame and soul!

At length, my burning wish, my prayer—
(For such—oh what will tongues not dare,
When hearts go wrong?—this lip preferr'd)—
At length my ominous prayer was heard—
But whether heard in heaven or hell,
Listen—and thou wilt know too well.

There was a maid, of all who move
Like visions o'er this orb, most fit
To be a bright young angel's love,
Herself so bright, so exquisite!
The pride, too, of her step, as light
Along the' unconscious earth she went,

Seem'd that of one, born with a right
To walk some heav'nlier element,
And tread in places where her feet
A star at every step should meet.
'Twas not alone that loveliness
By which the wilder'd sense is caught—
Of lips, whose very breath could bless;
Of playful blushes, that seem'd nought
But luminous escapes of thought;
Of eyes that, when by anger stirr'd,
Were fire itself, but, at a word
Of tenderness, all soft became
As though they could, like the sun's bird,
Dissolve away in their own flame—
Of form, as pliant as the shoots
Of a young tree, in vernal flower;
Yet round and glowing as the fruits,
That drop from it in summer's hour;—
'Twas not alone this loveliness
That falls to loveliest women's share,
Though, even here, her form could spare
From its own beauty's rich excess
Enough to make ev'n them more fair—

But 'twas the Mind, outshining clear
Through her whole frame—the soul, still near,
To light each charm, yet independent
Of what it lighted, as the sun
That shines on flowers, would be resplendent
Were there no flowers to shine upon—
'Twas this, all this, in one combin'd—
The' unnumber'd looks and arts that form
The glory of young woman-kind,
Taken, in their perfection, warm,
Ere time had chill'd a single charm,
And stamp'd with such a seal of Mind,
As gave to beauties, that might be
Too sensual else, too unrefin'd,
The impress of Divinity!

'Twas this—a union, which the hand
Of Nature kept for her alone,
Of every thing most playful, bland,
Voluptuous, spiritual, grand,
In angel-natures and her own—
Oh this it was that drew me nigh
One, who seem'd kin to heaven as I,
A bright twin-sister from on high—

One, in whose love, I felt, were given
The mix'd delights of either sphere,
All that the spirit seeks in heaven,
And all the senses burn for here.

Had we—but hold—hear every part
Of our sad tale—spite of the pain
Remembrance gives, when the fix'd dart
Is stirr'd thus in the wound again—
Hear every step, so full of bliss,
And yet so ruinous, that led
Down to the last, dark precipice,
Where perish'd both—the fall'n, the dead!

From the first hour she caught my sight,
I never left her—day and night
Hovering unseen around her way,
And mid her loneliest musings near,
I soon could track each thought that lay,
Gleaming within her heart, as clear
As pebbles within brooks appear;
And there, among the countless things
That keep young hearts for ever glowing,

Vague wishes, fond imaginings,
Love-dreams, as yet no object knowing—
Light, winged hopes, that come when bid,
And rainbow joys that end in weeping;
And passions, among pure thoughts hid,
Like serpents under flow'rets sleeping:—
'Mong all these feelings—felt where'er
Young hearts are beating—I saw there
Proud thoughts, aspirings high—beyond
Whate'er yet dwelt in soul so fond—
Glimpses of glory, far away
Into the bright, vague future given;
And fancies, free and grand, whose play,
Like that of eaglets, is near heaven!
With this, too—what a soul and heart
To fall beneath the tempter's art!—
A zeal for knowledge, such as ne'er
Enshrin'd itself in form so fair,
Since that first, fatal hour, when Eve,
With every fruit of Eden blest,
Save one alone—rather than leave
That one unreach'd, lost all the rest.

It was in dreams that first I stole
With gentle mastery o'er her mind—

In that rich twilight of the soul,
When reason's beam, half hid behind
The clouds of sleep, obscurely gilds
Each shadowy shape the Fancy builds—
'Twas then, by that soft light, I brought
Vague, glimmering visions to her view;—
Catches of radiance, lost when caught,
Bright labyrinths, that led to nought,
And vistas, with no pathway through;—
Dwellings of bliss, that opening shone,
Then clos'd, dissolv'd, and left no trace—
All that, in short, could tempt Hope on,
But give her wing no resting-place;
Myself the while, with brow, as yet,
Pure as the young moon's coronet,
Through every dream still in her sight,

The' enchanter of each mocking scene,
Who gave the hope, then brought the blight,
Who said, “Behold yon world of light,”
Then sudden dropt a veil between!

At length, when I perceiv'd each thought,
Waking or sleeping, fix'd on nought
But these illusive scenes, and me—

The phantom, who thus came and went,
In half revealments, only meant
To madden curiosity—
When by such various arts I found
Her fancy to its utmost wound,
One night—'twas in a holy spot,
Which she for pray'r had chos'n—a grot
Of purest marble, built below
Her garden beds, through which a glow
From lamps invisible then stole,
Brightly pervading all the place—
Like that mysterious light the soul,
Itself unseen, sheds through the face.
There, at her altar while she knelt,
And all that woman ever felt,
When God and man both claim'd her sighs—
Every warm thought, that ever dwelt,
Like summer clouds, 'twixt earth and skies,
Too pure to fall, too gross to rise,
Spoke in her gestures, tones, and eyes—
Then, as the mystic light's soft ray
Grew softer still, as tho' its ray
Was breath'd from her, I heard her say:—

“Oh idol of my dreams! whate'er
“Thy nature be—human, divine,
“Or but half heav'nly—still too fair,
“Too heavenly to be ever mine!

“Wonderful Spirit, who dost make
“Slumber so lovely, that it seems
“No longer life to live awake,
“Since heaven itself descends in dreams,

“Why do I ever lose thee? why
“When on thy realms and thee I gaze
“Still drops that veil, which I could die,
“Oh gladly, but one hour to raise?

“Long ere such miracles as thou
“And thine came o'er my thoughts, a thirst
“For light was in this soul, which now
“Thy looks have into passion nurs'd.

“There's nothing bright above, below,
“In sky—earth—ocean, that this breast
“Doth not intensely burn to know,
“And thee, thee, thee, o'er all the rest!

“Then come, oh Spirit, from behind
“The curtains of thy radiant home,
“If thou would'st be as angel shrin'd,
“Or lov'd and clasp'd as mortal, come!

“Bring all thy dazzling wonders here,
“That I may, waking, know and see;
“Or waft me hence to thy own sphere,
“Thy heaven or—aye, even that with thee!

“Demon or God, who hold'st the book
“Of knowledge spread beneath thine eye,
“Give me, with thee, but one bright look
“Into its leaves, and let me die!

“By those ethereal wings, whose way
“Lies through an element, so fraught
“With living Mind, that, as they play,
“Their every movement is a thought!

“By that bright, wreathed hair, between
“Whose sunny clusters the sweet wind
“Of Paradise so late hath been,
“And left its fragrant soul behind!

“By those impassion'd eyes, that melt
“Their light into the inmost heart;
“Like sunset in the waters, felt
“As molten fire through every part—

“I do implore thee, oh most bright
“And worshipp'd Spirit, shine but o'er
“My waking, wondering eyes this night,
“This one blest night—I ask no more!”

Exhausted, breathless, as she said
These burning words, her languid head
Upon the altar's steps she cast,
As if that brain-throb were its last—

Till, startled by the breathing, nigh,
Of lips, that echoed back her sigh,
Sudden her brow again she rais'd;
And there, just lighted on the shrine,
Beheld me—not as I had blaz'd
Around her, full of light divine,
In her late dreams, but soften'd down
Into more mortal grace;—my crown

Of flowers, too radiant for this world,
Left hanging on yon starry steep;
My wings shut up, like banners furl'd,
When Peace hath put their pomp to sleep;
Or like autumnal clouds, that keep
Their lightnings sheath'd, rather than mar
The dawning hour of some young star;
And nothing left, but what beseem'd
The' accessible, though glorious mate
Of mortal woman—whose eyes beam'd
Back upon hers, as passionate;
Whose ready heart brought flame for flame,
Whose sin, whose madness was the same;
And whose soul lost, in that one hour,
For her and for her love—oh more
Of heaven's light than ev'n the power
Of heav'n itself could now restore!

And yet, that hour!”—
The Spirit here
Stopp'd in his utterance, as if words
Gave way beneath the wild career
Of his then rushing thoughts—like chords,

Midway in some enthusiast's song,
Breaking beneath a touch too strong;
While the clench'd hand upon the brow
Told how remembrance throbb'd there now!
But soon 'twas o'er—that casual blaze
From the sunk fire of other days—
That relic of a flame, whose burning
Had been too fierce to be relum'd,
Soon pass'd away, and the youth, turning
To his bright listeners, thus resum'd:—

“Days, months elaps'd, and, though what most
On earth I sigh'd for was mine, all—
Yet—was I happy? God, thou know'st,
Howe'er they smile, and feign, and boast,
What happiness is theirs, who fall!
'Twas bitterest anguish—made more keen
Ev'n by the love, the bliss, between
Whose throbs it came, like gleams of hell
In agonizing cross-light given
Athwart the glimpses, they who dwell
In purgatory catch of heaven!

The only feeling that to me
Seem'd joy—or rather my sole rest
From aching misery—was to see
My young, proud, blooming Lilis blest.
She, the fair fountain of all ill
To my lost soul—whom yet its thirst
Fervidly panted after still,
And found the charm fresh as at first—
To see her happy—to reflect
Whatever beams still round me play'd
Of former pride, of glory wreck'd,
On her, my Moon, whose light I made,
And whose soul worshipp'd ev'n my shade—
This was, I own, enjoyment—this
My sole, last lingering glimpse of bliss.

And proud she was, fair creature!—proud,
Beyond what ev'n most queenly stirs
In woman's heart, nor would have bow'd
That beautiful young brow of hers
To aught beneath the First above,
So high she deem'd her Cherub's love!

Then, too, that passion, hourly growing
Stronger and stronger—to which even
Her love, at times, gave way—of knowing
Every thing strange in earth and heaven;
Not only all that, full reveal'd,
The' eternal Alla loves to show,
But all that He hath wisely seal'd
In darkness, for man not to know—
Ev'n this desire, alas, ill-starr'd
And fatal as it was, I sought
To feed each minute, and unbarr'd
Such realms of wonder on her thought,
As ne'er, till then, had let their light
Escape on any mortal's sight!
In the deep earth—beneath the sea—
Through caves of fire—through wilds of air—

Wherever sleeping Mystery
Had spread her curtain, we were there—
Love still beside us, as we went,
At home in each new element,
And sure of worship every where!

Then first was Nature taught to lay
The wealth of all her kingdoms down
At woman's worshipp'd feet, and say,
“Bright creature, this is all thine own!”
Then first were diamonds, from the night ,
Of earth's deep centre brought to light,
And made to grace the conquering way
Of proud young beauty with their ray.

Then, too, the pearl from out its shell
Unsightly, in the sunless sea,
(As 'twere a spirit, forc'd to dwell
In form unlovely) was set free,
And round the neck of woman threw
A light it lent and borrow'd too.
For never did this maid—whate'er
The' ambition of the hour—forget
Her sex's pride in being fair;
Nor that adornment, tasteful, rare,
Which makes the mighty magnet, set
In Woman's form, more mighty yet.
Nor was there aught within the range
Of my swift wing in sea or air,
Of beautiful, or grand, or strange,
That, quickly as her wish could change,
I did not seek, with such fond care,
That when I've seen her look above
At some bright star admiringly,
I've said, “Nay, look not there, my love ,
Alas, I cannot give it thee!”

But not alone the wonders found
Through Nature's realm—the' unveil'd, material,
Visible glories, that abound,
Through all her vast, enchanted ground—
But whatsoe'er unseen, ethereal,
Dwells far away from human sense,
Wrapp'd in its own intelligence—
The mystery of that Fountain-head,
From which all vital spirit runs,
All breath of Life, where'er 'tis spread
Through men or angels, flowers or suns—
The workings of the' Almighty Mind,
When first o'er Chaos he design'd
The outlines of this world; and through
That depth of darkness—like the bow,
Call'd out of rain-clouds, hue by hue —
Saw the grand, gradual picture grow;—
The covenant with human kind
By Alla made —the chains of Fate

He round himself and them hath twin'd,
Till his high task he consummate;—
Till good from evil, love from hate,
Shall be work'd out through sin and pain,
And Fate shall loose her iron chain,
And all be free, be bright again!

Such were the deep-drawn mysteries,
And some, ev'n more obscure, profound,
And wildering to the mind than these,
Which—far as woman's thought could sound,
Or a fall'n, outlaw'd spirit reach—
She dar'd to learn, and I to teach.
Till—fill'd with such unearthly lore,
And mingling the pure light it brings
With much that fancy had, before,
Shed in false, tinted glimmerings—
The' enthusiast girl spoke out, as one
Inspir'd, among her own dark race,
Who from their ancient shrines would run,
Leaving their holy rites undone,
To gaze upon her holier face.

And, though but wild the things she spoke,
Yet, mid that play of error's smoke
Into fair shapes by fancy curl'd,
Some gleams of pure religion broke—
Glimpses, that have not yet awoke,
But startled the still dreaming world!
Oh, many a truth, remote, sublime,
Which Heav'n would from the minds of men
Have kept conceal'd, till its own time,
Stole out in these revealments then—
Revealments dim, that have fore-run,
By ages, the great, Sealing One!
Like that imperfect dawn, or light
Escaping from the Zodiac's signs,
Which makes the doubtful east half bright,
Before the real morning shines!

Thus did some moons of bliss go by—
Of bliss to her, who saw but love

And knowledge throughout earth and sky;
To whose enamour'd soul and eye,
I seem'd—as is the sun on high—
The light of all below, above,
The spirit of sea, and land, and air,
Whose influence, felt every where,
Spread from its centre, her own heart,
Ev'n to the world's extremest part;
While through that world her reinless mind
Had now career'd so fast and far,
That earth itself seem'd left behind,
And her proud fancy, unconfin'd,
Already saw Heaven's gates ajar!

Happy enthusiast! still, oh, still
Spite of my own heart's mortal chill,
Spite of that double-fronted sorrow,
Which looks at once before and back,
Beholds the yesterday, the morrow,
And sees both comfortless, both black—
Spite of all this, I could have still
In her delight forgot all ill;
Or, if pain would not be forgot,
At least have borne and murmur'd not.

When thoughts of an offended heaven,
Of sinfulness, which I—ev'n I,
While down its steep most headlong driven—
Well knew could never be forgiven,
Came o'er me with an agony
Beyond all reach of mortal woe—
A torture kept for those who know,
Know every thing, and—worst of all—
Know and love Virtue while they fall!
Ev'n then, her presence had the power
To soothe, to warm—nay, ev'n to bless—
If ever bliss could graft its flower
On stem so full of bitterness—
Ev'n then her glorious smile to me
Brought warmth and radiance, if not balm;
Like moonlight o'er a troubled sea,
Brightening the storm it cannot calm.

Oft, too, when that disheartening fear,
Which all who love, beneath yon sky,
Feel, when they gaze on what is dear—
The dreadful thought that it must die!
That desolating thought, which comes
Into men's happiest hours and homes;

Whose melancholy boding flings
Death's shadow o'er the brightest things,
Sicklies the infant's bloom, and spreads
The grave beneath young lovers' heads!
This fear, so sad to all—to me
Most full of sadness, from the thought
That I must still live on , when she
Would, like the snow that on the sea
Fell yesterday, in vain be sought;
That heaven to me this final seal
Of all earth's sorrow would deny,
And I eternally must feel
The death-pang, without power to die!
Ev'n this, her fond endearments—fond
As ever cherish'd the sweet bond
'Twixt heart and heart—could charm away;
Before her look no clouds would stay,
Or, if they did, their gloom was gone,
Their darkness put a glory on!

But 'tis not, 'tis not for the wrong,
The guilty, to be happy long;
And she, too, now, had sunk within
The shadow of her tempter's sin,
Too deep for ev'n Omnipotence
To snatch the fated victim thence!

Listen, and, if a tear there be
Left in your hearts, weep it for me.

'Twas on the evening of a day,
Which we in love had dreamt away;
In that same garden, where—the pride
Of seraph splendour laid aside,
And those wings furl'd, whose open light
For mortal gaze were else too bright—
I first had stood before her sight,
And found myself—oh, ecstasy,
Which ev'n in pain I ne'er forget—
Worshipp'd as only God should be,
And lov'd as never man was yet!
In that same garden were we now,
Thoughtfully side by side reclining,
Her eyes turn'd upward, and her brow
With its own silent fancies shining.

It was an evening bright and still
As ever blush'd on wave or bower,
Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill
Could happen in so sweet an hour.
Yet, I remember, both grew sad
In looking at that light—ev'n she,
Of heart so fresh, and brow so glad,
Felt the still hour's solemnity,
And thought she saw, in that repose,
The death-hour not alone of light,
But of this whole fair world—the close
Of all things beautiful and bright—
The last, grand sunset, in whose ray
Nature herself died calm away!

At length, as though some livelier thought
Had suddenly her fancy caught,
She turn'd upon me her dark eyes,
Dilated into that full shape
They took in joy, reproach, surprise,
As 'twere to let more soul escape,
And, playfully as on my head
Her white hand rested, smil'd and said:—

“I had, last night, a dream of thee,
“Resembling those divine ones, given,
“Like preludes to sweet minstrelsy,
“Before thou cam'st, thyself, from heaven.

“The same rich wreath was on thy brow,
“Dazzling as if of starlight made;
“And these wings, lying darkly now,
“Like meteors round thee flash'd and play'd.

“Thou stood'st, all bright, as in those dreams,
“As if just wafted from above;
“Mingling earth's warmth with heaven's beams,
“A creature to adore and love.

“Sudden I felt thee draw me near
“To thy pure heart, where, fondly plac'd,
“I seem'd within the atmosphere
“Of that exhaling light embrac'd;

“And felt, methought, the' ethereal flame
“Pass from thy purer soul to mine;
“Till—oh, too blissful—I became,
“Like thee, all spirit, all divine!

“Say, why did dream so blest come o'er me,
“If, now I wake, 'tis faded, gone?
“When will my Cherub shine before me
“Thus radiant, as in heaven he shone?

“When shall I, waking, be allow'd
“To gaze upon those perfect charms,
“And clasp thee once, without a cloud,
“A chill of earth, within these arms?

“Oh what a pride to say, this, this
“Is my own Angel—all divine,
“And pure, and dazzling as he is,
“And fresh from heaven—he's mine, he's mine!

“Think'st thou, were Lilis in thy place,
“A creature of yon lofty skies,
“She would have hid one single grace,
“One glory from her lover's eyes?

“No, no—then, if thou lov'st like me,
“Shine out, young Spirit, in the blaze
“Of thy most proud divinity,
“Nor think thou'lt wound this mortal gaze.

“Too long and oft I've look'd upon
“Those ardent eyes, intense ev'n thus—
“Too near the stars themselves have gone,
“To fear aught grand or luminous.

“Then doubt me not—oh, who can say
“But that this dream may yet come true,
“And my blest spirit drink thy ray,
“Till it becomes all heavenly too?

“Let me this once but feel the flame
“Of those spread wings, the very pride
“Will change my nature, and this frame
“By the mere touch be deified!”

Thus spoke the maid, as one, not us'd
To be by earth or heav'n refus'd—
As one, who knew her influence o'er
All creatures, whatsoe'er they were,
And, though to heaven she could not soar,
At least would bring down heaven to her.

Little did she, alas, or I—
Ev'n I, whose soul, but half-way yet

Immerg'd in sin's obscurity
Was as the earth whereon we lie,
O'er half whose disk the sun is set—
Little did we foresee the fate,
The dreadful—how can it be told?
Such pain, such anguish to relate
Is o'er again to feel, behold!
But, charg'd as 'tis, my heart must speak
Its sorrow out, or it will break!
Some dark misgivings had, I own,
Pass'd for a moment through my breast—
Fears of some danger, vague, unknown,
To one, or both—something unblest
To happen from this proud request.
But soon these boding fancies fled;
Nor saw I aught that could forbid
My full revealment, save the dread
Of that first dazzle, when, unhid,
Such light should burst upon a lid
Ne'er tried in heaven;—and ev'n this glare
She might, by love's own nursing care,
Be, like young eagles, taught to bear.
For well I knew, the lustre shed
From cherub wings, when proudliest spread,

Was, in its nature, lambent, pure,
And innocent as is the light
The glow-worm hangs out to allure
Her mate to her green bower at night.
Oft had I, in the mid-air, swept
Through clouds in which the lightning slept,
As in its lair, ready to spring,
Yet wak'd it not—though from my wing
A thousand sparks fell glittering!
Oft too when round me from above
The feather'd snow, in all its whiteness,
Fell, like the moultings of heaven's Dove ,—
So harmless, though so full of brightness,

Was my brow's wreath, that it would shake
From off its flowers each downy flake
As delicate, unmelted, fair,
And cool as they had lighted there.

Nay ev'n with Lilis—had I not
Around her sleep all radiant beam'd,
Hung o'er her slumbers, nor forgot
To kiss her eye-lids, as she dream'd?
And yet, at morn, from that repose,
Had she not wak'd, unscath'd and bright,
As doth the pure, unconscious rose,
Though by the fire-fly kiss'd all night?

Thus having—as, alas, deceiv'd
By my sin's blindness, I believ'd—
No cause for dread, and those dark eyes
Now fix'd upon me, eagerly
As though the' unlocking of the skies
Then waited but a sign from me—
How could I pause? how ev'n let fall
A word, a whisper that could stir
In her proud heart a doubt, that all
I brought from heaven belong'd to her

Slow from her side I rose, while she
Arose, too, mutely, tremblingly,
But not with fear—all hope, and pride,
She waited for the awful boon,
Like priestesses, at eventide,
Watching the rise of the full moon,
Whose light, when once its orb hath shone,
'Twill madden them to look upon!

Of all my glories, the bright crown,
Which, when I last from heaven came down,
Was left behind me, in yon star
That shines from out those clouds afar,—
Where, relic sad, 'tis treasur'd yet,
The downfall'n angel's coronet!—
Of all my glories, this alone
Was wanting:—but the' illumin'd brow,
The sun-bright locks, the eyes that now
Had love's spell added to their own,
And pour'd a light till then unknown;—
The' unfolded wings, that, in their play,
Shed sparkles bright as Alla's throne;
All I could bring of heaven's array,
Of that rich panoply of charms

A Cherub moves in, on the day
Of his best pomp, I now put on;
And, proud that in her eyes I shone
Thus glorious, glided to her arms;
Which still (though, at a sight so splendid,
Her dazzled brow had, instantly,
Sunk on her breast,) were wide extended
To clasp the form she durst not see!
Great Heav'n! how could thy vengeance light
So bitterly on one so bright?
How could the hand, that gave such charms,
Blast them again, in love's own arms?
Scarce had I touch'd her shrinking frame,
When—oh most horrible!—I felt
That every spark of that pure flame—
Pure, while among the stars I dwelt—
Was now, by my transgression, turn'd
Into gross, earthly fire, which burn'd,
Burn'd all it touch'd, as fast as eye
Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes;
Till there—oh God, I still ask why

Such doom was hers?—I saw her lie
Black'ning within my arms to ashes!
That brow, a glory but to see—
Those lips, whose touch was what the first
Fresh cup of immortality
Is to a new-made angel's thirst!
Those clasping arms, within whose round—
My heart's horizon—the whole bound
Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found!
Which, ev'n in this dread moment, fond
As when they first were round me cast,
Loos'd not in death the fatal bond,
But, burning, held me to the last!
All, all, that, but that morn, had seem'd
As if Love's self there breath'd and beam'd,
Now, parch'd and black, before me lay,
Withering in agony away;
And mine, oh misery! mine the flame,
From which this desolation came;—
I, the curst spirit, whose caress
Had blasted all that loveliness!

'Twas maddening!—but now hear even worse—
Had death, death only, been the curse

I brought upon her—had the doom
But ended here, when her young bloom
Lay in the dust—and did the spirit
No part of that fell curse inherit,
'Twere not so dreadful—but, come near—
Too shocking 'tis for earth to hear—
Just when her eyes, in fading, took
Their last, keen, agoniz'd farewell,
And look'd in mine with—oh, that look!
Great vengeful Power, whate'er the hell
Thou may'st to human souls assign,
The memory of that look is mine!—

In her last struggle, on my brow
Her ashy lips a kiss imprest,
So withering!—I feel it now—
'Twas fire—but fire, ev'n more unblest
Than was my own, and like that flame,
The angels shudder but to name,
Hell's everlasting element!
Deep, deep it pierc'd into my brain,
Madd'ning and torturing as it went;
And here—mark here, the brand, the stain

It left upon my front—burnt in
By that last kiss of love and sin—
A brand, which all the pomp and pride
Of a fallen Spirit cannot hide!

But is it thus, dread Providence—
Can it, indeed, be thus, that she,
Who, (but for one proud, fond offence,)
Had honour'd heaven itself, should be
Now doom'd—I cannot speak it—no,
Merciful Alla! 'tis not so—
Never could lips divine have said
The fiat of a fate so dread.
And yet, that look—so deeply fraught
With more than anguish, with despair—
That new, fierce fire, resembling nought
In heaven or earth—this scorch I bear!—
Oh—for the first time that these knees
Have bent before thee since my fall,
Great Power, if ever thy decrees
Thou could'st for prayer like mine recall,
Pardon that spirit, and on me,
On me, who taught her pride to err,

Shed out each drop of agony
Thy burning phial keeps for her!
See, too, where low beside me kneel
Two other outcasts, who, though gone
And lost themselves, yet dare to feel
And pray for that poor mortal one.
Alas, too well, too well they know
The pain, the penitence, the woe
That Passion brings upon the best,
The wisest, and the loveliest.—
Oh, who is to be sav'd, if such
Bright, erring souls are not forgiven;
So loth they wander, and so much
Their very wanderings lean tow'rds heaven!
Again, I cry, Just Power, transfer
That creature's sufferings all to me—
Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be,
To save one minute's pain to her,
Let mine last all eternity!”

He paus'd, and to the earth bent down
His throbbing head; while they, who felt
That agony as 'twere their own,
Those angel youths, beside him knelt,

And, in the night's still silence there,
While mournfully each wandering air
Play'd in those plumes, that never more
To their lost home in heav'n must soar,
Breath'd inwardly the voiceless prayer,
Unheard by all but Mercy's ear—
And which if Mercy did not hear,
Oh, God would not be what this bright
And glorious universe of His,
This world of beauty, goodness, light
And endless love proclaims He is!

“C'est un fait indubitable que la plupart des anciens philosophes, soit Chaldéens, soit Grecs, nous ont donné les astres comme animés, et ont soutenu que les astres, qui nous éclairent n'étoient que, ou les chars, ou même les navires des Intelligences qui les conduisoient. Pour les Chars, cela se lit partout; on n'a qu'ouvrir Pline, St. Clément,” &c. &c.— Mémoire Historique, sur le Sabiisme, par M. Fourmont.

A belief that the stars are either spirits or the vehicles of spirits, was common to all the religions and heresies of the East. Kircher has given the names and stations of the seven archangels, who were by the Cabala of the Jews distributed through the planets.

According to the cosmogony of the ancient Persians, there were four stars set as sentinels in the four quarters of the heavens, to watch over the other fixed stars, and superintend the planets in their course. The names of these four centinel stars are, according to the Boundesh, Taschter, for the east; Satevis, for the west; Venand, for the south; and Haftorang, for the north.

Chavah, or, as it is in Arabic, Havah (the name by which Adam called the woman after their transgression), means “Life.”

Called by the Mussulmans Al Araf—a sort of wall or partition which, according to the 7th chapter of the Koran, separates hell from paradise, and where they, who have not merits sufficient to gain them immediate admittance into heaven, are supposed to stand for a certain period, alternately tantalized and tormented by the sights that are on either side presented to them.

Manes, who borrowed in many instances from the Platonists, placed his purgatories, or places of purification, in the Sun and Moon. —Beausobre, liv. iii. chap. 8.

“Quelques gnomes désireux de devenir immortels, avoient voulu gagner les bonnes graces des nos filles, et leur avoient apporté des pierreries dont ils sont gardiens naturels: et ces auteurs ont crû, s'appuyans sur le livre d'Enoch mal-entendu, que c'étoient des pièges que les anges amoureux,” &c. &c. —Comte de Gabalis.

As the fiction of the loves of angels with women gave birth to the fanciful world of sylphs and gnomes, so we owe to it also the invention of those beautiful Genii and Peris, which embellish so much the mythology of the East; for in the fabulous histories of Caiöumarath, of Thamurath, &c., these spiritual creatures are always represented as the descendants of Seth, and called the Bani Algiann, or children of Giann.

I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarle's loses much of its grace and playfulness, by being put into the mouth of any but a human lover.

According to Whitehurst's theory, the mention of rainbows by an antediluvian angel is an anachronism; as he says, “There was no rain before the flood, and consequently no rainbow, which accounts for the novelty of this sight after the Deluge.”

For the terms of this compact, of which the angels were supposed to be witnesses, see the chapter of the Koran, entitled Al Araf, and the article “Adam” in D'Herbelot.

In acknowledging the authority of the great Prophets who had preceded him, Mahomet represented his own mission as the final “Seal,” or consummation of them all.

The Zodiacal Light.

Pococke, however, gives it as the opinion of the Mahometan doctors, that all souls, not only of men and of animals, living either on land or in the sea, but of the angels also, must necessarily taste of death.

The Dove, or pigeon which attended Mahomet as his Familiar, and was frequently seen to whisper into his ear, was, if I recollect right, one of that select number of animals (including also the ant of Solomon, the dog of the Seven Sleepers, &c.) which were thought by the Prophet worthy of admission into Paradise.

“The Moslems have a tradition that Mahomet was saved (when he hid himself in a cave in Mount Shur) by his pursuers finding the mouth of the cave covered by a spider's web, and a nest built by two pigeons at the entrance, with two eggs unbroken in it, which made them think no one could have entered it. In consequence of this, they say, Mahomet enjoined his followers to look upon pigeons as sacred, and never to kill a spider.” —Modern Universal History, vol. i.

“Mohammed (says Sale), though a prophet, was not able to bear the sight of Gabriel, when he appeared in his proper form, much less would others be able to support it.”

Not long they knelt, when, from a wood
That crown'd that airy solitude,
They heard a low, uncertain sound,
As from a lute, that just had found
Some happy theme, and murmur'd round
The new-born fancy, with fond tone,
Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own!
Till soon a voice, that match'd as well
That gentle instrument, as suits

The sea-air to an ocean-shell,
(So kin its spirit to the lute's),
Tremblingly follow'd the soft strain,
Interpreting its joy, its pain,
And lending the light wings of words
To many a thought, that else had lain
Unfledg'd and mute among the chords.

