Les Champignons du diable :: :: University of Virginia Library

Les Champignons du diable

or, Imperial mushrooms: A mock-heroic poem, in five cantos: Including a Conference between the Pope and the Devil, on his Holiness's visit to Paris: illustrated with notes. By the editor of "Salmagundi," and "The Wiccamical Chaplet," &c. &c. [i.e. George Huddesford]

Huddesford, George (1749-1809)

[epigraph]

[section]

LES CHAMPIGNONS DU DIABLE;

CANTO I.

[section]

INVOCATION.

THE SENATE CONSERVATEUR TO THE FIRST CONSUL OF THE REPUBLIC.

II.

III.

IV.

CANTO V. CONSISTING OF A CONFERENCE BETWEEN THE POPE AND THE DEVIL, ON HIS HOLINESS'S JOURNEY TO PARIS.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

LES CHAMPIGNONS DU DIABLE;

OR, Imperial MUSHROOMS.

CANTO I.

THE ARGUMENT.

EXORDIUM—Cause of the admiration excited by political events in the beginning of the nineteenth century—Ignorant people regard only the exterior of things—Case in point—Poets discern interior causes and principles—Exemplified in various instances —Their penetration embraces greater as well as lesser events— And will develope the true origin and fabrication of the Farce recently enacted and now acting on the Continent.

Satan's speech to his parliament—“Obligations of the Infernals to mortal heroes—They are to be richly recompensed under ground, where things rich and precious are deposited—Superior worthies challenge also earthly pre-eminence—Examples from past times—Equal encouragement should now be given to Crime—The French Consulate, an inadequate remuneration of the transcendant deserts of
Bonaparte —Infernal spirits commanded to effect his advancement to the empire of France”—They repair to the Gallic Conservative

Senate—Organization of that assemblage—Why termed “Conservateur”—Their operation upon the worst ends of the senators—Produces the Senate's address of the 17th Floreal—Invocation—“The senators' acknowledgments for the Consul's communications relative to plots against him, especially those of Mr. Drake, whom they deem to have been suckled by a bitch-fox—What they must have felt if his plots had succeeded—Chasm in their existing institutions— Five state-tinkers to find means of repairing the deficiency— Second course of Mr. Drake—Destinies of France and of Bonaparte united—Third course of Mr. Drake—Frenchmen gifted with nine lives, Bonaparte has but one—Fourth course of Mr. Drake—Bonaparte's fall would have confounded the order of the world—French vengeance in case of such event, fruitless, because Mr. Drake's head would not fit Bonaparte's shoulders—Necessity of organizing a High Court of justice— Advantage of making the execution of criminals preliminary to their trials—Expected effect of such High Justiciary Court on English conspirators—Fifth course of Mr. Drake—Establishment of such high court but half of the Consul's work— Everlasting institutions to be combined with it by the wonderful ability of the First Consul—His absolute power over Time, &c. —His plastic and all-comprehensive genius—Illustrated—Love of the French people to, and apprehensions for, the pilot of their state vessel—Sympathetic sentiments of French Mesdames Poissardes, &c. &c.—All unanimous in exhorting the “Great Man to complete his glory.”

NO manufacturer of rhyme,
Or prose, can tell the nick of time
When, bidding earthly friends good by,
Spirit or gift of prophecy,
Like other spirits, evaporated:
But we for certainty may state it,
That she sat off at the right æra;
For, had she longer tarried, ne'er a
Interpreter of all the trade
One-half of what she would have said
Had credited, if, peradventure, he
Had heard her prate of nineteenth century;
At whose developement each ass
Must think strange things have come to pass;

And so, indeed, of asses say
All that intelligibly bray:
Because, such long-ear'd gentry look
To rind and cover of the book
Alone, in spruce Morocco binding
All they think worth attention finding;
Like swine, for love of th' husk, neglect
The text or kernel to inspect.
As literary gossips fable
Of sapient and right honourable
Peer, who the door had so dispos'd
To 's library, that, when 'twas clos'd,
None could descry or hit upon 't:
And was so tickled, when he'd done 't,
With his foriculastic mystery,
That he for tomes within, of history,
Art dialectic, greek and latin
Classics, whereon the studious batten,
And all their philosophic prog
Had no more relish than a dog:
But thought, in limine deceptio
Must him a more profound adept show

Than if h' had Hebrew odes, or Greek writ
To friend, whom thus into the secret
He let with Solomonic grin:
“Say not a word about it!—in
“This library and out go I, Sir,
“Full oft, and nobody the wiser!”

But double-sighted Bards, who tip ye
Off rummers of right Aganippe,
Look through the upper-crust of things,
To find th'interior, secret springs
And principles that give to th' whole
Form, hue, activity and soul.
And, though on spit the joint turn round,
By nicest scrutiny have found,
That 'tis the short-legg'd cur i' the wheel,
And not the spit, that roasts the veal.
When fingers of Hook, Cramer, Crotch,
On organ-keys play at hop-scotch,

Though credit for their skill you grant 'em,
And swear divinely trills the anthem,
They know that you're mistaken quite:
'Tis Bellows-blower out of sight
Who makes the melody, which no
Longer exists than bellows blow.
They know when popular Haranguer,
From pulpit, theologic clangour
Dispenses, (like report of guns,)
And suff'ring auditory stuns,

That, though the noise is all his own,
He preaches not but Massillon.
List'ning learn'd Sergeant in the courts,
What tropes and metaphors he sports,
“Three-pil'd hyperboles,” grimaces,
“Silk terms and taffata-wove phrases!”
You deem such all-persuasive strains
Flow from grand reservoir of brains;
They know in Curl of's wig the force
Lies, and the thread of his discourse,

As we from case in point below,
Shall, with prosaic license, show.
They know that Punch's ribbald note
From Carnal comes, not oaken throat

As that intelligent old woman
Suppos'd, who bought him of the show-man,
And took him home, when she was á-dry,
To tipple with her, and talk shaadry.

And, as poetical Proboscis,
In small effects smells out their causes,
(Nay, with such rare organization,
Is fram'd 'twill scent of dame of fashion
The little faux-pas she will nót own,
As well as nose of Father Coton:)

Thus its rhinocerontic stature,
Commensurate alike with greater,
Enables it, (just like that queer one,
Wherewith Judge Jeff'ries presbyterian
Forty miles off could smell, or more,)
T' olfact the Centre, and explore
The lowest bin in Satan's cellar;
And, if rat burrow'd there, to smell her.

This being premis'd, attend with awe,
Reader! while we the veil undraw
That parts this world of stars and sunshine
From subterraneous world where none shine:
Show how in Hell's Cimmerian shade,
The farce was plann'd that France has play'd;
And how the Devil's conj'ring-box,
Swell'd Consul Frog to Emp'ror Ox.

SATAN, on mighty mischiefs bent,
Call'd his infernal parliament,
And, to the cloven-footed peers
And knights of his sulphureous shires,
Marshall'd around their monarch's throne,
Thus his imperial will made known:

“Lords diabolic!” who sustain
The potency of Satan's reign,
And you, hell's commoners! esquires,
And knights, these everlasting fires

Anxious to feed with two-legg'd fuel!
'Tis understood by us and you well
How much the glorious Cause of ill
Indebted stands to human will;
With what effect our dire intents
Explode through mortal instruments;
As through that militant Death's-door,
The culverin's or musket's bore,
When speeds the nitrous compound's force,
Tenfold destruction marks its course.

What Devil of consideration
Knows not our wond'rous obligation
To Heroes of gigantic mind,
Who, while the rights of human-kind
They spurn, and all its ties disown,
Live for themselves and us alone?
If, then, to Such our realms below
Their wide-spread population owe;
Let their deserts be fairly weigh'd,
And rich remuneration made:
That all, to serve our state inclin'd,
Here may be sure their due to find!

For where should treasures rich be found,
And precious gems, but under ground?
Of Truth more precious where's the seat?
You glance, perhaps, at D--- Street,
“Or ---th's venerable pile;
“Deep in a well lies Truth the while;
“And he who pays his lawyer's bill
“Swears Equity lies deeper still:”
His oath the lawyer shall confirm,
Who, when expires Life's fleeting term,
Discovers, to his cost, 'tis so,
Repaid in hell his quid pro quo.

But, gallants of superior worth,
Challenge pre-eminence on earth;
For though, their glorious labours past,
Welcome awaits them at the last
Warm as our precincts can afford,
When here they come to lodge and board:
Yet, should their brows no laurels wear
But those we in our hot-house rear,
Conscience might dare to interfere,
And cross a hero's brave career;

Or rascally Remorse dissuade
Illustrious Cut-throats from their trade.

Mov'd by considerations grave,
Like these, a world the Greek we gave
Who scorn'd the scanty boon, and swore
He wanted half a dozen more.
Gave Cæsar of imperial Rome
Sov'reign control and masterdom;
Show'r'd on ferocious Kouli Khan
The wealth of ravag'd Indostan;

And bade three prostrate kingdoms fear
The crimson-beaked Man of Beer.

Of all that breathe 'twixt hell and heaven,
Tell me to whom should power be given?
To clement sov'reigns and king logs,
Bestrode by Opposition frogs;
Who use it like a magnet loaded
With pendant steel, by rust corroded:
Or those whom fierce Ambition goads,
Whose active steel no rust corrodes,

But, flesh'd on all beneath the welkin,
Approves its brandishers to hell kin?

If then the Worthies of past ages
Who did our work, were paid their wages;
If (stamp'd by us, their new creators,
Protectors, sophis, imperators,)
To fame and empire up they sprung
Like cucumbers from beds of dung:
Shall it be said that modern times
Yield less encouragement to crimes?
That outrage, robbery, and vice,
Have fall'n below our market's price?
Or know not devils how to prize
Dark craft, and pride of giant size;
Relentless rage, immortal spite,
The deadly bowl of aconite;
Th' inexorable sword imbrued
In blood of gallant foes subdued,
The impious vaunt, th' atrocious lie
Accredited by blasphemy?

Say, can the Gallic Consulate
Pay such vast claims upon our state?
Account we Bonaparte's worth
Second to aught that graces earth,
That aught her kingdoms can dispense
Of splendour, style, pre-eminence,
Or the great Prince of Air confer
(Of his prime mortal minister
To swell the state and sooth the pride,)
Should be to his deserts denied?
No! since terrestrial glories all,
To dev'lish arbitration fall.
Thus has our policy decreed:
“Be Empire Bonaparte's meed!”
“Spirits! who Satan's will obey,
“To that proud eminence his way
“'Gainst all impediments advance!
“And bid the groveling sons of France

“Before that throne fall down and tremble,
“Where he shall sit and rant like K---!”

Promulg'd the pleasure of Hell's King,
His sable senators took wing:
Of the grim corps a grand division
Their brother-Senators Parisian
Sought out; (for birds, with feathers dight
Of the same cut, in flocks unite:)
These were a set of precious sages
As e'er for dirty work took wages,
To that fam'd Senate cater-cousins
Which Romulus of rogues by dozens
Composed, whose successors their votes
Gave a grand Consul that ate oats,
And found his sway less inauspicious
Than two-legg'd Consul's, twice as vicious.

This Gallic Senate with such art
Was fram'd, that each constituent part
Would rise, harangue, leap o'er a stick,
Or play whatever monkey trick

Its Fabricator might require,
Like ductile puppet mov'd by wire.
'Twas nick-nam'd (as a dark grove men do
“Lucus” yclepe “a non lucendo”)
Of Frenchmen's rights conservateur,
And sworn to keep 'em safe and sure:
As grooms keep shut the stable door
When the steed 's stol'n, but not before.

Here Satan's myrmidons cornuted
Found subjects to their purpose suited;
And fell to work on their worst ends,
Videlicet, their heads (for fiends,

As well as scavengers, may boast
Of sorriest trash they make the most.)

There, as those cells they empty found
Where brains in wiser pates abound,
They fill'd them with mephitic gas
From hell, which downward strove to pass,
But, gaining exit through the throat,
By leave of porter, Epiglott,
Vented itself in fustian storm
Rhetorical. This, in due form
Reduc'd, concentrated, and penn'd,
They, by choice deputation, send
To Consul grand:—which, e'er you read,
Brief Invocation shall precede.

INVOCATION.

Apollo! and ye Muses Nine!
If to your lyre, and your guittars
This Composition superfine
Was set, I'm sure t'would charm the stars:
And, if they should not quit their spheres
To list' Conservative Messieurs,
Zounds!' tis because stars have no ears!!

THE SENATE CONSERVATEUR TO THE FIRST CONSUL OF THE REPUBLIC.

Paris, 17th Floreal, (May 7th.)

TO you, renowned citizen!
First of First Consuls, First of Men!
Your faithful Senators repair,
To lay beneath your elbow-chair

Of gratitude the mass so great
That all their faculties employs
To calculate its monstrous weight;
Some thousand tons averdupois.
Because you've deign'd communicate
A list, as terrible as true,
Of plots against you and the state,
Of plots against the state and you.
Of your long list the dire contents
Have giv'n your senators the vapours;
Black plots by dismal documents
Establish'd, and authentic papers!

Plots laid against our grand Commander
Like eggs that shrove-tide pancakes make,
Laid not by Goose, nor yet by Gander,
But, what's as wond'rous, by a Drake!
Not of the quackling-tribe aquatic,
A Drake unparallel'd and únique
Of English brood! Drake diplomatic,
Late Envoy to the Court of Munich!

