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

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.”