All started at the sound—but chief
The third young Angel, in whose face,
Though faded like the others, grief
Had left a gentler, holier trace;
As if, ev'n yet, through pain and ill,
Hope had not fled him—as if still
Her precious pearl, in sorrow's cup,
Unmelted at the bottom lay,
To shine again, when, all drunk up,
The bitterness should pass away.
Chiefly did he, though in his eyes
There shone more pleasure than surprise,
Turn to the wood, from whence that sound
Of solitary sweetness broke;
Then, listening, look delighted round
To his bright peers, while thus it spoke:—

“Come, pray with me, my seraph love,
“My angel-lord, come pray with me;
“In vain to-night my lip hath strove
“To send one holy prayer above—
“The knee may bend, the lip may move,
“But pray I cannot, without thee!
“I've fed the altar in my bower
“With droppings from the incense tree;
“I've shelter'd it from wind and shower,
“But dim it burns the livelong hour,
“As if, like me, it had no power
“Of life or lustre, without thee!

“A boat at midnight sent alone
“To drift upon the moonless sea,
“A lute, whose leading chord is gone,
“A wounded bird, that hath but one
“Imperfect wing to soar upon,
“Are like what I am, without thee!

“Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide,
“In life or death, thyself from me;
“But when again, in sunny pride,
“Thou walk'st through Eden, let me glide,

“A prostrate shadow, by thy side—
“Oh happier thus than without thee!”

The song had ceas'd, when, from the wood
Which, sweeping down that airy height,
Reach'd the lone spot whereon they stood—
There suddenly shone out a light
From a clear lamp, which, as it blaz'd
Across the brow of one, who rais'd
Its flame aloft (as if to throw
The light upon that group below),
Display'd two eyes, sparkling between
The dusky leaves, such as are seen
By fancy only, in those faces,
That haunt a poet's walk at even,
Looking from out their leafy places
Upon his dreams of love and heaven.
'Twas but a moment—the blush, brought
O'er all her features at the thought
Of being seen thus, late, alone,
By any but the eyes she sought,
Had scarcely for an instant shone
Through the dark leaves, when she was gone—

Gone, like a meteor that o'erhead
Suddenly shines, and, ere we've said,
“Behold, how beautiful!”—'tis fled.

Yet, ere she went, the words, “I come,
“I come, my Nama,” reach'd her ear,
In that kind voice, familiar, dear,
Which tells of confidence, of home,—
Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near,
Till they grow one,—of faith sincere,
And all that Love most loves to hear;
A music, breathing of the past,
The present and the time to be,
Where Hope and Memory, to the last,
Lengthen out life's true harmony!

Nor long did he, whom call so kind
Summon'd away, remain behind;
Nor did there need much time to tell
What they—alas, more fall'n than he
From happiness and heaven—knew well,
His gentler love's short history!

Thus did it run—not as he told
The tale himself, but as 'tis grav'd

Upon the tablets that, of old,
By Seth were from the deluge sav'd,
All written over with sublime
And saddening legends of the' unblest,
But glorious Spirits of that time,
And this young Angel's 'mong the rest.

Seth is a favourite personage among the Orientals, and acts a conspicuous part in many of their most extravagant romances. The Syrians pretended to have a Testament of this Patriarch in their possession, in which was explained the whole theology of angels, their different orders, &c. &c. The Curds, too (as Hyde mentions in his Appendix), have a book, which contains all the rites of their religion, and which they call Sohuph Sheit, or the Book of Seth.

In the same manner that Seth and Cham are supposed to have preserved these memorials of antediluvian knowledge, Xixuthrus is said in Chaldæan fable to have deposited in Siparis, the city of the Sun, those monuments of science which he had saved out of the waters of a deluge.—See Jablonski's learned remarks upon these columns or tablets of Seth, which he supposes to be the same with the pillars of Mercury, or the Egyptian Thoth. —Pantheon. Egypt. lib. v. cap. 5.

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY.

Among the Spirits, of pure flame,
That in the' eternal heav'ns abide—
Circles of light, that from the same
Unclouded centre sweeping wide,
Carry its beams on every side—
Like spheres of air that waft around
The undulations of rich sound—
Till the far-circling radiance be
Diffus'd into infinity!
First and immediate near the Throne
Of Alla , as if most his own,
The Seraphs stand —this burning sign
Trac'd on their banner, “Love Divine!”

Their rank, their honours, far above
Ev'n those to high-brow'd Cherubs given,
Though knowing all;—so much doth Love
Transcend all Knowledge, ev'n in heaven!

'Mong these was Zaraph once—and none
E'er felt affection's holy fire,
Or yearn'd towards the' Eternal One,
With half such longing, deep desire.
Love was to his impassion'd soul
Not, as with others, a mere part
Of its existence, but the whole—
The very life-breath of his heart!

Oft, when from Alla's lifted brow
A lustre came, too bright to bear,
And all the seraph ranks would bow,
To shade their dazzled sight, nor dare
To look upon the' effulgence there—
This Spirit's eyes would court the blaze
(Such pride he in adoring took),
And rather lose, in that one gaze,
The power of looking, than not look!
Then too, when angel voices sung
The mercy of their God, and strung
Their harps to hail, with welcome sweet,
That moment, watch'd for by all eyes,
When some repentant sinner's feet
First touch'd the threshold of the skies,
Oh then how clearly did the voice
Of Zaraph above all rejoice!
Love was in every buoyant tone—
Such love, as only could belong
To the blest angels, and alone
Could, ev'n from angels, bring such song!

Alas, that it should e'er have been
In heav'n as 'tis too often here,

Where nothing fond or bright is seen,
But it hath pain and peril near;—
Where right and wrong so close resemble,
That what we take for virtue's thrill
Is often the first downward tremble
Of the heart's balance unto ill;
Where Love hath not a shrine so pure,
So holy, but the serpent, Sin,
In moments, ev'n the most secure,
Beneath his altar may glide in!

So was it with that Angel—such
The charm, that slop'd his fall along,
From good to ill, from loving much,
Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.—
Ev'n so that am'rous Spirit, bound
By beauty's spell, where'er 'twas found,
From the bright things above the moon
Down to earth's beaming eyes descended,
Till love for the Creator soon
In passion for the creature ended.

'Twas first at twilight, on the shore
Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute

And voice of her he lov'd steal o'er
The silver waters, that lay mute,
As loth, by ev'n a breath, to stay
The pilgrimage of that sweet lay;
Whose echoes still went on and on,
Till lost among the light that shone
Far off, beyond the ocean's brim—
There, where the rich cascade of day
Had, o'er the' horizon's golden rim,
Into Elysium roll'd away!
Of God she sung, and of the mild
Attendant Mercy, that beside
His awful throne for ever smil'd,
Ready, with her white hand, to guide
His bolts of vengeance to their prey—
That she might quench them on the way!
Of Peace—of that Atoning Love,
Upon whose star, shining above
This twilight world of hope and fear,
The weeping eyes of Faith are fix'd
So fond, that with her every tear
The light of that love-star is mix'd!—
All this she sung, and such a soul
Of piety was in that song,

That the charm'd Angel, as it stole
Tenderly to his ear, along
Those lulling waters where he lay,
Watching the daylight's dying ray,
Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave,
An echo, that some sea-nymph gave
To Eden's distant harmony,
Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea!

Quickly, however, to its source,
Tracking that music's melting course,
He saw, upon the golden sand
Of the sea-shore a maiden stand,
Before whose feet the' expiring waves
Flung their last offering with a sigh—
As, in the East, exhausted slaves
Lay down the far-brought gift, and die—
And, while her lute hung by her, hush'd,
As if unequal to the tide
Of song, that from her lips still gush'd,
She rais'd, like one beatified,
Those eyes, whose light seem'd rather given
To be ador'd than to adore—

Such eyes, as may have look'd from heaven,
But ne'er were rais'd to it before!

Oh Love, Religion, Music —all
That's left of Eden upon earth—
The only blessings, since the fall
Of our weak souls, that still recall
A trace of their high, glorious birth—
How kindred are the dreams you bring!
How Love, though unto earth so prone,
Delights to take Religion's wing,
When time or grief hath stain'd his own!
How near to Love's beguiling brink,
Too oft, entranc'd Religion lies!
While Music, Music is the link
They both still hold by to the skies,
The language of their native sphere,
Which they had else forgotten here.

How then could Zaraph fail to feel
That moment's witcheries?—one, so fair,

Breathing out music, that might steal
Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer
That seraphs might be proud to share!
Oh, he did feel it, all too well—
With warmth, that far too dearly cost—
Nor knew he, when at last he fell,
To which attraction, to which spell,
Love, Music, or Devotion, most
His soul in that sweet hour was lost.

Sweet was the hour, though dearly won,
And pure, as aught of earth could be,
For then first did the glorious sun
Before religion's altar see
Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie
Self-pledg'd, in love to live and die.
Blest union! by that Angel wove,
And worthy from such hands to come;
Safe, sole asylum, in which Love,
When fall'n or exil'd from above,
In this dark world can find a home.

And, though the Spirit had transgress'd,
Had, from his station 'mong the blest

Won down by woman's smile, allow'd
Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er
The mirror of his heart, and cloud
God's image, there so bright before—
Yet never did that Power look down
On error with a brow so mild;
Never did Justice wear a frown,
Through which so gently Mercy smil'd.
For humble was their love—with awe
And trembling like some treasure kept,
That was not theirs by holy law—
Whose beauty with remorse they saw,
And o'er whose preciousness they wept.
Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot,
Was in the hearts of both—but most
In Nama's heart, by whom alone
Those charms, for which a heaven was lost,
Seem'd all unvalued and unknown;
And when her Seraph's eyes she caught,
And hid hers glowing on his breast,
Ev'n bliss was humbled by the thought—
“What claim have I to be so blest?”

Still less could maid, so meek, have nurs'd
Desire of knowledge—that vain thirst,
With which the sex hath all been curs'd,
From luckless Eve to her, who near
The Tabernacle stole to hear
The secrets of the angels : no—
To love as her own Seraph lov'd,
With Faith, the same through bliss and woe—
Faith, that, were ev'n its light remov'd,
Could, like the dial, fix'd remain,
And wait till it shone out again;—
With Patience that, though often bow'd
By the rude storm, can rise anew;
And Hope that, ev'n from Evil's cloud,
Sees sunny Good half breaking through!
This deep, relying Love, worth more
In heaven than all a Cherub's lore—
This Faith, more sure than aught beside,
Was the sole joy, ambition, pride
Of her fond heart—the' unreasoning scope
Of all its views, above, below—
So true she felt it that to hope,
To trust, is happier than to know.

100

And thus in humbleness they trod,
Abash'd, but pure before their God;
Nor e'er did earth behold a sight
So meekly beautiful as they,
When, with the altar's holy light
Full on their brows, they knelt to pray,
Hand within hand, and side by side,
Two links of love, awhile untied
From the great chain above, but fast
Holding together to the last!—
Two fallen Splendors , from that tree,
Which buds with such eternally ,

101

Shaken to earth, yet keeping all
Their light and freshness in the fall.

Their only punishment, (as wrong,
However sweet, must bear its brand,)
Their only doom was this—that, long
As the green earth and ocean stand,
They both shall wander here—the same,
Throughout all time, in heart and frame—
Still looking to that goal sublime,
Whose light remote, but sure, they see;
Pilgrims of Love, whose way is Time,
Whose home is in Eternity!
Subject, the while, to all the strife,
True Love encounters in this life—
The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain;
The chill, that turns his warmest sighs
To earthly vapour, ere they rise;
The doubt he feeds on, and the pain
That in his very sweetness lies:—

102

Still worse, the' illusions that betray
His footsteps to their shining brink;
That tempt him, on his desert way
Through the bleak world, to bend and drink,
Where nothing meets his lips, alas,—
But he again must sighing pass
On to that far-off home of peace,
In which alone his thirst will cease.

All this they bear, but, not the less,
Have moments rich in happiness—
Blest meetings, after many a day
Of widowhood past far away,
When the lov'd face again is seen
Close, close, with not a tear between—
Confidings frank, without control,
Pour'd mutually from soul to soul;
As free from any fear or doubt
As is that light from chill or stain,
The sun into the stars sheds out,
To be by them shed back again!—
That happy minglement of hearts,
Where, chang'd as chymic compounds are,

103

Each with its own existence parts,
To find a new one, happier far!
Such are their joys—and, crowning all,
That blessed hope of the bright hour,
When, happy and no more to fall,
Their spirits shall, with freshen'd power,
Rise up rewarded for their trust
In Him, from whom all goodness springs,
And, shaking off earth's soiling dust
From their emancipated wings,
Wander for ever through those skies
Of radiance, where Love never dies!

In what lone region of the earth
These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell,
God and the Angels, who look forth
To watch their steps, alone can tell.
But should we, in our wanderings,
Meet a young pair, whose beauty wants
But the adornment of bright wings,
To look like heaven's inhabitants—
Who shine where'er they tread, and yet
Are humble in their earthly lot,

104

As is the way-side violet,
That shines unseen, and were it not
For its sweet breath would be forgot—
Whose hearts, in every thought, are one,
Whose voices utter the same wills—
Answering, as Echo doth some tone
Of fairy music 'mong the hills,
So like itself, we seek in vain
Which is the echo, which the strain—
Whose piety is love, whose love,
Though close as 'twere their souls' embrace,
Is not of earth, but from above—
Like two fair mirrors, face to face,
Whose light, from one to the' other thrown,
Is heaven's reflection, not their own—
Should we e'er meet with aught so pure,
So perfect here, we may be sure
'Tis Zaraph and his bride we see;
And call young lovers round, to view
The pilgrim pair, as they pursue
Their pathway tow'rds eternity.

The Mussulmans, says D'Herbelot, apply the general name, Mocarreboun, to all those Spirits “qui approchent le plus près le Trône.” Of this number are Mikail and Gebrail.

The Seraphim, or Spirits of Divine Love.

There appears to be, among writers on the East, as well as among the Orientals themselves, considerable indecision with regard to the respective claims of Seraphim and Cherubim to the highest rank in the celestial hierarchy. The derivation which Hyde assigns to the word Cherub seems to determine the precedence in favour of that order of spirits:— “Cherubim, i. e. Propinqui Angeli, qui sc. Deo proprius quam alii accedunt; nam Charab est i. q. Karab, appropinquare.” (P. 263.) Al Beidawi, too, one of the commentators of the Koran, on that passage, “the angels, who bear the throne, and those who stand about it,” (chap. xl.) says, “These are the Cherubim, the highest order of angels.” On the other hand, we have seen, in a preceding note, that the Syrians place the sphere in which the Seraphs dwell at the very summit of all the celestial systems; and even, among Mahometans, the word Azazil and Mocarreboun (which mean the spirits that stand nearest to the throne of Alla) are indiscriminately applied to both Seraphim and Cherubim.

“Les Egyptiens disent que la Musique est Sœur de la Religion.” —Voyages de Pythagore, tom. i. p. 422.

Sara.

An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabbala, represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit.

The Sephiroths are the higher orders of emanative being in the strange and incomprehensible system of the Jewish Cabala. They are called by various names, Pity, Beauty, &c. &c.; and their influences are supposed to act through certain canals, which communicate with each other.

The reader may judge of the rationality of this Jewish system by the following explanation of part of the machinery: —“Les canaux qui sortent de la Miséricorde et de la Force, et qui vont aboutir à la Beauté, sont chargés d'un grand nombre d'Anges. Il y en a trente-cinq sur le canal de la Miséricorde, qui recompensent et qui couronnent la vertu des Saints,” &c. &c.—For a concise account of the Cabalistic Philosophy, see Enfield's very useful compendium of Brucker.

“On les représente quelquefois sous la figure d'un arbre ------ l'Ensoph qu'on met au-dessus de l'arbre Sephirotique ou des Splendeurs divins, est l'Infini.” —L'Histoire des Juifs, liv. ix. 11.

105

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

107

SCEPTICISM.

Ere Psyche drank the cup, that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl—

Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips—she knew not why—
Made ev'n that blessed nectar seem
As though its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,
A chill came o'er her heart—a fear
That Death might, even yet, remove
Her spirit from that happy sphere.

108

“Those sunny ringlets,” she exclaim'd,
Twining them round her snowy fingers;
“That forehead, where a light, unnam'd,
“Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

“Those lips, through which I feel the breath
“Of Heav'n itself, whene'er they sever—
“Say, are they mine, beyond all death,
“My own, hereafter, and for ever?

“Smile not—I know that starry brow,
“Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine,
“Will always shine, as they do now—
“But shall I live to see them shine?”

In vain did Love say, “Turn thine eyes
“On all that sparkles round thee here—
“Thou'rt now in heaven, where nothing dies,
“And in these arms—what canst thou fear?”

In vain—the fatal drop, that stole
Into that cup's immortal treasure,
Had lodg'd its bitter near her soul,
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

109

And, though there ne'er was transport given
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,
Hers is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy.

110

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

“Come, come,” said Tom's father, “at your time of life,
“There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake—
“It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife”—
“Why, so it is, father—whose wife shall I take?”

111

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance, which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.
So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeath'd, in dying, to our souls by thee—
So shall the love we bore thee, cherish'd warm
Within our souls through grief, and pain, and strife,
Be, like Elisha's cruise, a holy charm,
Wherewith to “heal the waters” of this life!

112

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

Brighton, June, 1825.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?—
Resembles much friend Ewart's wine,
When first the rosy drops come out,
How beautiful, how clear they shine!

And thus awhile they keep their tint,
So free from even a shade with some,
That they would smile, did you but hint,
That darker drops would ever come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short,
Each minute makes the sad truth plainer,
Till life, like old and crusty port,
When near its close, requires a strainer.

113

This friendship can alone confer,
Alone can teach the drops to pass,
If not as bright as once they were,
At least unclouded, through the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine,
Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,
Than thus, if life grow like old wine,
To have thy friendship for its strainer.

A wine-merchant.

114

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last;
Long as he breath'd the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd,
In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out,
Whatever statesmen did or said,
If not exactly brought about,
'Twas all, at least, contriv'd by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war,
'Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Czar—
(Vide his pamphlet—price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo—
As all but Frenchmen think she was—
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.

115

Then for his news—no envoy's bag
E'er pass'd so many secrets through it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!
From Russia, chefs and ofs in lots,
From Poland, owskis by the dozen.

When George, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd—who advis'd the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright seen the King,
He sent such hints through Viscount This,
To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,
The Drama, Books, MS. and printed—
Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

116

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there, infused some soul in't—
Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had—odd enough—an awkward hole in't.

Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer,
Whatever was the best pye going,
In that Ned—trust him—had his finger.

[OMITTED]

117

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO ------

What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remember'd well
As tho' it shone but yesterday,
When, loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring sun, I heard, o'er-head,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise
As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise;—
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye, whose lustre broke—
Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,

118

(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy,
Danc'd till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all!
Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain
Of lute like mine, whose day is past,
To call up ev'n a dream again
Of the fresh light those moments cast.

119

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

One night the nymph call'd Country Dance—
(Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,
That mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille)—

Having been chased from London down
To that most humble haunt of all
She used to grace—a Country Town—
Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

“Here, here, at least,” she cried, “though driv'n
“From London's gay and shining tracks—
“Though, like a Peri cast from heaven,
“I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's—

“Though not a London Miss alive
“Would now for her acquaintance own me;
“And spinsters, ev'n, of forty-five,
“Upon their honours ne'er have known me;

120

“Here, here, at least, I triumph still,
“And—spite of some few dandy Lancers,
“Who vainly try to preach Quadrille—
“See nought but true-blue Country Dancers.

“Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,
“My throne, like Magna Charta, raise
“'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms,
“That scorn the threaten'd chaine Anglaise.”

'Twas thus she said, as 'mid the din
Of footmen, and the town sedan,
She lighted at the King's Head Inn,
And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The Squires and their Squiresses all,
With young Squirinas, just come out,
And my Lord's daughters from the Hall,
(Quadrillers, in their hearts, no doubt,)—

All these, as light she tripp'd up stairs,
Were in the cloak-room seen assembling—
When, hark! some new, outlandish airs,
From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.

121

She stops—she listens—can it be?
Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it—
It is “Di tanti palpiti”
As plain as English bow can scrape it.

“Courage!” however—in she goes,
With her best, sweeping country grace;
When, ah too true, her worst of foes,
Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin,
Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore,
To sing the rage these nymphs were in,
Their looks and language, airs and trickery.

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face
(The beau-ideal of French beauty),
A band-box thing, all art and lace
Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tye.

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine—
From Hippolyte, her rouge and hair—
Her poetry, from Lamartine—
Her morals, from—the Lord knows where.

122

And, when she danc'd—so slidingly,
So near the ground she plied her art,
You'd swear her mother-earth and she
Had made a compact ne'er to part.

Her face too, all the while, sedate,
No signs of life or motion showing,
Like a bright pendule's dial-plate—
So still, you'd hardly think 'twas going.

Full fronting her stood Country Dance—
A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know
For English, at a single glance—
English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little gauche, 'tis fair to own,
And rather given to skips and bounces;
Endangering thereby many a gown,
And playing, oft, the dev'l with flounces.

Unlike Mamselle—who would prefer
(As morally a lesser ill)
A thousand flaws of character,
To one vile rumple of a frill.

123

No rouge did She of Albion wear;
Let her but run that two-heat race
She calls a Set, not Dian e'er
Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't
Such anger now—whose eyes of blue
(Eyes of that bright, victorious tint,
Which English maids call “Waterloo”)—

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk
Of a warm evening, flashing broke,
While—to the tune of “Money Musk ,”
Which struck up now—she proudly spoke—

“Heard you that strain—that joyous strain?
“'Twas such as England lov'd to hear,
“Ere thou, and all thy frippery train,
“Corrupted both her foot and ear—

“Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands,
“Presum'd, in sight of all beholders,
“To lay his rude, licentious hands
“On virtuous English backs and shoulders—

124

“Ere times and morals both grew bad,
“And, yet unfleec'd by funding blockheads,
“Happy John Bull not only had,
“But danc'd to, ‘Money in both pockets.’

“Alas, the change!—Oh, L---d---y,
“Where is the land could 'scape disasters,
“With such a Foreign Secretary,
“Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?

“Woe to ye, men of ships and shops!
“Rulers of day-books and of waves!
“Quadrill'd, on one side, into fops,
“And drill'd, on t'other, into slaves!

“Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen,
“Like pigeons, truss'd for exhibition,
“With elbows, à la crapaudine,
“And feet, in—God knows what position;

“Hemm'd in by watchful chaperons,
“Inspectors of your airs and graces,
“Who intercept all whisper'd tones,
“And read your telegraphic faces;

125

“Unable with the youth ador'd,
“In that grim cordon of Mammas,
“To interchange one tender word,
“Though whisper'd but in queue-de-chats.

“Ah did you know how blest we rang'd,
“Ere vile Quadrille usurp'd the fiddle—
“What looks in setting were exchang'd,
“What tender words in down the middle;

“How many a couple, like the wind,
“Which nothing in its course controls,
“Left time and chaperons far behind,
“And gave a loose to legs and souls;

“How matrimony throve—ere stopp'd
“By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting—
“How charmingly one's partner popp'd
“The' important question in poussette-ing.

“While now, alas—no sly advances—
“No marriage hints—all goes on badly—
“'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances,
“We, girls, are at a discount sadly.

126

“Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell)
“Declares not half so much is made
“By Licences—and he must know well—
“Since vile Quadrilling spoil'd the trade.”

She ceas'd—tears fell from every Miss—
She now had touch'd the true pathetic:—
One such authentic fact as this,
Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was “Country Dance!”
And the maid saw, with brightening face,
The Steward of the night advance,
And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceas'd,
Now tun'd again their summons sweet,
And, for one happy night, at least,
Old England's triumph was complete.

An old English Country Dance.

127

GAZEL.

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh;
Already, in the' unopen'd flowers
That sleep around us, Fancy's eye
Can see the blush of future bowers;
And joy it brings to thee and me,
My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way,
To feed the marble Founts of Kings,
Now, loosen'd by the vernal ray,
Upon its path exulting springs—
As doth this bounding heart to thee,
My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay;
Enough if they a while remain,
Like Irem's bowers, that fade away,
From time to time, and come again.
And life shall all one Irem be
For us, my gentle Maami.

128

O haste, for this impatient heart,
Is like the rose in Yemen's vale,
That rends its inmost leaves apart
With passion for the nightingale;
So languishes this soul for thee,
My bright and blushing Maami!

129

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. OF DUBLIN.

If ever life was prosperously cast,
If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
'Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,
The simple heart above all worldly wiles;
Light wit that plays along the calm of life,
And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity, that comes not in a shower,
Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,
Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

130

The happy grateful spirit, that improves
And brightens every gift by fortune given;
That, wander where it will with those it loves,
Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.—Oh, thou who read'st this stone,
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky
Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,
That ye like him may live, like him may die!

131

GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

Scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur. Seneca.

Of old, the Sultan Genius reign'd,
As Nature meant, supreme, alone;
With mind uncheck'd, and hands unchain'd,
His views, his conquests were his own.

But power like his, that digs its grave
With its own sceptre, could not last;
So Genius' self became the slave
Of laws that Genius' self had pass'd.

As Jove, who forg'd the chain of Fate,
Was, ever after, doom'd to wear it;
His nods, his struggles all too late—
“Qui semel jussit, semper paret.”

132

To check young Genius' proud career,
The slaves, who now his throne invaded,
Made Criticism his prime Vizir,
And from that hour his glories faded.

Tied down in Legislation's school,
Afraid of even his own ambition,
His very victories were by rule,
And he was great but by permission.

His most heroic deeds—the same,
That dazzled, when spontaneous actions—
Now, done by law, seem'd cold and tame,
And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirr'd to take the air,
Instant, the Vizir's Council sat—
“Good Lord, your Highness can't go there—
“Bless me, your Highness can't do that.”

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy
Rich jewels for his diadem,
“The taste was bad, the price was high—
“A flower were simpler than a gem.”

133

To please them if he took to flowers—
“What trifling, what unmeaning things!
“Fit for a woman's toilet hours,
“But not at all the style for Kings.”

If, fond of his domestic sphere,
He play'd no more the rambling comet—
“A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear,
“But, as for great or brave, far from it.”

Did he then look o'er distant oceans,
For realms more worthy to enthrone him?—
“Saint Aristotle, what wild notions!
“Serve a ‘ne exeat regno’ on him.”

At length, their last and worst to do,
They round him plac'd a guard of watchmen,
Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue
Turn'd up with yellow—chiefly Scotchmen;

To dog his footsteps all about,
Like those in Longwood's prison grounds,
Who at Napoleon's heels rode out,
For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.

134

Oh for some Champion of his power,
Some Ultra spirit, to set free,
As erst in Shakspeare's sovereign hour,
The thunders of his Royalty!—

To vindicate his ancient line,
The first, the true, the only one,
Of Right eternal and divine,
That rules beneath the blessed sun.

135

TO LADY J*R**Y,

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

Written at Middleton.

Oh albums, albums, how I dread
Your everlasting scrap and scrawl!
How often wish that from the dead,
Old Omar would pop forth his head,
And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band,
The blushless blues, who, day and night,
Like duns in doorways, take their stand,
To waylay bards, with book in hand,
Crying for ever, “Write, sir, write!”

So might I shun the shame and pain,
That o'er me at this instant come,
When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain,
Knocks at the portal of my brain,
And gets, for answer, “Not at home!”

November, 1828.

136

TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.

No wonder bards, both high and low,
From Byron down to ***** and me,
Should seek the fame, which all bestow
On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be J*r**y's eyes,
At once all errors are forgiven;
As ev'n old Sternhold still we prize,
Because, though dull, he sings of heaven.

137

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

139

[_]

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.

141

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,

142

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
Amus'd themselves with sticking pins
And needles in the great man's breeches:
And how some very little things,
That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings
Got up, and worried him with speeches.

Alas, alas! that it should happen
To mighty men to be caught napping!—
Though different, too, these persecutions;
For Gulliver, there, took the nap,
While, here, the Nap, oh sad mishap,
Is taken by the Lilliputians!

143

AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

1826.

Bank.

Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks
You and I, in our youth, my dear Government, play'd;
When you call'd me the fondest, the truest of Banks,
And enjoy'd 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 vanish'd?—that “hour (as Othello
So happily calls it) of Love and Direction?”

144

And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow,
Grow good in our old age, and cut the connexion?

Government.

Even so, my belov'd 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 mod'rate and few—
But ours, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to!

So—hard though 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 ,
So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense—

145

The day is at hand, my Papyria Venus,
When—high as we once us'd 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 pass'd)—our amour, it is clear,
Like that which Miss Danäe manag'd with Jove,
Must all be transacted in bullion, my dear!

February, 1826.

------ “An hour
Of love, of worldly matter and direction.”

It appears, however, that Ovid was a friend to the resumption of payment in specie:—

------ “finem, specie cæleste resumtâ,
Luctibus imposuit, venitque salutifer urbi.”

Met. l. 15. v. 743.

Honourable Frederick R*b*ns*n.

So called, to distinguish her from the “Aurea” or Golden Venus.

146

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

“O ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres
Agna lupos, capreæque leones.”
Hor.

Said a Sovereign to a Note,
In the pocket of my coat,
Where they met in a neat purse of leather,
“How happens it, I prithee,
“That, though 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 W*stm---th see so little of each other!”

The indignant Note replied
(Lying crumpled by his side),
“Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, Sir—

147

“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 pass'd,
“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 disown'd by their natural protectors?
“And as to falsehood, stuff!
“I shall soon be false enough,
“When I get among those wicked Bank Directors.”

148

The Sovereign, smiling on her,
Now swore, upon his honour,
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.

149

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

“Quem das finem, Rex magne, laborum?” Virgil.

1826.

How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all
The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn ,
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-physick'd elephant, lately deceas'd,)
Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

150

You might see, my dear Baron, how bor'd and distrest
Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,
When the force of the agony wrung ev'n a jest
From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord L---d---d---le!

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave
A humour, endow'd with effects so provoking,
That, when the whole House looks unusually grave,
You may always conclude that Lord L---d---d---le'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 Ath---l said —
(And the nobles all cheer'd, and the bishops all wonder'd,)

151

“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 publish'd 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 Tread-mill'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 , how he winces.

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.

This noble Earl said, that “when he heard the petition came from ladies' boot and shoemakers, he thought it must be against the ‘corns’ which they inflicted on the fair sex.”

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.”

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

152

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 stunn'd,
That, lost or stolen,
Or fall'n through a hole in
The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

O yes! O yes!
Can any body guess
What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on't,
All brass, in the front,
And R*b*ns*n's, scrawl'd with a goose-quill, under.

153

Folks well knew what
Would soon be its lot,
When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing ,
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, whipp'd 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.

154

Whoever will bring
This aforesaid thing
To the well-known House of Bobinson and Jenkin,
Shall be paid, with thanks,
In the notes of banks,
Whose Funds have all learn'd “the Art of Sinking.”

O yes! O yes!
Can any body guess
What the dev'l has become of this Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on't,
All brass, in the front,
And R*b*ns*n's, scrawl'd with a goose-quill, under.

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

155

ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

BY SIR TH*M*S L---THBR---E.

“Legiferæ Cereri Phœboque.” Virgil.

