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

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

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

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

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

[1] "That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions."—GALT'S Life of Byron.

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

[3] "The poetical embalmment or rather amber immortalization."— Ibid.

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

[5] "He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo."— Ibid.



RESOLUTIONS

PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.

Resolved—to stick to every particle Of every Creed and every Article; Reforming naught, or great or little, We'll stanchly stand by every tittle, And scorn the swallow of that soul Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.[1] Resolved that tho' St. Athanasius In damning souls is rather spacious— Tho' wide and far his curses fall, Our Church "hath stomach for them all;" And those who're not content with such, May e'en be damned ten times as much.

Resolved—such liberal souls are we— Tho' hating Nonconformity, We yet believe the cash no worse is That comes from Nonconformist purses. Indifferent whence the money reaches The pockets of our reverend breeches, To us the Jumper's jingling penny Chinks with a tone as sweet as any; And even our old friends Yea and Nay May thro' the nose for ever pray, If also thro' the nose they'll pay.

Resolved that Hooper,[2] Latimer,[3] And Cranmer,[4] all extremely err, In taking such a low-bred view Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:— All owing to the fact, poor men, That Mother Church was modest then, Nor knew what golden eggs her goose, The Public, would in time produce. One Pisgah peep at modern Durham To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em.

Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords Whose income just enough affords To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey, Are told by Antiquarians prosy How ancient Bishops cut up theirs, Giving the poor the largest shares— Our answer is, in one short word, We think it pious but absurd. Those good men made the world their debtor, But we, the Church reformed, know better; And taking all that all can pay, Balance the account the other way.

Resolved our thanks profoundly due are To last month's Quarterly Reviewer, Who proves by arguments so clear (One sees how much he holds per year) That England's Church, tho' out of date, Must still be left to lie in state, As dead, as rotten and as grand as The mummy of King Osymandyas, All pickled snug—the brains drawn out— With costly cerements swathed about,— And "Touch me not," those words terrific, Scrawled o'er her in good hieroglyphic.

[1] One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was—"Whether the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy Scripture?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks—"Surely they had a wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a tittle amiss, in it."

[2] "They," the Bishops, "know that the primitive Church had no such Bishops. If the fourth part of the bishopric remained unto the Bishop, it were sufficient."—On the Commandments, p. 72.

[3] "Since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth, there is no work done, the people starve."—Lat. Serm.

[4] "Of whom have come all these glorious titles, styles, and pomps into the Church. But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices," etc.—Life of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix.



SIR ANDREW'S DREAM.

"nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis: cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent." PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.

As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late, In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate, Being much too pious, as every one knows, To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze, He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man, And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can. He found himself, to his great amaze, In Charles the First's high Tory days, And just at the time that gravest of Courts Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1]

Sunday Sports! what a thing for the ear Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!— It chanced to be too a Sabbath day When the people from church were coming away; And Andrew with horror heard this song. As the smiling sinners flockt along;— "Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah! "For a week of work and a Sunday of play "Make the poor man's life run merry away."

"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess," And he grinned with conscious holiness. But the song went on, and, to brim the cup Of poor Andy's grief, the fiddles struck up!

"Come, take out the lasses—let's have a dance— "For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill, "Well knowing that no one's the more in advance "On the road to heaven, for standing still. "Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces "Should sour the cream of a creed of love; "Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces, "Alone should sit among cherubs above. "Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.

"For Sunday fun we never can fail, "When the Church herself each sport points out;— "There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale, "And a May-pole high to dance about. "Or should we be for a pole hard driven, "Some lengthy saint of aspect fell, "With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven, "Will do for a May-pole just as well. "Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah! "A week of work and a Sabbath of play "Make the poor man's life run merry away."

To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history, This Sunday scene was a downright mystery; And God knows where might have ended the joke, But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke, And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes) That since that dream—which, one would suppose, Should have made his godly stomach rise. Even more than ever 'gainst Sunday pies— He has viewed things quite with different eyes; Is beginning to take, on matters divine, Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line— Is all for Christians jigging in pairs, As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers:— Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley To bring in a Bill enacting duly That all good Protestants from this date May freely and lawfully recreate, Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody, With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.