But, were it English Drake or German,
Were it a Drake with shoes or no shoes,
I' st fitting that such desp'rate vermin
Should Frenchmen scare with plots atrocious?
This Drake, Sir! when a drakeling younker,
Your Senate deem, some bitch-fox suck'd:
But, whether thence his craft he drunk or
Not, we'll be neither Drake'd nor duck'd.
Had we not watch'd his Drakeship's water,
Who knows but this same Drake we talk on
Had hatch'd our mighty Consul's slaughter;
Like Shakespeare's owl that kill'd a falcon?
Our honest hearts though ne'er so flinty
Think, Sir, how 't would have made them ake!
How grey eye, black eye, wall eye, squint eye
Had wept; if you'd been slain by Drake!

If, when such tragic fate befel ye,
On duck or drake we 'd chanc'd to dine,
The very onions in his belly
Had bath'd our sallow cheeks with brine.
Whilst, prosing o'er these plots, our wind
Is wasted and our wits expended,
We in our Institutions find
A chasm or hole that must be mended:
This hole we 've, in our zeal to stop,
On five state-tinkers laid injunctions
To find, of a Grand Justice Shop,
Something that shall supply the functions.

For sore we fear with steel or shot
Drake's cronies yet may bring you short home;
Or blow off by some powder plot
Your head, thenceforth a caput mortuum.
And, if by rapier, shot, or plot
They do the feat, not you alone
But your own France must go to pot:
They 'll kill two black-birds with one stone.
For the French People's fate is spun
With yours into the self same cloth
So close that he, who severs one,
Destroys the texture of them both:

Yet though, dread Sir! when you are slain
Poor France must die: in the same breath
She shall be brought to life again
On purpose to revenge your death.
Thus Frenchmen gifted like a cat
Our logic proves—to nine of theirs
You've but one life: take care of that
We beg of you! good folks are scarce.
Then Heav'n, whose care with yours is join'd,
For its own sake will keep intact your
Dear life, since heroes of your kind
'Tis such hard work to manufacture.

And France with all her nine lives whole,
Need not pursue with vengeance horrid
A crime that must unhinge each pole,
Mix zones, cold, temperate, and torrid.
Now though to knock out English brains
We love, as pædagogues love birch,
We might, as wisely spare our pains
When You have left us in the lurch:

Should we of Albion make a wreck,
Britons with rods of iron bruise,
Broil Pitt and Windham, wring Drake's neck
As you, great Sir! did Pichegru's:
By all the vengeance France could take
Should we be better'd?—Not a whit.
Nor, when wrung off, would head of Drake
Dead Bonaparte's shoulders fit.
To counter-plot these plotters all,
There's need of some Herculean Fustis,
Some grand tribunal national,
Or knock-me-down High Court of Justice:

Sir! all our Constitutions tried,
(And we can number them by shoals,
Turn'd out, just ready cut and dried,
From Abbe Sieyes' pidgeon-holes.)
Excepting one, and that the worst,
Set these high courts of judicature
At work, all state delinquents first
To execute, and try them after.
Such wholesome Institutions graced
Enlighten'd governments of old;
Sagely preventing needless waste
Of parchment, perjury, and gold.
For, when a culprit's said his prayers,
And 's hang'd up to his heart's content,
The laws presume he little cares
What issue waits the argument.

That such tribunal we should want,
('Mongst prophets, though a high degree
You hold, says your Egyptian rant,)
Winking, you chose not to foresee:
For y' had forgotten that you owe
France your invaluable self;
You're so disint'rested, we know,
And neither value life nor pelf!

But we, your Conservateurs trusty,
Resolve to make you pay this debt;
Since, should ball come from blunderbuss t' ye,
Where such a Consul shall we get?
A bench of justices so brief
Is Frenchmen's grand desideratum,
Then be advis'd, Illustrious Chief!
And let your potent breath create 'em.
Oh! how Conspirators will quake,
When these grim justices you've got,
Death's rifle-men, for every Drake
Prepar'd with charges of duck-shot!
When England sees your judges wield
Swords, daggers, scymitars, and tucks,
Soon shall her bravest champions yield,
And all her Drakes become lame ducks.
Athens in blood, as some report,
Wrote the first laws that she did make, oh
With such red Ink supply your Court!
Revive, for Drake, the laws of Draco!

Yet, when this fell judicial band
You've nam'd, and this high court erected,
Your Senate tells its Consul Grand
He has but half his work effected:
And fears your justices may say,
(Should death surprize you, doughty Don!)
With the swart murth'rer in the play,
“Othello's occupation's gone.”
Combine, then, with this Institution
Some half a score besides, as clever,
Which may survive your dissolution,
And, what's still better, last for ever.
This you'll achieve with trifling pains,
And inconsiderable expenses,
For you can hang Old Time in chains,
And gibbet all his moods and tenses.

You've a bright Æra, Sir! cut out
Of bran new stuff; eternal fashion
Give it, and Old Ones we shall scout:
What's brilliancy without duration?
Conspirators you curb, cashier
Ambition's troops, events you master,
Cement our crumbling state, besmear
Its chinks with rot-concealing plaster.
Your plastic genius all exceeds,
Embraces all things, none forgets;
From constitutions, systems, creeds,
Sceptres and crowns to cabbage-nets.
'Tis like that visionary Sheet,
St. Peter's table-cloth, who therein
Saw ven'son, four-legg'd butcher's meat,
Game, wild-fowl, fresh and pickled herring.

'Tis like the British bed of Ware,
Whose ample coverlid will take in
Men, women, brats, with room to spare
For bugs and fleas to keep 'em waking.
Unparallel'd, omniscient Sir!
Who's fit to reign if you are not?
A word to the wise:—‘Do not defer!’
Strike! while the Gallic Iron's hot.
All law-givers to you were louts,
Whose liberal institutes prepare
Those rings for Gallic fathers' snouts
To which each infant nose is heir.
For these kind boons, with rev'rence, low
They bow, as 'tis their bounden duty;
How well they love you too we know,
Although we do not care to shew t'ye.

Ah! should the Vessel of the state
Her pilot lose, they all are conscious
She'll no such pilot find till Fate
Release from limbo Pilate Pontius.
Interrogate the Mesdames French—
They'll all your parrot's cry repeat,
From Josephine to Poissarde wench,
“Great, little man! your work complete!”
With gen'ral voice Stentorean,
(Your friends might hear its din in Hades,)
Trust us all France “Great, little Man”
Re-echoes to these pretty ladies.
“Great, little Man your work complete!
“Immortal make it, like your glory!”
“Great, little Man!” in every street
You'll hear till these rare plaudits bore ye.

Yet, how to laud your worth enough,
Your thrice-devoted Senate puzzles,
Who, this fine sentimental stuff
Have charg'd us with, up to our muzzles.
Half a word more, and we have done;
Though to surcease from flattery loth:—
Senate and People both make One
With You, and You make fools of Both.

CANTO II.

ARGUMENT.

PRIVY Council of the First Consul—Digression—The reason why no member of the infernal parliament had waited on the First Consul—His Message to his Senate Conservateur— Senators' Address the constant subject of his meditations— Encourages them to speak out—Frenchmen like to be dealt with in the same manner as pigs—Sovereignty resident in their hides, which must be curried for their benefit—Castigatory branches of the Consular Administration—The Consul's ideas have broke loose—He desires the Senators to tell him their thoughts—Frenchmen can add nothing to his glory, but must grow great from his exuberance—Advantages of the French Revolution—Millions of Frenchmen destroyed in effecting it— “The fewer mouths the better cheer—Sixth course of Mr. Drake, and his Plots—Colonel Cracherode's old Breeches— Freedom and happiness of the French People—The Senators' compliance with the Consul's requisition of their thoughts— They dress their thoughts in their holiday clothes, and send them in their Reply—Senators' hearts play a symphony to the Consul's first fiddle—The perseverance with which they have sat to secure the triumph of French Freedom and Equality— What their sitting has hatched—The French have conquered Liberty—Their wish to maintain Equality, &c.—It is necessary to invest the Consul with Majesty—Happy days of the

year 1789—Greece and Rome—Factions of the latter terminated by Monarchical Government—French Millennium— What Conservateurs have to expect after the Consul's Apotheosis —His reign will give stability to plunder—Ægis to shelter rogues—Whom without it Fortune may grow tired of, and consign to justice—Love, Glory, &c. proclaim Bonaparte Emperor —Conservative Senate compared to the patent sash-frame-maker —Instructions to their Emperor elect—Schedule of tutelary dispositions—Will effect metamorphoses and French prosperity, &c. &c.—Seventh course of Mr. Drake, &c. —Tobacco-stopper—Immortal glory of the Consul's name— Canister to dog's tail—Grand Republic, immutable monument of French obligation to Bonaparte.

CHARM'D with this senatorial mummery
The Consul swallow'd all their flummery;
And, though it would have chok'd a horse
Or alderman, for second course
He long'd of Adulation-posset;
So he betook him to his closet,
And call'd his curvilinear
Quondam right rev'rend Auctioneer,
Who voted the Church-goods to sale,
And after leap'd out of her pale,

As rev'rend rats, black, grey, or brown,
Abandon house that's falling down.
With help of this apostate prelate,
Our Corsican's sworn drudge and helot,
And of another Cloven-foot,
The Consul's guardian fiend to boot,
In this recluse sanctum sanctorum
Form'd these three Nonpareils a quorum:
Ere on whose counsels we proceed, or
Dilate, 'tis fit we give the Reader
Time to take breath, and let him know
(When the black Parliament below,
Of whom we treated erst, on mission
Sent the Conservateurs Parisian
Prompters, to aid each abject actor
In farce of Corsic' manufacture)
Why, of their missionaries, none
A visit paid Napoleon:—
'Twas because for those fissipedal
Messieurs our Chief (like bridewell-beadle

Or executioner) such work
Had done with musket, sword, and dirk,
That when his merciless campaigns
Crimson'd Hesperia's fertile plains;
When destin'd his retracted word
Helvetia's heroes to the sword;
When Alexandria's feeble sons
Bled by his savage myrmidons;
At Jaffa when disarm'd and bound
His captive thousands bit the ground,
The very fiends were seen to smile,
And Hell kept holyday the while.—
Hence she assign'd him, as a civil
Acknowledgement, domestic Devil,
To fetch and carry for him freely, as
The black Dog-devil for Cornelius
Agrippa did, (though John Wiërus
Says, he that dog with rope of hair has

Led, and a true dog in's amours
He was as went upon all fours:
For John beheld him fast and sure,
Retain'd i' the Rabbins' Ligature.)

To be his privy-counsel minion,
And give him, without fee, opinion;

Or, like intelligencer Pidgeon,
Wing'd prop of Mahomet's religion,
To whisper in his ear orac'lar
Response to senatorial cackler.
And as of old each fane, 'tis known,
No deity possess'd alone,
But underneath his shrine incog,
Retain'd some dev'lish Pedagogue,

Who taught his ignoramus sect
To pay their Idol due respect:
So they who ken our Consul Grand
Deem his Familiar near at hand,
And render homage on the spot:
As th'eastern worshippers did not
So much to Nebo or to Bel bow,
As to the devil at his elbow.

Revert we now to Council board,
Where Consul, Imp, and Perigord
(Like triple-headed Cerberus)
Sat to consider and discuss
Conservatorial Oration,
Retail'd by chief of deputation:
And, having weigh'd it, as refin'd
And pithy a return in kind
(I' the name of one of them, and he
The blackest of these black-birds three,)
They sent express to their mungrèl house
Of senatorial punchinellos.

MESSAGE.

BONAPARTE, FIRST CONSUL OF THE REPUBLIC, TO THE SENATE CONSERVATEUR.

TRUSTY and well-belov'd Patricians!
For sending me such rhetoricians
As Those, deputed to address
My consular unworthiness,
Accept my thanks: and, let me say,
Their rhetoric is not thrown away:
Each metaphor and trope's a good one,
Which memory serves to chew the cud on;

Position and his page Illation
Are caterers to my meditation;
And my mind's appetite appease
With intellectual fricassees:
For Dialectic better basted
With eulogy I've seldom tasted.

To shelter from dire English plots
Frenchmen, (that's me, who rule the sots,)
And keep'em to my service steady
You've, in your wisdom, judg'd already
That 'twas expedient to invest
Him who knows how to rein 'em best
With pow'r to name what son of a whore
He chooses for his successor;
Yet still you reckon France his debtor:
And, as your wish is to unfetter

Her sons, you deem beneath his foot
To lay her neck's the way to do't.
Such is your notion, though you doubt,
It seems, whether you should speak out,
Because the mode on which you fall
Some folks may term eccentrical;
Thoughtless with whom you have to deal:
For, just as Pigs grunt, growl, and squeal,
And when, with cord tied to their toe
You pull'em this way, that way go;
And are no progress found t'have made
Till swineherd drives them retrogade:
So, when aloud your Frenchmen cry
For Freedom and Equality!
Upon their backs leap up and ride,
You'll find 'em fully satisfied.