Dear Goddess of Corn, whom the ancients, we know,
(Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)
Adorn'd 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 know't not the slander and scorn
Now heap'd upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;

156

Improving on Hunt, '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 B*nth*m, 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 “post-prandial vibration.”

There are two Mr. M*lls, too, whom those that love reading
Through all that's unreadable, call very clever;—
And, whereas M*ll Senior makes war on good breeding,
M*ll Junior makes war on all breeding whatever!

157

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 prov'd, to my own satisfaction,
And that of all 'Squires I've the honour of meeting,
That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouth'd detraction
To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the “chaste notions ” 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,
When the Land and the Silk shall, in fond combination,

158

(Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play ,)
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 would be Sir Th*m*s!

A sort of “breakfast-powder,” composed of roasted corn, was about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.

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

A phrase in one of Sir T---m*s's last speeches.

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

“Road to Ruin.”

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 Cyclopædia assures us, has a particular liking for every thing “chaste.”

159

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!) pass'd away,
Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, through thick and thin,—
With Paddy H*lmes for whipper-in,—
Whate'er the job, prepar'd to back it;
Come, voters of Supplies—bestowers
Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers,
At eighty mortal pounds the jacket!

160

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 ask'd) with Mr. Goundry.

Come, matchless country-gentlemen;
Come, wise Sir Thomas—wisest then,
When creeds and corn-laws are debated;
Come, rival ev'n the Harlot Red,
And show how wholly into bread
A 'Squire is transubstantiated.

Come, L---derd---e, and tell the world,
That—surely as thy scratch is curl'd,
As never scratch was curl'd before—
Cheap eating does more harm than good,
And working-people, spoil'd by food,
The less they eat, will work the more.

161

Come, G---lb---rn, 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 Newport ) bought and paid
By Papists for the Orange Altar!

Come, H---rt---n, 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 wond'rous men
Of wit and wisdom, come again;
Though 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.

An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavoured to get rid of:—trumpeters, it appears, like the men of All-Souls, must be “bene vestiti.”

The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his Joint-Stock Tea Company all to himself, singing “Te solo adoro.”

Sir John Newport.

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.”

162

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, though 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 express'd by the Peers,
Lest—calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts—

163

The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets!! [OMITTED]

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 appear'd, though, to-night, that—as church-wardens, yearly,
Eat up a small baby—those cormorant sinners,
The Bankrupt-Commisioners, bolt very nearly
A mod'rate-siz'd bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners!

164

Nota bene—a rumour to-day, in the City,
“Mr. R*b*ns*n just has resign'd”—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 breath'd her ditty:—

Alas, poor Robin, he crow'd 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, “though he play'd me a prank,
“While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be roll'd in't,
“With many a pound I'll paper him round,
“Like a plump rouleau—without the gold in't.‘

[OMITTED]

“Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a greater number of highway robberies.” —Debate in the Lords.

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

165

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 furnish'd with bees.

My banks are all furnish'd 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;—

166

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 though 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 labourers 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, ev'n if you starve for your Daddy,
'Tis all in the family way.

167

My rich manufacturers tumble,
My poor ones have nothing to chew;
And, ev'n 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;
Though, 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.”

168

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. B---kes's Letter to Mr. G---lb---n.

B---kes is weak, and G---lb---n 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.

G---lb---n of the Pope afraid is,
B---kes, 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;

169

B---kes is foolish in Reviews,
G---lb---n, 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;
B---kes he damneth Buckingham,
G---lb---n damneth Dan O'Connell.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Once, we know, a horse's neigh
Fix'd 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.

170

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 frappé, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject.—Yours, &c.

Laudator Temporis Acti.

What a lucky turn-up!—just as Eld---n's withdrawing,
To find thus a gentleman, froz'n 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-wigg'd 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;

171

With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come,
And our Tories will hail him with “Hear!” and “Hurra!”

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 L---nsd---les and H*rtf---rds 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 alter'd, thou hardly wilt know it again.

And Eld---n 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.

172

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 spurr'd, with a black-leg despatch
From the Hell here, at Cr*ckf---rd's, to our Hell, below—

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
To say that, first having obey'd 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 ev'ry good Christian tormented his brother,

173

And caus'd, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
From all coming down, ready grill'd by each other;

Rememb'ring, besides, how it pain'd thee to part
With the Old Penal Code—that chef-d'œuvre of Law,
In which (though to own it too modest thou art)
We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

It thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,
(Though Eld---n, with help from your Highness would try,)
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
Could we get up a thund'ring No-Popery cry;—

That yell which, when chorus'd 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,

174

With a few pints of lava, to gargle the throats
Of myself and some others, who sing it “with fire ,”

Thought I, “if the Marseillois Hymn could command
“Such audience, though yell'd 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 forc'd 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;

175

And certain base voices, that look'd for a fee
At the York music-meeting, now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer,—
Though one or two capital roarers we've had;
Doctor Wise is, for instance, a charming performer,
And Huntingdon Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether, however, the thing was not hearty;—
Even Eld---n 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;—

176

The next opportunity shan't be let slip,
But, till then,
I'm, in haste, your most dutiful
Devil.

July, 1826.

Con fuoco—a music-book direction.

This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the Reading election.

177

THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRV*NG “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 shall abound—
A celestial Cocaigne, on whose buttery shelves

178

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, plac'd 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, ev'n in our own times, a Jubilee share,
Which so long has been promis'd by prophets like thee,
And so often postpon'd, we began to despair.

There was Whiston , who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about;

179

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 discours'd on the subject with signal éclât,
And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see
A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh!

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 Irv*ng.

180

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.

“A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny.” —Rev. vi.

See the oration of this reverend gentleman, where he describes the connubial joys of Paradise, and paints the angels hovering round “each happy fair.”

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 the honour of being known to St. John.”

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.

181

THE THREE DOCTORS.

Doctoribus lætamur tribus.

1826.

Though many great Doctors there be,
There are three that all Doctors out-top,
Doctor Eady, that famous M. D.,
Doctor S---th*y, and dear Doctor Slop.

The purger—the proser—the bard—
All quacks in a different style;
Doctor S---th*y writes books by the yard,
Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile!

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.

182

Doctor Eady good company keeps
With “No Popery” scribes, on the walls;
Doctor S---th*y as gloriously sleeps
With “No Popery” scribes, on the stalls.

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

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

183

Doctor S---th*y, 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, though 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 S---th*y, and Slop!

Should you ask me, to which of the three
Great Doctors the pref'rence should fall,
As a matter of course, I agree
Doctor Eady must go to the wall.

But as S---th*y with laurels is crown'd,
And Slop with a wig and a tail is,

184

Let Eady's bright temples be bound
With a swingeing “Corona Muralis!”

The editor of the Morning Herald, so nick-named.

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

This seraphic doctor, in the preface to his last work (Vindiciæ Ecclesiæ Anglicanæ), is pleased to anathematize not only all Catholics, but all advocates of Catholics:—“They have for their immediate allies (he says) every faction that is banded against the State, every demagogue, every irreligious and seditious journalist, every open and every insidious enemy to Monarchy and to Christianity.”

See the late accounts in the newspapers of the appearance of this gentleman at one of the Police-offices, in consequence of an alleged assault on his “maid-of-all-work.”

A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to persons who performed any extraordinary exploits upon walls, such as scaling them, battering them, &c.—No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr. Eady does, would equally establish a claim to the honour.

185

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd
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 ev'n the last creations.

Ev'n 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.

186

Heav'n grant him now some noble nook,
For, rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke,
Than sav'd in vulgar company.

187

ODE TO A HAT.

------ “altum
Ædificat caput.”
Juvenal.

1826.

Hail, reverend Hat!—sublime 'mid all
The minor felts that round thee grovel;—
Thou, that the Gods “a Delta” call,
While meaner mortals call thee “shovel.”

When on thy shape (like pyramid,
Cut horizontally in two)
I raptur'd gaze, what dreams, unbid,
Of stalls and mitres bless my view!

That brim of brims, so sleekly good—
Not flapp'd, like dull Wesleyans', down,
But looking (as all churchmen's should)
Devoutly upward—tow'rds the crown.

188

Gods! when I gaze upon that brim,
So redolent of Church all over,
What swarms of Tithes, in vision dim,—
Some pig-tail'd, 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, , 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 may'st deck the pate
Of that fam'd Doctor Ad---mth---te,
(The reverend rat, whom we saw stand
On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,)

189

Who chang'd 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 Ow*n;
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 may'st thou be, as thou proceedest,
Still smarter cock'd, still brush'd the brighter,
Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest
Thy sleek possessor to a mitre!

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.

Archbishop Magee affectionately calls the Church Establishment of Ireland “the little Zion.”

190

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

1826.

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-inform'd 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 despatch'd 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 Czar—
Most gen'rous and kind, as all sovereigns are,

191

And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose)
Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes —
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 distinguish'd old ladies now going.
(While I write, an arrival from Riga—the ‘Brothers’—
Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eld—n and others.)

Last advices from India—Sir Archy, 'tis thought,
Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught
In N. Lat. 21.)—and his Highness Burmese,
Being very hard press'd to shell out the rupees,
And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant
To pawn his august Golden Foot for the payment.
(How lucky for monarchs, that thus, when they choose,
Can establish a running account with the Jews!)

192

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.

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

This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden Foot.

193

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF CHRISTABEL.

“Up!” said the Spirit, and, ere I could pray
One hasty orison, whirl'd me away
To a Limbo, lying—I wist not where—
Above or below, in earth or air;
For it glimmer'd 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) through a bundle of hay;
When the Spirit he grinn'd, and whisper'd me,
“Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!”

Around me flitted unnumber'd swarms
Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;
(Like bottled-up babes, that grace the room
Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)—

194

All of them, things half-kill'd in rearing;
Some were lame—some wanted hearing;
Some had through half a century run,
Though they hadn't a leg to stand upon.
Others, more merry, as just beginning,
Around on a point of law were spinning;
Or balanc'd aloft, 'twixt Bill and Answer,
Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer.
Some were so cross, that nothing could please 'em;—
Some gulp'd 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 scream'd in score;—
So harsh on my ear that wailing fell
Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell!
It seem'd like the dismal symphony
Of the shapes Æneas in hell did see;

195

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!”
Touch'd with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I ask'd what all this yell might mean,
When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee,
“'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!”

I look'd, and I saw a wizard rise,
With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,
Wherewith he beckon'd his embryo band,
And they mov'd and mov'd, as he wav'd it o'er,
But they never got 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 answer'd “No.”
And I heard, the while, that wizard elf
Muttering, muttering spells to himself,

196

While o'er as many old papers he turn'd,
As Hume e'er mov'd for, or Omar burn'd.
He talk'd of his virtue—“though some, less nice,
(He own'd with a sigh) preferr'd his Vice”—
And he said, “I think”—“I doubt”—“I hope,”
Call'd God to witness, and damn'd the Pope;
With many more sleights of tongue and hand
I couldn't, for the soul of me, understand.
Amaz'd and pos'd, 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—leap'd up in my bed—
Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled,
And bless'd my stars, right pleas'd to see,
That I wasn't, as yet, in Chancery.

The Lord Chancellor Eld---n.

197

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 murd'ring 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 ev'ry true Orange brother,
To see you, in England, such ardour evince,

198

In discussing which sect most tormented the other,
And burn'd 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 pull'd the Dev'l's nose;

Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the Dev'l's paw—
Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's old 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,

199

Believing in two kinds of Substantiation,
One party in Trans and the other in Con ;

That we, your petitioning Cons, have, in right
Of the said monosyllable, ravag'd the lands,
And embezzled the goods, and annoy'd, 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 us'd to be in those ages,
When still smaller syllables madden'd mankind;—

When the words ex and per serv'd as well, to annoy
One's neighbours and friends with, as con and trans now;

200

And Christians, like S---th*y, who stickled for oi,
Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for ou.

That, relying on England, whose kindness already
So often has help'd 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,

&c. &c. &c. &c. &c.

To such important discussions as these the greater part of Dr. Southey's Vindiciæ Ecclesiæ Anglicanæ is devoted.

Consubstantiation—the true Reformed belief; at least, the belief of Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melancthon also.

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.”

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.”

201

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchang'd a salute—
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton, half famish'd, 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,

202

“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 harbour
“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 through the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
“Squire Corn would be down, before long.”

203

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BTTRW*RTH.

“A Christian of the best edition.” Rabelais.

Canonize him!—yea, verily, we'll canonize him;
Though Cant is his hobby, and meddling his bliss,
Though 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 B*tt*rw*rth'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 B*tt*rw*rth's bosom be dear,
His conceptions and thine being much on a par.

204

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

Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee!
Thy smiles to beatified B*tt*rw*rth deign;
Two “lights of the Gentiles” are thou, Anne, and he,
One hallowing Fleet Street, and t'other Toad Lane!

The Heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood,
And Saints may be fram'd of as handy materials;—

205

Old women and B*tt*rw*rths make just as good
As any the Pope ever book'd as Ethereals.

Stand forth, Man of Bibles!—not Mahomet's pigeon,
When, perch'd on the Koran, he dropp'd there, they say,
Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion
Such glory as B*tt*rw*rth sheds every day.

Great Galen of souls, with what vigour 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 letter'd “Whole Duty of Man!”

Canonize him!—by Judas, we will canonize him;
For Cant is his hobby, and twaddling his bliss;

206

And, though 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 B*tt*rw*rth's Canonization!

Yea, humbly I've ventur'd 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 B*tt*rw*rth's spirit, uprais'd from your eyes,
Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar,
With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!

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

Mrs. Anne Lee, the “chosen vessel” of the Shakers, and “Mother of all the children of regeneration.”

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.”

207

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 W*lks,
Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks ;
Mix the lather—who can be
Fitter for such task than thee,
Great M. P. for Sudsbury!

208

Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter , bring thy pipe,—
Thou, whom ancient Coventry
Once so dearly lov'd, 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 M—re!
Now the rainbow humbugs 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
Cloister'd 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.

209

Now's the moment—who shall first
Catch the bubbles, ere they burst?
Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,
Br---gd---n, T---ynh---m, P*lm---t*n;—
John W*lks junior runs beside ye!
Take the good the knaves provide ye!
See, with upturn'd eyes and hands,
Where the Shareman , Br---gd---n, 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,
Scatter'd 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 Personæ, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters—all in the suds.]

Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so, when he wrote

“Sir Edward Sutton,
The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton.”

The Member, during a long period, for Coventry.

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!”

Take the good the Gods provide thee.”

So called by a sort of Tuscan dulcification of the ch, in the word “Chairman.“

210

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

1826.

'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet
I sail'd along, when—whom should I meet
But a Turtle journeying o'er the sea,
“On the service of his Majesty.”

When spying him first through twilight dim,
I didn't know what to make of him;
But said to myself, as slow he plied
His fins, and roll'd from side to side
Conceitedly o'er the watery path—
“'Tis my Lord of St---w---ll taking a bath,
“And I hear him now, among the fishes,
“Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!”

211

But, no—'twas, indeed, a Turtle, wide
And plump as ever these eyes descried;
A Turtle, juicy as ever yet
Glu'd 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 look'd, 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 ,
Who there, at his ease, did sit and smile,
Like Waterton on his crocodile ;
Cracking such jokes, at every motion,
As made the Turtle squeak with glee,
And own they gave him a lively notion
Of what his forc'd-meat balls would be.

212

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 Diplomate,
Who is known to doat upon verdant fat,
And to let admiring Europe see,
That calipash and calipee
Are the English forms of Diplomacy.

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.”

------ dapibus supremi
Grata testudo Jovis.

Mr. Canning.

Wanderings in South America. “It was the first and last time (says Mr. Waterton) I was ever on a crocodile's back.”

213

THE DONKY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

------ “fessus jam sudat asellus,
“Parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus.”
Virgil. Copa.

A Donky, whose talent for burdens was wond'rous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoic'd in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
That—down the poor Donky fell smack on the road!

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

One driver (whom Ned might have “hail'd” as a “brother” )
Had just been proclaiming his Donky's renown

214

For vigour, for spirit, for one thing or other—
When, lo, 'mid his praises, the Donky came down!

But, how to upraise him?—one shouts, t'other whistles,
While Jenky, the Conjurer, wisest of all,
Declared that an “over-production of thistles—
(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 look'd at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces,
Pronounc'd 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.”

215

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, roar'd out, as he pass'd—
“Quick—off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
“Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!”

October, 1826.

Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, “I hail thee, brother!”

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.

216

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 Westminster,”
And hopes you're delighted with “Mill upon Gluts;”

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Fun-blank 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---e ;

217

Art. 2.—By her fav'rite Fun-blank —“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. M---) “Hints to Breeders.”

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, though oft for the bag
And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call—
Though 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 round her neck her own darling Review.

A celebrated political tailor.

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.

218

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

Utrum horum
Dirius borum?
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 talk'd 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,
Skill'd 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,

219

Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat,
Or bonded Papists, they let out.

Here, landlords, here, polemics nail you,
Arm'd 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, link'd with Titus Oats,
Comes dancing through the “Porta Cornea.”

Oft, too, the Corn grows animate,
And a whole crop of heads appears,

220

Like Papists, bearding Church and State—
Themselves, together by the ears!

In short, these torments never cease;
And oft I wish myself transferr'd 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!

Author of the late Report on Foreign Corn.

The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, &c.) to pass.

221

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 look'd, and dress'd, and talk'd,
And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You'd hardly have known him as he walk'd,
From C---e, or any other Dandy.

(His horns, it seems, are made t'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 look'd extremely natty,
And ev'n contriv'd—to his own great wonder—
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,
To keep the sulphurous hogo under.

222

And so my gentleman hoof'd 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 pass'd his time 'twixt black and blue.

Some wish'd to make him an M. P.,
But, finding W*lks was also one, he
Swore, in a rage, “he'd be d---d, 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—
Fir'd off a squib in the morning papers:

223

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

Now,—the Devil being a gentleman,
Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,—
You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran,
How much they hurt and shock'd 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 preferr'd—
And much the Devil enjoy'd the jest,
When, asking about the Bench, he heard
That, of all the Judges, his own was Best.

224

In vain Defendant proffer'd 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 nam'd in the Bible)
To find it settled by laws so wise,
That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

A celebrated Judge, so named.

225

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

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

If in gaol, all the better for out-o'-door topics;
Your gaol is for Trav'llers 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),

226

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 stock'd,
So they'll only remember the quantum desir'd;—
Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, oct.,
Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's requir'd.

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 ,
That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic.

Wanted, also, a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn,
By “Farmers” and “Landholders”—(worthies whose lands
Enclos'd all in bow-pots, their attics adorn,
Or, whose share of the soil may be seen on their hands).

227

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'S*ll*v*n ,
Something extra allow'd for the' additional venom

Funds, Physic, 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.”

This lady also favours 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.”

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

According to the common reading, “quodcunque infundis, acescit.”

228

THE IRISH SLAVE.

1827.

I heard, as I lay, a wailing sound,
“He is dead—he is dead,” the rumour flew;
And I rais'd my chain, and turn'd me round,
And ask'd, through 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 look'd through the mist of night,
And ask'd, “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

229

“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 ), nor leaves a chance
“Of shaking him off—is't he? is't he?”

Ghastly my grim tormentors smil'd,
And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answer'd “No.”

But the cry still pierc'd my prison-gate,
And again I ask'd, “What scourge is gone?
“Is it he—that Chief, so coldly great,
“Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon—

“Whose name is one of the' ill-omen'd words
“They link with hate, on his native plains;

230

“And why?—they lent him hearts and swords,
“And he, in return, gave scoffs and chains!

“Is it he? is it he?” I loud inquir'd,
When, hark!—there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expir'd,
And, slave as I was, my triumph fell.

He had pledg'd a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But seal'd that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead, and—I couldn't rejoice!

He had fann'd afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had arm'd anew my torturers' hands,
And them did I curse—but sigh'd for him.

For, his was the error of head, not heart;
And—oh, how beyond the ambush'd 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—

231

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.

Touch'd 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 sigh'd “Amen!”

January, 1827.

Written on the death of the Duke of York.

“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.

232

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 trimm'd, oh King!
Grasp the needle bright with which
Thou didst for the Virgin stitch
Garment, such as ne'er before
Monarch stitch'd 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.

233

First, thy care, oh King, devote
To Dame Eld---n'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 could'st 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 Eld---n's flounces.

After this, we'll try thy hand,
Mantua-making Ferdinand,
For old Goody W*stm---l---d;
One who loves, like Mother Cole,
Church and State with all her soul;
And has pass'd her life in frolics
Worthy of your Apostolics.
Choose, in dressing this old flirt,
Something that wo'n't show the dirt,

234

As, from habit, every minute
Goody W*stm---l---d is in it.

This is all I now shall ask,
Hie thee, monarch, to thy task;
Finish Eld---n'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.

235

HAT versus WIG.

1827.

“At the interment of the Duke of York, Lord Eld---n, 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 Eld---n's Hat and Eld---n'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—

236

“And wards below, and lords above,
“For Law is Wig and Wig is Law!

“Who tried the long, Long W*ll*sl*y suit,
“Which tried one's patience, in return?
“Not thou, oh Hat!—though, could'st thou do't,
“Of other brims than thine thou'dst learn.

“'Twas mine our master's toil to share;
“When, like ‘Truepenny,’ in the play ,
“He, every minute, cried out ‘Swear,’
“And merrily to swear went they ;—

“When, loth poor W*ll*sl*y to condemn, he
“With nice discrimination weigh'd,
“Whether 'twas only ‘Hell and Jemmy,’
“Or ‘Hell and Tommy’ that he play'd.

237

“No, no, my worthy beaver, no—
“Though cheapen'd 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 cock'd for declamation,
The veteran Hat enrag'd 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 to thee?

“Think of that night, that fearful night,
“When, through the steaming vault below,
“Our master dar'd, in gout's despite,
“To venture his podagric toe!

“Who was it then, thou boaster, say,
“When thou had'st to thy box sneak'd off,
“Beneath his feet protecting lay,
“And sav'd him from a mortal cough?

238

“Think, if Catarrh had quench'd 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 ravish'd from ye,
“Oh think, how Canning and the Pope
“Would then have play'd 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 retir'd;
Which made him cut Hat's rhetoric shorter,
Than justice to the case requir'd.

239

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.

For Love is Heav'n and Heav'n is Love.”

—Scott.

“Brim—a naughty woman.” —Grose.

“ Ghost [beneath].
—Swear! “ Hamlet
.—Ha, ha! say'st thou so? Art thou there, Truepenny? Come on.”

His Lordship's demand for fresh affidavits was incessant.

240

THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

“To Panurge was assigned the Lairdship 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 2,435,768,” &c. &c. Rabelais.

“Hurra! hurra!” I heard them say,
And they cheer'd 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, skill'd in all the trick
And legerdemain of arithmetic,

241

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 prov'd 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 dar'd 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 cheer'd 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 through,
“And see if what we're told be true
“Of our Periwinkle Revenue.”

242

But, lord! they found there wasn't a tittle
Of truth in aught they heard before;
For, they gain'd 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, though his body be but small,
To fatten him takes the dev'l and all!
“Oh fie! oh fie!” was now the cry,
As they saw the gaudy show go by,
And the Laird of Salmagundi went
To open his Locust Parliament!

Accented as in Swift's line—

“Not so a nation's revenues are paid.”

243

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, (eas'd 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 dinn'd in our ears—
“To think that, though robb'd of all coarse manufactures,
“We still have our fine manufacture of Peers;—

“Those Gobelin productions, which Kings take a pride
“In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of;

244

“Choice tapestry things, very grand on one side,
“But showing, on t'other, what rags they are made of.”

The plan being fix'd, 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 , so renown'd, 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.

245

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 glisten'd with pills 'stead of pearls,
“And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb supplanted!

“No—ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor H*lf*rd—
“If nought but a Peerage can gladden thy life,
“And young Master H*lf*rd 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;

246

“And grandeur o'er thee shall reflect from thy spouse,
“As o'er V---y F*tz---d 'twill shine through his mother.”

Thus ended the First Batch—and Jenky, much tir'd
(It being no joke to make Lords by the heap),
Took a large dram of ether—the same that inspir'd
His speech 'gainst the Papists—and pros'd off to sleep.

Created Lord F*rnb---gh.

Among the persons mentioned as likely to be raised to the Peerage are the mother of Mr. V---y F*tz---d, &c.

247

SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.

BY LORD ELD---N.

“Vos inumbrelles video.” —Ex Juvenil. Georgii Canningii.

1827.

My Lords, I'm accus'd 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,

248

“That bugbear of all that is lib'ral and pleasant,
“Who wo'n'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?

249

No, heav'n be my judge, were I dying to-day,
Ere I dropp'd 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.”]

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.

From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's—

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

250

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 ask'd 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
Through the medium of hemp and of phials.

251

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 bless'd
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 R---d---n, 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 hang'd, tortur'd, and shot,
Much oft'ner than thou art at present.

252

Even W*ll---t*n's self hath averr'd
Thou art yet but half sabred and hung,
And I lov'd 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 ills,
From Cromwell to Eld---n, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go,
How I wish that, before you set out,
The Devil of the Freischutz 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.

253

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE

Regnis ex-sul ademtis. Virg.

1827.

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

There—learn'd 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.

254

“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 dev'l are they now?”

“My dearest Lord Bags!” saith his dame, “can you doubt?
“I am loth 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 call'd 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.”

A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favourite summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question, and, till this season, much frequented also by gentlemen of the church.

The Lord Chancellor Eld---n.

255

WO! WO!

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 F*rnh*m, Saint F*rnh*m, how much do we owe thee!
How form'd 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 Cavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand, and with Bible in 'tother,
Like Mungo's tormentor, both “preachee and floggee.”

256

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;
Come, L---rt---n, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popp'd Shakspeare, they say, in the river, one day,
Though 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.

Come, R---den, 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 ,
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, bless'd with an orthodox crop every year,
We shall learn to raise Protestants, fast as potatoes.

257

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

And nothing's more simple than F*rnh*m's receipt;—
“Catch your Catholic, first—soak him well in poteen —
“Add salary sauce , 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
Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery
Open'd their bills, and re-echo'd “Wo! wo!”

Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Ch---st---r 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.

The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare.

Whiskey.

“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.

Of the rook species—Corvus frugilegus, i. e. a great consumer of corn.

258

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 gain'd,
What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em,
Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtain'd.

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 any thing snug to be got,
I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo.

259

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!

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.

Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) “a pisciform god,” —his first Avatar being in the shape of a fish.

260

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;—
Though a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
I have, ev'ry year since, been outgrowing 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 ev'ry 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.

261

Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around,
An object of int'rest, most painful, to all;
In the warehouse, the cottage, the palace I'm found,
Holding citizen, peasant, and king in my 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 paralyz'd paw!
When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo,
And expects through 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!

262

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.

263

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

“Vox clamantis in deserto.”

1827.

Said Malthus, one day, to a clown
Lying stretch'd 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 rev'rence 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 wond'rous or new;
No courtship or scandal, worth knowing;

264

Mrs. B---, and a Mermaid 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, Eld---n, art thou, with thy tears?
And thou, with thy sense, L---d---d---y?

Wise Marquis, how much the Lord May'r,
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 (like honest Sir Boyle's)
Are “amendments, that make matters worse;”

Great Chieftain, who takest such pains
To prove—what is granted, nem. con.—

265

With how mod'rate a portion of brains
Some heroes contrive to get on.

And, thou, too, my R---d---sd---e, ah, where
Is the peer, with a star at his button,
Whose quarters could ever compare
With R---d---sd---e's five quarters of mutton?

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 Ell*nbro', when thou look'st big?
Or, where's the burletta can be
Like L---d---rd*le's wit, and his wig?

I doubt if ev'n Griffinhoof could
(Though Griffin's a comical lad)

266

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!

One of the shows of London.

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.

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

The learning his Lordship displayed, on the subject of the butcher's “fifth quarter” of mutton, will not speedily be forgotten.

The nom de guerre under which Colman has written some of his best farces.

267

THE “LIVING DOG” AND “THE DEAD LION.”

1828.

Next week will be publish'd (as “Lives” are the rage)
The whole Reminiscences, wond'rous and strange,
Of a small puppy-dog, that liv'd once in the cage
Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change.

Though 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.

268

Though he roar'd pretty well—this the puppy allows—
It was all, he says, borrow'd—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.

269

ODE TO DON MIGUEL.

Et tu, Brute!

1828.

What! Miguel, not patriotic? oh, fy!
After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, Sir;—
First school'd, as you were, under Metternich's eye,
And then (as young misses say) “finish'd” at Windsor!

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!!

270

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, broil'd 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 serv'd up à la Russe ,
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
And your Vice-roy of Hanover always on goose.

Some Dons, too, have fancied (though 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!

271

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 her 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 shock'd to find out that that promising lad,
Prince Metternich's pupil, is—not patriotic!

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.

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

Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits—a favourite 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.

This quiet case of murder, with all its particulars—the hiding the body under the dinner-table, &c. &c.—is, no doubt, well known to the reader.

272

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 honour'd, 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-lash'd whip, to cheer the doubtful hacks.

273

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 ev'n the great Ducrow
'Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow:
If solar hacks play'd 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 horsemanship!
Off bolt the sever'd steeds, for mischief free,
And down, between them, plumps Lord Anglesea!

274

THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.

A DREAM.

“Cio che si perde qui, làsi raguna.” Ariosto.

“------ a valley, where he sees
Things that on earth were lost.”
Milton.

1828.

Know'st thou not him 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, pack'd 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 under ground,

275

Where characters lost on earth, (and cried,
In vain, like H*rr*s's, far and wide,)
In heaps, like yesterday's orts, are thrown
And there, so worthless and fly-blown,
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 sigh'd their last amen
From the canting lips of saints that would be;
And some once own'd by “the best of men,”
Who had prov'd—no better than they should be.
'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied,
Once shining fair, now soak'd and black—
“No wonder” (an imp at my elbow cried),
“For I pick'd 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 dev'l right downward sped,
Bringing, within his claws so red,

276

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 mix'd),
His gaze on the other firm he fix'd,
And trying, though mischief laugh'd in his eye,
To be moral, because of the young imps by,
“What a pity!” he cried—“so fresh its gloss,
“So long preserv'd—'tis a public loss!
“This comes of a man, the careless blockhead,
“Keeping his character in his pocket;

277

“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 view'd it round—
“This article still may pass for sound.
“Some flaws, soon patch'd, some stains are all
“The harm it has had in its luckless fall.
“Here, Puck!”—and he call'd to one of his train—
“The owner may have this back again.
“Though damag'd for ever, if us'd with skill,
“It may serve, perhaps, to trade on still;
“Though the gem can never, as once, be set,
“It will do for a Tory Cabinet.”

Astolpho.

H---k---n.

278

HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.

Qui facit per alium facit per se.

'Mong our neighbours, the French, in the good olden time
When Nobility flourish'd, 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 answer'd—“No, Bishop, have you?”