[1] The Book of Sports drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that "for his good people's recreation, his Majesty's pleasure was, that after the end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women, archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May poles, or other sports therewith used." etc.



A BLUE LOVE SONG.

TO MISS——-.

Air-"Come live with me and be my love."

Come wed with me and we will write, My Blue of Blues, from morn till night. Chased from our classic souls shall be All thoughts of vulgar progeny; And thou shalt walk through smiling rows Of chubby duodecimos, While I, to match thy products nearly, Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly. 'Tis true, even books entail some trouble; But live productions give one double.

Correcting children is such bother,— While printers' devils correct the other. Just think, my own Malthusian dear, How much more decent 'tis to hear From male or female—as it may be— "How is your book?" than "How's your baby?" And whereas physic and wet nurses Do much exhaust paternal purses, Our books if rickety may go And be well dry-nurst in the Row; And when God wills to take them hence, Are buried at the Row's expense.

Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee, In thy own Works, vol. 93.) The march, just now, of population So much outscrips all moderation, That even prolific herring-shoals Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1] Oh far more proper and well-bred To stick to writing books instead; And show the world how two Blue lovers Can coalesce, like two book-covers, (Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,) Lettered at back and stitched together Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em, With naught but—literature betwixt 'em.

[1] See "Ella of Garveloch."—Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the people increased much faster than the produce."



SUNDAY ETHICS.

A SCOTCH ODE.

Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true, We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell, A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.

So at least ye may reckon for one day entire In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh, As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire, An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way, He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;" Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play, An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day. As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries, "Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew! "Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath baked pies, "For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise "In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew!

Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie's the lad To ca' o'er the coals your nobeelity too; That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies,[1] a' clad Like Shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad— But he's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.

If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right To gang to the deevil—as maist o' 'em do— To stop them our Andie would think na polite; And 'tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by't) But he'd follow 'em, booing, would Andrew Agnew.

[1] Servants in livery.



AWFUL EVENT.

Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it), Winehelsea's Earl hath cut the British Senate— Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff, "That for ye all"[snapping his fingers] and exit in a huff!

Disastrous news!—like that of old which spread, From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead," O'er the cross benches (cross from being crost) Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!"

Which of ye, Lords, that heard him can forget The deep impression of that awful threat, "I quit your house!!"—midst all that histories tell, I know but one event that's parallel:—

It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night, When the gay gods too blest to be polite Gods at their ease, like those of learned Lucretius, Laught, whistled, groaned, uproariously facetious— A well-drest member of the middle gallery, Whose "ears polite" disdained such low canaillerie, Rose in his place—so grand, you'd almost swear Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there— And like that Lord of dignity and nous, Said, "Silence, fellows, or—I'll leave the house!!"

How brookt the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day, That speech so fine should be so thrown away! In vain did this mid-gallery grandee Assert his own two-shilling dignity— In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray Of his own full-price countenance away— Fun against Dignity is fearful odds, And as the Lords laugh now, so giggled then the gods!



THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE, "COME, CLOE, and GIVE ME SWEET KISSES."

"We want more Churches and more Clergymen." Bishop of London's late Charge.

"rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus augent." Claudian in Eutrop.

Come, give us more Livings and Rectors, For, richer no realm ever gave; But why, ye unchristian objectors, Do ye ask us how many we crave?[1]

Oh there can't be too many rich Livings For souls of the Pluralist kind, Who, despising old Crocker's misgivings, To numbers can ne'er be confined.[2]

Count the cormorants hovering about,[3] At the time their fish season sets in, When these models of keen diners-out Are preparing their beaks to begin.

Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, Flock round when the harvest's in play, And not minding the farmer's distresses, Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven,[4] On the way to some titheable shore; And when so many Parsons you've given, We still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye Must leave us in peace to augment. For the wretch who could number the Clergy, With few will be ever content.

[1] Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses, For sweeter sure never girl gave; But why, in the midst of my blisses, Do you ask me how many I'd have?

[2] For whilst I love thee above measure, To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.