Excuse, my friends, this patriot boast!—
The Grand Truth, that like finger-post

Directs me as I spur my steed
Through Policy's cross-roads full speed,
Is this: that sov'reignty resides
(Like mange or itch) in Frenchmen's hides,
Which I feel vast solicitude
To 'noint and curry for their good,
Their int'rest, happiness, and glory:
Hence 'tis these powers castigatory
Exist of Magistrate supreme,
High Council, and your plodding team
Of Senators through thick and thin
That drag my Consular machine;

Loud barking Legislative bodies,
Colleges of Electoral noddies,
Legions of honour, prefectures,
State shreds, of which my craft and yours
Frame, by adroit consarcination,
Our Joseph's-coat administration
Blood-stained, though not with blood of beast,
As was that party-coloured vest;
But what has serv'd t'incarnadine
As well—with blood of Bourbon's line.

Whilst I, to eternize our fame
All these fine institutions frame,
And hourly hatch some fresh device
Of France to make a Paradise,
My brains their loose ideas scatter,
Which scramble o'er my pia-mater

(As maggots—for there's little difference—
Gain from crack'd filberds goal deliv'rance)
And nothing but the interference
Of your great wisdom and experience
Can e'er enable me to chain
And fix the whelps to kennel brain.

Then write me what your pates comprise
Conceits, opinions, fantasies,
Whims, megrims, and in short, the whole
Contents of ev'ry jobberknol.
Come, here's a penny for your thought!
And dearer penn'worth ne'er was bought:
Since, when obstetric Pen and Ink
Deliver you of what you think,

When of each Senatorial block
The genuine cogitation stock
(As by these presents I require)
To me shall be transferr'd entire,
And, when 't shall be to sound transmuted
By tongue of trumpeter deputed,
Your Consul, you must all allow
Will be as wise as he is now.

To Me, your Chosen Vessel, bound
And hoop'd by France, with glory round,
With honour stuff'd from heel to crown,
And running over with renown,
To consul, hero, politician
Like me can Frenchmen make addition?
(That is to say: except French hatter,
Who adds a cubit to my stature)

No.—on the contrary, let France
Grow great from my exuberance,
Derive from my grand reservoir
Of Institutions, named afore,
Security and permanence
To those advantages immense
Which her blest Revolution wrought;
A Revolution cheaply bought,
To Us how trifling seems the price!
Abandonment and sacrifice
Of justice, faith, humanity,
Baubles that we set nothing by:
A Revolution thorough-bred,
With blood produced, baptized and fed;
That scorn'd by halves to do its work,
But topsy-turvy, with a jerk,

Turn'd Crown and Sceptre, Church and State:
That Sov'reignty legitimate
Barter'd for cut-throat Anarchy,
And guillotine Philanthropy;
For cobbling Directorial Fools,
And ME, who push'd 'em from their stools.
This was rare revolution sport!
You, Sirs! and I, are better for't.
And well dispos'd, I trow, to keep
Th' advantages that thence we reap.
For such advantages in swarms
Frenchmen, spontaneous, ran to arms;
Some millions of them went to pot
'Tis true, hang'd, guillotin'd and shot:

So much the better, since 'tis clear,
‘The fewer mouths the better chear.’
And, take my word for't, the repast
We're victuall'd with will ever last
WE who on Freedom (feast divine!)
Equality and Glory dine.
And, since we're equal all, I swear
That each of us alike shall fare!
As provident Hibernian whoreson
(Who took the turkey to his portion,
And 'mongst his guests, twelve hungry sharks,
Distributed a dozen larks:)
Exclaim'd:—“You're welcome, on my word!
“Fall to, Sirs! every man his bird.”
Freedom! Equality! and Glory!
These are the cates I set before ye!
Rouze up courageous appetite!
Feed, hungry Frenchmen! feed in spite

Of British foes (how I abhor 'em!)
Who make a noise,—or we do for 'em—
With their black plots, plots black as crows!
To undermine or overthrow us.
Covert or overt no attacks,
No meddling Drake that plots or quacks,
No insulary queu'd or cropp'd-head,
Shall th' institutes that we've adopted
(Institutes like thy sturdy leather
Gall' gaskins, Cracherode! that weather
Wind, storm and sunshine, clime and tide
On th' earth's circumference defied,)
Unravel; no dire enterprize
Of our most mortal enemies

O'erset 'em; maugre grim John Bull,
We'll rant and huff our bellies full,
As best becomes our dignity
And rights, all guaranteed by me:
For 'tis by Me you 're dignified,
Made free and happy too beside:
Free as the wind in key-hole narrow!
Happy as toads beneath a harrow!”

Their Master's mandate read and heard,
Th' obsequious Senate every word

Applauded, swallow'd and digested:
Yet swore among them not the best head
Could have conceiv'd the least suspicion
That he'd have put in requisition
Their thoughts, or laid, on the stale cargo
Their heads were freighted with, embargo:
Or that the secret he had got
T' elicit from Idëa-pot
Its saturn, and transmute its store
Of pond'rous trash to precious ore.
Yet since he bade their thoughts take wind,
And, manumis'd, leave cranium rind
A void, unfurnish'd, empty, bare bone;
'Twas fit they put their Sunday garb on:
So they resolv'd that every pate
Its thoughts should dress, trim, decorate,
Bespangle like a Lord-mayor's lady,
Or chimney-sweeper on a May-day.
These thoughts, thus tailor'd in a trice and
With tinsel sophistry bedizen'd,
(As druggists gild, when quacks bespeak 'em,
Pills ordurous of Album Græcum)

Serv'd to compose th' expected Answer
To the Grand Consular Drawcansir.

REPLY OF THE SENATE.

THE SENATE CONSERVATEUR TO THE FIRST CONSUL OF THE REPUBLIC.

FIRST Consul your responsive Scroll
Plays a first fiddle to the wishes
And expectations of the shoal
Of your Conservative queer Fishes.

Great Master! to your potent lay
Each heart in unison replies:
When You, like Orpheus, sound your A,
All our brute cat-guts symphonize!
You ask what schemes Conjecture brews
T' insure equality and freedom?
Then, since you 've given us our cues,
You 'll in our countenances read 'em.
O mark, dread Sir! your slaves' grimaces
Who to your foot-stool bow the knee!
You'll ken the triumph, in their faces,
Of Freedom and Equality!
And little doubt we in the sequel
O' the farce (with help of Satan's elves)
To make all France as free, as equal,
And independent as ourselves.

From Rumbold, Spencer, Smith, and Drake,
About whose plots we make a fuss,
And agitations dire that take
Their rise from rogues that rival us,
Our mild and gracious Government
From dreaded foes like these to free,
And the Great Nation to present
With needful double guarantee,
We 've! sat, till sedative effect
Benumb'd each senatorial crup';
For we the people's right protect
And keep them sure and safe lock'd up.
We'll shew your Consulship astute
What in our sitting we have hatch'd;
And tender you the precious fruit
Of meditations yet unmatch'd.

Your Senate has recalled the Past,
Has seen what gorgeous hues have tinted
The Present Time's complexion, last
Of all we 've at the Future squinted:
And now to You that wish express
The safety of the state imposes,
Through revolution wilderness
Who led them like another Moses.
Under your conduct Frenchmen stout
Have conquered Liberty 'tis said:
And who disputes the fact?—no doubt
She's conquer'd whom you've knock'd o'th'head.
They wish to keep this Conquest gain'd,
They wish repaid their honest toil;
And, Liberty's best life-blood drain'd,
To rest and batten on her spoil.

And they would owe this wish'd repose
To Him whose plaudits late we sang,
A Chief hereditary, chose
The desp'rate captain of their gang.
Him they'll invest with majesty,
With splendour, pomp, and glory deck;
Raise him on Pow'r's proud arch so high
That he may chance to break his neck.
Thus rais'd, equality shall bless
Our land, obedient to his call;
And grateful multitudes confess
Frenchmen enslaved are equals all.

Let him but domineer his fill,
And overtop us like a steeple,
Gods! how he 'll truckle to the will
And pleasure of the Sov'reign People!
For thus the rope-dancer, who tries
T' enchant a set of barren blockheads,
Grins widest when aloft he flies
T' extract the half-pence from their pockets.
'Twas of Supremacy so fine
France wish'd to make herself a present
In sev'nteen hundred eighty-nine,
Those days incomparably pleasant!

Hence their mild Monarch they disdain'd,
Dethron'd, and murder'd by their votes:
And thus the privilege obtain'd
Of cutting one-another's throats.
Though that blest æra, ever dear
To Gallic lambkins and their friends,
Is fled, your government (no fear!)
Will, for its absence, make amends.
The government we now describe,
Of one grand Despot paramount,
All our sage philosophic tribe
The best of governments account:
With such a Bridle for French Mules
You'll find no other of a piece:
'Tis sanction'd by no lesser fools
Than those of Rome, and those of Greece.

Yet must our Despot be content
Of law to bear the wholesome check:
Viz: that same bell which micelings meant
To hang around Grimalkin's neck.
Then shall subside each dang'rous claim
Of rival chiefs, whose greatness grows so,
'Twill soon eclipse Rolando's fame,
And thine, Orlando Furioso!
Hear, by th' historian's pen confess'd,
Great Rome beneath her factions groan!
What rival rogues her realm oppress'd,
Till seiz'd rogue uppermost her throne!

Read the long schedule of her crimes,
Wrought by craft, poison, steel and gold!
You'd think no tale of other times
But of your blissful Age was told.
'Tis manifested by our Magis'
Reck'nings (you'll purchase for a penny 'em)
That clean elaps'd are fifteen ages
Since first commenc'd our French Millennium.

Hence, by deduction, it appears
(Unless each Mage turn out a calf)
If the Saint's reign 's a thousand years,
Ours reign'd a thousand and a half.

What wonder then Our Saviour's come!
We fear'd he had forgot his day!—
Though 'twill be thought and said by some
‘Comes aught that's good from Corsica!’
But graceless miscreants such must be,
And would, like unbelieving Jews,
This Saviour crucify—while we
Fall down, dread Lord! and kiss your shoes.
To you and your august Fire-side
Your uncle, brothers, cousins-german,
And cater-cousins we confide,
Goods, chattels, bastards, wives, and vermin.

With yours our vital thread so close is
Entwin'd on Clotho's worsted ball,
That after your apotheosis
Your Senate may sing “Up tails all!”
When you're translated to the skies
Conservateurs must, ev'ry man, turn
If hoodwink'd France but ope her eyes,
Illustrious Pendants de la lanterne.
We Counter-revolution fear:
It would so shock each conscience tender
Our landed property so dear,
To the right Owners to surrender!

Then to some Arch-marauder's claim,
'Tis fit that lesser knaves knock under,
Who (since his all's stak'd on our game)
May give stability to plunder.
May guarantee from guillotines
French heads, which pretty much resemble
The heads of China Mandarins,
That on their shoulders shake and tremble.
Protection they deserve at least,
Who, to be faithful, true, and loyal,
Have never for a moment ceas'd
T'his sacred Majesty Mob-royal.
Nor they alone, but those misled
By Honour's Will-o'-the-Wisp at first,
Till they took up our trade for bread,
And now you'd scarce tell which is worst.

Say, what can shelter rogues so well,
What can, but such despotic Ægis,
Those execrable plots repel
'Gainst you and heroes tui gregis?
Three sister Gorgons' effigies
Each turn'd spectators into stone;
We'd have our government comprise
Their triple terrors in its own.
We've need of threefold pow'r, no doubt,
While plots on plots these English hatch up;
Plots that, like mushrooms, faster sprout
Than cooks translate them into catsup.
Else may not Fortune, though she's play'd
Into our hands her trumps so fast,
(Like tergiversing renegade,)
To Justice turn us o'er at last?

And, though so long we've kept the trull,
She, like some other whores as common,
Tir'd of the trade, may woo John Bull
To make of her an honest woman.
What but such government can screen
From vengeful shot your palm-crown'd brow,
And keep those laurels fresh and green
That France has gather'd, God knows how!
Of these your godless enemies
Fain would your honour'd pate unrig
With sacrilegious hands, like his
Who doff'd in Church the sexton's wig.

We now the goal approximate
Our noses pointed at; You've spied it:
This Government of which we prate
To You and Your's must be confided.
Love, Glory, Gratitude, proclaim
Aloud, like trio of town-criers,
Napoleon Bonaparte's name!
The Emperor that France requires!
State int'rest too (we mean our own,)
Concurs, and Reason—take our word—
Hails your election, though her drone
Amidst our chorus can't be heard.
But, Emp'ror! Consul! Citizen!
Th'advantage of our Social Pact
Should last till nobody knows when,
Whole, and, like your renown, intact.
For, by this grand Election, we,
Conservateurs, the rights are sworn,
And happiness to guarantee
Of generations yet unborn.

So he who Patent Sash-frames plann'd,
To gain his project due regard,
Swore they would last for ever, and
Sell for old iron afterward.
All wise precautions next we pray
Our Emperor will not forget to
Employ, our civil storms t' allay,
To wit: lead, opium, stiletto.

Unshaken that your throne may be,
'Tis fit your subjects should be told
That they possess the Sov'reignty:—
You'll find them easily cajol'd.
Tell them besides, what sacred things
You hold Equality and Freedom:
But, since the people all are kings,
Of course they'll neither have, nor need 'em.
If, as we vouch who know them best,
Fanfaronade will serve their turn, is't
Too much to make them kings in jest,
While You are Emperor in earnest?
Our blatant Beast the rabble-rout,
If for your work you 'd have him fit,
Hang gew-gaw bells his neck about,
But rein him with your sharpest bit.
In vain to break him in have tried
Jockeys rash, timorous, enervate:
You mounted on his back shall ride
To hell, howe'er he kick or curvet.