The same is now done by our privileg'd class;
And, to show you how simple the process it needs,

279

If a great Major-General 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, though often condemn'd 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,

280

Convinc'd 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 discover'd that mending his grammar wo'n'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 play'd—
And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory!

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

281

IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

“Così quel fiato gli spiriti mali
Di quà, di là, di giù, di su gli mena.”
Inferno, canto 5.

I turn'd my steps, and lo, a shadowy throng
Of ghosts came fluttering tow'rds me—blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that through their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puff'd as—though they'd never puff enough.

“Whence and what are ye?” pitying I inquir'd
Of these poor ghosts, who, tatter'd, tost, and tir'd
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 ,

282

“On C---lb---n's shelves first saw the light of day,
“In ---'s puffs exhal'd our lives away—
“Like summer windmills, doom'd 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;
“Bepuff'd on earth—how loudly Str---t can tell—
“And, dire reward, now doubly puff'd in hell!”

Touch'd with compassion for this ghastly crew,
Whose ribs, even now, the hollow wind sung through
In mournful prose,—such prose as Rosa's ghost
Still, at the' accustom'd hour of eggs and toast,
Sighs through the columns of the M*rn---g P---t,—
Pensive I turn'd 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. ,

283

“One of our letter'd nymphs—excuse the pun—
“Who gain'd a name on earth by—having none;
“And whose initials would immortal be,
“Had she but learn'd those plain ones, A. B. C.

“You smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat,
“Wrapp'd 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, puff'd quite through and through,
As though his ribs were an Æolian lyre
For the whole Row's soft trade-winds to inspire,)
“This modest genius breath'd 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 J*n*h B*rr*t*n;—
“In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent,
“And now the wind returns the compliment.

284

“This lady here, the Earl of ---'s sister,
“Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister—
“Beg pardon—Honourable Mister L---st*r,
“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 exclaim'd—
“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 remain'd,
“And long the club-room's jokes and glasses drain'd;
“But, ah, in luckless hour, this last December,
“I wrote a book , and Colburn dubb'd me ‘Member’—

285

“‘Member of Brooks's!’—oh Promethean puff,
“To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff!
“With crums of gossip, caught from dining wits,
“And half-heard jokes, bequeath'd, like half-chew' bits,
“To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;—
“With such ingredients, serv'd up oft before,
“But with fresh fudge and fiction garnish'd o'er,
“I manag'd, 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 favourite cry,
“Exchang'd 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—

286

Sir Jo.—the Honourable Mr. L---st*r,
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 pitch'd his waistcoat ” in old times,
Leaving me much in doubt, as on I prest,
With my great master, through this realm unblest,
Whether Old Nick or C---lb---n puffs the best.

The classical term for money.

The reader may fill up this gap with any one of the dissyllabic publishers of London that occurs to him.

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.

Not the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day.

“History of the Clubs of London,” announced as by “a Member of Brooks's.”

A Dantesque allusion to the old saying, “Nine miles beyond H---ll, where Peter pitched his waistcoat.”

287

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD B*TH---ST'S TAIL.

All in again—unlook'd for bliss!
Yet, ah, one adjunct still we miss;—
One tender tie, attach'd so long
To the same head, through right and wrong.
Why, B*th---st, 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—though sad at heart,
From office and its sweets to part,
Yet hopes of coming in again,
Sweet Tory hopes! beguil'd our pain;
But thus to miss that tail of thine,
Through long, long years our rallying sign—

288

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 seem'd as though the' ascendant day
Of Toryism had pass'd away,
And, proving Samson's story true,
She lost her vigour with her queue.

Parties are much like fish, 'tis said—
The tail directs them, not the head;
Then, how could any party fail,
That steer'd its course by B*th---st's tail?
Not Murat's plume, through Wagram's fight,
E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all true Tories' sight,
Blaz'd from our old Colonial comet!
If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,
(As W*ll---gt*n will be anon)
Thou might'st 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!

289

Yet—weep ye not, ye Tories true—
Fate has not yet of all bereft us;
Though thus depriv'd of B*th---st's queue,
We've E---b---h'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,
Surcharg'd with all a nation's fate,
His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did ,
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,
Through 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, lov'd relics we'll bequeath,
A hair-loom to our sons for ever.

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

“Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod.” Pope's Homer.

290

THE CHERRIES.

A PARABLE.

1828.

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,
Through whose holes, of small dimensions,
Only certain knaves can get.

Shall we then this network widen?
Shall we stretch these sacred holes,
Through which, ev'n already, slide in
Lots of small dissenting souls?

291

“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 unnumber'd,
And Socinians, slim and spare,
Who, with small belief encumber'd,
Slip in easy any where;—

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

Ev'ry bird, of ev'ry city,
That, for years, with ceaseless din,
Hath revers'd the starling's ditty,
Singing out “I can't get in.”

292

“God forbid!” old Testy snivels;
“God forbid!” I echo too;
Rather may ten thousand d*v*ls
Seize the whole voracious crew!

If less costly fruit wo'n't suit 'em,
Hips and haws and such like berries,
Curse the corm'rants! stone 'em, shoot 'em,
Any thing—to save our cherries.

Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation Acts.

293

STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF DEFEAT.

1828.

Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong,
If we must run the gantlet through 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 gen'rous are vain,
If Truth by the bowstring must yield up her breath,
Let Mutes do the office—and spare her the pain
Of an In---gl---s or T---nd---l to talk her to death.

Chain, persecute, plunder—do all that you will—
But save us, at least, the old womanly lore
Of a F*st*r, who, dully prophetic of ill,
Is, at once, the two instruments, augur and bore.

294

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 ,
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 tack'd 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 ev'n him;

And while, on the one side, each name of renown,
That illumines and blesses our age is combin'd;

295

While the Foxes, the Pitts, and the Cannings look down,
And drop o'er the cause their rich mantles of Mind;

Let bold Paddy H*lmes show his troops on the other,
And, counting of noses the quantum desir'd,
Let Paddy but say, like the Gracchi's fam'd mother,
“Come forward, my jewels”—'tis all that's requir'd.

And thus let your farce be enacted hereafter—
Thus honestly persecute, outlaw, and chain;
But spare ev'n your victims the torture of laughter,
And never, oh never, try reasoning again!

END OF THE EIGHTH VOLUME.

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

This rhyme is more for the ear than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt auger.

Fabius, who sent droves of bullocks against the enemy.

Res Fisci est, ubicumque natat. —Juvenal.

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 through our Woods
Divert its “course of liquid-ation.”

Ah, surely, Virgil knew full well
What Woods and Forests ought to be,
When, sly, he introduc'd in hell
His guinea-plant, his bullion-tree :—

Nor see I why, some future day,
When short of cash, we should not send
Our H---rr---s 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 K---g gets all he wants,—
Except a little taste and sense.

Long, in your golden shade reclin'd,
Like him of fair Armida's bowers,
May W---ll---n 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, unus'd to thought,
It tries to think, and—tries in vain.

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

Called by Virgil, botanically, “species auri frondentis.”

Tu facis, ut silvas, ut amem loca ------

Ovid.

STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.

1828.

“Take back the virgin page.” Moore's Irish Melodies.

No longer, dear V---sey, feel hurt and uneasy
At hearing it said by thy Treasury brother,
That thou art a sheet of blank paper, my V---sey,
And he, the dear, innocent placeman, another.

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 scrawl'd such a lesson upon thee
As never was scrawl'd upon foolscap before.

Come—on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke,
(Or O'Connell has green ones he haply would lend you,)
Read V---sey 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 trac'd,
Whose awful impressions from you and your kin
Of blank-sheeted statesmen will ne'er be effac'd—
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 V---sey o'er;—
You will find him worth all the old scrolls of papyrus,

That Egypt e'er fill'd with nonsensical lore,
Or the learned Champollion e'er wrote of, to tire us.

All blank as he was, we've return'd him on hand,
Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes,
Whose plain, simple drift if they wo'n't understand,
Though caress'd at St. James's, they're fit for St. Luke's.

Talk of leaves of the Sibyls!—more meaning convey'd is
In one single leaf such as now we have spell'd on,
Than e'er hath been utter'd by all the old ladies
That ever yet spoke, from the Sibyls to Eld---n.

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

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 C---rtw---ght.

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 surprish'd, 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, &c.

'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,
Though 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 von 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, &c.

'Twould be tedious, ma tear, all its peauties to paint—
But, among oder tings fundamentally wrong,
It vill cure de Proad Pottom —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!

Meaning, I presume, Coalition Administrations.

“IF” AND “PERHAPS.”

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 forg'd them, the guilt and the shame.

“If the slave will be silent!”—vain Soldier, beware—
There is a dead silence the wrong'd 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 burn'd on the suppliant's cheek,
Gives place to the' avenger's pale, resolute hue;
And the tongue, that once threaten'd, 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 look'd 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 seem'd to break through a long night of thrall,
And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray;—

If Fancy should tell him, that Day-spring of Good,
Though swiftly its light died away from his chain,

Though 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 will'd that thy slaves should be mute—I am dumb.

Written after hearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June 10. 1828, when the motion in favour 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, N---wc---stle, pen,
To match Lord K---ny---n's two,
And more than Ireland's host of men,
One brace of Peers will do.
Write on, write on, &c.

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, &c.

Ev'n now I feel the coming light—
Ev'n now, could Folly lure
My Lord M---ntc---sh---l, too, to write,
Emancipation's sure.
By geese (we read in history),
Old Rome was sav'd from ill;
And now, to quills of geese, we see
Old Rome indebted still.
Write on, write on, &c.

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 ,
After the feast of fruit abhorr'd—
First indigestion on record!—
Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks,
Ye pigs which, though ye be Catholics,

Or of Calvin's most select deprav'd,
In the Church must have your bacon sav'd;—
Ye fields, where Labour counts his sheaves,
And, whatsoever himself believes,
Must bow to the' Establish'd 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 ;
Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax,
Eggs , timber, milk, fish, and bees' wax;
All things, in short, since earth's creation,
Doom'd, by the Church's dispensation,
To suffer eternal decimation—
Leaving the whole lay-world, since then,
Reduc'd 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 Papists, thankless race,
Who have had so much the easiest case—
To pay for our sermons doom'd, 'tis true,
But not condemn'd 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!

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.”

No more shall be his the pastoral sport
Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court,
Through various steps, Citation, Libel—
Scriptures all, but not the Bible;
Working the Law's whole apparatus,
To get at a few pre-doom'd 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 learn'd 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 sipp'd of such, no doubt
His martyrdom would have been—to gout.

Is all then lost?—alas, too true—
Ye Tenths belov'd, adieu, adieu!
My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er—
Like old Thumb's ghost, “I can no more.”

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.”

“The tenth calf is due to the parson of common right; and if there are seven he shall have one.” —Rees's Cyclopædia, art. “Tithes.”

Chaucer's Plowman complains of the parish rectors, that

“For the tithing of a duck,
Or an apple, or an aye (egg),
They make him swear upon a boke;
Thus they foulen Christ's fay.”

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.

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 V---ns---tt---t 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 V---ns---tt---t'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 gain'd;
Since all shall own, in Nicky's time,
Nor sense, nor justice reign'd.

So shall his name through ages past,
And dolts ungotten yet,
Date from “the days of Nicholas,”
With fond and sad regret;—

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

Perituræ parcere chartæ.

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 savoury 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 polish'd society.

Just snuggling them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire,
He leaves them to wriggle and writhe on the coals ,
In a manner that H---rn---r 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 ev'n a still better receipt for your cook—
How to make a goose die of confirm'd hepatitis ;
And, if you'll, for once, fellow-feelings o'erlook,
A well-tortur'd 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, fever'd, and faint,
Having drunk all the cream, you so civilly laid, off,
He dies of as charming a liver complaint
As ever sleek parson 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 swell'd up her liver,
No wonder you, Gourmands, should love her disease.

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

A liver complaint. The process by which the livers of geese are enlarged for the famous Patés de foie d'oie.

IRISH ANTIQUITIES.

According to some learn'd 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 march'd in long array,
Employ'd, '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 R---d---n in the van.

To this practice the ancient adage alludes, “Asinus portans mysteria.”

A CURIOUS FACT.

The present Lord K---ny---n (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, ev'n more than his writing.
Whenever Lord K---ny---n 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 puts there.

Others say, 'tis a homage, through pie-crust convey'd,
To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honour'd shade;
As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please)
Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green peas ,
And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that,
My Lord K---ny---n 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 assur'd, the whole matter arises:
Lord K---ny---n's respected old father (like many
Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny;
And lov'd so to save , 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 K---ny---n.

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.

The same prudent propensity characterises 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, &c. S.

Huc coeamus , 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-tongu'd 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 there dwell,
Who, on being ask'd, “How do you do?”
Politely reply, “Pretty well.”

But why should I talk any more
Of such old-fashion'd 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 another;—

When K---ny---n commences the bray,
And the Borough-Duke follows his track;
And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay,
R---thd---ne brays, with interest, back;—

And while, of most echoes the sound
On our ear by reflection doth fall,
These Brunswickers 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 Ben-venue,
From Benledi to wild Uamvar;

I might track, through each hard Irish name,
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came
To the chief Neddy, K---ny---n, again;

Might tell how it roar'd in R---thd---ne,
How from D---ws---n it died off genteelly—
How hollow it rung from the crown
Of the fat-pated Marquis of E---y;

How, on hearing my Lord of G---e,
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 charm'd with themselves,

Who knows but, some morning retiring,
To walk by the Trent's wooded side,
You may meet with N---wc---stle, admiring
His own lengthen'd ears in the tide!

Or, on into Cambria straying,
Find K---ny---n, that double tongu'd elf,
In his love of ass-cendency, braying
A Brunswick duet with himself!

“Let us form Clubs.”

Commonly called “Paddy Blake's Echoes.”

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.”

1828.

SCENE.—Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.—Enter three Brunswickers.
1st Bruns.
—Thrice hath scribbling K---ny---n scrawl'd,

2d Bruns.
—Once hath fool N---wc---stle bawl'd,

3d Bruns.
—B---xl---y snores:—'tis time, 'tis time,

1st Bruns.
—Round about the caldron go;
In the pois'nous nonsense throw.
Bigot spite, that long hath grown,
Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Sc---tt,
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

All.
—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eld---n, talk, and K---ny---n, scribble.

2d Bruns.
—Slaver from N---wc---stle's quill
In the noisome mess distil,

Brimming high our Brunswick broth
Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill,
Being scant) of Lord M---ntc---shel,
With that malty stuff which Ch---nd---s
Drivels as no other man does.
Catch (i. e. if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,
From my Lord of S---l---sb---y,—
One idea, though it be
Smaller than the “happy flea,”
Which his sire, in sonnet terse,
Wedded to immortal verse.
Though to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in;

And, to keep it company,
Let that conjuror W---nch---ls---a
Drop but half another there,
If he hath so much to spare.
Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatch'd in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests, like H---rn---r,
Purely for religious good,
Cry aloud for Papist's blood,
Blood for W---lls, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.

All.
—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
B---xl---y, talk, and K---ny---n, scribble.

3d Bruns.
—Now the charm begin to brew;
Sisters, sisters, add thereto
Scraps of L---thbr---dge's old speeches,
Mix'd with leather from his breeches.
Rinsings of old B---xl---y's brains,
Thicken'd (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,
C--- keeps cork'd for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Colour'd deep with blood of ------,
Blood, of powers far more various,
Ev'n than that of Januarius,
Since so great a charm hangs o'er it,
England's parsons bow before it!

All.
—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
B---xl---y, talk, and K---ny---n, scribble.

2d Bruns.
—Cool it now with ---'s blood,
So the charm is firm and good.

[Exeunt.

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. For instance:—

“Oh, happy, happy, happy fly,
If I were you, or you were I.”

Or,

“Oh, happy, happy, happy flea,
If I were you, or you were me;
But since, alas! that cannot be,
I must remain Lord S---y.”

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, are 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 giv'n man is,
More soft than N---wc---stle, 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 feed gaily, 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 revers'd in your thoughts, night and day,
Like an Irish barometer turn'd 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, though 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 (Czar, 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 ev'n, 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 despoil'd 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 forc'd 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 suffer'd 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 Slav'ry now lends to each tea-cup 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 picaninnies—
Small, living machines, which, if flogg'd 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 oblig'd, 'mong their other benevolent cares,
To “keep feeding the scribblers ,”—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 thong,
That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process),
To take to whipt syllabub all my life long.

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

THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.

Ah quoties dubius 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 thrill'd the frame,
“If ever the sound of Marathon's name
“Hath fir'd thy blood or flush'd 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 fir'd his blood, it flush'd 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 whisper'd “Scrip!”
The Ghost of Miltiades came again;—
He smil'd, as the pale moon smiles through 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—amaz'd 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 ardour fast decays,
By turns he weeps, and swears, and prays,
And wishes the d---l had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forc'd 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 flash'd 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 vanish'd 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 reach'd us that one Mr. Galt
Has declar'd 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 C---lb---n's troops of the line
(The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private.

There school'd, 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 ,” “gelatinous” prose ,
And a mixture call'd amber immortalization.

Now, he raves of a bard he once happen'd to meet,
Seated high “among rattlings,” and churning a sonnet ;

Now, talks of a mystery, wrapp'd in a sheet,
With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it!

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

“That dark diseased ichor which coloured his effusions.” —Galt's Life of Byron.

“That gelatinous character of their effusions.” —Ibid.

“The poetical embalmment, or rather, amber immortalization.” —Ibid.

“Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an inarticulate melody.” —Ibid.

“He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo.” —Galt's Life of Byron.

RESOLUTIONS PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.

Resolv'd—to stick to ev'ry particle
Of ev'ry Creed and ev'ry Article;
Reforming nought, or great or little,
We'll stanchly stand by every tittle ,”
And scorn the swallow of that soul
Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.

Resolv'd, that, though St. Athanasius
In damning souls is rather spacious—
Though 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 d---d ten times as much.

Resolv'd—such liberal souls are we—
Though 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 ev'n our old friends Yea and Nay
May through the nose for ever pray,
If also through the nose they'll pay.

Resolv'd, that Hooper , Latimer ,
And Cranmer , 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.

Resolv'd, that when we, Spiritual Lords,
Whose income just enough affords
To keep our Spiritual Lordships cozy,
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 reform'd, know better;
And, taking all that all can pay,
Balance the' account the other way.

Resolv'd, 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, though 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,
Scrawl'd o'er her in good hieroglyphic.

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.

“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.

“Since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth, there is no work done, the people starve.” —Lat. Serm.

“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,” &c. —Life of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix.

Part of the process of embalmment.

SIR ANDREW'S DREAM.

“Nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis:
Cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus habent.”
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 publish'd its Book of Sunday Sports. —

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 flock'd 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, &c.

“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 rumour 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 view'd 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 H---l---y
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.

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, Whitsunales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May-poles, or other sports therewith used,” &c.

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, ev'n books entail some trouble;
But live productions give one double.
Correcting children is such bother,—
While printers' dev'ls 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-nurs'd in the Row;
And, when God wills to take them hence,
Are buried at the Row's expense.

Besides, (as 'tis well prov'd by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93.)
The march, just now, of population
So much outstrips all moderation,
That ev'n prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.
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,)
Letter'd at back, and stitch'd together,
Fondly as first the binder fix'd 'em,
With nought but—literature betwixt 'em.

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, one Andrew Agnew.

So, at least, ye may reckon, for ane 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' Phœbus 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-bak'd 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 , 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 ony thing by't)
But he'd follow 'em, booing , would Andrew Agnew.

Servants in livery.

For the “gude effects and uteelity of booing,” see the Man of the World.

AWFUL EVENT.

Yes, W---nch---ls---a (I tremble while I pen it),
W---nch---ls---a'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 W---nch---ls---a 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 chanc'd at Drury Lane, one Easter night,
When the gay gods, too blest to be polite,

Gods at their ease, like those of learn'd Lucretius,
Laugh'd, whistled, groan'd, uproariously facetious—
A well-dress'd member of the middle gallery,
Whose “ears polite” disdain'd such low canaillerie,
Rose in his place—so grand, you'd almost swear
Lord W---nch---ls---a himself stood towering there—
And like that Lord of dignity and nous,
Said, “Silence, fellows, or—I'll leave the house!!”

How brook'd 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 menac'd 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?

Oh, there can't be too many rich Livings
For souls of the Pluralist kind,

Who, despising old Cocker's misgivings,
To numbers can ne'er be confin'd.

Count the cormorants hovering about ,
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 ,
On their 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.

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?

For whilst I love thee above measure,
To numbers I'll ne'er be confin'd.

Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks, &c.

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.

But the wretch who can number his kisses,
With few will be ever content.

A SAD CASE.

“If it be the undergraduate season at which this rabies religiosa is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. G---lb---n 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 G---lb---n junior should be bit
By some insane Dissenter, roaming
Through 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 suck'd in,
Might spread and rage through kith and kin.
Mad folks, of all denominations,
First turn upon their own relations:
So that one G---lb---n, fairly bit,
Might end in maddening the whole kit,
Till, ah, ye gods, we'd have to rue
Our G---lb---n 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 G---lb---n in his fits to see,
Tearing into a thousand particles
His once-lov'd Nine and Thirty Articles;
(Those Articles his friend, the Duke ,
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 B---v---rl---y'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 G---lb---rns all
From mad Dissenters, great and small!

The Duke of Wellington, who styled them “the Articles of Christianity.”

A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN.

------ risum teneatis, amici.

“The longer one lives, the more one learns,
Said I, as off to sleep I went,
Bemus'd with thinking of Tithe concerns,
And reading a book, by the Bishop of Ferns ,
On the Irish Church Establishment.
But, lo, in sleep, not long I lay,
When Fancy her usual tricks began,
And I found myself bewitch'd away
To a goodly city in Hindostan—
A city, where he, who dares to dine
On aught but rice, is deem'd a sinner;
Where sheep and kine are held divine,
And, accordingly—never drest for dinner.

“But how is this?” I wondering cried—
As I walk'd 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 ask'd—'twas plain to see
That nobody dar'd to answer me.

So, on, from street to street I strode;
And you can't conceive how vastly odd
The butchers look'd—a roseate crew,
Inshrin'd in stalls, with nought to do;
While some on a bench, half dozing, sat,
And the Sacred Cows were not more fat.

Still pos'd to think, what all this scene
Of sinecure trade was meant to mean,
“And, pray,” ask'd I—“by whom is paid
The expense of this strange masquerade?”—
“The' expense!—oh, that's of course defray'd
(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 wo'n'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' book.

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
Cannot, at present, their Patron be.
In stating this, Lord Belzebub
Assures, on his honour, the Brunswick Club,
That 'tisn't from any lukewarm lack
Of zeal or fire he thus holds back—
As ev'n Lord Coal himself is not
For the Orange party more red-hot:
But the truth is, till 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 Gl---nd---ne, and Lord D---nlo?
Or who, with a grain of sense, would go
To sit and be bored by Lord M---yo?
What living creature—except his nurse—
For Lord M---ntc---sh---l cares a curse,
Or thinks 'twould matter if Lord M---sk---rry
Were t'other 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 R---thd---ne,
Or who wouldn't also gladly hustle in
Lords R---d---n, B---nd---n, C---le, and J---c---l---n?
In short, though, from his tenderest years,
Accustom'd to all sorts of Peers,
Lord Belzebub much questions whether
He ever yet saw, mix'd 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 (though no great prig),
For one in his station 'twere infra dig.
But he begs to propose, in the interim
(Till they find some prop'rer Peers for him),
His Highness of C---mb---d, as Sub,
To take his place at the Brunswick Club—
Begging, meanwhile, himself to dub
Their obedient servant, Belzebub.

It luckily happens, the R---y---l 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.

Usually written “Cole.”

PROPOSALS FOR A GYNÆCOCRACY.

ADDRESSED TO A LATE RADICAL MEETING.

------ “Quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla
Delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras.”
Virgil.

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, flounc'd 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 danc'd through State affairs,
Or simply, dully, din'd 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 fam'd Macaulay (Miss) shall show,
Each evening, forth in learn'd oration;
Shall move (midst general cries of “Oh!”)
For full returns of population:
And, finally, to crown the whole,
The Princess Olive , Royal soul,
Shall from her bower in Banco Regis,
Descend, to bless her faithful lieges,
And, mid our Unions' loyal chorus,
Reign jollily for ever o'er us.

A personage, so styling herself, who attained considerable notoriety at that period.

LORD H---NL---Y AND ST. CECILIA.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ------.

Sir,

Having heard some rumours respecting the strange and awful visitation under which Lord H---nl---y has for some time past been suffering, in consequence of his declared hostility to “anthems, solos, duets ,” &c., 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 neighbourhood. 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, &c. P. P.

In a work, on Church Reform, published by his Lordship in 1832.

------ in Metii descendat Judicis aures.
Horat.

As snug in his bed Lord H---nl---y 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 mutter'd, “Zounds!”
For he loath'd sweet music with all his soul.

Then, starting up, he saw a sight
That well might shock so learn'd a snorer—
Saint Cecilia, rob'd in light,
With a portable organ slung before her.

And round were Cherubs, on rainbow wings,
Who, his Lordship fear'd, might tire of flitting,
So begg'd 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 betray'd you,
“Myself, and my choir of cherubims,
“Are come, for a while, to serenade you.”

In vain did the horrified H---nl---y 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 open'd 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 squall'd, he must attend to 'em;
Though 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 punish'd, like H---nl---y, for his pains.

But worse on the modern judge, alas!
Is the sentence launch'd from Apollo's throne;
For Midas was given the ears of an ass,
While H---nl---y is doom'd to keep his own!

“Asseyez-vous, mes enfans.”—“Il n'y a pas de quoi, mon Seigneur.”

ADVERTISEMENT.

1830.

Missing or lost, last Sunday night,
A Waterloo coin, whereon was trac'd
The' inscription, “Courage!” in letters bright,
Though a little by rust of years defac'd.

The metal thereof is rough and hard,
And ('tis thought of late) mix'd up with brass;
But it bears the stamp of Fame's award,
And through 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 filch'd this “gift of gods” away!

One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect,
If we hadn't, that evening, chanc'd to see,
At the robb'd man's door, a Mare elect,
With an ass to keep her company.

Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows,
Is begg'd to state all facts about it,
As the owner can't well face his foes,
Nor ev'n 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
That's left in old King George's stable.

Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished Duke, then Prime Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Cl---d---s H---nt---r and other City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of dining with the Lord Mayor.

Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Cl---d---s distinguished himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favourite steed was not the least conspicuous.

MISSING.

Carlton Terrace, 1832.

Whereas, Lord ****** de *******
Left his home last Saturday,
And, though inquir'd for, round and round,
Through certain purlieus, can't be found;
And whereas, none can solve our queries
As to where this virtuous Peer is,
Notice is hereby giv'n, 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, unsettled 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 Dalnodoubrowskoya ;
Talks of such places, by the score, on
As Oulisfflirmchinagoboron ,
And swears (for he at nothing sticks)
That Russia swarms with Raskol-niks ,

Though one such Nick, God knows, must be
A more than ample quantity,

Such are the marks by which to know
This stray'd 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 B---s---d, and such abettors,—
The only “wretches” for whose aid
Letters seem not to have been made.

In the Government of Perm.

Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense.

The name of a religious sect in Russia. “Il existe en Russie plusieurs sectes; la plus nombreuse est celle des Raskol-niks, ou vrai-croyants.” —Gamba, Voyage dans la Russie Meridionale.

“Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid.” Pope.

THE DANCE OF BISHOPS;

OR, THE EPISCOPAL QUADRILLE. 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 Præsules for no other reason than that they led off these dances.” —Cyclopædia, art. Dances.

I've had such a dream—a frightful dream—
Though 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 happen'd to doze off just as I got to
The singular fact which forms my motto.
Only think, thought I, as I doz'd away,
Of a party of Churchmen dancing the hay!
Clerks, curates, and rectors, capering all,
With a neat-legg'd 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 clubb'd 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, hatch'd 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 ,
The portly Tuam, was all in a hurry
To set, en avant, to Canterbury.

Meantime, while pamphlets stuff'd his pockets,
(All out of date, like spent sky-rockets,)
Our Exeter stood forth to caper,
As high on the floor as he doth on paper—
Much 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, now that,
That none could guess what the dev'l he'd be at;
Though, watching his various steps, some thought
That a step in the Church was all he sought.

But alas, alas! while thus so gay,
These rev'rend dancers frisk'd away,
Nor Paul himself (not the saint, but he
Of the Opera-house) could brisker be,
There gather'd 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 clear'd,
Ten of the dancers had disappear'd!
Ten able-bodied quadrillers swept
From the hallow'd 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 danc'd they on,
But the pomp was sadden'd, 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 look'd 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.

Written on the passing of the memorable Bill, in the year 1833, for the abolition of ten Irish Bishoprics.

Literally, First Dancers.

“And what does Moses say?”—One of the ejaculations with which this eminent prelate enlivened his famous speech on the Catholic question.

A description of the method of executing this step may be useful to future performers in the same line:—“Ce pas est composé de deux mouvemens différens savoir, plier, et sauter sur un pied, et se rejeter sur l'autre.” —Dictionnaire de Danse, art. Contre-temps.

DICK ****.

A CHARACTER.

Of various scraps and fragments built,
Borrow'd alike from fools and wits,
Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt,
Made up of new, old, motley bits—
Where, if the Co. call'd 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,
Revers'd ventriloquism's trick,
For, 'stead of Dick through others speaking,
'Twas others we heard speak through 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.

“Then I heard one saint speaking, and another saint said unto that saint.”

1834.

St. S---ncl---r rose and declar'd in sooth.
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 ,
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 ,

So deep and wide, scarce possible was it
To say even “how d'ye do?” across it:
And though your Liberals, nimble as fleas,
Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease,
'Twas a jump that nought 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 ,
At the Independent deign to smirk,
And rigadoon with old Mother Kirk;
Nay ev'n, 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. M---nd---v---le was the next that rose,—
A Saint who round, as pedlar, goes,
With his pack of piety and prose,
Heavy and hot enough, God knows,—

And he said that Papists were much inclin'd
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 Churchmen always make,—
Insomuch that, when they've prime control,
Though sometimes roasting heretics whole,
They but cook the body for sake of the soul.

Next jump'd St. J---hnst---n jollily forth,
The spiritual Dogberry of the North ,
A right “wise fellow, and, what's more,
An officer ,” like his type of yore;
And he ask'd, 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 yell'd 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?”

“He objected to the maintenance and education of a 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.

“It had always appeared to him that between the Catholic and Protestant a great gulf intervened, which rendered it impossible,” &c.

“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,” &c.

“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?” &c.

“I am a wise fellow, and which is more, an officer.” Much Ado about Nothing.

“What, he asked, was the use of the Reformation? What was the use of the Articles of the Church of England, or of the Church of Scotland?” &c.

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,” &c.—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” shipp'd off for Barbadoes.

The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes,
Packing the article tidy and neat;—
As their Rev'rences know, that in southerly latitudes
“Moral positions” don't keep very sweet.