[3] Count the bees that on Hybla are playing, Count the flowers that enamel its fields, Count the flocks, etc.

[4] Go number the stars in the heaven, Count how many sands on the shore, When so many kisses you've given, I still shall be craving for more.



A SAD CASE.

"If it be the undergraduate season at which this rabies religiosa is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulburn against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the full venom of an association with Dissenters?" —The Times, March 25.

How sad a case!—just think of it— If Goulburn junior should be bit By some insane Dissenter, roaming Thro' Granta's halls, at large and foaming, And with that aspect ultra crabbed Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid! God only knows what mischiefs might Result from this one single bite, Or how the venom, once suckt in, Might spread and rage thro' kith and kin. Mad folks of all denominations First turn upon their own relations: So that one Goulburn, fairly bit, Might end in maddening the whole kit, Till ah! ye gods! we'd have to rue Our Goulburn senior bitten too; The Hychurchphobia in those veins, Where Tory blood now redly reigns;— And that dear man who now perceives Salvation only in lawn sleeves, Might, tainted by such coarse infection, Run mad in the opposite direction. And think, poor man, 'tis only given To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!

Just fancy what a shock 'twould be Our Goulburn in his fits to see, Tearing into a thousand particles His once-loved Nine and Thirty Articles; (Those Articles his friend, the Duke,[1] For Gospel, t'other night, mistook;) Cursing cathedrals, deans and singers— Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers— Pelting the church with blasphemies, Even worse than Parson Beverley's;— And ripe for severing Church and State, Like any creedless reprobate, Or like that class of Methodists Prince Waterloo styles "Atheists!"

But 'tis too much—the Muse turns pale, And o'er the picture drops a veil, Praying, God save the Goulburns all From mad Dissenters great and small!

[1] The Duke of Wellington, who styled them "the Articles of Christianity."



A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN.

—risum tenaetis, amici

"The longer one lives, the more one learns," Said I, as off to sleep I went, Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns, And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,[1] On the Irish Church Establishment. But lo! in sleep not long I lay, When Fancy her usual tricks began, And I found myself bewitched away To a goodly city in Hindostan— A city where he who dares to dine On aught but rice is deemed a sinner; Where sheep and kine are held divine, And accordingly—never drest for dinner.

"But how is this?" I wondering cried— As I walkt that city fair and wide, And saw, in every marble street, A row of beautiful butchers' shops— "What means, for men who don't eat meat, "This grand display of loins and chops?" In vain I askt—'twas plain to see That nobody dared to answer me.

So on from street to street I strode: And you can't conceive how vastly odd The butchers lookt—a roseate crew, Inshrined in stalls with naught to do; While some on a bench, half dozing, sat, And the Sacred Cows were not more fat. Still posed to think what all this scene Of sinecure trade was meant to mean, "And, pray," askt I—"by whom is paid The expense of this strange masquerade?"— "The expense!—oh! that's of course defrayed (Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers) "By yonder rascally rice-consumers." "What! they who mustn't eat meat!"— No matter— (And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter,) "The rogues may munch their Paddy crop, "But the rogues must still support our shop, "And depend upon it, the way to treat "Heretical stomachs that thus dissent, "Is to burden all that won't eat meat, "With a costly MEAT ESTABLISHMENT."

On hearing these words so gravely said, With a volley of laughter loud I shook, And my slumber fled and my dream was sped, And I found I was lying snug in bed, With my nose in the Bishop of FERNS'S book.

[1] An indefatigable scribbler of anti-Catholic pamphlets.



THE BRUNSWICK CLUB.

A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage, requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a copy.

Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828.

Private,—Lord Belzebub presents To the Brunswick Club his compliments. And much regrets to say that he Can not at present their Patron be. In stating this, Lord Belzebub Assures on his honor the Brunswick Club, That 'tisn't from any lukewarm lack Of zeal or fire he thus holds back— As even Lord Coal himself is not[1] For the Orange party more red-hot: But the truth is, still their Club affords A somewhat decenter show of Lords, And on its list of members gets A few less rubbishy Baronets, Lord Belzebub must beg to be Excused from keeping such company.