To you, great Emp'ror! and your heirs
Her dearest int'rests France commits
And Frenchmen give you all that's theirs
Except (what they have lost) their wits.

Fresh manufactur'd in your school
Of senatorial politicians
Deign, Sir, accept a schedule full
Of tutelary dispositions.
These will the ends and aims enforce
Of all our Institutions wise,
And set you up on the great horse
Of our supreme Authorities;
To those Authorities give nerve,
And independant as yourself
Make them, except when it shall serve
Your turn to lay them on the shelf.

They'll teach you to transform French curs
Into what form and shape you like:
Bid Generals turn burglarers,
Right-reverend Bishops trail a pike.
They 'll our prosperity effect
In rivetting a little faster
The chains with which French slaves are deck'd
By their imperial Lord and Master.

Thus disciplin'd our Nation Grand
Those instruments of good shall bless,
Confided to your righteous hand:
Elections, imposts, and the press.
These Dispositions tutelary
If, while his senators cry: Amen,
Napoleon sanctions them, we swear he
Shall be our Decus et Tutamen.
These dispositions, we insist
Will Frenchmen safety yield and shelter,
Then under Rival Chiefs to list
They shall no more run helter-skelter.
Then hostile plotters shall be humbled,
And you, French Emp'ror! we French Freemen,
Shall no more fear Smith, Drake and Rumbold,
Than any other three old women.

Th'exhaustless love which Frenchmen bear
Your person so petit and proper,
(In figure, colour, shape and air,
That vies with a tobacco-stopper,)
Transmitted by your Gallic flock
Shall be to each ador'd descendant
Of the great Bonaparte Stock:
Oh, may we never see an end on't!
Th'immortal glory of your name,
With this our red-hot love allied,
As close as canister, for game
Of school-boy, to a dog's tail tied,
Shall so incorporate, unite,
Amalgamate, secundum artem,
The Prince's pow'r, the People's right,
Nor gold nor gun-powder shall part 'em,

Our Grand Republic—I should call
'T our Monarchy, or both together—
Our State hermaphroditical,
Shall brave time, turn-coats, wind and weather.

To this our Monster, like tom-tit
Would seem leviathan or kraken:
To give it but one ague-fit
Earth to her centre must be shaken,
Posterity when they reflect
What prodigies our Emp'ror's genius
Has wrought, will aye behold erect
That monument, ære perennius,
Which, by enthroning you we've rear'd,
To shew how much we are your debtors
For all the favours you've conferr'd—
One word comprises them:—our fetters!

CANTO III.

THE ARGUMENT.

OPERATORS at a stand without their tools—The Devil must have fools to work with—Address of the Senate a signal to other classes and descriptions of Frenchmen—Adulatory Explosions follow—Compensation to the Panegyrists of the First Consul—Thumbs and toes—Tabarders—Persian Kebbers— Adonibezek—Panurge and Dingdong the Mutton Merchant— Generative effect of Senatus-Consultum—Sarah, Duchess of M--- --- ---.—Infernal Spirits' report to Satan—Legion and herd of Swine—Missionary Devils and French Republicans —Eighth Course of Mr. Drake—The latter have sold themselves to be trampled on—Insurance of stolen goods to plunderers the basis of Freedom and Equality—Hamlet's Ghost— Transmutation of toad-eaters—Democritus and Heraclitus— Parisian Gratitude, gunpowder and resin—Religious and profane Farces—Nebuchadnezzar's Dutch Concert—Holy water white washing—Two points wanting to the Game—Parallel case of Syrian Leper and Napoleon—The Pope invited to crown the French Emperor—Declines accepting the invitation —Deficiency of Ampulla and consecrated Chrism—Bonaparte twice as religious as other princes—Witch and besom —Devil's apprehensions of the increase of Heresy—Cotytto's rites—Cartwheel nave—Emperor's Head and Yorkshire Pudding.

WHAT unavoidable stagnation
Must paralyze all operation,
Did Ingenuity and Nature
Furnish no tools for th' operator!
Take from the barrister his brief,
And who'll from gibbet save a thief?
Your cook a frying-pan deny,
Fish you may have, but none to fry;
Lock up axe, hammer, saws, and chissel,
Joiners and carpenters go whistle:
On drugs and fees lay prohibitions,
You'll famish sextons and physicians:
Thus, should there chance to be a dearth
Of implements call'd Fools on earth,
'Twould Nick so puzzle to ensnare us,
He might shut up his mischief-warehouse;

His imps might all go pare their nails,
Or play, like kittens, with their tails:
But, for his consolation, there is
No fear of such a dearth at Paris,
As all who read its trash must own
Has been to demonstration shown.
Yet 'twere injustice to conclude
There are not other fools as good-
For-nothing found throughout the realm,
As they who're station'd near the helm;
Aye, and as many to be bought
As of stale pilchards for a groat.
This truth the Parliament of Hell,
Of whom we treated knew full well,
And, when they sent to Paris City,
Of members a select committee,
Their kind attentions they took care
That each Department too should share,
Where now were hard at work their elves,
T' instruct Monsieurs to sell themselves,
And lenient reign of Bourbon Logs,
Abjuring (just as Æsop's frogs

Wound up their revolution work)
Allegiance swear to Emp'ror Stork.

Hence 'twas this flaming frankincense
Of senatorial eloquence,
These fustian offerings superfine
Serv'd up at Cyrnian Idol's shrine,
(Like clamorous signal-guns' reports)
Summon'd jack-puddings of all sorts,
Civil, prelatical, and martial,
To play their antics in the farce all:
Larded with flattery coarse as mortar,
Addresses pour'd from every quarter,
Mayors and municipalities
Now vied in parasitic lies,
Divines made it a point of conscience
To preach adulatory nonsense;
Commanders of each camp and squadron,
(You might have fancied them all mad run,)
In eulogistical explosions
Discharg'd their quota of devotions;

With Flattery's breath up to the stars
Puffing their consulary Mars,
(As butchers stinking veal inflate
To sell it at a dearer rate)
Whilst he, their land's and Europe's scourger,
For whom their servile souls they perjure,
In compensation for their lies,
Apostacy, and perjuries,
Grave as another Solomon,
Vows that they're Sov'reigns ev'ry one,
And welcome—since they're so inclin'd—
To pick the bones when he has dined,
“Provided of your thumbs and toes
“Great Sirs!” quoth he, “I may dispose

“In virtue of that right divine,
“By which I've mark'd you all for mine;
“As I have mark'd most of our neighbours
“O' the Continent. So Persian Kebbers,

“When their right eye's pick'd out by a raven
“Become the property of Heaven:
“So Hebrews wont men's ears to bore,
“Who serv'd them for it evermore.
“So Academic Tabarders
“Serv'd up, with roast-meat, thumbs of theirs.

“Trifles, like these, you well may spare them;
“But, till I want your noddles, wear them:
“And, though unthumb'd, when mischief's nigh,
“You'll have a finger in the pie.
“With such indulgence be content;
“Or, would you better precedent,
“To search the Scriptures don't forget,
“(Not of my old friend Mahomet,
“No countenance he'll get from me:
“Moses is now my protegé.)
“You'll find, where Canäan was smitten;
“In the first book of Judges written,
“Adoni-bezek long ago
“Serv'd scores of other sov'reigns so.”
Thus, when of Ding-dong's flock Panurge
Toss'd overboard into the surge,

A Ram who, compliment so civil
Unus'd to, bleated like a devil;
The Mutton Corps who heard his bleating,
And thought the frolic worth repeating,
Deeming his somerset a sign
There was no beverage like brine,
Bae-ing and bleating loud as he,
Leap'd ev'ry one into the sea,
And for precedence strove in swallowing
Salt-water soup; while Ding-dong hallowing,
And catching hold of horns and tails,
They dragg'd to supper with the whales,
Along with Ding-dong's understrappers
I' th'herring-pond all cutting capers.
While he whose unsuspected craft
Administer'd this saline draught,
With sanctified grimace and action,
Veiling the inward satisfaction,

He felt to see 'em drown like vermin,
Preach'd from the deck their funeral sermon.

Now his rank harvest Knavery kens,
Foster'd by Hell's choice influence,
Anxious to reap th'expected crop:—
Lo! from Consulta-forging Shop,
Prolific Ordinance Senatûs,
Engenders Princes, like potatoes;
Raw, numerous, dirt-begotten, crude:
Besides a heterogeneous brood

Of jacks in office, harlequins,
Asses and mules in lion's skins:
Arch-chancellors, gen'ral Inspectors,
High Admiral, and great Electors:
With Highnesses Serene, just fit to
Drive wheelbarrows, Imperial ditto;
Marshals of th' empire, Excellencies,
Monseigneurs, such as Bedlam frenzies
Give eye of lunatic to view;
Such as Callott! thy pencil drew.
And though last mention'd, first of all,
That monster paradoxical,
Napoleon! Emp'ror, monarch, lord
Of those who monarchy abhorr'd:
Napoleon! emperor unmatch'd!
Whose craft these titled toad-stools hatch'd;
Despot of a community
Of slaves soi-disant great and free;
Prompter, and puppet, first i' the row
Of 's own imperial raree-show.

Oh! had John Duke of M--- ---gh's beldame,
Old Sarah Churchill, but beheld 'em!
She who, profuse of gibes and jeers
On royal Anna's new-made peers,
From window op'ning tow'rd the Park,
Grave as a judge was heard remark:
“Should she from thence expectorate,
“Upstart nobility of late
“Compos'd so numerous a horde,
“That she must spit upon a Lord.”
How 't would have gratified her spleen
To 've spat on Highnesses Serene!
Though they, when spitten on, should spurn
The scornful spitter, and return
In kind a compliment so clean;
Since most of them have turn-spits been.—

Revisiting the realms of Night,
Hell's Missionaries wing their flight

(As kites from high on poultry souse)
Once more to Satan's Lower House;
Summon'd to tell that grim old Grecian
The effect and upshot of their mission.

“Dread King of dæmons, spectres, shadows!
We, your true friends, have, as you bade us,”
Their Speaker cries—“strain'd ev'ry nerve
Your Corsican's proud aims to serve.—
Dispatch'd of yore to Palestine,
Your Legionaries to their Swine
Administer'd no better drench
Than we've been brewing for the French;
Nor made that herd porcinian run
More desp'rately to be undone
Than we've made these Republicans
Quit, for the fire, their frying-pans.
Napoleon, by our aid, oh King!
Has all their noses in a string:
And, while to his obsequious knaves
Of English plots the hero raves,
Denouncing every dire attempt
By some old woman made or dreamt,

100

They to subaltern sots and apes
Exaggerate his hair-breadth 'scapes,
Who humbly pray that their Grand Consul
Would please to keep his sacred sconce whole,
Which, had Drake crack'd, their name and nation
Had sunk into annihilation:
And therefore 't would exactly suit 'em
Would he the “diadema tutum”
Wear, and, (to put them out of pain,)
Sit on the throne of Charlemagne.

101

For this all Gallic pens and presses
Teem with petitions and addresses;
Samples we, from their Senate's journals,
Have brought to edify infernals,
And give our Lord and Master proofs
That we 've done more than kick our hoofs.
In brief, so anxious for their shackles
Are Lion-Bonaparte's jackalls,
That, by their solemn act and deed,
They to Napoleon and his breed

102

Have sold themselves for less than Faustus,
Cayet, or Mother Shipton cost us;
Who sold their bones to make our faggots
For furth'ring their strange whims and maggots:
But these the worst of bargains drive,
Sold to be trampled on alive.

They've of your true and trusty blade,
The Corsican, an Emperor made;
Dubb'd him as absolute a don
As Bajazet or Prester-John;
Sworn in his service and defence
To combat at their lives' expense;
Nay pledg'd themselves, wives, whores and broods,
Th' advowson of their stolen goods
T' ensure to those rapacious satraps
Who catch his gulls and bait his rat-traps,
And all those plund'rers have beside
That Robbery has sanctified.
This, by a bran-new periphrasis,
“Equality's and Freedom's basis”

103

Their Emp'ror terms.—This and his reign
T' uphold, establish and maintain
They 've sworn, on forfeit of their tripes
And chitterlings to light our pipes,
Haunches and flanks Hell's chimney niches
To dangle in for bacon-flitches:
This to make good they 've pawn'd their souls;
Whilst we, your true-pennies or moles,
(As Hamlet calls his father's ghost)
Encouraging these knights o' the post,
Growl'd, as we heard their oaths resound—
“Swear, and be damn'd!” from underground.

Your Emp'ror's brothers too, their bantlings,
And all the remnants, shreds and scantlings
Of his far-fam'd Ajaccian race,
As well as all the metal base

104

Of which his toad-eaters are made,
By diaboli-chemic aid
Transmuted, subtiliz'd, refin'd,
They 've into Gallic Princes coin'd;
(Like those that figure in stage scenes,
Or princes upon gipsey queens
Whom mumping potentates beget)
And dignitaries, such a set!
That had Democritus the Thracian,
He who brought grinning into fashion,
Their titles and additions heard all,
With laughter he'd have burst his girdle!
Had Heraclítus seen the train
That sage had never wept again!