There was B---th---st arranging the custom-house pass;
And, to guard the frail package from tousing and routing,

There stood my Lord Eld---n, endorsing it “Glass,”
Though as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting.

The freight was, however, stow'd safe in the hold;
The winds were polite, and the moon look'd romantic,
While off in the good ship “The Truth” we were roll'd,
With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic.

Long, dolefully long, seem'd the voyage we made;
For “The Truth,” at all times but a very slow sailer,
By friends, near as much as by foes, is delay'd,
And few come aboard her, though so many hail her.

At length, safe arrived, I went through “tare and tret,’
Deliver'd my goods in the primest condition,
And next morning read, in the Bridgetown Gazette,
“Just arrived by ‘The Truth,’ a new moral position.

100

“The Captain”—here, startled to find myself nam'd
As “the Captain”—(a thing which, I own it with pain,
I through life have avoided,) I woke—look'd asham'd,
Found I wasn't a captain, and doz'd off again.

101

THE MAD TORY AND THE COMET.

FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT.

1832–3.

“Mutantem regna cometem.” Lucan.

“Though all the pet mischiefs we count upon, fail,
“Though 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, th' 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;—

102

“The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers,
“(Now turn'd 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 rais'd,
His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set;
And, though nothing destructive appear'd as he gaz'd,
Much hop'd that there would, before Parliament met.

103

And still, as odd shapes seem'd to flit through 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 or Taurus I cannot well say:—
“And, yonder, there's Eld---n's old Chancery-wig,
“In its dusty aphelion fast fading away.

“I see, 'mong those fatuous meteors behind,
“L---nd---nd---ry, in vacuo, flaring about;—
“While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind,
“Is the Gemini, R---den and L---rt---n, no doubt.

“Ah, El---b'r---h! '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 vapour, but—where is the tail?”

104

Just then, up aloft jump'd the gazer elated—
For, lo, his bright glass a phenomenon show'd,
Which he took to be C---mb---rl---d, upwards translated,
Instead of his natural course, t'other road!

But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken,—
Down dropp'd 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 favourite cases.

Eclipses and comets have been always looked to as great changers of administrations. Thus Milton, speaking of the former:—

“With fear of change
Perplexing monarchs.”

And in Statius we find,

“Mutant quæ sceptra cometæ.”

See, for some of these Protocols, the Annual Register, for the year 1832.

The D---e of B---ck---m.

Shakes pestilence and war.”

105

FROM THE HON. HENRY ---, TO LADY EMMA ---.

Paris, March 30. 1832.

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 loth
To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and tailor,—
As somehow one always has scenes with them both;
The Snip in ill-humour, 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 stopp'd in his journey.

But, to come to the point,—though you think, I dare say,
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honour you're wrong;—such a mere bagatelle
As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears;

106

And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell,
To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers ;
This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of,
Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of;
This coinage of nobles,—coin'd, all of 'em, badly,
And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly.

Only think, to have Lords overrunning 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 R---se
(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.

107

This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma,
'Twere best to fight shy of so curs'd a dilemma;
And though 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 pack'd 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-ey'd needles.
A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd
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 diff'rence 'twixt Virgins and Floras.
Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,
And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.

Henry.

A new creation of Peers was generally expected at this time.

108

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 chos'n of Alma Mater's scions;—
Fleet chargers drew the God of War,
Great Cybele was drawn by lions,
And Sylvan Pan, as Poets dream,
Drove four young panthers in his team.
Thus classical L---fr---y, 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 yok'd to Bigotry:
Showing us how young College hacks
Can pace with bigots at their backs,
As though the cubs were born to draw
Such luggage as L---fr---y and Sh---w.

109

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
Revers'd upon their monkish walls ,—
Bear witness (lest the world should doubt)
To your mute Mother's dull renown,
Then famous but for Wit turn'd out,
And Eloquence turn'd upside down;
But now ordain'd 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.”

See the lives of these two poets for the circumstances under which they left Dublin College.

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.

110

TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE.

Scripta manet.

1833.

'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny ,
In letters four, and letters three;
And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by
But those awful letters scar'd 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 skill'd in Scrip than Scripture, use;

111

While some surmis'd 'twas an ancient way
Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day
Of the fam'd Didlerius Jeremias,
Who had thereto a wonderful bias,)
And prov'd in books most learn'dly boring,
'Twas called the Pontick way of scoring.

Howe'er this be, there never were yet
Seven letters of the alphabet,
That, 'twixt them, form'd so grim a spell,
Or scar'd a Land of Gulls so well,
As did this awful riddle-me-ree
Of T.H.E. D.E.B.T.
[OMITTED]

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 seal'd.”
The Gull-King hears the awakening call,
He hath summon'd his Peers and Patriots all,
And he asks, “Ye noble Gulls, shall we
“Stand basely by at the fall of the Free,

112

“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 chill'd each eye, and check'd 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.”

113

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 furl'd,
Adjourning all their dreams sublime
Of glory and war to—some other time.

Liafail, or the Stone of Destiny,—for which see Westminster Abbey.

114

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 W---th---r---l'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 attain'd such immensity,
Daniel himself could have scarce wish'd it more.

Oh! haste to repair it, ye friends of good order,
Ye Atw---ds and W---nns, 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?

115

Make W---th---r---l 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 listen'd, through groan and through cough,
To the speeches inspir'd 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?

116

Who that knows how he look'd 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 ;

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 W---th---r---l's rants, ever since, go to prove ;

Who, in short, would not grieve, if a man of his graces
Should go on rejecting, unwarn'd by the past,
The “moderate Reform” of a pair of new braces,
Till, some day,—he'll all fall to pieces at last.

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.

Lucan's description of the effects of the tripod on the appearance and voice of the sitter, shows that the symptoms are, at least, very similar:

Spumea tunc primum rabies vesana per ora
Effluit ------
tunc mœstus vastis ululatus in antris.

117

TORY PLEDGES.

I pledge myself through thick and thin,
To labour still, with zeal devout,
To get the Outs, poor devils, in,
And turn the Ins, the wretches, out.

I pledge myself, though 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.

Though 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.

118

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 starv'd, t'insure
The Land its due remuneration.

I pledge myself to be no more
With Ireland's wrongs bepros'd or shamm'd,—
I vote her grievances a bore,
So she may suffer, and be d---d.

Or if she kick, let it console us,
We still have plenty of red coats,
To cram the Church, that general bolus,
Down any giv'n amount of throats.

119

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 J---es,
To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. P---ynd---r.

Such are the Pledges I propose;
And though 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!”

120

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 learn'd—but learn'd 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;

121

“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 —
In short, he rummag'd 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 lov'd his joke)
And said—surveying, as sly he spoke,
The costly palace from roof to base—
“Well, it isn't, at least, a saving Grace!”

122

“Umph!” said the lackey, a man of few words,
“Th' 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, ev'n in their Lord, pluralities!”
“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.”

So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Dort.

Witness his well known pun on the name of his adversary Vigilantius, whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius.

The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation from this passage.

123

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, the 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 explor'd,
They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard.
“They are ghosts of wigs,” said Charon, “all,
“Once worn by nobs Episcopal.
“For folks on earth, who've got a store
“Of cast off things they'll want no more,

124

“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
Sail'd off in the death-boat gallantly.

Arriv'd 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' pen could draw.
For instance, he found Ex---t---r,
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 M---ld---t,
Much with his money-bags bewilder'd;

125

Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocess ,
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 ,—
Text he hath prosed so long upon,
That 'tis thought when ask'd, 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.
“Though I own I should like, before I go,
“To see for once (as I'm ask'd 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-hollo,

126

At Hodgson's heels, to catch, if he can,
A glimpse of this singular plural man.
But,—talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird!
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 inquir'd,
From living to living, mock'd and tir'd;—
'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 under ground
With the comical things he on earth had found.

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.

See the Bishop's Letter to Clergy of his Diocese.

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.

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.”

127

THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS.

(Vide Description of a late Fête. )

1832.

What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devis'd
'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses!
And how the tar-barrels must all be surpris'd
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 Fé
Of a few good combustible Lords of “the Club;”

128

They would fume, in a trice, the Whig chol'ra away,
And there's B---cky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How R---d---n would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!
A volcano of nonsense, in active display;
While V---ne, 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 C---mb---d'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.

The M---s of H---tf---d's Fête.—From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.

129

THE CONSULTATION.

“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 promis'd 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—

130

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 Cook'ry says “No,”
And—in short—eels were born to be treated just so.
'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,—

131

We, Doctors, must act with the firmness of Ude,
And, indifferent like him,—so the fish is but stew'd,—
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 wo'n't be thus tortur'd?

Dr. Tory.
Coerce, sir, coerce.
You're a juv'nile 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 help'd 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 enjoy'd from his raving, since then,
That I've made up my mind he shall wear it again.

132

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.

These verses, as well as some others, that follow, (p. 148.) were extorted from me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion Act.

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.

133

TO THE REV. CH---RL---S OV---RT---N,

CURATE OF ROMALDKIRK. AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH.

1833.

Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckon'd,
By critics Episcopal, David the Second ,
If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight,
Only think, in a Rectory, how you would write!
Once fairly inspir'd by the “Tithe-crown'd Apollo,”
(Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phœbus 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-tenth'd, couldn't easily do.

134

Round the lips of the sweet-tounged Athenian they say,
While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay,
Wild honey-bees swarm'd, as a presage to tell
Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards fell.
Just so round our Ov---rt---n's cradle, no doubt,
Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about;
Goose embryos, waiting their doom'd decimation,
Came, shadowing forth his adult destination,
And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves,
Announc'd 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 etherealis'd limbs, stealing downily on,
Till, by Fancy's strong spell, thou wert turn'd to a swan ,
Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall,
Without any effort of fancy, at all;

135

Little thought'st thou the world would in Ov---rt---n 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.

See Edinburgh Review, No. 117.

“Your Lordship,” says Mr. Ov---rt---n, 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.’”

Sophocles.

------ album mutor in alitem
Supernè: nascunturque læves
Per digitos, humerosque plumæ.

136

SCENE FROM A PLAY, ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED “MATRICULATION.”

1834.

[Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him.—Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Ph---llp---ts.]
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 lump'd into Three.
Let's run o'er the items;—there's Justification,
Predestination, and Supererogation,—

137

Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian,
Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess's Ratification.
That's 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 through,
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.

138

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 wo'n't stand what they can't understand;
Nor perceive that our ever-rever'd Thirty-Nine
Were made, not for men to believe, but to sign.

[Exit Dr. P. in a passion.

“It appears that when a youth of fifteen goes to be matriculated at Oxford, and is required first to subscribe Thirty-Nine Articles of Religious Belief, this only means that he engages himself afterwards to understand what is now above his comprehension; that he expresses no assent at all to what he signs; and that he is (or, ought to be) at full liberty, when he has studied the subject, to withdraw his provisional assent.” —Edinburgh Review, No. 120.

139

LATE TITHE CASE.

“Sic vos non vobis.”

1833.

“The Vicar of B---mh---m 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 seised of the pig, in tail.
No, not for himself hath B---mh---m's priest
His “well-belov'd” of their pennies fleec'd:
But it is that, before his prescient eyes,
All future Vicars of B---mh---m 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;”

140

The cries of little Vicarial dears,
The unborn B---mh---mites, reach his ears;
And, did he resist that soft appeal,
He would not like a true-born Vicar feel.

Thou, too, L---ndy of L---ck---ngt---n!
A Rector true, if e'er there was one,
Who, for sake of the L---ndies of coming ages,
Gripest the tenths of labourers' wages.
'Tis true, in the pockets of thy small-clothes
The claim'd “obvention ” of four-pence goes;
But its abstract spirit, unconfin'd,
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.

141

One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes
(So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms,
And a single four-pence, pocketed well,
Through 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.”

Fourteen agricultural labourers (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 18l. annually) were all, in the course of the autumn of 1832, served with demands of tithe at the rate of 4d. in the 1l. sterling, on behalf of the Rev. F. L---dy, Rector of ------, &c. &c. —The Times, August, 1833.

One of the various general terms under which oblations, tithes, &c. are comprised.

142

FOOLS' PARADISE.

DREAM THE FIRST.

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,
To a realm they call Fools' Paradise,
Lying N. N. E. of the Land of Sense,
And seldom bless'd with a glimmer thence.
But they want it 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.

143

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 roll'd;
It seem'd 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
Perform'd by wooden Ciceros,
As large as life, who rose to prose,
While, hid behind them, lords and squires,
Who own'd the puppets, pull'd the wires;
And thought it the very best device
Of that most prosperous Paradise,

144

To make the vulgar pay through 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 mod'rate allowance on the whole.”
There were Heads of Colleges, lying about,
From which the sense had all run out,
Ev'n 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.

145

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 monopolise,
But that (“lapt in Elysium” as they are)
Even blessed fools must have their share.
And so it happen'd:—but what befell,
In Dream the Second I mean to tell

146

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 con-acre ground, which leaves some trifling balance in my favour.” —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,

147

Where bills like these will be check'd, 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 favour, of one pound two.

148

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 chos'n for this scheme so romantic;
And such the success the first colony met,
That a second, soon after, set sail o'er th' Atlantic.

149

Behold them now safe at the long-look'd for shore,
Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet,
And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,
They had sorrow'd 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 hail'd by black devils, who caper'd 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!”

Deceiv'd by that well-mimick'd 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!

150

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 naturæ, 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!”

I have already, in a preceding page, referred to this squib, as being one of those wrung from me by the Irish Coercion Act of my friends, the Whigs.

151

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.
Though 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 look'd very well after,
Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sunder'd)
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.

152

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 resolv'd 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 Ex---t---r, sole , as her Church

The total,—so pronounced by this industrious senator.

Corporation sole.

153

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 ne'er requiring food,—
To try, by way of experiment, whether
There couldn't be made, of wood and leather ,
(Howe'er the notion may sound chimerical,)
Jointed figures, not lay , but clerical,

154

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 serv'd 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, rect'ry, 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.

155

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, turn'd 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.

The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man.

The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called “lay figures.”

156

HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER.

ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT, AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK.

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.

157

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 resolv'd to be lords—
Of expurging ev'n 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 learn'd in such lore may invent,
Your scissors does wonders in proving descent.

158

Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears
With which Atropos snips off both bumpkins and peers,
But they're nought to that weapon which shines in the hands
Of some would-be Patrician, 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 liv'd, married, or died!

Such the newest receipt for those high-minded elves,
Who've 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?

The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by the late Sir Eg---r---t---n Br---d---s.

“This we call pure nihility, or mere nothing.” —Watts's Logic.

159

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 d---l to pass,
With his charger prancing,
Grim eye glancing,
Chin, like a Mufti,
Grizzled and tufty,
Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighbourhood
Of this galloping dreary Duke;
Avoid him, all who see no good
In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood.

160

For, surely, no nymph is
Fond of a grim phiz,
And of the married,
Whole crowds have miscarried
At sight of this dreary Duke.

161

EPISTLE FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES.

Southampton.

As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started
By rail-road, 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,

162

I forgot not to visit those haunts where, of yore,
You took lessons from Pætus in cookery's lore ,
Turn'd aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,
To discuss the rich merits of rôtis and stews,
And preferr'd to all honours 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, sail'd 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'er-run 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,

163

Devour'd all the Tenths , so the idols in question,
These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion,
And th' idolatrous crew, whom this Rector despises,
May eat up the tithe-pig which he idolizes.

See his Letters to Friends, lib. ix. epist. 19, 20, &c.

Ingentium squillarum cum Sophia Septimæ. —Lib. ix. epist. 10.

Tithes were paid to the Pythian Apollo.

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, pillar'd temple, with niches and halls ,
Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul's;—
Though 'tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew,
Whom the Rector complain'd of, their dark rites pursue;

164

And, 'mong all the “strange gods” Abr'ham's father carv'd out ,
That he ever carv'd stranger than these I much doubt.

Were it ev'n, my dear Tully, your Hebes and Graces,
And such pretty things, that usurp'd 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, turn'd 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;—

165

Not to mention the' et cæteras of Genii and Sphinxes,
Fame, Vict'ry, and other such semi-clad minxes;—
Sea Captains —the idols here most idolised;
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 belov'd 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 call'd off to dinner—grace just has been said,
And my host waits for nobody, living or dead.

See Dr. Wiseman's learned and able letter to Mr. Poynder.

Joshua, xxiv. 2.

------ “Nec contigit ulli
Hoc vidisse caput.”

Claudian.

Captains Mosse, Riou, &c. &c.

166

LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORDS C---ST---R---GH AND ST---W---RT FOR THE CONTINENT.

At Paris et Fratres, et qui rapuêre sub illis
Vix tenuêre manus (scis hoc, Menelaë) nefandas.
Ovid. Metam. lib. xiii. v. 202.

Go, Brothers in wisdom—go, 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.

Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile
Of the Misses that love, and the monarchs that prize thee;
Forget Mrs. Ang---lo T---yl---r awhile,
And all tailors but him who so well dandifies thee.

167

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 earn'd in't,
That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out “my stars!”
And forget that the Moon, too, was some way concern'd in't.

For not the great R---g---t himself has endur'd
(Though I've seen him with badges and orders all shine,
Till he look'd like a house that was over insur'd)
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 St---w---rt, not they!

168

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.

This and the following squib, which must have been written about the year 1815–16, have been by some oversight misplaced.

Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was “at Paris” these rapacious transactions took place—we should read “at Vienna.”

The stars are more in fault than they.”

It is thus the noble lord pronounces the word “knowledge” —deriving it, as far as his own share is concerned, from the Latin, “nullus.”

169

TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD C---ST---R---GH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT.

Imitated from Horace, lib. i. ode 3.

So may my Lady's pray'rs prevail ,
And C---nn---g's too, and lucid Br---gge's,
And Eld---n beg a favouring gale
From Eolus, that older Bags ,
To speed thee on thy destin'd way,
Oh ship, that bear'st our C---st---r---gh ,
Our gracious R---g---t's better half
And, therefore, quarter of a King—

170

(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,
Though 'twere to Old Nick himself!

Oh, what a face of brass was his ,
Who first at Congress show'd 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,

171

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 chos'n of England, taught her
A taste for famine, fire, and slaughter.
Then came the Doctor , for our ease,
With E---d---ns, Ch---th---ms, H---wk---b---s,
And other deadly maladies.
When each, in turn, had run their rigs,
Necessity brought in the Whigs :

172

And oh, I blush, I blush to say,
When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,
Illustrious T---mp---e flew away
With lots of pens he had no right to!
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 heav'n at last
And think its favouring smile to purchase
(Oh Lord, good Lord! by—building churches!)

Sic te Diva potens Cypri,
Sic fratres Helenæ, lucida sidera,
Ventorumque regat pater.

See a description of the ασκοι, or Bags of Eolus, in the Odyssey, lib. 10.

Navis, quæ tibi creditum
Debes Virgilium.

------ Animæ dimidium meum.

Illi robur et æs triplex.
Circa pectus erat, qui, &c.

------ præcipitem Africum
Decertantem Aquilonibus.

Nequicquam Deus abscidit
Prudens oceano dissociabili
Terras, si tamen impiæ
Non tangenda Rates transiliunt vada.

This last line, we may suppose, alludes to some distinguished Rats that attended the voyager.

Audax omnia perpeti
Gens ruit per vetitum nefas.

Audax Japeti genus
Ignem fraude malâ gentibus intulit.

Post ------
------ macies, et nova febrium
Terris incubit cohors.

------ tarda necessitas
Lethi corripuit gradum.

Expertus vacuum Dædalus aëra
Pennis non homini datis.

This alludes to the 1200l. worth of stationery, which his Lordship is said to have ordered, when on the point of vacating his place.

Nil mortalibus arduum est.

Cœlum ipsum petimus stultitiâ

173

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 wink'd to her subaltern imps to be steady,
And all wagg'd their fire-tipp'd tails and stood ready.

“So, now for the' ingredients:—first, hand me that bishop;”
Whereon, 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 ” Right Rev. they might lose)
In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews,

174

Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst
From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first!

“Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor,” mutter'd the dame—
“He who's call'd 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)
Show'd 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.

175

Here a flashy imp rose—some connexion, no doubt,
Of the young lord in question—and, scowling about,
“Hop'd his fiery friend, St---nl---y, would not be left out;
“As no schoolboy unwhipp'd, the whole world must agree,
“Lov'd 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 eclips'd her,
And nature had giv'n 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 ev'n to mischief keep properly steady;
That soon ev'n 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 attack'd was most safe, of the two.—
This ingredient was therefore put by on the shelf,
There to bubble, a bitter, hot mess, by itself.

176

“And now,” quoth the hag, as her caldron she ey'd,
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.

“To lose no drop of the immortal man.”

The present Bishop of Ex---t---r.

177

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

Though fam'd 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!

Though 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 hang'd 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 tow'rds Downing Street,

178

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 motion'd 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 B---m, at present;
In whom this sort of manipulation
Has lately produc'd such inflammation,
Attended with constant irritation,
That, in short—not to mince his situation—
It has work'd in the man a transformation
That puzzles all human calculation!

Ever since the fatal day which saw
That “pass ” perform'd on this Lord of Law—

179

A pass potential, none can doubt,
As it sent Harry B---m 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 turn'd 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 disclos'd,
The whole order of things was found transpos'd ;
By a lusus naturæ, strange to see,
The liver plac'd where the heart should be,
And the spleen (like B---m's, since laid on the shelf)
As diseas'd 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 rumour goes,

180

To sit on Miss Okey's wonderful case,
Should also Lord Harry'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.

The name of the heroine of the performances at the North London Hospital.

The technical term for the movements of the magnetizer's hand.

Omnes feré internas corporis partes inverso ordine sitas. —Act. Erudit. 1690.

181

THE SONG OF THE BOX.

Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans,
And tell how they stood against tyranny's shocks;
They were all, I confess, in my eye, Betty Martins,
Compar'd to George Gr---te 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 imprison'd,
She's slily shut up in Gr---te's wonderful Box.

How snug!—'stead of floating through 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 Gr---te's wonderful Box.

Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom—
So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes;

182

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 Gr---te is the “Betty,” that serves at the toilet,
And breathes all Arabia around from his Box.

'Tis a singular fact, that the fam'd Hugo Grotius
(A namesake of Gr---te's—being both of Dutch stocks),
Like Gr---te, too, a genius profound as precocious,
Was also, like him, much renown'd for a Box;—

An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great Grotius
When suffering, in prison, for views het'rodox,

183

Was pack'd up incog. spite of gaolers ferocious ,
And sent to his wife , carriage free, in a Box!

But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf,
Since a rival hath ris'n that all parallel mocks;—
That Grotius ingloriously sav'd but himself,
While ours saves the whole British realm by a Box!

And oh when, at last, ev'n this greatest of Gr---tes
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.

184

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.”

And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. Pope's Rape of the Lock.

Groot, or Grote, latinized into Grotius.

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.

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.

Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede, &c. —Horat.

185

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, doom'd 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 knew'st, dear Dr. Southey,
Although bright genus all allow thee,
That, some years thence, thy wondering eyes
Should see a second Thalaba rise—
As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine,
Though his havoc lie in a different line,
And should find this new, improv'd Destroyer
Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer;

186

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 scourg'd by Holland's silken thong.

In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second
May fairly a match for the First be reckon'd;
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,)

187

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 jiffey—
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.

“A needless Alexandrine ends the song
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.”

“Vain are the spells, the Destroyer
Treads the Domdaniel floor.”

Thalaba, a Metrical Romance.

188

RIVAL TOPICS.

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

Oh W---ll---ngt---n 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 “W---ll---ngt---n,”
The everlasting two!—
Still doom'd, from rise to set of sun,
To hear what mischief one has done,
And t'other means to do:—
What bills the banker pass'd to friends,
But never meant to pay;
What Bills the other wight intends,
As honest, in their way;—

189

Bills, payable at distant sight,
Beyond the Grecian kalends,
When all good deeds will come to light,
When W---ll---ngt---n 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?
Though slippery long, has just been caught
By old Archbishop Curtis;—
And, such the power of papal crook,
The crosier scarce had quiver'd
About his ears, when, lo, the Duke
Was of a Bull deliver'd!

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.

190

Oh W---ll---ngt---n, oh Stephenson,
Ye ever-boring pair,
Where'er I sit, or stand, or run,
Ye haunt me every where.
Though Job had patience tough enough,
Such duplicates would try it;
Till one's turn'd out and t'other off,
We shan't 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.

The date of this squib must have been, I think, about 1828–9.

191

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 St---nl---y 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 ev'n 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 St---nl---y and Company,
As deep in Oblivion's swamp below
As such “Masters Shallow” well could go;

192

And where we shall all both low and high,
Embalm'd in mud, as forgotten lie
As already doth Gr---h---m 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 pray'd for a boy, and you now have a boy,
“Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life.”

Ev'n such is our own distressing lot,
With the ever-young statesman we have got;—
Nay ev'n 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 juv'nile 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 heav'n condemn,
We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr,
A whipper-snapper Methusalem;

193

Nay, ev'n should he make still longer stay of it,
The boy'll want judgment, ev'n 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.”

194

LETTER FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTAGH O'MULLIGAN.

Abrah, 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 Tom-fool of himself.

Throth, it wasn't at all civil to lave in the lurch
A boy so desarving your tindh'rest affection;—
Two 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

195

Are like those quare foxes, in Gregory's Bull,
Whose tails were join'd one way, while they look'd another!

Och bless'd be he, whosomdever he be,
That help'd soft Magee to that Bull of a Letther!
Not ev'n my own self, though 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 gaily;
Till, at last, his “injanious devices ,” some day,
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,)

196

One forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod,
While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.

But, no matther who did it—all blessins 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.

“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.

“An ingenious device of my learned friend.” —Bob's Letter to Standard.

Had I consulted only my own wishes, I should not have allowed this hasty attack 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.

197

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 display'd,
But we as wiseacres 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 instinctly taking,
So we, with like quackery, take to law-making;
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:

198

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, fam'd for conservative stomachs, th' 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,
Ev'n our House, God help it, is doom'd to improvement,
And all its live furniture, nobly descended,
But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.
With moveables 'mong us, like Br---m and like D---rh---m,
No wonder ev'n fixtures should learn to bestir 'em;

199

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 fam'd house , through the air,
Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear,
Grim, radical phizzes, unus'd to the sky,
Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us “good-by,”
While, perch'd up on clouds, little imps of plebeians,
Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Pæans.

The Casa Santa, supposed to have been carried by angels through the air from Galilee to Italy.

200

THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

A ROMANTIC BALLAD.

Oh, have you heard what hap'd of late?
If not, come lend an ear,
While sad I state the piteous fate
Of the Reverend Pamphleteer.

All prais'd 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.

201

“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 tripp'd or shy'd 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.

202

Yet pitying parsons, many a day,
Shall visit his silent bier,
And, thinking the while of Stanhope, say
“Poor dear old Pamphleteer!

“He has finish'd, at last, his busy span,
“And now lies coolly here—
“As often he did in life, good man,
“Good, Reverend Pamphleteer!”

203

A 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 hussar,
“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 W---n,
“To whom no harlot comes amiss,
“Save her of Babylon ;
“And when we're at a loss for words,
“If laughing reasoners flout us,

204

“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 labour
“Hath lit the fires of bigotry,
“Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre.
“From pulpit and from sentry-box,
“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 hussar,
“My exquisite old fighter—
“Success to bigotry and war,
“The musket and the mitre!”
Thus pray'd the minister of heaven—
While Y---k, just entering then,
Snor'd out (as if some Clerk had given
His nose the cue) “Amen.”

T B.

Cui nulla meretrix displicuit præter Babylonicam.

205

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;
Your Lethe's a cure for—all possible things,
And the doctors have nam'd 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,

206

So purges the mem'ry 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 purg'd from his head,
That he now doesn't think he's a madman at all.

Of course, for your mem'ries of very long standing—
Old chronic diseases, that date back, undaunted,
To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing—
A dev'l of a dose of the Lethe is wanted.

But ev'n Irish patients can hardly regret
An oblivion, so much in their own native style,
So conveniently plann'd, that, whate'er they forget,
They may go on rememb'ring it still, all the while!

The only parallel I know to this sort of oblivion is to be found in a line of the late Mr. R. P. Knight—

“The pleasing memory of things forgot.”

207

A CHARACTER.

1834.

Half Whig, half Tory, like those midway things,
'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings;
A mongrel Statesman, '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, repair'd 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;
List'ning, she smil'd, and bless'd the flippant tongue
On which the fate of unborn tithe-pigs hung.
Ah, who shall paint the grandam's grim dismay,
When loose Reform entic'd her boy away;
When shock'd she heard him ape the rabble's tone,
And, in Old Sarum's fate, foredoom her own!

208

Groaning she cried, while tears roll'd 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 outstripp'd 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, portray'd in Dante's lay ,
“With heads fix'd 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 snatch'd from Whigs away,

209

The self-same changeling drops the mask he wore,
And rests, restor'd, in granny's arms once more.

But whither now, mixt brood of modern light
And ancient darkness, can'st thou bend thy flight?
Tried by both factions, and to neither true,
Fear'd by the old school, laugh'd 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 “vex'd Bermoothes,” which the eye
Of venturous seaman sees—and passes by.

Perchè 'l veder dinanzi era lor tolto.”

210

A GHOST STORY.
[_]

To the Air of “Unfortunate Miss Bailey.”

1835.

Not long in bed had L---ndh---rst lain,
When, as his lamp burn'd dimly,
The ghosts of corporate bodies slain ,
Stood by his bed-side grimly.
Dead aldermen, who once could feast,
But now, themselves, are fed on,
And skeletons of may'rs deceas'd,
This doleful chorus led on:—
“Oh Lord L---ndh---rst,
“Unmerciful Lord L---ndh---rst,
“Corpses we,
“All burk'd by thee,
“Unmerciful Lord L---ndh---rst!”

“Avaunt, ye frights!” his Lordship cried,
“Ye look most glum and whitely.”

211

“Ah, L---ndh---rst dear!” the frights replied,
“You've us'd 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 L---ndh---rst then, whom nought could keep
Awake, or surely that would,
Cried “Curse you all”—fell fast asleep—
And dreamt of “Small v. Attwood.”
While, shock'd, the bodies flew down stairs.
But, courteous in their panic,
Precedence gave to ghosts of may'rs,
And corpses aldermanic,
Crying, “Oh, Lord L---ndh---rst,
“That terrible Lord L---ndh---rst,
“Not Old Scratch
“Himself could match
“That terrible Lord L---ndh---rst.”

Referring to the line taken by Lord L---ndh---rst, on the question of Municipal Reform.

212

THOUGHTS ON THE LATE DESTRUCTIVE PROPOSITIONS OF THE TORIES.

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, ev'n when a babe, as I've heard said,
On Orange conserve was chiefly fed,
And never, till now, a movement made
That wasn't most manfully retrograde!
Only think—to sweep from the light of day
Mayors, maces, criers, and wigs away;

213

To annihilate—never to rise again—
A whole generation of aldermen,
Nor leave them ev'n the' accustom'd 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—
Nought but the ghosts of by-gone glory,
Wrecks of a world that once was Tory!—
Where pensive criers, like owls unblest,
Robb'd of their roosts, shall still hoot o'er them;
Nor may'rs shall know where to seek a nest,
Till Gally Knight shall find one for them;—
Till mayors and kings, with none to rue 'em,
Shall perish all in one common plague;

214

And the sovereigns of Belfast and Tuam
Must join their brother, Charles Dix, at Prague.

Thus mus'd I, in my chair, alone,
(As above describ'd) 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 appear'd to rise,
Whose living contents, to fancy's survey,
Seem'd to me all turn'd topsy-turvy—
A jumble of polypi—nobody knew
Which was the head or which the queue.
Here, Inglis, turn'd to a sans-culotte,
Was dancing the hays with Hume and Grote;
There, ripe for riot, Recorder Shaw
Was learning from Roebuck “Ça-ira;”
While Stanley and Graham, as poissarde wenches,
Scream'd “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?

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.

215

ANTICIPATED MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION IN THE YEAR 2836.

1836.

After some observations from Dr. M'Grig
On that fossile reliquium call'd 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 us'd to call “Bishops” and “Peers,”
But which Tomkins more erudite names has bestow'd on,
Having call'd the Peer fossil the' Aristocratodon ,

216

And, finding much food under t'other one's thorax,
Has christen'd that creature the' Episcopus Vorax.

Lest the savantes and dandies should think this all fable,
Mr. Tomkins most kindly produc'd, on the table,
A sample of each of these species of creatures,
Both tol'rably 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 call'd 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
Compos'd of all possible cookable things
That e'er tripp'd upon trotters or soar'd upon wings—
All products of earth, both gramineous, herbaceous,
Hordeaceous, fabaceous, and eke farinaceous,
All clubbing their quotas, to glut the œsophagus
Of this ever greedy and grasping Tithophagus.

217

“Admire,” exclaim'd Tomkins, “the kind dispensation
“By Providence shed on this much-favour'd nation,
“In sweeping so ravenous a race from the earth,
“That might else have occasion'd a general dearth—
“And thus burying 'em, deep as ev'n Joe Hume would sink 'em,
“With the Ichthyosaurus and Palœorynchum,
“And other queer ci-devant things, under ground—
“Not forgetting that fossilised youth , so renown'd,
“Who liv'd 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—
Call'd forth from the savantes a general hurrah;
While inquiries among them went rapidly round,
As to where this young stratified man could be found.

218

The “learn'd Theban's” discourse next as livelily flow'd on,
To sketch t'other wonder, the' Aristocratodon—
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 devolv'd to its heirs, when the creature was dead;
Nor matter'd it, while this heir-loom was transmitted,
How unfit were the heads, so the coronet fitted.

He then mention'd a strange zoological fact,
Whose announcement appear'd 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?”

219

When, lo! certain knowing ones—savans, mayhap,
Who, like Buckland's deep followers, understood trap ,
Slily hinted that nought upon earth was so good
For Aristocratodons, 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 zoologists might, for the first time, maintain 'em
To be near akin to the genus humanum,
And the' experiment, tried so successfully then,
Should be kept in remembrance, when wanted again. [OMITTED]

A term formed on the model of the Mastodon, &c.

The zoological term for a tithe-eater.

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.

Particularly the formation called Transition Trap.

220

SONGS 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 furnish'd 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;—
Though excellent men, in their way,

221

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 unpaid 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 mix'd 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 dev'ls 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!

222

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.

Though 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.”

223

EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EX---T---R TO JOHN OF TUAM.

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London,
You've sipp'd 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 rev'rend soothsayers 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, though '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 though they be.

224

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 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 ev'n should you feel in your grandeur inclin'd
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 mix'd sort of beast,
(See Rev. xiii. 1.) a political priest;

225

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 giv'n cause than I found it the stronger,
And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel,
When the tone ecclesiastic wo'n't do, try the civil.

In short (not to bore you, ev'n 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 us'd to cash, John, you'd best leave to me.
And so, without form—as the postman wo'n't tarry—
I'm, dear Jack of Tuam,

Yours,
Exeter Harry.

Mirari se, si augur augurem aspiciens sibi temperaret a risu.

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.”

For his keeping the title he may quote classical authority, as Horace expressly says, “Poteris servare Tuam.” —De Art. Poet. v. 329.—Chronicle.

226

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 learn'd degree
At some dull university,
Puck found it handier to commence
With a certain share of impudence,
Which passes one off as learn'd 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—

227

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 smatt'ring,
I'd then be perfect —which is flatt'ring.

My skill as a linguist all must know
Who met me abroad some months ago;
(And heard me abroad exceedingly, too,
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 pass'd 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.”

228

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, ev'n when right,
If I only can vex some old friend by't;
There's D---rh---m, 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.

Verbatim, as said. This tribute is only equalled by that of Talleyrand to his medical friend, Dr. ------: “Il se connoît en tout; et même un peu en médecine.”

Song in “The Padlock.”

229

POLICE REPORTS.

CASE OF IMPOSTURE.

Among other stray flashmen, dispos'd of, this week,
Was a youngster, nam'd St---nl---y, genteelly connected,
Who has lately been passing off coins, as antique,
Which have prov'd to be sham ones, though long unsuspected.

The ancients, our readers need hardly be told,
Had a coin they call'd “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.

230

People took him, however, like fools, at his word;
And these talents (all priz'd at his own valuation,)
Were bid for, with eagerness ev'n more absurd
Than has often distinguish'd this great thinking nation.

Talk of wonders one now and then sees advertiz'd,
“Black swans”—“Queen Anne farthings”—or ev'n “a child's caul”—
Much and justly as all these rare objects are priz'd,
“St---nl---y'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 rubb'd 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,

231

That the Greeks had not only great talents but small ,
And those found on the youngster were clearly the latter.

While others, who view'd 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 Budæus de Asse.

In short, the whole sham by degrees was found out,
And this coin, which they chose by such fine names to call,
Prov'd a mere lacker'd article—showy, no doubt,
But, ye gods, not the true Attic Talent at all.

As th' impostor was still young enough to repent,
And, besides, had some claims to a grandee connexion,
Their Worships—considerate for once—only sent
The young Thimblerig off to the House of Correction.

For an account of the coin called Talents by the ancients, see Budæus de Asse, and the other writers de Re Nummariâ.

The Talentum Magnum and the Talentum Atticum appear to have been the same coin.

232

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;—though these Pats cry aloud
That they've got “too much Church,” 'tis all nonsense and stuff;
For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vow'd
That even too much of it's not quite enough.

Ay, dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;—
Copy Morison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he
Pours through the patient his black-coated pills,
Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity.

233

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 us'd to treatment so pleasant;
The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet ,
And now, if King William would make them a present
To 'tother chaste lady—ye Saints, just imagine it!

Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief,
Might then all be cull'd 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 practis'd therein)
The Right Reverend Brigadier Ph---ll---tts would slash on!

234

How General Bl---mf---d, through thick and through 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 pull'd 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 med'cine so kind,
The more let's repeat it—“Black dose, as before.”

235

Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand
With demure-ey'd Conversion, fit sister and brother;
And, covering with prisons and churches the land,
All that wo'n't go to one, we'll put into the other.

For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclin'd
To rule over Ireland, not well, but religiously,
Is to treat her like ladies, who've just been confin'd
(Or who ought to be so) and to church her prodigiously.

En fait d'amour, trop même n'est pas assez. —Barbier de Seville.

Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian.

236

NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view
An exact and nat'ral representation
(Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo )
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;
Though, 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.

237

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 damag'd my peers,
I must lay in more cork for a new creation.

Them yonder's our bishops—“to whom much is giv'n,”
And who're ready to take as much more as you please:
The seers of old times saw visions of heaven,
But these holy seers see nothing but Sees.

Like old Atlas (the chap, in Cheapside, there below,)
'Tis for so much per cent. they take heav'n on their shoulders;

238

And joy 'tis to know that old High Church and Co.,
Though not capital priests, are such capitalholders.

There's one on 'em, Ph---llp---ts, who now is away,
As we're having him fill'd 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 of M.P.s.

239

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, &c. &c.

[_]

Da Capo.

One of the most interesting and curious of all the exhibitions of the day.

The sign of the Insurance Office in Cheapside.

Producing a bag full of lords and gentlemen.

240

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, form'd on the keep-moving plan,
First propos'd 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.

241

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 off-hand supply
Some invalid bard who's insur'd “not to die.”
Still, let England but once try our authors, she'll find
How fast they'll leave ev'n these Immortals behind;
And how truly the toils of Alcides were light,
Compar'd 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 power,
A three-decker novel, 'midst oceans of praise,
May be written, launch'd, read, and—forgot, in three days!

In addition to all this stupendous celerity,
Which—to the no small relief of posterity—

242

Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame,
Nor troubles futurity ev'n with a name
(A project that wo'n'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 Phœbus himself, in our day,
Could get up a lay without first an outlay—
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 perch'd, pen in hand,
To write off, in any giv'n 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 th' establishment, six Walter Scotts,
One capital Wordsworth, and Southeys in lots;—

243

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 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 mov'd 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.

“'Tis money makes the mare to go.”

We have lodgings apart, for our posthumous people,
As we find that, if left with the live ones, they keep ill.

“Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale.”

244

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN.

From tongue to tongue the rumour flew;
All ask'd, aghast, “Is't true? is't true?”
But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable:
And still the unholy rumour ran,
From Tory woman to Tory man,
Though 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 din'd at the Viceroy's table;
Had flesh'd his Popish knife and fork
In the heart of th' Establish'd mutton and pork!

Who can forget the deep sensation
That news produc'd in this orthodox nation?
Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed,
If Dan was allow'd at the Castle to feed,
'Twas clearly all up with the Protestant creed!

245

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 appear'd, as if rais'd by necromancers,
An extra devil among the dancers!
Yes—ev'ry one saw, with fearful thrill,
That a devil too much had join'd the quadrille ;
And sulphur was smelt, and the lamps let fall
A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball,
And the poor sham dev'ls didn't like it at all;
For, they knew from whence th' intruder had come,
Though 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.

246

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 seiz'd 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 poison'd the Papist with orangeade.

History of the Irish Stage.

247

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 though they still were living men;—
All this, too, manag'd, 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 knock'd-up renown—

248

Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic fits
(By some call'd Cantos), 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 puff'd 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 nurs'd, when they've out grown 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,

249

That Doctor W---rb---t---n, 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 call'd 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, though less stuff was given,
Is on his road, 'tis fear'd, to heaven!

Of this event, howe'er unpleasant,
Tegg means to say no more at present,—

250

Intending shortly to prepare
A statement of the whole affair,
With full accounts, at the same time,
Of some late cases (prose and rhyme),
Subscrib'd with every author's name,
That's now on the Sick List of Fame.

251

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 convey'd;
And thus slily referr'd to the self-same committee,
As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?

Oh surely, my Ph---llp---ts, 'twas thou did'st the deed;
For none but thyself, or some pluralist brother,
Accustom'd 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 forc'd 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.

252

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 ;—

There was also (as mention'd, in rhyme and in prose, is)
Gold heap'd, throughout Egypt, on every shrine,
To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses—
Just such as, my Ph---llp---ts, 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:”—

253

“By me,” quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven—
“Give as much as you will—more will still be desir'd.”

More money! more churches!—oh Nimrod, had'st thou
'Stead of Tower-extension, some shorter way gone—
Had'st thou known by what methods we mount to heav'n now,
And tried Church-extension, the feat had been done!

The Birmans may not buy the sacred marble in mass but must purchase figures of the deity already made. —Symes.

254

MUSINGS, SUGGESTED BY THE LATE PROMOTION OF MRS. NETHERCOAT.

“The widow Nethercoat is appointed gaoler of Loughrea, in the room of her deceased husband.” —Limerick Chronicle.

Whether as queens or subjects, in these days,
Women seem form'd 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 rumours less and less remote,
Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea,
The important news—that Mrs. Nethercoat
Had been appointed gaoler of Loughrea;
Yes, mark it, History—Nethercoat is dead,
And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead;

255

Hers the high task to wield the' uplocking keys,
To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees!

Thus, while your blust'rers of the Tory school
Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule,
One meek-ey'd matron, in Whig doctrines nurst,
Is all that's ask'd 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-lov'd 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 gaols bright woman keeps the key,
And captive Paddies languish in her chains!

256

Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine!
Oh yes—if ev'n this world, though 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!

257

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 fix'd, 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—
Staunch sticklers still for days by-gone,
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;

258

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.”

The fund being rais'd, there remain'd but to see
What the dowager-author's gift was to be.
And here, I must say, the Sisters Blue
Show'd 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

259

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-favour'd and Protestant nation.

Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbours,
He still continues his Quarterly labours;
And often has strong No-Popery fits,
Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits.
Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play ,
“Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!” night and day;
Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens ,
And shies at him heaps of High-church pens ;
Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter)
Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter.

260

'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the druggist's,
He will keep raving of “Irish Thuggists ;”
Tells us they all go murd'ring, for fun,
From rise of morn till set of sun,
Pop, pop, as fast as a minute-gun!
If ask'd, how comes it the gown and cassock are
Safe and fat, 'mid this general massacre—
How haps it 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.

See Congreve's Love for Love.

Beaux Stratagem.

The writer of the article has groped about, with much success, in what he calls “the dark recesses of Dr. Dens's disquisitions.” —Quarterly Review.

“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?” —Ibid.

“Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists,” &c. &c. —Quarterly Review.

“Observe how murder after murder is committed like minute-guns.” —Ibid.

“Might not the archives of the Propaganda possibly supply the key?”

261

GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO.

A POOR POET'S DREAM.

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 night-mare 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.

262

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 flash'd 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 hash'd in stews;
“Their works, a light through 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:

263

“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 fricassee'd!”

Thus having, the cormorants, fed some time,
Upon joints of poetry—all of the prime—
With also (as Type in a whisper averr'd it)
“Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as preferr'd it”—
They rested awhile, to recruit their force,
Then pounc'd, like kites, on the second course,
Which was singing-birds merely—Moore and others—
Who all went the way of their larger brothers;
And, num'rous now though such songsters be,
'Twas really quite distressing to see
A whole dishful of Toms—Moore, Dibdin, Bayly,—
Bolted by Type and Co. so gaily!

Nor was this the worst—I shudder to think
What a scene was disclos'd when they came to drink.
The warriors of Odin, as every one knows,
Used to drink out of skulls of slaughter'd foes:

264

And Type's old port, to my horror I found,
Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round.
And still as each well-fill'd cranium came,
A health was pledg'd to its owner's name;
While Type said slily, 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!”

Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.

265

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 , flourished.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.

“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.” —Acts, xix.

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!

266

Third edition.

The Chairman still up, when our dev'l came away;
Having prefac'd his speech with the usual state prayer,
That the Three-headed Dian would kindly, this day,
Take the Silversmiths' Company under her care.

Being ask'd by some low, unestablish'd divines,
“When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?”
He manfully answer'd, “Let us build the shrines ,
“And we care not if flocks are found for them or not.”

He then added—to show that the Silversmiths' Guild
Were above all confin'd and intolerant views—
“Only pay through the nose to the altars we build,
“You may pray through the nose to what altars you choose.”

267

This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer's lip
(Though a tolerance mix'd with due taste for the till)—
So much charm'd all the holders of scriptural scrip,
That their shouts of “Hear!” “Hear!” are reechoing still.

Fourth edition.

Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phœbus
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.

Tria Virginis ora Dianæ.

The “shrines” are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples;—“ædiculæ, in quibus statuæ reponebantur.” —Erasm.

268

LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

As news from Olympus has grown rather rare,
Since bards, in their cruises, have ceas'd 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;
Though he still asks for news of earth's capers and crimes,
And reads daily his old fellow-Thund'rer, the Times.
He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-peck'd are,
And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

Old Phœbus, poor lad, has given up inspiration,
And pack'd off to earth on a puff-speculation.

269

The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim,
Since bards look'd 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 recover'd the Temperance Pledge.
“What, the Irish!” he cried—“those I look'd to the most!
“If they give up the spirit, I give up the ghost:”
While Momus, who us'd of the gods to make fun,
Is turn'd Socialist now, and declares there are none!

But these changes, though curious, are all a mere farce
Compared to the new “casus belli” of Mars,

270

Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet,
Uncheer'd 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 C---rd---g---n.

'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;

271

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 combin'd.
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 approv'd 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.

272

THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

Our earth, as it rolls through 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 pass'd 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

273

'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 ev'n among Christians declines,
In our senate thou'st languish'd since Sheridan died,
But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

Rare Sydney! thrice honour'd the stall where he sits,
And be his ev'ry honour he deigneth to climb at!
Had England a hierarchy form'd 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.

274

Meanwhile, it much glads us to find he's preparing
To teach other bishops to “seek the right way ;”
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, though gravity's good for the soul,
Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on,
We'd rather with Sydney south-west take a “stroll,”
Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

Some parts of the Provinciales may be said to be of the highest order of jeux d'esprit, or squibs.

“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,” &c. &c.—Sydney Smith's Last Letter to the Bishop of London.

275

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM T. M. TO S. R.

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, doom'd in upper floors to star it,
The bard inscrib'd 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 launch'd triumphant in the Row,
Or ta'en by Murray's self in tow,
Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

276

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whisk'd from England by the gale,
But bears on board some authors, shipp'd
For foreign shores, all well equipp'd
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 enjoin'd on all who go
To study first Miss M********,
And learn from her the method true,
To do one's books—and readers, too.
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 blink'd—
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,

277

We, authors, now, more prosperous elves,
Have learn'd to patronise 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 open'd 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.”

278

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 ev'n 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,
Book'd for posterity “all through;”—
Their luggage, a few close-pack'd 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 nightcap 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!

279

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 through 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, litter'd 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.

Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus. —Horat.

280

THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF. BY LORD ST---NL---Y.

(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 L---nd---st, 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 L---nd---st's doings—
Beyond ev'n Hecate's “hell-broth” brewings—

281

Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhoods' tricks
With age's sourest politics;
The urchin's freaks, the vet'ran's gall,
Both duly mix'd, and matchless all;
A compound nought in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, rids't 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;

282

So legibly it bears upon't
The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.

Ireland, we're told, means land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord St---nl---y.
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, “swelter'd 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 hath gone
The War-Church-cry, “On, Stanley, on!”

283

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.

Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.”

284

EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD L---NDH---T.

Dear L---ndh---t,—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 reign'd, 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 diff'rence betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;

285

And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Play'd 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 contriv'd 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,—
Though, of late, much I fear'd all our fun was gone by;
As, except when some tithe-hunting parson show'd 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 turn'd out,
Or, the' Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs about—

286

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 hit 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 allow'd to increase,
Might have snor'd 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 Chanc'llors were worth.

But we must not despair—ev'n 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 box'd the whole compass of party right through,
And care not one farthing, as all the world knows,
So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it blows,

287

Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare
My own small resources with thine to compare:
Not ev'n Jerry Didler, in “raising the wind,” durst
Compete, for one instant, with thee, my dear L---ndh---t.

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!

Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion. —Chronicle.

288

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.

Here I am, at head-quarters, 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 L---ndh---t's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,
To play, in such concert, the true double-base.
I had fear'd 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 wrong'd the old boy, who as staunchly derides
All reform in himself as in most things besides;

289

And, by using two faces through life, all allow,
Has acquir'd 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 L---ndh---t, 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.

Ev'n already—long life to such Big-wigs, say I,
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die—
He has serv'd 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!

290

Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;
Through the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;
Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle utter'd
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be mutter'd,
Till nought 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, though false be the cry, and though sense must abhor it,
Still the' echoes may quote Law authority for it,
And nought L---ndh---t 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 through their row.
They're bad hands at mob-work, but, once they begin,
They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.

The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

291

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND;

BEING A SEQUEL TO THE “FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.”

295

LETTER I. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ---, CURATE OF ---, IN IRELAND.

Who d'ye think we've got here?—quite reformed from the giddy,
Fantastic young thing, that once made such a noise—
Why, the famous Miss Fudge—that delectable Biddy,
Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs—
Such a thing as no rainbow hath colours to paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

296

Poor “Pa” hath popp'd off—gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserv'd for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much revered and much-palsied relations,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,—
Age thirty, or thereabouts—stature six feet,
And warranted godly—to make all complete.
Nota bene—a Churchman would suit, if he's high,
But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

What say you, Dick? doesn't this tempt your ambition?
The whole wealth of Fudge, that renown'd man of pith,
All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,—
Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken therewith.
Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch!
While, instead of the thousands of souls you now watch,
To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do;
And her purse will, meanwhile, be the saving of you.

297

You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf,
Wanting substance ev'n more than your spiritual self,
Should thus generously lay my own claims on the shelf,
When, God knows! there ne'er was young gentleman yet
So much lack'd an old spinster to rid him from debt,
Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her
With tender love-suit—at the suit of his tailor.

But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend,
Which thus to your reverend breast I commend:
Miss Fudge hath a niece—such a creature!—with eyes
Like those sparklers that peep out from summer-night skies
At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight
To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.

While her figure—oh, bring all the gracefullest things
That are borne through the light air by feet or by wings,

298

Not a single new grace to that form could they teach,
Which combines in itself the perfection of each;
While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall,
The mute music of symmetry modulates all.

Ne'er, in short, was there creature more form'd to bewilder
A gay youth like me, who of castles aërial
(And only of such) am, God help me! a builder;
Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal,
And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye,
Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.

But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth—even she,
This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes;
Talks learning—looks wise (rather painful to see),
Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;
And raves—the sweet, charming, absurd little dear!
About Amulets, Bijous, and Keepsakes, next year,

299

In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends
Of that Annual blue fit, so distressing to friends;
A fit which, though lasting but one short edition,
Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.

However, let's hope for the best—and, meanwhile,
Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile;
While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant
(Uphill work, I confess,) to her Saint of an Aunt.
Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack,
Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie,
What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back,
An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye!
Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin,
What are all the Three Graces to her Three per Cents.?
While her acres!—oh Dick, it don't matter one pin
How she touches the' affections, so you touch the rents;
And Love never looks half so pleas'd as when, bless him, he
Sings to an old lady's purse “Open, Sesame.”

300

By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report,
Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.
'Tis rumour'd our Manager means to bespeak
The Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next week;
And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer set
Throw, for th' amusement of Christians, a summerset.
'Tis fear'd their chief “Merriman,” C---ke, cannot come,
Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home ;
And the loss of so practis'd a wag in divinity
Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;—
His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately
Having pleas'd Robert Taylor, the Reverend, greatly.

'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be,
As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see;

301

And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'em
Ever yet reckon'd a point of wit one of 'em.
But ev'n though depriv'd of this comical elf,
We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself,
Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime,
As C---ke takes the Ground Tumbling, he the Sublime ;
And of him we're quite certain, so, pray, come in time.

That floor which a facetious garreteer called “le premier en descendant du ciel.”

See the Dublin Evening Post, of the 9th of this month (July), for an account of a scene which lately took place at a meeting of the Synod of Ulster, in which the performance of the above-mentioned part by the personage in question appears to have been worthy of all his former reputation in that line.

“All are punsters if they have wit to be so; and therefore when an Irishman has to commence with a Bull, you will naturally pronounce it a bull. (A laugh.) Allow me to bring before you the famous Bull that is called Unigenitus, referring to the only-begotten Son of God.” —Report of the Rev. Doctor's Speech June 20. in the Record Newspaper.

In the language of the play-bills, “Ground and Lofty Tumbling.”

302

LETTER II. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ---.

Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy,
With godly concernments—and worldly ones, too;
Things carnal and spiritual mix'd, my dear Lizzy,
In this little brain till, bewilder'd and dizzy,
'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I do.
First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from Town,
Which our favourite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down.
Sleeves still worn (which I think is wise), à la folle,
Charming hats, pou de soie—though the shape rather droll.
But you can't think how nicely the caps of tulle lace,
With the mentonnières, look on this poor sinful face;
And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right,
To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram's to-night.

303

The silks are quite heav'nly:—I'm glad, too, to say,
Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day;
Hath had sweet experience—yea, ev'n doth begin
To turn from the Gentiles, and put away sin—
And all since her last stock of goods was laid in.
What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf,
Should thus “walk in newness” as well as one's self!
So much for the blessings, the comforts of Spirit
I've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!—
Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect,
Though ordain'd (God knows why) to be one of the' Elect.
But now for the picture's reverse.—You remember
That footman and cook-maid I hired last December;
He, a Baptist Particular—she, of some sect
Not particular, I fancy, in any respect;
But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word,
And “to wait,” as she said, “on Miss Fudge and the Lord.”
Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist
At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest;

304

And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in
Sweet savours of doctrine, there never was kitchen.
He preach'd in the parlour, he preach'd in the hall,
He preach'd to the chambermaids, scullions, and all.
All heard with delight his reprovings of sin,
But above all, the cook-maid;—oh, ne'er would she tire—
Though, in learning to save sinful souls from the fire
She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in.
(God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!—
A sad trick I've learn'd in Bob's heathen society.)
But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale;
Come, Ast'risks, and help me the sad truth to veil—
Conscious stars, that at ev'n your own secret turn pale!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair,
Chosen “vessels of mercy,” as I thought they were,
Have together this last week eloped; making bold
To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold—
Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves,
Two Family Bibles as large as themselves,

305

And besides, from the drawer—I neglecting to lock it—
My neat “Morning Manna, done up for the pocket.”
Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz?
It has made me quite ill:—and the worst of it is,
When rogues are all pious, 'tis hard to detect
Which rogues are the reprobate, which the elect.
This man “had a call,” he said—impudent mockery!
What call had he to my linen and crockery?

“Morning Manna, or British Verse-book, neatly done up for the pocket,” and chiefly intended to assist the members of the British Verse Association, whose design is, we are told, “to induce the inhabitants of Great Britain and Ireland to commit one and the same verse of Scripture to memory every morning. Already, it is known, several thousand persons in Scotland, besides tens of thousands in America and Africa, are every morning learning the same verse.”

I'm now, and have been for this week past, in chase
Of some godly young couple this pair to replace.
The inclos'd two announcements have just met my eyes,
In that ven'rable Monthly where Saints advertise
For such temporal comforts as this world supplies ;

306

And the fruits of the Spirit are properly made
An essential in every craft, calling, and trade.
Where the' attorney requires for his 'prentice some youth
Who has “learn'd to fear God and to walk in the truth;”
Where the sempstress, in search of employment, declares,
That pay is no object, so she can have prayers;
And the' Establish'd Wine Company proudly gives out
That the whole of the firm, Co. and all, are devout,

The Evangelical Magazine.—A few specimens taken at random from the wrapper of this highly esteemed periodical; will fully justify the character which Miss Fudge has here given of it. “Wanted, in a pious pawnbroker's family, an active lad as an apprentice.” “Wanted, as housemaid, a young female who has been brought to a saving knowledge of the truth.” “Wanted immediately, a man of decided piety, to assist in the baking business.” “A gentleman who understands the Wine Trade is desirous of entering into partnership, &c. &c. He is not desirous of being connected with any one whose system of business is not of the strictest integrity as in the sight of God, and seeks connection only with a truly pious man, either Churchman or Dissenter.”

Happy London, one feels, as one reads o'er the pages,
Where Saints are so much more abundant than sages;
Where Parsons may soon be all laid on the shelf,
As each Cit can cite chapter and verse for himself,

307

And the serious frequenters of market and dock
All lay in religion as part of their stock.
Who can tell to what lengths we may go on improving,
When thus thro' all London the Spirit keeps moving,
And heaven's so in vogue, that each shop advertisement
Is now not so much for the earth as the skies meant?

According to the late Mr. Irving, there is even a peculiar form of theology got up expressly for the money-market. “I know how far wide,” he says, “of the mark my views of Christ's work in the flesh will be viewed by those who are working with the stock-jobbing theology of the religious world.” “Let these preachers,” he adds, “(for I will not call them theologians), cry up, broker-like, their article.” Morning Watch.—No. iii. 442, 443.

From the statement of another writer, in the same publication, it would appear that the stock-brokers have even set up a new Divinity of their own. “This shows,” says the writer in question, “that the doctrine of the union between Christ and his members is quite as essential as that of substitution, by taking which latter alone the Stock-Exchange Divinity has been produced.” —No. x. p. 375.

Among the ancients, we know the money-market was provided with more than one presiding Deity—“Deæ Pecuniæ (says an ancient author) commendabantur ut pecuniosi essent.”

P.S.

Have mislaid the two paragraphs—can't stop to look,
But both describe charming—both Footman and Cook.

308

She, “decidedly pious”—with pathos deplores
The' increase of French cook'ry, and sin on our shores;
And adds—(while for further accounts she refers
To a great Gospel preacher, a cousin of hers,)
That “though some make their Sabbaths mere matter-of-fun days,
She asks but for tea and the Gospel, on Sundays.”
The footman, too, full of the true saving knowledge;—
Has late been to Cambridge—to Trinity College;
Serv'd last a young gentleman, studying divinity,
But left—not approving the morals of Trinity.

P.S.

I inclose, too, according to promise, some scraps
Of my Journal—that Day-book I keep of my heart;
Where, at some little items, (partaking, perhaps,
More of earth than of heaven,) thy prud'ry may start,
And suspect something tender, sly girl as thou art.
For the present, I'm mute—but, whate'er may befall,
Recollect, dear, (in Hebrews, xiii. 4.) St. Paul
Hath himself declar'd, “marriage is honourable in all.”

309

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

Monday.

Tried a new châlé gown on—pretty.
No one to see me in it—pity!
Flew in a passion with Friz, my maid;—
The Lord forgive me!—she look'd dismay'd;
But got her to sing the 100th Psalm,
While she curl'd my hair, which made me calm.
Nothing so soothes a Christian heart
As sacred music—heavenly art!

Tuesday.

At two, a visit from Mr. Magan—
A remarkably handsome, nice young man;
And, all Hibernian though he be,
As civilis'd, strange to say, as we!

I own this young man's spiritual state
Hath much engross'd my thoughts of late;
And I mean, as soon as my niece is gone,
To have some talk with him thereupon.

310

At present, I nought can do or say,
But that troublesome child is in the way:
Nor is there, I think, a doubt that he
Would also her absence much prefer,
As oft, while listening intent to me,
He's forc'd, from politeness, to look at her.

Heigho!—what a blessing should Mr. Magan
Turn out, after all, a “renewed” young man;
And to me should fall the task, on earth,
To assist at the dear youth's second birth.
Blest thought! and, ah, more blest the tie,
Were it heaven's high will, that he and I—
But I blush to write the nuptial word—
Should wed, as St. Paul says, “in the Lord;”
Not this world's wedlock—gross, gallant,
But pure—as when Amram married his aunt.

Our ages differ—but who would count
One's natural sinful life's amount,
Or look in the Register's vulgar page
For a regular twice-born Christian's age,
Who, blessed privilege! only then
Begins to live when he's born again.