Thus, King of Hell! what you have will'd
Is by your duteous dev'ls fulfill'd.
And for her Emperor so gracious
Created by your “Fieri facias,”
Her sense of such a mighty blessing
Paris in gunpowder and resin
Evinces; one of them for crackers
Dispenses to sky-rocket-makers;

105

And t' other gives to Catgut-Orpheuses
(Who celebrate these metamorphoses
In concerts, choirs and puppet-shows)
For th' horse-hair of their fiddle-bows.
Since now they play at the same game
In theatre and Notre Dame:
In both resounds the fiddlers' strain
Farces religious and profane
Enliv'ning; echo Gothic arches
Mad shouts and military marches;
While thund'ring drums and trumpets brazen
Out-roar the Organ's diapason.

106

For none but tasteless niggards grudge,
On setting up their idol, Dutch
Concert, a fashion of old time
Establish'd, and in th' eastern clime
Adopted by Nebuchadnezzar,
On whose Dutch Concert modell'd these are;
And of his instrumentals lack but
A dulcimer perchance or sackbut:
Though of obstreperousness 'Nezzar
Himself never gave better measure;
Nor would have all his kinds of music
Together half so soon made you sick

107

While Gallic Hierarchs, (busy geese,
Like you in your own diocese,)
Dizen'd in tawdry for the nonce
By Chasublier from sole to sconce,

108

And, for discharge of saintly rite,
Page'd with monk, canon, acolyte,
(Cowled orchestra multiform,)
Heav'n with vociferation storm,
Which can't but bless the Sons of Slaughter,
White-wash'd by them with Holy Water.

Yet, though this noble undertaking,
Which we've perform'd, of Emp'ror-making,
Pæans excites, and gratulations
That would Job's magazine of patience
Blow up, and the whole stock, moreover,
Of Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar;

109

And though their Despot's taste to please,
Chiefs, of all classes and degrees,
Administer (dose after dose)
Praise hyperbolical and gross;
Though fawning prelates, monks, and cardinal,
Masses and pray'rs, not worth a farthing all,
With thanks and hymns in scurvy metre
Send post to Heav'n's gate to St. Peter,
Who wishes, while their choirs he hears,
He had in this world left his ears;
And though enacted by the State 'tis
That Punchinellos gambol gratis,
And that its dupes shall all scot free see
Mimos, tam Scenæ, quam Ecclesiæ.
Nay, though to honour Emp'ror Corsic,
Mummeries enough to make a horse sick,
By mean, time-serving Merry-Andrews,
Are play'd, whose roguery the land rues:
Still the Grand Work 's curtail'd and lame,
While, to complete and crown our game,
Two points are wanting, which we doubt,
If our French Friends can bring about:

110

The lets and rubs i' their way 'tis meet,
We lay before your cloven feet.

To give your Emp'ror's Coronation
Eclat and high consideration,
And make good Catholics adore
Th' imperial white-wash'd Blackamoor,
(Whom, though he has taken his degree
In Hell's fam'd University,
Her long-lost sheep, since she has found him,
Heav'n has admitted ad eundem,)
As, of old time that leprous layman,
The Syrian King's fac-totum, Naaman,
When bade in Jordan to immerge, he
Found healing benefit of clergy
From good Elisha, Israel's primate:
(A cramp word, by the by, to rhyme at.)
Cast, like a snake, his slough at once,
And got new flesh upon his bones:
Thus your Napoleon worse than he
Blotch'd with Sin's rankest leprosy,
Since Islamism he's left i' the lurch,
The living waters of the Church

111

Has sent for from the Vatican,
To purge and blanch his inward man:
(For not like Naaman to the stream
He'll go, but make it flow to him;)
Yet, though he condescends t' invite her,
Th' old woman with the triple mitre
Cries, like the Scotch Thane—No, not I!
At Rome I'll eat my Christmas pie;
Nor furnish gibes profane to scorner,
By turning tail on chimney-corner.
I'd rather snug sit elbow-chair in,
Then take a d---d December airing:
For here my will is undisputed,
My very Extremity saluted
By rev'rend lips of true believers,
Who can sing psalmody like weavers;

112

All special actors of my Drama,
Who worship me as their Grand Lama.
Shall I forsake my good warm pillow,
At beck of Cyrnian Bobadillo,
Who will, I'll warrant, throw me by,
When he's, like orange, squeez'd me dry?
Or, when like Mahomet, his turn
I've serv'd, my three-fold night-cap spun?
No!—by fire-side myself I'll nurse
Lest further on I should fare worse,
When with my train of shaven scalps
I 've got on t' other side the Alps.
So shall escape my sacred Toe
Chilblains from Alpine frosts and snow.

Thus says intractable Pope Pius:
And will t' unnestle him defy us.
Besides, Sir! there's another spoke
Clapt in your wheel:—Th' Ampulla's broke

113

That held the consecrated Chrism,
Which catholic Empiricism
Tells us, in elder times, a pidgeon,
Of kin to Mahomet's, from region
Celestial brought t' anoint King Clovis,
When he was but a royal novice
Or hop-o'-my-thumb: for 'twas at 's christening,
To make the babe look sleek and glistening;
And has at Rheims been treasur'd since
Religious Emperor and Prince
T' annoint: and him befitting best
Of most Religion who 's possest:
Since other princes have but One
Then 't will be own'd they 're all out done
By Yours, who has at least a Brace;
Ergo, a double stock of grace:
Twice basted who should be with Unction
To fit him for Imperial function.
For, Sire! if witches, through the air
Who to itinerate prepare,

114

Their carcasses anoint, and dress 'em,
Though but to mount astride a besom;
How much more unction must he lack
That has a Nation for his hack!

But shall our fire all end in smoke
If Unction 's lost, and Phial 's broke?
Shall crack'd Ampulla and lost Chrism
Engender Heresy and Schism,
Which cannot chuse but sprout and spread
If with unconsecrated head,
And un-anel'd, like Ghostly Dane,
Napoleon Bonaparte reign?—
This dang'rous consequence we 'd best
Prevent, for our own interest:
Since, when true Catholics grow scarce,
Desp'rate 's the state of our affairs.

This sacred Unction we are sensible
Is to your chosen indispensable

115

As to Cotytto Comus 'rout
All dues discharged, and none left out
Of her dark rites and orgies, we
Who darkness love as well as he,
Must no dark rite omit nor feat
Th' imperial Drama to complete.
And as, unless its nave is greasy,
Waggon or cart wheel won't roll easy,
No more will trundle wheel of State
Unless you 'noint the Emp'ror's pate,
Which of that wheel is nave and centre.
Our wits then we must send on venture
Both Chrism to fabricate and Pot:
Else, though your Emperor has got
Full occupation, hold, and seisin
O' the realm, he'll be, for want of greasing;
Like Yorkshire pudding without dripping,
Not like King Clovis, nor King Pepin.”

117

CANTO IV.

ARGUMENT.

SATAN, in council, applauds the exertions of his Agents—The Pope's presence at Paris, and the Ampulla or its proxy, indispensable—Infernal counsellors to suggest the means of effecting these objects—Speech of their Attorney-General Belial—The Pope, a bird that can sing, &c.—Translation of the House of the Virgin Mary from Palestine to Loretto—How conveyed, and for what purpose—A Bank or shop where heavenly tenures were to be purchased—Lamentable consequences of neglecting to make deposits in this Bank—Exemplification— Divine Post-Obits—Lucrative return to Papal Traders—Nazarean Chapel—Three Blue Balls—Prig of Cesenna—Generosity of Spiritual Pawnbrokers—Valuables pledged at Loretto on Bull and Pardon-Securities—Frenchmen have taken charge of those valuables—Holy Virgin's House dismantled, a fit vehicle to convey the Pope and his suite to Paris—Romish Ecclesiastics better accommodated than with wives—Opposite practices of heretical English Prelates—Inferiority of their Ladies— Monkey and Clog—Women should have their due—Graceful style of British Compliments to the Fair Sex—Speech of the Chancellor of the Infernal Exchequer, Mammon—Worldly customs followed in Religious Concerns—Heaven's favour sought by conciliating its Pages in waiting—Saints first jacks, and afterwards patrons, of all trades, &c.—Liberties taken with St.

118

Januarius by the Lazzaroni—Rejoicing on the liquefaction of his Blood—That Saint's tergiversation in 1799—Overacted his part—His indictment and conviction—Phial that held his Blood will serve instead of the Rheims Ampulla—Neapolitan Vicar of Bray—Speech of Ashtaroth—His apprehensions of detriment to the interests of Mahomet and the Koran—Bonaparte, a Mahometan turned inside outwards—His late orthodoxy and zeal in the Prophet's service—The ill consequences that must result from rewarding his apostacy—Speech of Dagon— The last Speaker's apprehensions groundless—Romish Church, the Old Magpye—Former elevation and arrogance of its head, the Pope—Behemoth—Other Churches then in danger— Present degradation of the Papacy and Roman State—Servum Servorum—Death's compassion for Pius VI.—Indignity awaits the present Pontiff—Failure of first Clerk in Roman Firm— Snail-catching Ducks tail uppermost—Jews falsely charged with stinking—Apostacy of Catholics more likely than of Mussulmen— Rats and old House—Bouracq, another suggestion for the conveyance of the Pope, &c.—Cause of the great Eclipse—Blackamoors and Scolding Wives—Satan closes the Debate—Means proposed too rough—Satan's regard for the Holy See—Determines to go himself and effect the Pope's compliance by persuasion.

119

“WELL to effectuate my ends
You 've wrought, exclaims the King of Fiends:
Well worthy, for your prompt obedience
Among my honourable legions
The foremost rank: You 've spared no pain
Hell's reputation to sustain
'Mongst its black sheep of th' earthly fold,
Who bloody, resolute, and bold,
Inflexible in ill shall be,
While, to encourage 'em, they see,
Exalted to th' imperial throne,
Him who has made our cause his own.

Thus far you 've sail'd before the wind;
Nor fear, of what remains behind,
Aught uneffected, shall prevent
Mar, or annul th' accomplishment

120

Of your grand enterprize:—from Rome
Reluctant Pontiff yet shall come
And though King Henry, 'tis recounted,
Held a Pope's stirrup while he mounted,
Pius shall to my Emp'ror bow,
For 'tis his turn to truckle now,
And come when Bonaparte whistles;
None shall he have his Toe to kiss else.
Then, as for Chrism and Phial's loss,
Chrism is but Coronation sauce;
We'll re-produce this holy unction:
For tricks worth two of that have monks shown.
But since divine Ampulla's fractur'd
A new one must be manufactur'd;
Or, if 't wont shock French Orthodoxy,
Ampulla shall perform by proxy.

121

And You, my counsellors select,
The Means these objects to effect,
'Tis your's to frame and to provide:
On their expedience we 'll decide.”

Thus Lucifer his will declar'd:
When 'midst the Ministers that shar'd
The counsels of his dark diván,
Smooth Belial, bowing low, began:

“Lord of the damn'd! supreme within
Th' illimitable realms of Sin
That compass the terrestrial ball!
Hear your Attorney-General
Deliver what his thoughts suggest on
The first of these two points in question,
The means to overcome the lazy,
Old Roman Pontiff's contumacy:
For, since the wond'rous condescension,
T'invite him by your Emp'ror French shown,

122

Is thrown away on Chiaromonti,
Like bird that when he can sing wont, he
Must e'en be made to sing; as soon
He shall, I warrant, to some tune.

Excuse my telling an Old Story:
In this same Pontiff's territory
Loretto's consecrated earth
Bears an Old House, fam'd for the birth
Of the Grand Foe of Sin and Death:
This old house, built at Nazareth,
'Tis told in legendary lore,
Angels, heav'n's ticket-porters, bore
To Coast Dalmatian; there they baited;
O'er the Adriatic then translated,
Their precious brick and mortar freight
Into Ancona's Marquisate,

123

Thus Fame reports: though Angels ne'er
The trouble took to carry 't there;
But when the fabric thither sped,
A sturdy caravan instead,
Form'd of your legionary Blacks,
Convey'd its burden on their backs;
And for what purpose? Why, to fill
The mill-trough of that Thief i' the Mill,
Their friend and crony, Rome's High Priest,
With store of provender and grist;
And tempt sage zealots, queens, and kings,
With treasures and rich offerings,
The earnest to pay down, and price
Of tenures fair in Paradise:

124

That, in this banking-house deposit
Making of wicked worldly dross, it
Should, in the world to come, present 'em
With compound int'rest, cent. per centum,
Lest great land-holders here, when théir long
Journey they've taken, not a furlong
Of Heav'n should hold, and wish in vain an
Estate in the celestial Canaan.
Lest they who Kings and Nabobs die,
Should resurrect to penury,
And, to the gizzard griev'd, repent
Too late, that so improvident
In life they were as not to purchase,
By gifts to monast'ries and churches,
Better dessert and after-cheer
Than falls to th' lot of hero here,
Who, if he has forgot to fee,
Before his exit, th' Hierarchy,

125

Though he had figur'd in first style, 's
Class'd with the scum of Hell's St. Giles,
Where the proud king, that chain'd the winds
And flogg'd Old Neptune, mustard grinds;
Where Nëoptolemus, no bullion
Who gave Epirus' Church, turns Scullion;
Where onion-ropes weaves Clëopatra,
Hungry enough to eat a cat raw;
Cræsus is glad to turn a gold-finder,
And queen Semiramis makes tinder;
Apicius rancid horse-flesh swallows,
And chaste Lucretia keeps an ale-house;
Tully 's a printer's devil, Cæsar
A sutler, Cato a boot-greaser;
And C--- --- ---, imperial trull,
Drives Lucifer! thy cows to bull.