311

And, counting in this way—let me see—
I myself but five years old shall be,
And dear Magan, when the' event takes place,
An actual new-born child of grace—
Should Heav'n in mercy so dispose—
A six-foot baby, in swaddling clothes.

Wednesday.

Finding myself, by some good fate,
With Mr. Magan left tête-à-tête,
Had just begun—having stirr'd the fire,
And drawn my chair near his—to inquire
What his notions were of Original Sin,
When that naughty Fanny again bounc'd in;
And all the sweet things I had got to say
Of the Flesh and the Devil were whisk'd away!

Much grieved to observe that Mr. Magan
Is actually pleased and amused with Fan!
What charms any sensible man can see
In a child so foolishly young as she—
But just eighteen, come next May-day,
With eyes, like herself, full of nought but play—
Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.

312

LETTER III. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ---.

STANZAS (INCLOSED) TO MY SHADOW;

OR, WHY?—WHAT?—HOW?

Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky
Thus wed their charms, in bridal light array'd,
Why in this bright hour, walk'st thou ever nigh,
Blackening my footsteps with thy length of shade—
Dark comrade, Why?

Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,
Glidest beside me o'er each sunny spot,
Sadd'ning them as thou goest—say, what means
So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot—
Grim goblin, What?

Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow,
Thou bendest, too—then risest when I rise;—

313

Say, mute mysterious Thing! how is't that thou
Thus com'st between me and those blessed skies—
Dim shadow, How?

(ADDITIONAL STANZA, BY ANOTHER HAND.)

Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge
Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,
Oh Why? What? How?—a Voice, that one might judge
To be some Irish echo's, faint replied,
Oh fudge, fudge, fudge!

You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;
And, with it, that odious “additional stanza,”
Which Aunt will insist I must keep, as conclusion,
And which, you'll at once see, is Mr. Magan's;—a
Most cruel and dark-design'd extravaganza,
And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are
To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.

Just so 'twas with Byron's young eagle-ey'd strain,
Just so did they taunt him;—but vain, critics, vain

314

All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain!
To blot out the splendour of Fancy's young stream,
Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledg'd beam!!!
Thou perceiv'st, dear, that, ev'n while these lines I indite,
Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,
And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite!

That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards
Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards—
That she should make light of my works I can't blame;
But that nice, handsome, odious Magan—what a shame!
Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I rate him,
I'm really afraid—after all, I—must hate him.
He is so provoking—nought's safe from his tongue;
He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.
Were you Sappho herself, and in Keepsake or Bijou
Once shone as contributor, Lord how he'd quiz you!
He laughs at all Monthlies—I've actually seen
A sneer on his brow at the Court Magazine!—

315

While of Weeklies, poor things, there's but one he peruses,
And buys every book which that Weekly abuses.
But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear,
One spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;
And though tried by the fire, my young genius shall burn as
Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!
(I suspect the word “crucified” must be made “crucible,”
Before this fine image of mine is producible.)

And now, dear—to tell you a secret which, pray
Only trust to such friends as with safety you may—
You know, and, indeed the whole county suspects
(Though the Editor often my best things rejects),
That the verses sign'd of so,

, which you now and then see
In our County Gazette (vide last) are by me.
But 'tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes
The vile country Press in one's prosody makes.
For you know, dear—I may, without vanity, hint—
Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print;

316

And you can't think what havoc these demons sometimes
Choose to make of one's sense, and what's worse, of one's rhymes.
But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring,
Which I meant to have made a most beautiful thing,
Where I talk'd of the “dewdrops from freshly-blown roses,”
The nasty things made it “from freshly-blown noses!”
And once when, to please my cross Aunt, I had tried
To commem'rate some saint of her clique, who'd just died,
Having said he “had tak'n up in heav'n his position,”
They made it, he'd “tak'n up to heav'n his physician!”

This is very disheartening;—but brighter days shine,
I rejoice, love, to say, both for me and the Nine;
For, what do you think?—so delightful! next year,
Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare—

317

I'm to write in the Keepsake—yes, Kitty, my dear,
To write in the Keepsake, as sure as you're there!!
T'other night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance
With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance,
Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now and then caught,
Was the author of something—one couldn't tell what;
But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt
It was something that Colburn had lately brought out.

We convers'd of belles-lettres through all the quadrille,—
Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still;
Talk'd of Intellect's march—whether right 'twas or wrong—
And then settled the point in a bold en avant.
In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just hinted
That I too had Poems which—long'd to be printed,
He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight,
I was actually born in the Keepsake to write.

318

“In the Annals of England let some,” he said, “shine,
“But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!
“Even now future Keepsakes seem brightly to rise,
“Through the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,—
“All letter'd and press'd, and of large-paper size!”
How unlike that Magan, who my genius would smother,
And how we, true geniuses, find out each other!

This, and much more he said, with that fine frenzied glance
One so rarely now sees, as we slid through the dance;
Till between us 'twas finally fix'd that, next year,
In this exquisite task I my pen should engage;
And, at parting, he stoop'd down and lisp'd in my ear
These mystical words, which I could but just hear,
“Terms for rhyme—if it's prime—ten and sixpence per page.”
Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right,
What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains;

319

If for nothing to write is itself a delight,
Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains!

Having dropp'd the dear fellow a court'sy profound,
Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;
And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I've found
That he's quite a new species of lit'rary man;
One, whose task is—to what will not fashion accustom us?—
To edite live authors, as if they were posthumous.
For instance—the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!—
If any young he or she author feels modest
In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher
Lends promptly a hand to the int'resting blusher;
Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light,
Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight,
And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.
My Aunt says—though scarce on such points one can credit her—
He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor.

320

'Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented;
And, quick as the change of all things and all names is,
Who knows but, as authors, like girls, are presented,
We, girls, may be edited soon at St. James's?

I must now close my letter—there's Aunt, in full screech,
Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.
God forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say,
To go and sit still to be preach'd at, to-day.
And, besides—'twill be all against dancing, no doubt,
Which my poor Aunt abhors, with such hatred devout,
That, so far from presenting young nymphs with a head,
For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said,
She'd wish their own heads in the platter, instead.
There, again—coming, Ma'am!—I'll write more, if I can,
Before the post goes,

Your affectionate Fan.

321

Four o'clock.

Such a sermon!—though not about dancing, my dear;
'Twas only on the' end of the world being near.
Eighteen Hundred and Forty's the year that some state
As the time for that accident—some Forty Eight :
And I own, of the two, I'd prefer much the latter,
As then I shall be an old maid, and 'two'n't matter.
Once more, love, good-bye—I've to make a new cap;
But am now so dead tired with this horrid mishap
Of the end of the world, that I must take a nap.

With regard to the exact time of this event, there appears to be a difference only of about two or three years among the respective calculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit, et Avocat, merely doubts whether it is to be in 1846 or 1847. “A cette époque,” he says, “les fidèles peuvent espérer de voir s'effectuer la purification du Sanctuaire.”

322

LETTER IV. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ. TO THE REV. RICHARD ---.

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
With hot effusions—hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord ,
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserv'd for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this.
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
Blow all your little penny trumpets.

323

He comes, the reverend man, to tell
To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
Might make ev'n grim Dissenter's heart ache:—
Of ten whole Bishops snatch'd away
For ever from the light of day;
(With God knows, too, how many more,
For whom that doom is yet in store)—
Of Rectors cruelly compell'd
From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home,
Because the tithes, by Pat withheld,
Will not to Bath or Cheltenham come;
Nor will the flocks consent to pay
Their parsons thus to stay away;—
Though, with such parsons, one may doubt
If 'tisn't money well laid out;—
Of all, in short, and each degree
Of that once happy Hierarchy,
Which us'd to roll in wealth so pleasantly;
But now, alas, is doom'd to see
Its surplus brought to nonplus presently!

Such are the themes this man of pathos,
Priest of prose and Lord of bathos,

324

Will preach and preach t'ye, till you're dull again;
Then, hail him, Saints, with joint acclaim,
Shout to the stars his tuneful name,
Which Murtagh was, ere known to fame,
But now is Mortimer O'Mulligan!

All true, Dick, true as you're alive—
I've seen him, some hours since, arrive.
Murtagh is come, the great Itinerant—
And Tuesday, in the market-place,
Intends, to every saint and sinner in't,
To state what he calls Ireland's Case;
Meaning thereby the case of his shop,—
Of curate, vicar, rector, bishop,
And all those other grades seraphic,
That make men's souls their special traffic,
Though caring not a pin which way
The' erratic souls go, so they pay.—
Just as some roguish country nurse,
Who takes a foundling babe to suckle,
First pops the payment in her purse,
Then leaves poor dear to—suck its knuckle:
Ev'n so these reverend rigmaroles
Pocket the money—starve the souls.

325

Murtagh, however, in his glory,
Will tell, next week, a different story;
Will make out all these men of barter,
As each a saint, a downright martyr,
Brought to the stake—i. e. a beef one,
Of all their martyrdoms the chief one;
Though try them ev'n at this, they'll bear it,
If tender and wash'd down with claret.

Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions,
Your saintly, next to great and high 'uns—
(A Viscount, be he what he may,
Would cut a Saint out, any day,)
Has just announc'd a godly rout,
Where Murtagh's to be first brought out,
And shown in his tame, week-day state:—
“Pray'rs, half-past seven, tea at eight.”
Ev'n so the circular missive orders—
Pink cards, with cherubs round the borders.

Haste, Dick—you're lost, if you lose time;—
Spinsters at forty-five grow giddy,
And Murtagh, with his tropes sublime,
Will surely carry off old Biddy,

326

Unless some spark at once propose,
And distance him by downright prose.
That sick, rich squire, whose wealth and lands
All pass, they say, to Biddy's hands,
(The patron, Dick, of three fat rectories!)
Is dying of angina pectoris;—
So that, unless you're stirring soon,
Murtagh, that priest of puff and pelf,
May come in for a honey-moon,
And be the man of it, himself!

As for me, Dick—'tis whim, 'tis folly,
But this young niece absorbs me wholly.
'Tis true, the girl's a vile verse-maker—
Would rhyme all nature, if you'd let her;—
But ev'n her oddities, plague take her,
But make me love her all the better.
Too true it is, she's bitten sadly
With this new rage for rhyming badly,
Which late hath seiz'd all ranks and classes,
Down to that new Estate, “the masses;”
Till one pursuit all tastes combines—
One common rail-road o'er Parnassus,

327

Where, sliding in those tuneful grooves,
Call'd couplets, all creation moves,
And the whole world runs mad in lines.
Add to all this—what's ev'n still worse,
As rhyme itself, though still a curse,
Sounds better to a chinking purse—
Scarce sixpence hath my charmer got,
While I can muster just a groat;
So that, computing self and Venus,
Tenpence would clear the' amount between us.

However, things may yet prove better:—
Meantime, what awful length of letter!
And how, while heaping thus with gibes
The Pegasus of modern scribes,
My own small hobby of farrago
Hath beat the pace at which ev'n they go!

“Our anxious desire is to be found on the side of the Lord.” —Record Newspaper.

328

LETTER V. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE JUDY, AT MULLINAFAD.

Dear Judy, I sind you this bit of a letther,
By mail-coach conveyance—for want of a betther—
To tell you what luck in this world I have had
Since I left the sweet cabin, at Mullinafad.
Och, Judy, that night!—when the pig which we meant
To dry-nurse in the parlour, to pay off the rent,
Julianna, the craythur—that name was the death of her —
Gave us the shlip and we saw the last breath of her!
And there were the childher, six innocent sowls,
For their nate little play-fellow tuning up howls;

329

While yourself, my dear Judy (though grievin's a folly),
Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy—
Cryin', half for the craythur, and half for the money,
“Arrah, why did ye die till we'd sowl'd you, my honey?”

But God's will be done!—and then, faith, sure enough,
As the pig was desaiced, 'twas high time to be off.
So we gother'd up all the poor duds we could catch,
Lock'd the owld cabin-door, put the kay in the thatch,
Then tuk laave of each other's sweet lips in the dark,
And set off, like the Chrishtians turn'd out of the Ark;
The six childher with you, my dear Judy, ochone!
And poor I wid myself, left condolin' alone.

How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er lands,
And what cruel hard walkin' I've had on my hands,
Is, at this present writin', too tadious to speak,
So I'll mintion it all in a postscript, next week:—

330

Only starv'd I was, surely, as thin as a lath,
Till I came to an up-and-down place they call Bath,
Where, as luck was, I manag'd to make a meal's meat,
By dhraggin owld ladies all day through the street—
Which their docthors (who pocket, like fun, the pound starlins,)
Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins.
Div'l a boy in all Bath, though I say it, could carry
The grannies up hill half so handy as Larry;
And the higher they liv'd, like owld crows, in the air,
The more I was wanted to lug them up there.

But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say,
And mine has both handles put on the wrong way.
For, pondherin', one morn, on a drame I'd just had
Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafad,
Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a flutther,
That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in the gutther,
Muff, feathers and all!—the descint was most awful,
And—what was still worse, faith—I knew 'twas unlawful:

331

For, though, with mere women, no very great evil,
T' upset an owld Countess in Bath is the divil!
So, liftin' the chair, with herself safe upon it,
(For nothin' about her was kilt, but her bonnet,)
Without even mentionin' “By your lave, ma'am,”
I tuk to my heels and—here, Judy, I am!

What's the name of this town I can't say very well,
But your heart sure will jump when you hear what befell
Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day,
(And a Sunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay,)
When his brogues to this city of luck found their way.
Bein' hungry, God help me, and happenin' to stop,
Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's shop,
I saw, in the window, a large printed paper,
And read there a name, och! that made my heart caper—
Though printed it was in some quare A B C,
That might bother a schoolmasther, let alone me.
By gor, you'd have laughed, Judy, could you've but listen'd,
As, doubtin', I cried, “why it is!—no, it isn't:”

332

But it was, after all—for, by spellin' quite slow,
First I made out “Rev. Mortimer”—then a great “O;”
And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin' my skull again,
Out it came, nate as imported, “O'Mulligan!”

Up I jump'd, like a sky-lark, my jew'l, at that name,—
Div'l a doubt on my mind, but it must be the same.
“Masther Murthagh, himself,” says I, “all the world over!
My own fosther-brother—by jinks, I'm in clover.
Though there, in the play-bill, he figures so grand,
One wet-nurse it was brought us both up by hand,
And he'll not let me shtarve in the inemy's land!”

Well, to make a long hishtory short, niver doubt
But I manag'd, in no time, to find the lad out;
And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and me,
Such a pair of owld cumrogues—was charmin' to see.
Nor is Murthagh less plas'd with the' evint than I am,
As he just then was wanting a Valley-de-sham;

333

And, for dressin' a gintleman, one way or t'other,
Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other.

But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the case;
And, in throth, it's the only drawback on my place.
'Twas Murthagh's ill luck to be cross'd, as you know,
With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago;
That's to say, he turn'd Protestant—why, I can't larn;
But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not my consarn.
All I know is, we both were good Cath'lics, at nurse,
And myself am so still—nayther betther nor worse.
Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffey,
And lads more contint never yet left the Liffey,
When Murthagh—or Morthimer, as he's now chrishen'd,
His name being convarted, at laist, if he isn't—
Lookin' sly at me (faith, 'twas divartin' to see)
“Of coorse, you're a Protestant, Larry,” says he.
Upon which says myself, wid a wink just as shly,
“Is't a Protestant?—oh yes, I am, sir,” says I;—
And there the chat ended, and div'l a more word
Controvarsial between us has since then occurr'd.

334

What Murthagh could mane, and, in troth, Judy dear,
What I myself meant, doesn't seem mighty clear;
But the thruth is, though still for the Owld Light a stickler,
I was just then too shtarv'd to be over partic'lar:—
And, God knows, between us, a comic'ler pair
Of twin Protestants couldn't be seen any where.

Next Tuesday (as towld in the play-bills I mintion'd,
Address'd to the loyal and godly intintion'd,)
His riverence, my master, comes forward to preach,—
Myself doesn't know whether sarmon or speech,
But it's all one to him, he's a dead hand at each;
Like us, Paddys, in gin'ral, whose skill in orations
Quite bothers the blarney of all other nations.

But, whisht!—there's his Rivirence, shoutin' out “Larry,”
And sorra a word more will this shmall paper carry;
So, here, Judy, ends my short bit of a letther,
Which, faix, I'd have made a much bigger and betther,

335

But div'l a one Post-office hole in this town
Fit to swallow a dacent siz'd billy-dux down.
So good luck to the childer!—tell Molly, I love her;
Kiss Oonagh's sweet mouth, and kiss Katty all over—
Not forgettin' the mark of the red-currant whiskey
She got at the fair when yourself was so frisky.
The heav'ns be your bed!—I will write, when I can again,
Yours to the world's end,

Larry O'Branigan.

The Irish peasantry are very fond of giving fine names to their pigs. I have heard of one instance in which a couple of young pigs were named, at their birth, Abelard and Eloisa.

336

LETTER VI. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ---.

How I grieve you're not with us!—pray, come, if you can,
Ere we're robb'd of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;—
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded)—
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he's a dear—and such audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

337

Poor dear Irish Church!—he to-day sketch'd a view
Of her hist'ry and prospects, to me at least new,
And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse
The whole Christian world her just rights to espouse.
As to reasoning—you know, dear, that's now of no use,
People still will their facts and dry figures produce,
As if saving the souls of a Protestant flock were
A thing to be managed “according to Cocker!”
In vain do we say, (when rude radicals hector
At paying some thousands a year to a Rector,
In places where Protestants never yet were,)
“Who knows but young Protestants may be born there?
And granting such accident, think, what a shame,
If they didn't find Rector and Clerk when they came!
It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay,
These little Church embryos must go astray;
And, while fools are computing what Parsons would cost,
Precious souls are meanwhile to the' Establishment lost!

338

In vain do we put the case sensibly thus;—
They'll still with their figures and facts make a fuss,
And ask “if, while all, choosing each his own road,
Journey on, as we can, tow'rds the Heav'nly Abode,
It is right that seven eights of the trav'llers should pay
For one eighth that goes quite a different way?”—
Just as if, foolish people, this wasn't, in reality,
A proof of the Church's extreme liberality,
That, though hating Pop'ry in other respects,
She to Catholic money in no way objects;
And so lib'ral her very best Saints, in this sense,
That they ev'n go to heav'n at the Cath'lic's expense.
But, though clear to our minds all these arguments be,
People cannot or will not their cogency see;
And, I grieve to confess, did the poor Irish Church
Stand on reasoning alone, she'd be left in the lurch.
It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere,
That I heard this nice Rev'rend O' something we've here,
Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading,
A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding,

339

In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought,
All that Irving himself, in his glory, e'er taught.
Looking through the whole history, present and past,
Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last;
Considering how strange its original birth—
Such a thing having never before been on earth—
How oppos'd to the instinct, the law, and the force
Of nature and reason has been its whole course;
Through centuries encount'ring repugnance, resistance,
Scorn, hate, execration—yet still in existence!
Considering all this, the conclusion he draws
Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her laws—
That Reason, dumb-founder'd, gives up the dispute,
And before the portentous anom'ly stands mute;—
That, in short, 'tis a Miracle!—and, once begun,
And transmitted through ages, from father to son,
For the honour of miracles, ought to go on.
Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound,
Or so fitted the Church's weak foes to confound.

340

For, observe, the more low all her merits they place,
The more they make out the miraculous case,
And the more all good Christians must deem it profane
To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign.
As for scriptural proofs, he quite plac'd beyond doubt
That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out,
As clear and well-prov'd, he would venture to swear,
As any thing else has been ever found there:—
While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals
With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals,
And the ease with which vial on vial he strings,
Shows him quite a first-rate at all these sort of things.
So much for theology:—as for the' affairs
Of this temporal world—the light, drawing-room cares
And gay toils of the toilet, which, God knows, I seek,
From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek,
And to be, as the' Apostle was, “weak with the weak,”

341

Thou wilt find quite enough (till I'm somewhat less busy)
In the' extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy.

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

Thursday.

Last night, having nought more holy to do,
Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew,
About the “Do-nothing-on-Sunday-Club,”
Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:—
As the use of more vowels and consonants
Than a Christian, on Sunday, really wants,
Is a grievance that ought to be done away,
And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.

Sunday.

Sir Andrew's answer!—but, shocking to say,
Being franked unthinkingly yesterday,
To the horror of Agnews yet unborn,
It arriv'd on this blessed Sunday morn!!—
How shocking!—the postman's self cried “shame on't,”
Seeing the' immaculate Andrew's name on't!!

342

What will the Club do?—meet, no doubt.
'Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout,
And the friends of the Sabbath must speak out.

Tuesday.

Saw to-day, at the raffle—and saw it with pain—
That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain.
Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces—
She, who long has stood by me through all sorts of flounces,
And showed, by upholding the toilet's sweet rites,
That we, girls, may be Christians, without being frights.
This, I own, much alarms me; for though one's religious,
And strict and—all that, there's no need to be hideous;
And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way
Of one's going to heav'n, 'tisn't easy to say.

Then, there's Gimp, the poor thing—if her custom we drop,
Pray, what's to become of her soul and her shop?

343

If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given,
She'll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven;
And this nice little “fire-brand, pluck'd from the burning,”
May fall in again at the very next turning.

Wednesday.

Mem.—To write to the India-Mission Society;
And send £20—heavy tax upon piety!

Of all Indian lux'ries we now-a-days boast,
Making “Company's Christians ” perhaps costs the most.
And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown,
Having lived in our faith mostly die in their own ,
Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say,
When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.
Think, how horrid, my dear!—so that all's thrown away;

344

And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice
They consum'd, while believers, we saints pay the price.

Still 'tis cheering to find that we do save a few—
The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo;
Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum,
While but one and a half's left at Cooroopadum.
In this last-mention'd place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em,
For, once they turn Christians, no barber will shave 'em.

To atone for this rather small Heathen amount,
Some Papists, turn'd Christians , are tack'd to the' account.

345

And though, to catch Papists, one needn't go so far,
Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are;
And now, when so great of such converts the lack is,
One Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies.

Friday.

Last night had a dream so odd and funny,
I cannot resist recording it here.—
Methought that the Genius of Matrimony
Before me stood, with a joyous leer,
Leading a husband in each hand,
And both for me, which look'd rather queer;—
One I could perfectly understand,
But why there were two wasn't quite so clear.
'Twas meant, however, I soon could see,
To afford me a choice—a most excellent plan;
And—who should this brace of candidates be,
But Messrs. O'Mulligan and Magan:—

346

A thing, I suppose, unheard of till then,
To dream, at once, of two Irishmen!—
That handsome Magan, too, with wings on his shoulders
(For all this pass'd in the realms of the Blest,)
And quite a creature to dazzle beholders;
While even O'Mulligan, feather'd and drest
As an elderly cherub, was looking his best.
Ah Liz, you, who know me, scarce can doubt
As to which of the two I singled out.
But—awful to tell—when, all in dread
Of losing so bright a vision's charms,
I grasp'd at Magan, his image fled,
Like a mist, away, and I found but the head
Of O'Mulligan, wings and all, in my arms!
The Angel had flown to some nest divine,
And the elderly Cherub alone was mine!
Heigho!—it is certain that foolish Magan
Either can't or wo'n't see that he might be the man;
And, perhaps, dear—who knows?—if nought better befall
But—O'Mulligan may be the man, after all.

347

N.B.

Next week mean to have my first scriptural rout,
For the special discussion of matters devout;—
Like those soirées, at Pow'rscourt , so justly re-renown'd,
For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round;

348

Those theology-routs which the pious Lord R---d---n,
That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in;
Where, blessed down-pouring! from tea until nine,
The subjects lay all in the Prophecy line;—
Then, supper—and then, if for topics hard driven,
From thence until bed-time to Satan was given;
While R---d---n, deep read in each topic and tome,
On all subjects (especially the last) was at home.

The title given by the natives to such of their countrymen as become converts.

Of such relapses we find innumerable instances in the accounts of the Missionaries.

The god Krishna, one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu. “One day (says the Bhagavata) Krishna's play-fellows complained to Tasuda that he had pilfered and ate their curds.”

“Roteen wants shaving; but the barber here will not do it. He is run away lest he should be compelled. He says he will not shave Yesoo Kreest's people.” —Bapt. Mission Society, vol. ii. p. 493.

In the Reports of the Missionaries, the Roman Catholics are almost always classed along with the Heathen. “I have extended my labours, (says James Venning, in a Report for 1831,) to the Heathen, Mahomedans, and Roman Catholics.” “The Heathen and Roman Catholics in this neighbourhood (says another missionary for the year 1832) are not indifferent, but withstand, rather than yield to, the force of truth.”

An account of these Powerscourt Conversaziones (under the direct presidency of Lord Roden), as well as a list of the subjects discussed at the different meetings, may be found in the Christian Herald for the month of December, 1832. The following is a specimen of the nature of the questions submitted to the company:—“Monday Evening, Six o'clock, September 24. 1832.—‘An examination into the quotations given in the New Testament from the Old, with their connection and explanation, viz.’ &c. &c.—Wednesday.—‘Should we expect a personal Antichrist? and to whom will he be revealed?’ &c. &c.—Friday.—‘What light does Scripture throw on present events, and their moral character? What is next to be looked for or expected?’” &c.

The rapid progress made at these tea-parties in settling points of Scripture, may be judged from a paragraph in the account given of one of their evenings, by the Christian Herald:—

“On Daniel a good deal of light was thrown, and there was some, I think not so much, perhaps, upon the Revelations; though particular parts of it were discussed with considerable accession of knowledge. There was some very interesting inquiry as to the quotation of the Old Testament in the New; particularly on the point, whether there was any ‘accomodation,’ or whether they were quoted according to the mind of the Spirit in the Old; this gave occasion to some very interesting developement of Scripture. The progress of the Antichristian powers was very fully discussed.”

“About eight o'clock the Lord began to pour down his spirit copiously upon us—for they had all by this time assembled in my room for the purpose of prayer. This downpouring continued till about ten o'clock.”—Letter from Mary Campbell to the Rev. John Campbell, of Row, (dated Fernicary, April 4. 1830,) giving an account of her “miraculous cure.”

349

LETTER VII. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ---.

IRREGULAR ODE.

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemm'd by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
To wake to light each diamond eye,
And let loose every florid sigh!
Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,
Where from the dawn of Time they've lain—
The Embryos of a future Main!—
Untaught as yet, young things, to speak
The language of their Parent Sea

350

(Polyphlysbæan nam'd, in Greek),
Though soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
They'll thunder loud and long as He!

If you guess what this word means, 'tis more than I can:— I but give't as I got it from Mr. Magan. F.F.

Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode,
Young fires—
I had got, dear, thus far in my Ode,
Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom,
But, having invok'd such a lot of fine things,
Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings,
Didn't know what to do with 'em, when I had got 'em.
The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute,
Of past MSS. any new ones to try.
This very night's coach brings my destiny in it—
Decides the great question, to live or to die!
And, whether I'm henceforth immortal or no,
All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.!

351

You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out
The whole secret, at once—I have publish'd a Book!!!
Yes, an actual Book:—if the marvel you doubt,
You have only in last Monday's Courier to look,
And you'll find “This day publish'd by Simpkins and Co.
A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled ‘Woe Woe!’
By Miss Fanny F---, known more commonly so

.”
This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark,
But may guess at my writing by knowing my mark.
How I manag'd, at last, this great deed to achieve,
Is itself a “Romaunt” which you'd scarce, dear, believe;
Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl,
Looking out for the Magnet , explain it, dear girl.
Suffice it to say, that one half the expense
Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence—
(Though “God knows,” as aunt says, my humble ambition
Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition,)—

352

One half the whole cost of the paper and printing,
I've manag'd, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting
My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes,
Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!

A day-coach of that name.

And who, my dear Kitty, would not do the same?
What's eau de Cologne to the sweet breath of fame?
Yards of riband soon end—but the measures of rhyme,
Dipp'd in hues of the rainbow, stretch out through all time.
Gloves languish and fade away, pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics through ages trip on.
The remaining expense, trouble, risk—and, alas!
My poor copyright too—into other hands pass;
And my friend, the Head Dev'l of the “County Gazette”
(The only Mecænas I've ever had yet),
He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,
Is now set up by them for the rest of his days;
And while Gods (as my “Heathen Mythology” says)

353

Live on nought but ambrosia, his lot how much sweeter
To live, lucky dev'l, on a young lady's metre!
As for puffing—that first of all lit'rary boons,
And essential alike both to bards and balloons
As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found
Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;—
In this respect, nought could more prosp'rous befall;
As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)
Knows the whole world of critics—the hypers and all.
I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme,
Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time;
As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics,
That the Dev'l on Two Sticks was a dev'l at Acrostics.
But hark! there's the Magnet just dash'd in from Town—
How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.

354

That awful Court Journal, Gazette, Athenæum,
All full of my book—I shall sink when I see 'em.
And then the great point—whether Simpkins and Co.
Are actually pleas'd with their bargain or no!—

Five o'clock.

All's delightful—such praises!—I really fear
That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear,
I've but time now to send you two exquisite scraps—
All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.

FROM THE “MORNING POST.”

'Tis known that a certain distinguish'd physician
Prescribes, for dyspepsia, a course of light reading;
And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition
(Ere critics have injur'd their powers of nutrition),
Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding.
Satires irritate—love-songs are found calorific;
But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific,
And, if taken at bed-time, a sure soporific.

355

Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know,
Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co.,
Where all such ingredients—the flowery, the sweet,
And the gently narcotic—are mix'd per receipt,
With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation
To say that—'bove all, for the young generation—
'Tis an elegant, soothing, and safe preparation.

Nota bene—for readers, whose object's to sleep,
And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep
Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap.

ANECDOTE—FROM THE “COURT JOURNAL.”

T'other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout,
An amusing event was much whisper'd about.
It was said that Lord—, at the Council, that day,
Had, more than once, jump'd from his seat, like a rocket,
And flown to a corner, where—heedless, they say,
How the country's resources were squander'd away—
He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.

356

Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk,
Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius;
But it turn'd out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work,
Which his Lordship devour'd with such zeal expeditious—
Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay,
Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say,
He had distanc'd the whole reading world by a day!

357

LETTER VIII. FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.

Tuesday evening.

I much regret, dear Reverend Sir,
I could not come to ***meet you;
But this curst gout wo'n't let me stir—
Ev'n now I but by proxy greet you;
As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,
Owes all to an amanuensis.
Most other scourges of disease
Reduce men to extremities—
But gout wo'n't leave one even these.

From all my sister writes, I see
That you and I will quite agree.
I'm a plain man, who speak the truth,
And trust you'll think me not uncivil,
When I declare that, from my youth,
I've wish'd your country at the devil:
Nor can I doubt, indeed, from all
I've heard of your high patriot fame—

358

From every word your lips let fall—
That you most truly wish the same.
It plagues one's life out—thirty years
Have I had dinning in my ears,
“Ireland wants this, and that, and t'other,”
And, to this hour, one nothing hears
But the same vile, eternal bother.
While, of those countless things she wanted,
Thank God, but little has been granted,
And ev'n that little, if we're men
And Britons, we'll have back again!

I really think that Catholic question
Was what brought on my indigestion;
And still each year, as Popery's curse
Has gather'd round us, I've got worse;
Till ev'n my pint of port a day
Can't keep the Pope and bile away.
And whereas, till the Catholic bill,
I never wanted draught or pill,
The settling of that cursed question
Has quite unsettled my digestion.

Look what has happen'd since—the Elect
Of all the bores of every sect,

359

The chosen triers of men's patience,
From all the Three Denominations,
Let loose upon us;—even Quakers
Turn'd into speechers and law-makers,
Who'll move no question, stiff-rump'd elves,
Till first the Spirit moves themselves;
And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus,
Conquering our Ays and Nos sonorous,
Will soon to death's own slumber snore us.
Then, too, those Jews!—I really sicken
To think of such abomination;
Fellows, who wo'n't eat ham with chicken,
To legislate for this great nation!—
Depend upon't, when once they've sway,
With rich old Goldsmid at the head o' them,
Th' Excise laws will be done away,
And Circumcise ones pass'd instead o' them!

In short, dear sir, look where one will,
Things all go on so devilish ill,
That, 'pon my soul, I rather fear
Our reverend Rector may be right,
Who tells me the Millennium's near;
Nay, swears he knows the very year,

360

And regulates his leases by't;—
Meaning their terms should end, no doubt,
Before the world's own lease is out.
He thinks, too, that the whole thing's ended
So much more soon than was intended,
Purely to scourge those men of sin
Who brought th' accurst Reform Bill in.

However, let's not yet despair;
Though Toryism's eclips'd, at present,
And—like myself, in this old chair—
Sits in a state by no means pleasant;
Feet crippled—hands, in luckless hour,
Disabled of their grasping power;
And all that rampant glee, which revell'd
In this world's sweets, be-dull'd, bedevil'd—
Yet, though condemn'd to frisk no more,
And both in Chair of Penance set,

361

There's something tells me, all's not o'er
With Toryism or Bobby yet;
That though, between us, I allow
We've not a leg to stand on now;
Though curst Reform and colchicum
Have made us both look deuced glum,
Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout,
Again we'll shine triumphant out!

Yes—back again shall come, egad,
Our turn for sport, my reverend lad.
And then, O'Mulligan—oh then,
When mounted on our nags again,
You, on your high-flown Rosinante,
Bedizen'd out, like Show-Gallantee
(Glitter great from substance scanty);—
While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride
Your faithful Sancho, by your side;
Then—talk of tilts and tournaments!
Dam'me, we'll—

[OMITTED]

'Squire Fudge's clerk presents
To Reverend Sir his compliments;

362

Is griev'd to say an accident
Has just occurr'd which will prevent
The Squire—though now a little better—
From finishing this present letter.
Just when he'd got to “Dam'me, we'll—”
His Honour, full of martial zeal,
Grasp'd at his crutch, but not being able
To keep his balance or his hold,
Tumbled, both self and crutch, and roll'd
Like ball and bat, beneath the table.

All's safe—the table, chair, and crutch;—
Nothing, thank God, is broken much,
But the Squire's head, which, in the fall,
Got bump'd consid'rably—that's all.
At this no great alarm we feel,
As the Squire's head can bear a deal.

This appears to have been the opinion also of an eloquent writer in the Morning Watch. “One great object of Christ's second Advent, as the Man and as the King of the Jews, is to punish the Kings who do not acknowledge that their authority is derived from him, and who submit to receive it from that many-headed monster, the mob.” No. x. p. 373.

Wednesday morning.

Squire much the same—head rather light—
Rav'd about “Barbers' Wigs” all night.

Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs,
Suspects that he meant “barbarous Whigs.”

363

LETTER IX. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.

As it was but last week that I sint you a letther,
You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about;
And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther,
Could I manage to lave the contints of it out;
For sure, if it makes even me onaisy,
Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive you crazy.

Oh, Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him!
That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to him,
Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood,
And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not ev'n the Flood
Was able to wash away clane from the earth)
As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth,

364

Can no more to a great O, before it, purtend,
Than mine can to wear a great Q at its end.

But that's now all over—last night I gev warnin',
And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this mornin'.
The thief of the world!—but it's no use balraggin' ;—
All I know is, I'd fifty times rather be draggin'
Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days,
Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise,
And be forc'd to discind thro' the same dirty ways.
Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last show'd his phiz,
I'd have known what a quare sort of monsther he is;
For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough,
That himself and his other wild Irish show'd off;
And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man
Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman—

365

Sayin', “Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take notice,
“How shlim and how shleek this black animal's coat is;
“All by-raison, we're towld, that the nathur o' the baste
“Is to change its coat once in its lifetime, at laste;
“And such objiks, in our counthry, not bein' common ones,
“Are bought up, as this was, by way of Fine Nomenons.
“In regard of its name—why, in throth, I'm consarn'd
“To differ on this point so much with the Larn'd,
“Who call it a ‘Morthimer,’ whereas the craythur
“Is plainly a ‘Murthagh,’ by name and by nathur.”

This is how I'd have towld them the rights of it all,
Had I been their showman at Exether Hall—
Not forgettin' that other great wondher of Airin
(Of th' owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin),

366

The fam'd Daddy C---ke--- who, by gor, I'd have shown 'em
As proof how such bastes may be tam'd, when you've thrown 'em
A good frindly sop of the rale Raigin Donem.

But, throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear,
For any thing, barrin' our own doings here,
And the cursin' and dammin' and thund'rin', like mad,
We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh have had.
He says we're all murtherers—div'l a bit less—
And that even our priests, when we go to confess,
Give us lessons in murth'ring and wish us success!

When ax'd how he daar'd, by tongue or by pen,
To belie, in this way, seven millions of men,
Faith, he said 'twas all towld him by Docthor Den!

367

“And who the div'l's he?” was the question that flew
From Chrishtian to Chrishtian—but not a sowl knew.
While on went Murthagh, in iligant style,
Blasphaming us Cath'lics all the while,
As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villians,
All the whole kit of th' aforesaid millions ,—
Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest,
And the innocent craythur that's at your breast,
All rogues together, in word and deed,
Owld Den our insthructor and Sin our creed!

When ax'd for his proofs again and again,
Div'l an answer he'd give but Docthor Den.
Couldn't he call into coort some livin' men?
“No, thank you”—he'd stick to Docthor Den—
An ould gintleman dead a century or two,
Who all about us, live Cath'lics, knew;

368

And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry,
Than Docthor Mac Hale or Docthor Murray!

But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon,
Though myself, from bad habits, is makin' it one.
Even you, had you witness'd his grand climactherics,
Which actially threw one owld maid in hysterics—
Or, och! had you heerd such a purty remark as his,
That Papists are only “Humanity's carcasses,
“Ris'n”—but, by dad, I'm afeard I can't give it ye—
“Ris'n from the sepulchre of—inactivity;
“And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity,
“Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity!!” —
Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light,
Would have laugh'd, out and out, at this iligant flight
Of that figure of speech call'd the Blatherumskite.

369

As for me, though a funny thought now and then came to me,
Rage got the betther at last—and small blame to me!
So, slapping my thigh, “by the Powers of Delf,”
Says I bowldly “I'll make a noration myself.”
And with that up I jumps—but, my darlint, the minit
I cock'd up my head, div'l a sinse remain'd in it.
Though, saited, I could have got beautiful on,
When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all gone:—
Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er we've a hand in,
At laste in our legs show a sthrong understandin'.

Howsumdever, detarmin'd the chaps should pursaive
What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave,
“In regard of all that,” says I—there I stopp'd short—
Not a word more would come, though I shtruggled hard for't.
So, shnapping my fingers at what's call'd the Chair,
And the owld Lord (or Lady, I b'lieve) that sat there—

370

“In regard of all that,” says I bowldly again—
“To owld Nick I pitch Mortimer—and Docthor Den;”—
Upon which the whole company cried out “Amen;”
And myself was in hopes 'twas to what I had said,
But, by gor, no such thing—they were not so well bred:
For, 'twas all to a pray'r Murthagh just had read out,
By way of fit finish to job so devout;
That is—afther well damning one half the community,
To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity!

This is all I can shtuff in this letther, though plinty
Of news, faith, I've got to fill more—if 'twas twinty.
But I'll add, on the outside, a line, should I need it,
(Writin' “Private” upon it, that no one may read it,)
To tell you how Mortimer (as the Saints chrishten him)
Bears the big shame of his sarvant's dismisshin' him.

371

(Private outside.)

Just come from his riv'rence—the job is all done—
By the powers, I've discharg'd him as sure as a gun!
And now, Judy dear, what on earth I'm to do
With myself and my appetite—both good as new—
Without ev'n a single traneen in my pocket,
Let alone a good, dacent pound-starlin', to stock it—
Is a mysht'ry I lave to the One that's above,
Who takes care of us, dissolute sowls, when hard dhrove!

“I am of your Patriarchs, I, a branch of one of your antediluvian families—fellows that the Flood could not wash away.” —Congreve, Love for Love.

To balrag is to abuse—Mr. Lover makes it ballyrag, and he is high authority: but if I remember rightly, Curran in his national stories used to employ the word as above.—See Lover's most amusing and genuinely Irish work, the “Legends and Stories of Ireland.”

Larry evidently means the Regium Donum;—a sum contributed by the government annually to the support of the Presbyterian churches in Ireland.

Correctly, Dens—Larry not being very particular in his nomenclature.

“The deeds of darkness which are reduced to horrid practice over the drunken debauch of the midnight assassin are debated, in principle, in the sober morning religious conferences of the priests.” —Speech of the Rev. Mr. M'Ghee.—

“The character of the Irish people generally is, that they are given to lying and to acts of theft.” —Speech of the Rev. Robert Daly.

“But she (Popery) is no longer the tenant of the sepulchre of inactivity. She has come from the burial-place, walking forth a monster, as if the spirit of evil had corrupted the carcass of her departed humanity; noxious and noisome, an object of abhorrence and dismay to all who are not leagued with her in iniquity.” —Report of the Rev. Gentleman's Speech, June 20. in the Record Newspaper.

We may well ask, after reading this and other such reverend ravings, “Quis dubitat quin omne sit hoc rationis egestas?”

372

LETTER X. FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV. ------.

These few brief lines, my reverend friend,
By a safe, private hand I send
(Fearing lest some low Catholic wag
Should pry into the Letter-bag),
To tell you, far as pen can dare
How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;—
Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack,
As Saints were, some few ages back,
But—scarce less trying in its way—
To laughter, wheresoe'er we stray;
To jokes, which Providence mysterious
Permits on men and things so serious,
Lowering the Church still more each minute,
And—injuring our preferment in it.

373

Just think, how worrying 'tis, my friend,
To find, where'er our footsteps bend,
Small jokes, like squibs, around us whizzing;
And bear the eternal torturing play
Of that great engine of our day,
Unknown to the' Inquisition—quizzing!

Your men of thumb-screws and of racks
Aim'd at the body their attacks;
But modern torturers, more refin'd,
Work their machinery on the mind.
Had St. Sebastian had the luck
With me to be a godly rover,
Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck
With stings of ridicule all over;
And poor St. Lawrence, who was kill'd
By being on a gridir'n grill'd,
Had he but shar'd my errant lot,
Instead of grill on gridir'n hot,
A moral roasting would have got.
Nor should I (trying as all this is)
Much heed the suffering or the shame—
As, like an actor, used to hisses,
I long have known no other fame,

374

But that (as I may own to you,
Though to the world it would not do,)
No hope appears of fortune's beams
Shining on any of my schemes;
No chance of something more per ann.
As supplement to K---llym---n;
No prospect that, by fierce abuse
Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce
The rulers of this thinking nation
To rid us of Emancipation;
To forge anew the sever'd chain,
And bring back Penal Laws again.

Ah happy time! when wolves and priests
Alike were hunted, as wild beasts;
And five pounds was the price, per head,
For bagging either, live or dead ;—
Though oft, we're told, one outlaw'd brother
Sav'd cost, by eating up the other.

375

Finding thus all those schemes and hopes
I built upon my flowers and tropes
All scatter'd, one by one, away,
As flashy and unsound as they,
The question comes—what's to be done?
And there's but one course left me—one.
Heroes, when tir'd of war's alarms,
Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms.
The weary Day-God's last retreat is
The breast of silv'ry-footed Thetis;
And mine, as mighty Love's my judge,
Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge!

Start not, my friend,—the tender scheme,
Wild and romantic though it seem,
Beyond a parson's fondest dream,
Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes,
So pleasing to a parson's eyes—
That only gilding which the Muse
Cannot around her sons diffuse;—
Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,
From wealthy Miss or benefice,
To Mortimer indiff'rent is,
So he can only make it his.

376

There is but one slight damp I see
Upon this scheme's felicity,
And that is, the fair heroine's claim
That I shall take her family name.
To this (though it may look henpeck'd),
I can't quite decently object,
Having myself long chos'n to shine
Conspicuous in the alias line;
So that henceforth, by wife's decree,
(For Biddy from this point wo'n't budge)
Your old friend's new address must be
The Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge—
The “O” being kept, that all may see
We're both of ancient family.

Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you,
My public life's calm Euthanasia.

377

Thus bid I long farewell to all
The freaks of Exeter's old Hall—
Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding,
And rivalling its bears in breeding.
Farewell, the platform fill'd with preachers—
The pray'r giv'n out, as grace , by speechers,
Ere they cut up their fellow-creatures:—
Farewell to dead old Dens's volumes,
And, scarce less dead, old Standard's columns:—
From each and all I now retire,
My task, henceforth, as spouse and sire,
To bring up little filial Fudges,
To be M.P.s, and Peers, and Judges—
Parsons I'd add too, if, alas!
There yet were hope the Church could pass
The gulf now oped for hers and her,
Or long survive what Exeter—
Both Hall and Bishop, of that name—
Have done to sink her reverend fame.

378

Adieu, dear friend—you'll oft hear from me,
Now I'm no more a travelling drudge;
Meanwhile I sign (that you may judge
How well the surname will become me)

Yours truly,
Mortimer O'Fudge.

“Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period (1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish priest—being exactly the same sum offered by the same legislators for the head of a wolf.” Memoirs of Captain Rock, book i. chap. 10.

In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly exemplified the meaning of the word “alias” by the instance of Mallet, the poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch patronymic, Malloch. “What other proofs he gave (says Johnson) of disrespect to his native country, I know not; but it was remarked of him that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend.” —Life of Mallet.

“I think I am acting in unison with the feelings of a Meeting assembled for this solemn object, when I call on the Rev. Doctor Holloway to open it by prayer.” —Speech of Lord Kenyon.

379

LETTER XI. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ---.

------, Ireland.

Dear Dick—just arriv'd at my own humble gîte,
I inclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,
Just arriv'd, per express, of our late noble feat.

[Extract from the “County Gazette.”]

This place is getting gay and full again.
[OMITTED]
Last week was married, “in the Lord,”
The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan,
Preacher, in Irish, of the Word,
(He, who the Lord's force lately led on—
Exeter Hall his Armagh-geddon,)

380

To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,
One of the chos'n, as “heir of grace,”
And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,
Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.

Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted—
Niece of the above, (whose “Sylvan Lyre,”
In our Gazette, last week, we printed,)
Elop'd with Pat. Magan, Esquire.
The fugitives were track'd, some time,
After they'd left the Aunt's abode,
By scraps of paper, scrawl'd with rhyme,
Found strew'd along the Western road;—
Some of them, ci-devant curl-papers,
Others, half burnt in lighting tapers.
This clue, however, to their flight,
After some miles was seen no more;
And, from inquiries made last night,
We find they've reach'd the Irish shore.

The rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county of Armagh!—a most remarkable coincidence— and well worthy of the attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse.

Every word of it true, Dick—th' escape from
Aunt's thrall—
Western road—lyric fragments—curl-papers and all.

381

My sole stipulation, ere link'd at the shrine
(As some balance between Fanny's numbers and mine),
Was that, when we were one, she must give up the Nine;
Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS.
With a vow never more against prose to transgress.
This she did, like a heroine;—smack went to bits
The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits—
Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes, canzonets—
Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes,
Some turn'd into papillotes, worthy to rise
And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies!
While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay),
Begg'd, as “lover of po'thry,” to read on the way.
Having thus of life's poetry dar'd to dispose,
How we now, Dick, shall manage to get through its prose,
With such slender materials for style, Heaven knows!
But—I'm call'd off abruptly—another Express!
What the deuce can it mean?—I'm alarm'd, I confess.

382

P.S.

Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs!
I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days.
There—read the good news—and while glad, for my sake,
That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake,
Admire also the moral—that he, the sly elf,
Who has fudg'd all the world, should be now fudg'd himself!

EXTRACT FROM LETTER INCLOSED.

With pain the mournful news I write,
Miss Fudge's uncle died last night;
And much to mine and friends' surprise,
By will doth all his wealth devise—
Lands, dwellings—rectories likewise—
To his “belov'd grand-niece,” Miss Fanny,
Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many
Long years hath waited—not a penny!
Have notified the same to latter,
And wait instructions in the matter.

For self and partners, &c. &c.

383

SONGS FROM M.P.;

OR, THE BLUE STOCKING.

385

SONG.

[Young Love liv'd once in an humble shed]

SUSAN.

Young Love liv'd once in an humble shed,
Where roses breathing,
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourish'd,
For young Hope nourish'd
The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, though blooming, must still be fed,
And not even Love can live on flowers.

386

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither,
Such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning,
Ere Love had warning,
And rais'd the latch, where the young god lay;
“Oh ho!” said Love—“is it you? good-by;”
So he oped the window, and flew away!

387

[To sigh, yet feel no pain]

To sigh, yet feel no pain,
To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by.
To kneel at many a shrine,
Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.
This is love, faithless love,
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,
Through life unchill'd, unmov'd,
To love, in wintry age, the same
As first in youth we lov'd;
To feel that we adore,
Ev'n to such fond excess,
That, though the heart would break, with more,
It could not live with less.
This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above.

388

[Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies]

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies
In youthful hearts that hope like mine;
And 'tis the light of laughing eyes,
That leads us to thy fairy shrine.
There if we find the sigh, the tear,
They are not those to Sorrow known;
But breath so soft, and drops so clear,
That Bliss may claim them for her own.

Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens woe,
And teaches ev'n our tears to keep
The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child, who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,
But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,
Are lost, when touch'd, and turn to pain;
The flush they kindled leaves the cheek,
The tears they waken long remain.

But give me, give me, &c. &c

389

[When Leila touch'd the lute]

When Leila touch'd the lute,
Not then alone 'twas felt,
But, when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she, who stole
Such breath from simple wire,
Be led, in pride of soul,
To string with gold her lyre?
Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh;
Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales
Her lute so sweetly told?
In lofty themes she fails,
And soft ones suit not gold.
Rich lute! we see thee glisten,
But, alas! no more we listen!

390

BOAT GLEE.

The song that lightens our languid way
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
As we row along through waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
That shines o'er Sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees
With an eye that Feeling gave;—
For him there's a story in every breeze,
And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;—
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing:
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.

391

Oh think, when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer!
What woman could dream of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her.
No heart is so guarded around,
But the smile of a victor would take it;
No bosom can slumber so sound,
But the trumpet of Glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping,
And woe to the heart that allows him;
For soon neither smiling or weeping
Will e'er from such slumber arouse him.
But though he were sleeping so fast,
That the life almost seem'd to forsake him,
Ev'n then, one soul-thrilling blast
From the trumpet of Glory would wake him.

392

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A lottery, a Lottery,
In Cupid's Court there used to be;
Two roguish eyes
The highest prize,
In Cupid's scheming Lottery;
And kisses, too,
As good as new,
Which weren't very hard to win,
For he, who won
The eyes of fun,
Was sure to have the kisses in.

A Lottery, a Lottery, &c.

This Lottery, this Lottery,
In Cupid's Court went merrily,
And Cupid play'd
A Jewish trade
In this his scheming Lottery;

393

For hearts, we're told,
In shares he sold
To many a fond believing drone,
And cut the hearts
So well in parts,
That each believ'd the whole his own.

Chor.—

A Lottery, a Lottery,
In Cupid's Court there used to be;
Two roguish eyes
The highest prize
In Cupid's scheming Lottery.

394

SONG.

[Though sacred the tie that our country entwineth]

Though sacred the tie that our country entwineth,
And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,
And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
Oh Liberty, born in the cot of the peasant,
But dying of languor in luxury's dome,
Our vision, when absent—our glory when present—
Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I wander'd!
In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave;
Unbless'd is the blood that for tyrants is squander'd,
And Fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.
But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion
Of Europe, as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam;
With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,
Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

Sung in the character of a Frenchman.

395

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

397

AT NIGHT.

At night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound
Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
“'Tis late, my love!” and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,
With those we love exchang'd at night!

These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words “at night” written over him.

398

TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OF A SNUFF-BOX.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,
To her, whose pity watch'd, for ever nigh;
Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
This relic lights up on her generous eye,
Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay
A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

Paris, July, 1821.

399

EPILOGUE. WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and—all that,
And wondering much what little knavish sprite
Had put it first in women's heads to write:—
Sudden I saw—as in some witching dream—
A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,
Some sunny morning from a violet bed.
“Bless me!” I starting cried, “what imp are you?”—
“A small he-devil, Ma'am—my name Bas Bleu—
“A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading;
“'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding,
“The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,
“The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,

400

“And, when the waltz has twirl'd her giddy brain,
“With metaphysics twirl it back again!”

I view'd him, as he spoke—his hose were blue,
His wings—the covers of the last Review—
Cerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue,
And tinsell'd gaily o'er, for evening wear,
Till the next quarter brings a new-fledg'd pair.
“Inspir'd by me—(pursued this waggish Fairy)—
“That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,
“Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,
“Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes.
“For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,
“And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine;
“For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking,
“Looks wise—the pretty soul!—and thinks she's thinking.
“By my advice Miss Indigo attends
“Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends,
“‘'Pon honour!— (mimics)
—nothing can surpass the plan
“‘Of that professor— (trying to recollect)
—psha! that memory-man—

401

“‘That—what's his name?—him I attended lately—
“‘'Pon honour, he improv'd my memory greatly.’”

Here, curtseying low, I ask'd the blue-legg'd sprite,
What share he had in this our play to-night.
“Nay, there—(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite—
“What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time,
“When no one waltz'd, and none but monks could rhyme;
“When lovely woman, all unschool'd and wild,
“Blush'd without art, and without culture smil'd—
“Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone,
“Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own,
“Rang'd the wild, rosy things in learned orders,
“And fill'd with Greek the garden's blushing borders!—
“No, no—your gentle Inas will not do—
“To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,
“I'll come— (pointing downwards)
—you understand—till then adieu!”

And has the sprite been here? No—jests apart—
Howe'er man rules in science and in art,
The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.

402

And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true
The wife—the mother—firm, yet gentle too—
Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun,
Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one;
Who loves—yet dares even Love himself disown,
When Honour's broken shaft supports his throne:
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,
Dire as they are, of Critics and—Blue Devils.

403

THE DAY-DREAM.

They both were hush'd, the voice, the chords,—
I heard but once that witching lay;
And few the notes, and few the words,
My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remember'd here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain;—
Links of a sweetness lost in air,
That nothing now could join again.

Ev'n these, too, ere the morning, fled;
And, though the charm still linger'd on,
That o'er each sense her song had shed,
The song itself was faded, gone;—

404

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,
On summer days, ere youth had set;
Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
Though what they were, we now forget.

In vain, with hints from other strains,
I woo'd this truant air to come—
As birds are taught, on eastern plains,
To lure their wilder kindred home.

In vain:—the song that Sappho gave,
In dying, to the mournful sea,
Not muter slept beneath the wave,
Than this within my memory.

At length, one morning, as I lay
In that half-waking mood, when dreams
Unwillingly at last give way
To the full truth of daylight's beams,

A face—the very face, methought,
From which had breath'd, as from a shrine
Of song and soul, the notes I sought—
Came with its music close to mine;

405

And sung the long-lost measure o'er,—
Each note and word, with every tone
And look, that lent it life before,—
All perfect, all again my own!

Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest
They meet again, each widow'd sound
Through memory's realm had wing'd in quest
Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor ev'n in waking did the clue,
Thus strangely caught, escape again;
For never lark its matins knew
So well as now I knew this strain.

And oft, when memory's wondrous spell
Is talk'd of in our tranquil bower,
I sing this lady's song, and tell
The vision of that morning hour.

In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.

406

SONG.

[Where is the heart that would not give]

Where is the heart that would not give
Years of drowsy days and nights,
One little hour, like this, to live—
Full, to the brim, of life's delights?
Look, look around,
This fairy ground,
With love-lights glittering o'er;
While cups that shine
With freight divine
Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours,
Memory lives in those gone by;
Neither can see the moment's flowers
Springing up fresh beneath the eye.
Wouldst thou, or thou,
Forego what's now,
For all that Hope may say?
No—Joy's reply,
From every eye,
Is, “Live we while we may.”

407

SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

Haud curat Hippoclides. Erasm. Adag.

To those we love we've drank to-night;
But now attend, and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite
Of those for whom We care not.

For royal men, howe'er they frown,
If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown,
The People's Love—We care not.

For slavish men, who bend beneath
A despot yoke, yet dare not
Pronounce the will, whose very breath
Would rend its links—We care not.

408

For priestly men, who covet sway
And wealth, though they declare not;
Who point, like finger-posts, the way
They never go—We care not.

For martial men, who on their sword,
Howe'er it conquers, wear not
The pledges of a soldier's word,
Redeem'd and pure—We care not.

For legal men, who plead for wrong,
And, though to lies they swear not,
Are hardly better than the throng
Of those who do—We care not.

For courtly men, who feed upon
The land, like grubs, and spare not
The smallest leaf, where they can sun
Their crawling limbs—We care not.

For wealthy men, who keep their mines
In darkness hid, and share not
The paltry ore with him who pines
In honest want—We care not.

409

For prudent men, who hold the power
Of Love aloof, and bare not
Their hearts in any guardless hour
To Beauty's shaft—We care not.

For all, in short, on land or sea,
In camp or court, who are not,
Who never were, or e'er will be
Good men and true—We care not.

410

ANNE BOLEYN.

[_]

TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL “HISTOIRE D'ANNE BOLEYN.”

“S'elle estoit belle et de taille élégante,
Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante,
Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à propos
En les tenant quelquefoys en repos;
Aucunefoys envoyant en message
Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage.”

Much as her form seduc'd the sight,
Her eyes could ev'n more surely woo;
And when, and how to shoot their light
Into men's hearts full well she knew.
For sometimes, in repose, she hid
Their rays beneath a downcast lid;
And then again, with wakening air,
Would send their sunny glances out,
Like heralds of delight, to bear
Her heart's sweet messages about.

411

THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

FROM DANTE.

Nell ora, credo, che dell' oriente
Prima raggiò nel monte Citerea,
Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre ardente,
Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea
Donna vedere andar per una landa
Cogliendo fiori; e cantando dicea:—

Sappia qualunque 'l mio nome dimanda,
Ch' io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno
Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda—
Per piacermi allo specchio qui m' adorno;
Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga
Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno.

Ell' è de' suoi begli occhi veder vaga,
Com' io dell' adornarmi con le mani;
Lei lo vedere e me l'ovrare appaga.

Dante, Purg. canto xxvii.

'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above,
The star of Beauty beam'd,
While lull'd by light so full of love,
In slumber thus I dream'd—
Methought, at that sweet hour,
A nymph came o'er the lea,

412

Who, gath'ring many a flow'r,
Thus said and sung to me:—
“Should any ask what Leila loves,
“Say thou, To wreathe her hair
“With flow'rets cull'd from glens and groves,
“Is Leila's only care.

“While thus in quest of flow'rets rare,
“O'er hill and dale I roam,
“My sister, Rachel, far more fair,
“Sits lone and mute at home.
“Before her glass untiring,
“With thoughts that never stray,
“Her own bright eyes admiring,
“She sits the live-long day;
“While I!—oh, seldom ev'n a look
“Of self salutes my eye;—
“My only glass, the limpid brook,
“That shines and passes by.”

413

SOVEREIGN WOMAN.

A BALLAD.

The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams,
That fairy scene went on;
Like clouds still flush'd with daylight gleams
Though day itself is gone.
And gracefully to music's sound,
The same bright nymphs went gliding round;
While thou, the Queen of all, wert there—
The Fairest still, where all were fair.

The dream then chang'd—in halls of state,
I saw thee high enthron'd;
While, rang'd around, the wise, the great
In thee their mistress own'd:
And still the same, thy gentle sway
O'er willing subjects won its way—
'Till all confess'd the Right Divine
To rule o'er man was only thine!

414

But, lo, the scene now chang'd again—
And borne on plumed steed,
I saw thee o'er the battle-plain
Our land's defenders lead:
And stronger in thy beauty's charms,
Than man, with countless hosts in arms,
Thy voice, like music, cheer'd the Free,
Thy very smile was victory!

Nor reign such queens on thrones alone—
In cot and court the same,
Wherever woman's smile is known,
Victoria's still her name.
For though she almost blush to reign,
Though Love's own flow'rets wreath the chain,
Disguise our bondage as we will,
'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.

415

COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.

A BALLAD.

Come, play me that simple air again,
I us'd so to love, in life's young day,
And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then
Were waken'd by that sweet lay.
The tender gloom its strain
Shed o'er the heart and brow,
Grief's shadow, without its pain—
Say where, where is it now?
But play me the well-known air once more,
For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain,
Like dreams of some far, fairy shore
We never shall see again.

Sweet air, how every note brings back
Some sunny hope, some day-dream bright,
That, shining o'er life's early track,
Fill'd ev'n its tears with light.

416

The new-found life that came
With love's first echo'd vow;—
The fear, the bliss, the shame—
Ah—where, where are they now?
But, still the same lov'd notes prolong,
For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay,
In dreams of youth and love and song,
To breathe life's hour away.

END OF THE NINTH VOLUME.

University of Virginia Library

VIII, IX. VOL. VIII., VOL. IX THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND. MISCELLANEOUS.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

['Twas when the world was in its prime]

FIRST ANGEL'S STORY.

SECOND ANGEL'S STORY.

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

SCEPTICISM.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

GAZEL.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. OF DUBLIN.

GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

TO LADY J*R**Y,

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.

MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.

MONDAY, MARCH 13. 1826.

TUESDAY.

WEDNESDAY.

ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.

A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD.

(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.)

BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.

MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.

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

THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRV*NG “ON PROPHECY.”

THE THREE DOCTORS.

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

ODE TO A HAT.

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF CHRISTABEL.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT B*TT*RW*RTH.

AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

THE DONKY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

A CASE OF LIBEL.

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

THE IRISH SLAVE.

ODE TO FERDINAND.

HAT versus WIG.

THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

NEW CREATION OF PEERS.

BATCH THE FIRST.

SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE

WO! WO!

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

ENIGMA.

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BTTRW*RTH.

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE,
“COME, CLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES.”

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.