To 'scape such terrible reverses,
Rich worldlings have unlined their purses,

126

And speculated for divine
Post Obits at Loretto's shrine.
In fact, no mercantile concern
E'er made so lucrative return
As erst, to crafty traders papal
Yielded this Nazarëan Chapel,
Which invitation, from hill-top
To spiritual pawnbroker's shop,
Held out; as carnal pawnbrokers
Inveigle customers to theirs,
With three blue balls hung on a pole,
Whom they bamboozle and cajole,
So that their Balls, of which you know
One 's uppermost and two below,
Are, by the Cognoscenti, said
To be emblematic of their trade:
And thence the pledger understands
That what he 's trusted to their hands
'Tis two to one from broker's den
Will never visit him again;
But, like precise Prig of Cesenna
Who grins in Angelo's Gehenna,

127

(Ass-ear'd for finical contempt shown,)
There must be damn'd without redemption.

Yet Spiritual Brokers are
Although less just, more gen'rous far

128

Than they of carnal, blue ball corps;
Allotting customers much more
Of heav'nly hereditament
Than the full worth of all they've spent
T' adorn Madonna's shifts as well as
The shirtlikins of Bambinellos.
And this the problem strange explains,
Why th' owners of more wealth than brains
Have here such valuables pledg'd
As, since the wings of Time were fledg'd,
No treasury was known to hold:
Statues, and lamps, of massy gold,
Pearls, di'monds, goblets, candelabras,
Ague-pellent abracadabras,
Rich vests, with gold and silver laced,
And huckle-bones of saints, enchas'd
In precious ore, that folks might note 'em,
Which all diseases cured (like Brodum
Or Solomon) with store of tawdry
Crowns, crucifixes and emb'roid'ry.
For which return'd Rome's Holy See
Her blessed bond-security

129

Of bulls, indulgences, and pardons
As estimable as brass farthings
Coin'd in the mint of Birmingham,
And comfortable as a dram
Or pinch of snuff to an old jade.
Thus, for the golden eggs they laid
I' the holy nest, these zealous geese
Were recompens'd, till such increase
From princely bigotry was drain'd
That scarce the Shrine its wealth contain'd;
And had by this time overflow'd,
But that 'twas eas'd of precious load
By honest Frenchmen's pious care
Who reverently stripp'd it bare,
Not deeming such a sacred treasure
Safe, 'till dispos'd of at their pleasure.

Now, since the Holy Virgin's trick'd,
And her House void and derelict;
Since her fine tenants have thought fit
To take French leave of her and quit;
Her golden images on shoulders
Decamp'd of Bonaparte's soldiers,

130

(As rode off, on his martial hack
Of a Son, Anchises, pick-a-back;)
Her Angels fled to join in France
Their glittering sister courtezans,
Of her proud wardrobe not a clout
Remaining, all her lamps burnt out,
And not a relic, slice or scantling
Left of her of Martyr, Saint or Saintling;
Room in her house enough you'll find
For lumber of another kind:
I therefore humbly recommend
That, as 't has prov'd itself a friend
To the Papacy, it may so still,
And serve the Pope against his will;
May serve his holiness, I mean,
As flying stage-coach or machine.
Let but your Majesty command,
And that same diabolic band,
By whose aid from the Syrian coast
It to Loretto travell'd post,
Shall draw it, from that sacred spot
To Paris, at a good round trot.

131

And in 't the Pope and all the Quorum
That 'tend upon Servo Servorum,
Cardinals, bishops, priests, and monks,
Their wives too—I should say—their punks—
For wifes'-flesh is abomination
To priests of Catholic persuasion,
Who such commodity in hand
Take, but by stealth, as contraband,
And are in chimney-corner mated,
Though better thus accommodated
(As Bardolph of his Captain tells)
Than with a wife they 'd be; for else
How 't would good catholics appal
To talk of Lady Cardinal!
Or (like Pope Joan) should it be said
“Her Holiness is brought to bed.”
Though amongst English heretics
Right Reverend Fathers play such tricks;
And if they like the damsel's looks,
Marry their housekeepers or cooks;

132

Whom though thus favour'd we may term
But sleeping partners in the firm,
Since in episcopalian matches
Poor help-mate still is under hatches:
For though Lord Bishop 's a high blade, he
Never can make his Joan my Lady:
Though why she so beneath his rank is,
A point that might have puzzled Sanchez,
For with my Lord compar'd she 's held in
The same respect says learned Selden
As clog that 's tied to chain of monkey.
Though a law-luminary, drunk he
Might be when 'scap'd him that expression,
Which brings t' a finis this digression.

133

And which your Majesty will pardon,
Because these Churches both run hard on
The Ladies' just prerogative:
For, since the dev'l his due men give,
They ought to give the women theirs;
With whom you'd think in love affairs,
(Instead of mortal swains intrigues,)
Our horn'd fraternity had leagues,
Heard you the endearing compliment
To th'Sex that British gallants vent,
And lavish on the Fair in phrases
Inspired and modell'd by the Graces:
“She's dev'lish handsome, dev'lish old,
“The very devil of a scold,
“A damn'd fine figure, dev'lish nice,
“Damnation ugly, damn'd precise,
“Damn'd good complexion, teeth, and eye,
“The baggage holds her head damn'd high,
“She's dev'lish dirty, dev'lish clean,
“Damn'd fat, damn'd gawky, cursed lean,
“A damn'd tight thing, a damn'd bad piece,
“Damn'd prudish Aunt, a damn'd smart Niece,

134

“Damn'd pale, damn'd swarthy, dev'lish fair,
“Damn'd innocent, a dev'lish stare,
“Damn'd upright, dev'lish stiff, damn'd slim,
“Damn'd freckle-visag'd, dev'lish grim,
“She's dev'lish tall, she's dev'lish short,
“Damn her, she's one of the right sort!”
Thus, Sire! I've drawn my wit to the dregs:
But see, besides, upon his legs
Another honourable devil!
Prolixity would be uncivil.

So spake, and brought loquacious Fiend,
His Canterbury Tale t'an end.
Bowing to Mammon, the next speaker,
Hell's Chancellor of the Exchequer;
Who Satan thus, and his black sheep,
(Whom Belial had near talk'd asleep,
But now prick'd up their tails and ears,)
Address'd: “My Liege! and smoke-dried peers!
“The learn'd Gibb'rishian one old Story
“Has kindly furbish'd up to bore ye,

135

“Another just as much have I
“To the purpose ready cut and dry,
“Which, to these worthies, I'll propound,
“Seated our Christmas fire around.”

Of the great vulgar and the small,
In their concerns religious, all
Make earthly usages their models;
And though some folks with brains i'their noddles
Have done their utmost to persuade 'em
That He'll take care of 'em who made 'em:
Yet, as when countenance or grant
From worldly potentate they want,
True policy and sound they call it
To drive a bargain with his valet,
Or curry favour with his groom:
So (sanction'd by the Church of Rome)
When they should of the King of Heaven
Beg to be prosper'd or forgiven,
Instead on 't, they address their prayer
To groom or page in waiting there;
A multitude of such as are
Term'd Saints in Roman Kalendar,

136

Who, till th'were canoniz'd and hallow'd
By the Church, profane vocations follow'd;
Bailiffs, Comedians, Advocates;
For Saints, as Furettiere relates,
(Excepting that of the Attorneys)
All callings have been found to furnish;
And some, rather than Saint they'd lack,
Have made one of the Almanack.

137

As Saints were jacks of ev'ry trade,
All classes invocate their aid;
Each province too and petty state
A Saint distinct and separate
Keeps, to supply, at small expenses,
And serve its proper exigencies:
St. Crispin Cobbling tribes befriends,
Stiff'ning with wax their threads and ends;
St. David Cambrians' prayers assail,
Who teaches them to brew Welch ale;
St. Andrew Caledonians' brag is,
Who gives sheeps maws to hold their haggess;
St. Patrick's aid distills the Whiskey
That makes wild Irishmen so frisky.

138

Thus, too, the Neapolitans,
What time Vesuvius hurls hot brands
And fiery torrents from her crater
That seem to menace wreck of nature,
Would be distract', and out of heart,
Had they no Saint to take their part:
On this account a proper fellow,
O' the sort, yclept Genariello
By Lazzaroni, (but his cronies,
And they to whom his merit known is,
Entitle him St. Januarius,)
In their Archbishop's relic-warehouse
They keep safe treasur'd up: a penny
So misers hoard 'gainst day that's rainy;
Though Naples' sons their Saintly Squire,
Not against water keep, but fire;
And panic struck lest they should burn, as
Flames horribly Vesuvian furnace,
Turn out their Bag-Saint, like fire-engine,
Their bacon to secure from singing.
When, if uncheck'd th' Eruption roars,
With titles of all sons of whores

139

They take the liberty to knight him,
Because he suffers it to fright 'em:
But, should the mountain's flame grow dull,
Because 't has burnt its belly full,
They sink these scandalous expressions,
And chaunt his praise in grand processions;
Thanking him for deliverances
That but existed in their fancies.

140

Another Miracle as good
The Saint performs, whose congeal'd blood
In consecrated vase or cruet
They keep and let his votaries view it
On Gala Days:—if to their wishes
Their tutelary Don's propitious,
His blood, congeal'd and hard as ice,
Begins to thaw, and liquefies;
Which of his care for them the rabble
Regard as proof irrefragable;
Who to requite him light wax tapers
And set at work bell, and mouth-clappers,
Those kindred nuisances, with ringing
To break the peace of ears and singing.
For gratitude with roaring boys
Is term synonymous with noise.
But since their Saint has turn'd time-server,
No more with wonted faith and fervour
Tag rag and bobtail haunt his shrine.
When our French friends, in ninety-nine,

141

Came kindly to regenerate
That is: to seize upon, the State,

142

And had, by Championet led,
Knock'd half his worshippers o' th' head,
His Saintship, wond'rous glad to see 'em,
Bade the Archbishop sing Te Deum,
And all his clergy join in chorus
To celebrate their entry glorious;
Most gen'rously bestow'd his sanction
Their sanguinary feats and pranks on;
Highly professed himself delighted
Such Guests to entertain, invited
By 'mself, for joy at the transaction,
Whose blood resolv'd to liquefaction.
But, overacting here his part,
Zeal of discretion got the start;
For soon as Royalty (half slain)
Had got upon his legs again,

143

And of 'em made right application,
(Viz: kick'd out French Regeneration)
He vow'd he'd give to Saintly Sir
A Rowland for his Oliver:
Had him indicted, and to trial
Genariello and his Phial
Brought, as two trait'rous accessaries
Of Gallic revolutionaries.
Consign'd 'em to Furr'd Law-cats' claws
Who of deserting the good cause
And siding with the foe convicted
Them Both: the Saint they interdicted
From exercising any longer
His old trade of miracle-monger;
And damn'd without commiseration,
His blood t'eternal congelation.

144

This Phial of Genariello
(Which I'll maintain has not its fellow)

145

Because it has been damn'd, to Hell
Belongs of course, and will as well
Our end and purpose to the full
Answer, as Rheims' once fam'd Ampoule.
As for the Chrism—why bid him brew it,
Th' Arch Quack, within the self-same cruet
Chief of his rev'rend turncoat clan,
Brays Vicar Neapolitan,
Whose oscillating politics
Taught him these hocus pocus tricks.
Thus Mammon: Syrian Ashtaroth
Next rose, and lash'd his tail in wroth.

“These honourable fiends intents
Th' Interest of my constituents
(Comprizing that respected set
Of devil's who drudge for Mahomet)

146

Would compromise: their Craft's in danger
Adopted if such projects strange are.
What! on involuntary flight
Dispatch the Pope, like paper kite!
Raise from its base a Chapel volant
With half the conclave check by jowl in 't,
Like pendant cats on air balloon,
Sent missionaries to the moon!
Dead Januarius' blood no quarter
Allow, but make him twice a martyr!
His Saintship's consecrated Phial,
Because 't has undergone mock-trial,
A receptacle make of Chrism
For Renegade from Islamism!
And send it an aërial journey, on
Purpose to gratify the Cyrnian!
Whose claim to honours of the first rate
Far be it yet from me to frustrate;
Or derogate from Hero's worth
Whom, whether hum-drum folks of earth
Allow 't or not, more liberal Hell
Acknowledges her Nonpareil:

147

But 'tis the honour of the Koran
That I and my good friends set store on,
Which never can maintain its credit,
But will henceforth, by all who read it,
Be deemed less sacred and canonical
Than Robin Hood or Tyburn Chronicle,
If, with Ampulla charg'd, Christ's Vicar
(Like tavern waiter, when fresh liquor
Is call'd for) should cry: “Coming, Sir!”
And all this spiritual stir
Be set on foot, and homage paid
To one who's but (though first of his trade
He'd pass for, stoutest too of stout hearts)
A Mussulman turn'd wrong side outwards.
For, with unblushing front of brass,
Though now he celebrates the Mass,
In Egypt and on Syrian coast
How loudly was he heard to boast
Himself the Prophet's right-hand man
Commission'd, since the world began,
To advocate his Faith, and please us
By trampling on the Cross of Jesus!

148

And was he not Islam's true Trojan
Self-dubb'd, and turban'd theologian,
Who with his work went thorough stitch
To approve his tenets mustimich?
Nay, did he not especial service
Render to Sherif, iman, dervice;
Who learn'd t' interpret with precision
The Koran from his exposition
Pedagoguizing till their grim
Diván thought Mahomet by him

149

Might have been school'd, had he been there, as
He was by his Magister Bayras.

If then, when he apostatizes,
His feints and tergiverse devices
Meet such remuneration ample,
Other Mahometans th' example
Will follow of Imperial Trimmer,
Till faint the Crescent's ray shall glimmer,
Till Christians people Islam's borders,
And the Grand Seignior's self takes orders.”
Dagon, at this address'd his peers:
“Away with these old woman's fears
Lest Pope and consecrated chrism
Downfall effect of Islamism,
If they're employed and call'd in aid
(As of base rags white paper's made)
To transmute recreant Musselman
To cath'lic Emperor spic and span!

150

Which must the cause of Mecca's Saint
Advance, not injure, I'll maintain 't.
For, when the Head's compell'd to stoop,
Must not obsequious Body droop?
Now of the Church that Christian's hight,
(I mean the Old Magpye, and the right,
Rome's church, true, genuine, orthodox,
Not that Reform'd One (with a pox!)
O' the Protestants, which would Heav'n's wicket
Open without St. Peter's ticket;
A jade who lays claim to more grace,
Yet of her Mother flies i' the face,
Heretical and termagant,
Bade to reserve her wine, “I shan't”
Who cries, and circulates the Chalice,
As if she thought the church an alehouse,
Unlike Rome's godly Rechabite,
Who like a true, discreet, and right
Oinologist scorns to go snacks
In 's draught with lay symposiacs:
But, from unhallow'd thirst lock'd up,
Wisely reserves the sacred cup.

151

Of this Old Christian Church aforesaid
His Holiness the Pope's, of course, head
And all o' the Catholic persuasion
The Body, form, or corporation.
This body's Head in elder days
Was wont to stand in 'ts proper place,
As high as if on top-most round
Of Jacob's ladder; Noddles crown'd
'T would curse, ban, excommunicate
If they presum'd to think or prate,
Or but a grain of common sense
Show'd in withholding Peter's pence,
Had not Pope Adrian i' the room
Of lacquey an Imperial Groom,
That reverently held his stirrup
While on his Mule climb'd Holy Sir up?
How was Pope Celestine renown'd
Who with his feet an Emp'ror crown'd!

152

What time the Papal Genius pregnant
Promulg'd its “Per Me Reges Regnant:”
“Kings, like Shrove Tuesday cocks, are gulls
“Whom I knock down with bans and bulls.”
Then, as if Dogma for the nonce
Was made, the crown kick'd off his sconce.
Pope 'Nal, upon the prostrate neck
(So Jews serv'd kings of Amalek)
Of Royal Fred'ric set his foot,
Whom he maranathiz'd to boot.

When thus the Head of Church infallible
Made abject Sov'reign Princes swallow Bull;
Set realms to th' hazard like a rouleau;
And, with “Sic jubeo! Sic volo!”

153

Rul'd them, as with a rod of Iron;
And if they rantipole or shy ran,
Doom'd each to penance till a knave he
Confess'd himself, and cried “peccavi!”
Or made reluctant royal lips staves
Chaunt penitentiary; to tipstaffs
Ecclesiastical and stiff ones,
(His cowled Aggripparts and Griffons)
Gave them in charge, to papal bit
Who made their carnal wills submit.
Taught them to bow their flanks when bidden,
By whore of Bab'lon to be ridden;
To trudge o'er flint-stones without sandals;
'Tend on blind Saints with lighted candles;
Or stripp'd, and bade his beadle monks
Cat-o'-nine-titillate their trunks.
Exalted thus when Popish power
Had got the start of Babel's tower,

154

And seem'd as if determin'd soon
To knock her pate against the moon,
As grew enormous Head, increas'd
The Corporation of the Beast;
With such increasing appetite,
That, like Behémoth's, to supply 't
Of thousand hills the produce vast
Would scarce suffice for a repast.
Then there was cause indeed to dread
That on the vitals she 'd have fed
Of other Churches, as huge Pike
Devours small tenants of the dyke.
That Tartar, Musselman, and Persian
Were within hair's breadth of conversion,

155

That, proselytes to force or trick,
All sects had merg'd in Catholic;
As their identity drugs lose
Converted to a doctor's dose.

But now is Popery sunk as low
As high it mounted long ago;
Depreciated, and under par,
Like Stock in Bankruptcies and war;
And in his Holiness's style
There 's now no fallacy or guile;
Who is, in truth, “servus servorum,”
As t' other Pontiff was, before him;
Servant of those who serve our Don,
The Emperor Napoleon:
For Berthier, Bonaparte's Man,
Enslav'd him in the Vatican;
Enlisted all his precious metals
In 's service, nay his pots and kettles,

156

His captive sent on sleeveless jaunts
With military miscreants,
Till Death, who felt for the old man some
Pity, at Valence paid his ransom:

Nor waits Chiaromonti lesser
Indignity than 's predecessor.
From his reported contumacy
One might indeed conclude him crazy.
But soon for Paris he must start, or
He 'll find that he has caught a Tartar,
Who o'er his Holiness's ears
Will pull the gabardine he wears.

Then if the Head of Apostolic
Church, at the nod, caprice, or frolic
Of Fortune's Soldier, be expell'd
Like Sextus from his post, if held
So cheap that, when Imperial Novice
Is pleas'd to want a cast off 's office,

157

He must be ductile and compliant;
There 's reason to believe, rely on 't!
Papal Dominion 's in the wane.
In commerce spiritual 'tis plain,
That, when its FIRST CLERK fails, the firm
And trade approximates its term.
For though ducks, to catch water snails
Who merge their heads, turn up th' tails;
His triple crest when Roman Goose
Prostrates, his Body 's fall ensues:
Hence when his Holiness, turn'd greaser,
Shall run t' anoint our Cyrnian Cæsar,
Such derogatory behaviour
Must to his papal fold ill savour
Attach, as th' antients did to Jews,
Whom, says sagacious Browne, they accuse
Of stinking falsely: and at large
Strives to perfume away the charge:
For which attempt especial grace
He gain'd and favour from Duke's Place;

158

And fix'd his credit, lucky dog!
With Rabbies of the Synagogue.
But, to have done with Master Browne,—
'Tis likelier far from what's laid down
That Catholics should Mass forswear,
Be circumcis'd, and turbans wear,
Than that Mahometans should chaffer
Their Faith for consecrated wafer:
For when old house is falling—dunce
Must he be who to prop it runs:
But he's more wit than some that crack on 't,
Who, for another, turns his back on 't.

But since there's absolute occasion
That Bonaparte's Coronation
The Pope should grace, (as in court-roll,
'Mongst chamber-lords and grooms o' the stole,
As well as maids of honour blooming,
There must be Necessary Woman
Or all 's amiss) it rests with those,
Who scout the means that we propose

159

As most expedient to convey
This Sacred Seer, to find some way
That's pref'rable:—Suppose they get
Their good old crony, Mahomet,
To lend his Holiness the bouracq:
That trusty thousand mile an hour-hack,
Which carried him up to Heav'n's throne,
And in the same night brought him down.—
Then to accommodate the suite
That on the Pontiff tend, 't were meet
Of their spare imps the fleetest pack
Take each a Monk upon his back,
And Cardinals and Bishops horse all
With like accommodation dorsal.
But these their mitres, copes, and rochets
May leave, or put 'em in their pockets:
Such trappings let them lay aside,
And, a l'Anglaise, a garb provide
Succinct;—they'll fly genteeler for 't,
Caparison'd in cassoc short;

160

(That rev'rend Cestus which confers
Grace on ecclesiastic Sirs
And consequence where erst was none,
And serves more purposes than one.)
As dignitaries, from the forge
Red hot, (whom Congé of King George,
Of Pedagogues as stiff as stakes,
Deans and right reverend Bishops makes)
Travel St. James's Street accoutred;
To show, by this decorous outward

161

Habiliment which marks their clan,
Th' humility of inward man.
Then, whilst the turnpike roads of sky
Are throng'd with papal Rookery
Good folks below, who are not able
Aught o'er their heads to see but sable,
Will fear that strange Eclipse renew'd,
Which (say the learned) Afric's brood
Occasion'd, who, in elder time,
Came flying from their torrid clime
To carry off all termagants;
Grandams, maids, widows, wives, and aunts,
On pilgrimage (a thundering host)
To the Old Jewry on the coast
Of Syrians, who esteem'd the jades
A sorer curse than the Crusades.

As wound up his oration Dagon
Discussion paus'd: when thus th' Old Dragon:

162

“You point out ways and means enough
To bring the Pope, but all too rough:
Betwixt us and the Holy See
League of good will and amity
Has been establish'd of old date;
And though this pontiff, and the late,
Have somewhat too much ceremony
And distance shewn to Rome's Old Crony.
Still must we cherish a connection
Founded on int'rest and affection.
Much we respect the Papal Stock,
And to that Apostolick Rock
Indebted stand for wreck of Souls
On our infernal coast by shoals,

163

As much as ever Cornish man did
To Scilly rocks for vessels stranded.
Wherefore, to cut the matter short,
Ourself will to the Pope resort;
Not doubting but the strong persuasion
Which we shall use on the occasion
Will work, with potency like drastic
Jalap, on Seer ecclesiastic:
But should it fail us, at the worst,
Our irresistible “Needs Must”
(Arg'mentum demoniacum
More efficacious than guaiacum)
T' effect our purpose we 'll employ;
And make infallible Old Boy
Unction bestow and consecration
On Emp'ror of our own creation.
By Father of church universal
Sanction'd, our Hero grumbling curs all,
Who 've held his title in derision,
Shall muzzle by divine commission:
And He may say, whom crown'd the Pope has,
Iam finis coronavit opus!

165

CANTO V. CONSISTING OF A CONFERENCE BETWEEN THE POPE AND THE DEVIL, ON HIS HOLINESS'S JOURNEY TO PARIS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

The POPE, in his Pontificalibus.
The DEVIL, booted and spurred.
Porter, &c.

167

SCENE. THE VATICAN.
SATAN.
HE, who 's disposed for easy jaunt,
'Twixt Hell and Church cucullitant
Should travel; highway better beaten
I've never trod.—So, now for greeting
Pontifical!—Cronies, of Rome,
Is Old Infallible at home?

PORTER.
Who makes this thund'ring at the gate?
Sure 'tis the Devil's Advocate.

168

SATAN.
No! he's, in person, hither come.

PORTER.
Is he? He shan't want elbow room!

[Porter runs off, crying, the Devil! the Devil!!!
Enter the Pope.
SATAN.
Your blessing! venerable Dad!

POPE.
Bless You!

SATAN.
You may bless one as bad
Ere long.

POPE.
Why, how now! whither gone is
My Master of the Ceremonies?
That I'm by an ill-favoured stranger
Intruded on?—I doubt some danger
Threatens my state or safety near!!

SATAN.
Your Holiness has nought to fear:

169

I'm the Pope's honest friend; in proof,
Order a boot-jack, and my hoof
I'll shew you in a crack: here 'tis!

POPE.
What, Nick!!—I for French Bishop's phiz,
Of their new hierarchy mistook yours.—

SATAN.
That's a fine compliment, Gad zookers!
I see you're not dispos'd to flatter.

POPE.
But from your fire-side what's the matter
That brings you here I can't divine.

SATAN.
Why, there's a protegé of mine,
A jack of all trades, who his coat has
As often chang'd as pagan Proteus:
His Sov'reign's bounty rear'd the brat,
First Loyalist, then Democrat,
Zealot of Jacobinic band,
Tergiverse Leader, Consul Grand,
Votary of Mahomet, and Christ,
As either to his Mill brings grist,

170

Of France exotic Emp'ror:
Yet, with all these, one title more
He wants, and by your help must gain 't;
So make him, if you please, a Saint,
'Tis but a small desideratum;
I beg you'll go and consecrate him!
If You 'll officiate, I'll cry “Amen”.
Your book of choice receipts examine,
For Rheims' Ampulla's crack'd and drain'd
Of all the Chrism that it contain'd;
That is to say, “the fat 's i' the fire:”
Ergo, 'tis meet, most rev'rend Sire!
That you, with aid of Card'nals Fesch,
And Maury, toss us up some fresh.
You, to whom three fam'd Colnebrook Coqui
Were scullions, (trust me I don't mock ye,)
For well you know divine Appointment
Ratification lacks of Ointment;
Yet squinting Heretic averr'd
“A good name was to be preferr'd:”

171

Now, though my Emp'ror half a million
Of names has got, like old Castilian;
'Tis true as strange, in the whole set
There is not found a good name yet;
But, if the Ointment you'll dispense,
Good name he'll get of consequence.

POPE.
I've had an Invitation Ticket,
But should I go t' anoint the wicked,
While I the sacred unction shed,
Will it by Scoffers not be said,
That Holy Church legitimates
All roguery which success awaits?
Sanctions that monstrous Usurpation
Which set the seal to confiscation
Of her domains, and fights the battles
Of those who stole her goods and chattels.

172

Has not your Emp'ror now at home
(Thanks to French burglarers at Rome)
Statues unique, and paintings fine,
To deck his palace, stol'n from mine?
Is not on wrong the greatness built
Of this monopolist in guilt?
Besides, can you expect that I, Sir
Devil! should crown apostatizer?
One who has trampled on the Cross;
I would as soon anoint a horse!
Or consecrate from Coast of Guinea,
A royal tiger or hyena!

SATAN.

Soft and fair, Pontiff! why so hot?
Have you the Concordat forgot?

173

You mount upon the high ropes, Holy One!
And prate like any rigmarolian:
Abridge that longitude of face!
Napoleon's now a Babe of Grace.
Nay, though it comes from Me, depend
Upon the fact: he's gain'd his end.
Thron'd in imperial state sublime,
The stilts on which he reach'd it, Crime,
He'll lay aside, he says: ne'er fear him!
Go, for 'twill do you good to hear him,
With visage starch and grim, assure ye,
Like Porcine Convert, “Epicuri
“De grege,” who's renounc'd his kin,
And turn'd his bristles outside in,
To hear this Mussul-papist swear he
Will now “retrorsum vela dare,”
Throw Bunyan's burden from his back,
And stand upon the Christian tack.

174

To this he's pledg'd his faith imperial,
And well you know the raw material
Of which all modern Saints are made:
'Tis out of Sinner, who, in 's trade,
Has kept a swinging wholesale warehouse,
As Cyrnian Bantum's done at Paris,
Beside the Tibur too, and Nile;
Ay, and where e'er 'twas worth his while.
At what I say You seem to stare,
But deem not such conversion rare.
Could you in English tabernacle
Hear puritanic wild-geese cackle,
Where, though they've ne'er a bell to ring,
By harping always on this string,
“That Grace loves best to work upon
“Sinners gigantic and o'ergrown:”
Such flocks of blackbirds to their perches,
They lure, and so exhaust the Churches,
That you might liken Sermon there to
Voci clamantis in deserto,
Let prudence then allay your courage;
And with discretion salt your porridge.

175

Be a good Pope! anoint my Pet!
But, take a friend's advice! Forget
To touch upon “Church goods confiscate.”
That is a tender point—don't risk it!
For, as each black sheep in my pale
Is known by cloven foot and tail:
So ev'ry Saintly palm you'll find
With glue and pitch and birdlime lined.
And newest Saint knows best to trick ye;
You'll always feel his palm most sticky.
Chattels and coin of friend or foe
To grasp, and never let it go.

As for your sealing confiscation
By Unction and Inauguration—
Can all the brains in papal scull
One act of Saintly theft annul?
Whether you 'noint, then, or refrain,
The man won't have his mare again;
And Church's alienated acres
Try how you will, you'll never make yours.

176

POPE.
I fear you're in the right. If so,
There's the less reason I should go:
Nor will compliance with his whim
For aught I know serve me or him.

SATAN.
Nay, now you shoot beyond the mark:
How it will serve imperial spark
Your Holiness may clearly see, as
Hornbeeck you've read who cites Andréas
To shew (the Dutchman's tale were strange else)
What in Arabian Creed the angels
Are said t'have done for Mahomet:
How on a mountain's top they set
The Prophet, clove his belly open,
Then wash'd his chitterlings soft soap in,

177

'Till whiter than the driven snow
They'd bleach'd 'em:—after which, you know
They took out of his heart th' infernal
Black drop, or diabolic kernel
That makes most men besides on a level
In rogu'ry with ourself, the devil.
They did this when he was a chit
Of four years old, to make him fit
To prophecy and legislate
For Saracenic church and state;
And domineer till half the world
Crouch'd when his banner he unfurl'd:
Now, what they did for Mecca's baby,
You, if you'll take the trouble, may, by
Pontifical address and art,
Do for Napoleon Bonapart'.
Nay, you'll do more, because that Hop-
O'-my-thumb had but a single drop
Of the black fluid in his heart,
Of which our Emp'ror's holds a quart,
Which you'll express and wring out statim
If you'll but go and consecrate him:

178

Or, what as well will turn t' account,
Good Catholics shall swear you've don't
Soon as this consecration game
They've seen you play at Notre Dame.
Then for Yourself:—Though positive
Advantage hence you'll scarce derive,
Yet, for this touch of Rome's old trade,
You'll still be negatively paid.
My meaning is, you'll be no worse:
Than you are now; for in your purse
While you've a stiver left to lose,
Hang me if I'd be in your shoes
In case you're stubborn, or delay to
Accommodate my Desperado!
Have you ne'er heard what that tart Dame
Queen Bess to Bishop—what's his name—
Wrote: “Bow, proud Prelate! to my nod,
“Or I'll un-frock you, else, by—!”
Her menace, if his will's withstood,
Napoleon shall on you make good.

POPE.
Must I debase St. Peter's chair?
Would I had ne'er been seated there!

179

Had I not better to a cloyster
Bétake myself than crown this royster?
Than prostitute my sacred station
By such unheard of degradation;
And, like the one-ey'd Carthagenian,
Whose fate declaims scholastic ninny on,
Scout o'er the Alps, your Emp'ror's call at,
To be the subject of a ballad?

SATAN.
Talk you of Hero with one eye,
Why where is your philosophy?
How the world wags if you can't find
Not one-ey'd must You be, but blind.
There is, in the affairs of men,
A tide, Will Shakespeare says—

180

POPE.
What then?

SATAN.

Why then he needs must be a sot or
Mad who thinks always 'tis high water.
'Twas papal spring-tide long ago:
Now current Catholic runs low.
What makes your rev'rence kick and wince is
This,—to your predecessors princes
Were abject homage wont to pay,
But ev'ry Dog must have his day:
Dog-pontiffs held, of yore, their stations
Above the clouds, like constellations.
And kings look'd up to them—to stars
That manage astrologic farce,
As conj'rors look'd—'Twas fortune's fun,
Whose wheel has its full circle run;

181

And now Dog-monarchs, got to th' zenith,
Contemptuous eye Dog-pontiffs béneath.
Pontiffs or princes, high or low,
I' the catalogue for Dogs ye go
And half as honest as that race
Were you, like statesman out of place
With nobody I might retire
Except myself to stir my fire.

But to the point—Not quite so bad
Are things as you describe 'em, Dad!
Nor degradation to th' extent
That parallel or precedent
Excludes, is this to which 'tis fit
With a good grace that you submit.

182

Was it not one of your own cloth who
'Nointed and crown'd the Emp'ror Otho?
Did not his namesake at the feet
His Keys yield up of Charles the Great,
And Rome's immunities? though tail
Of Pope for that default gave bail,
Aye and a scruple more o' the small cat-
O-nine-tails got than goes to a Malcad;
Yet not so much as Brat of mine
Whom that behind door-made Divine

183

Exorcis'd birchically, flogging
Imp for three days to send him jogging,
(Who cried, and curs'd, and bawl'd, and bann'd
At breech-work so long time in hand;
And swore in mastigeusian office
Theodore was but flogster novice,
Usurping antient Pedagogue's
Sole province of untrussing brogues.)

184

You, if you're restive, something worse can
Befall. That Benedict the Tuscan

185

Crown'd Emp'ror Henry's jobberknol
We know who lent that Pope the coal-
Black colt, out of the Night-mare got,
On which he oft was seen to trot
After his spiritualization,
Like Vicar bound to Visitation.
These precedents pontifical t' ye
Adduc'd—Say where's the difficulty?

POPE.
Why, Satan! lawful kings t' anoint
And consecrate's no case in point.
Yours is an Emp'ror green and raw,
Who's stamp'd himself so by club law;

186

To royalty was ne'er bound 'prentice
But 's made as “pueri ludentes
Rex eris aiunt”—when, i' their tricks, it
For pastime serves, by ipse dixit
Of's own and royaliz'd himself
With diadem stol'n from the shelf
Of Bourbon's closet, though in splendor
Regal array'd he's but pretender:—
Would not anointing be a flam
Of Emperor Sham-Abraham?

SATAN.

Yet a fam'd Rabbin (and I hope
A Rabbin is as good as Pope
Or was, though no disparagement
I mean to offer) was content
T'anoint a charlatan as hé base
Known by the name of Barchochebas
A captain, like Napoleon, fierce
And fam'd for bloody massacres:
Nay, 'nointed him as the Messias,
And thought he'd done an action pious.

187

Fill a whole volume would the fame
O' the Rabbin ‘Akiba,’ his name,
Alias ‘Sethumtäah.’ Jews hail him
As fountain head Legem Oralem
Whence they derive, which (with civility
I say't) to your infallibility
To cry hail fellow! has fair claim:
Deep lucubrations of this same
Hebréan I could quote you—was it
Not he who on the water-closet
Expatiated?—who steer'd the rump has
To favourable point o' the compass?
Instructed folks sinistrâ manu
Abstergere?—And yet complain you

188

Of 'nointing knave (with shameless front)
When such a great Divine has done't?

Speed then the work which to discharge
You 're call'd on—I could show at large
Though things run counter and perverse,
That 's not so bad which might be worse;
Prolix and periphrastic stuff
I hate—one word to th' point 's enough.
Your Holiness's hands are tied
By Emp'ror yet unsanctified;
But for your neck, I fain would save it
From gripe profane of hempen cravat.

189

Yet, to this call if you're obdurate,
Hell keeps no office to insure it:
Nor would your reign, by hangman ended,
Exit afford unprecedented.
So Benedict the Sixth was fated
To Heav'nly See to be translated;
He whom fierce Cintius, once his vassal,
Strangled in Angelo's proud castle.
O how would Uncle Fesch be shock'd
Should thus your vital twine be dock'd!
Nor would kind-hearted Card'nal Mauri,
I'll warrant, be a whit less sorry:
'T would to Napoleon too be shocking
To make, of one or t' other Coquin,
Your worthy successor and proxy:
Whilst you, in all your orthodoxy
Array'd (like Solomon in 's glory)
Had reach'd celestial Attic Story

190

Whence to look down must be delicious
On knaves at strife for loaves and fishes.
How like you, Pope! such splendid scenery?

POPE.
So well that for an Irish Deanery
The Papacy I'd freely barter:
But I've no mind to be a martyr.
Your force of argument I feel;
And think your diabolic zeal
Proves you my friend for else, I query
Liceat ab hoste an doceri?
But since we have command express
Of Mammon of unrighteousness
To make us friends, who then can blame one
Who Lucifer, as well as Mammon,
Has made a friend of, and may crow,
Because he has two strings to 's bow.
Across the Alps without delay
I'll beat my march.

SATAN.
To smooth your way
I (who, of yore, Samarian Seers
T'inveigle Ahab and his peers

191

T' engage in mortal enterprize
Instructed with false prophecies)
Converted have the Gallic host
Of clergy into knights o' the post
Sworn to wash Bonaparte white,
As if he were Angel of light
“He's pure” they swear and “faultshas none;”
No spots allow in Corsic Sun
Which mortal vision can find out;
Announce him “merciful as stout,
“An ornament of human nature,
“Europe's benign Pacificator,
“Of Christ's Church Militant the Grand
“Captain, and Man of God's right hand.”
Nay such is the mendacity
Of that Ecclesiastic fry
They'll (for I know their forte full well)
Scarce leave a lie for you to tell:
Therefore the more you have to use on
Valedictorial allocution;
Which must, to make it palatable,
Florid embellishments and fable

192

Contain, and with choice terms be spic'd.
Talk of “Your dearest Son in Christ
Napoleon (anxious for salvation
Of his lov'd Children the French Nation,)
Whose faith and hope on Peter's Rock
Is anchor'd, prime tup of your flock!
Who is resolv'd to live and die
True Son o' the Church and hierarchy
Cath'lic and Apostolical;
Th' int'rest of which is all in all,
And the whole cause and sole has been
That you commence like Sheba's Queen
This hopeful evangelic journey on
Account of Solomon the Cyrnian!
That you 've great hopes when face to face
You speak with him you shall find grace
In 's sight—and, when your papal nose is
Laid alongside of his proboscis,
His wisdom and your zeal may squeeze
From both (like maggots out of cheese)
Effects of special likelihood
To aggrandize the Church's Good;

193

(Rome's Church I mean, the only ark
In which, you know, th' Elect embark)
That 'nointing Corsi-Christian Turk
Perfectionates Religion's work—
That you and Red-Caps of your train
This spic and span-new Charlemagne
(That has turn'd Europe upside down)
Who go to consecrate and crown
If none applaud you—happy elves!
At least will gratulate yourselves
(As, in old fable, did the Crane
When bone that stuck in Wolf's red lane
Chirurgically out she drew,
That he 'd not bit her neck in two)
When you 've escap'd Parisian gins
And Rome revisit in whole skins.

[Exit Pope
SATAN.
He 's gone! and, if he 's true to his text,
I'll make Him consecrate me next.

[Satan vaults upon the Night Mare, and canters up the chimney to the tunes of “Ca Ira,” and “Lillibulero,” played both at the same time.]