Who the devil, he humbly begs to know, Are Lord Glandine, and Lord Dunlo? Or who, with a grain of sense, would go To sit and be bored by Lord Mayo? What living creature—except his nurse— For Lord Mountcashel cares a curse, Or think 'twould matter if Lord Muskerry Were 'tother side of the Stygian ferry? Breathes there a man in Dublin town, Who'd give but half of half-a-crown To save from drowning my Lord Rathdowne, Or who wouldn't also gladly hustle in Lords Roden, Bandon, Cole and Jocelyn? In short, tho' from his tenderest years, Accustomed to all sorts of Peers, Lord Belzebub much questions whether He ever yet saw mixt together As 'twere in one capacious tub. Such a mess of noble silly-bub As the twenty Peers of the Brunswick Club. 'Tis therefore impossible that Lord B. Could stoop to such society, Thinking, he owns (tho' no great prig), For one in his station 'twere infra dig. But he begs to propose, in the interim (Till they find some properer Peers for him), His Highness of Cumberland, as Sub To take his place at the Brunswick Club— Begging, meanwhile, himself to dub Their obedient servant, BELZEBUB.

It luckily happens, the Royal Duke Resembles so much, in air and look, The head of the Belzebub family, That few can any difference see; Which makes him of course the better suit To serve as Lord B.'s substitute.

[1] Usually written Cole.



PROPOSALS FOR A GYNAECOCRACY.

ADDRESSED TO A LATE RADICAL MEETING.

—"quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras." VERGIL.

As Whig Reform has had its range, And none of us are yet content, Suppose, my friends, by way of change, We try a Female Parliament; And since of late with he M.P.'s We've fared so badly, take to she's— Petticoat patriots, flounced John Russells, Burdetts in blonde and Broughams in bustles.

The plan is startling, I confess— But 'tis but an affair of dress; Nor see I much there is to choose 'Twixt Ladies (so they're thorough-bred ones) In ribands of all sorts of hues, Or Lords in only blue or red ones.

At least the fiddlers will be winners, Whatever other trade advances As then, instead of Cabinet dinners We'll have, at Almack's, Cabinet dances; Nor let this world's important questions Depend on Ministers' digestions.

If Ude's receipts have done things ill, To Weippert's band they may go better; There's Lady **, in one quadrille, Would settle Europe, if you'd let her: And who the deuce or asks or cares When Whigs or Tories have undone 'em, Whether they've danced thro' State affairs, Or simply, dully, dined upon 'em?

Hurrah then for the Petticoats! To them we pledge our free-born votes; We'll have all she, and only she— Pert blues shall act as "best debaters," Old dowagers our Bishops be, And termagants our agitators. If Vestris to oblige the nation Her own Olympus will abandon And help to prop the Administration, It can't have better legs to stand on. The famed Macaulay (Miss) shall show Each evening, forth in learned oration; Shall move (midst general cries of "Oh!") For full returns of population: And finally to crown the whole, The Princess Olive, Royal soul,[1] Shall from her bower in Banco Regis, Descend to bless her faithful lieges, And mid our Union's loyal chorus Reign jollily for ever o'er us.

[1] A personage so styled herself who attained considerable notoriety at that period.



TO THE EDITOR OF THE * * *.

Sir,

Having heard some rumors respecting the strange and awful visitation under which Lord Henley has for some time past been suffering, in consequence of his declared hostility to "anthems, solos, duets,"[1] etc., I took the liberty of making inquiries at his Lordship's house this morning and lose no time in transmitting to you such particulars as I could collect. It is said that the screams of his Lordship, under the operation of this nightly concert, (which is no doubt some trick of the Radicals), may be heard all over the neighborhood. The female who personates St. Cecilia is supposed to be the same that last year appeared in the character of Isis at the Rotunda. How the cherubs are managed, I have not yet ascertained.

Yours, etc.

P. P.

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



LORD HENLEY AND ST. CECILIA

—in Metii decenaat Judicis aures. HORAT.

As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay, Revolving much his own renown, And hoping to add thereto a ray By putting duets and anthems down,

Sudden a strain of choral sounds Mellifluous o'er his senses stole; Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!" For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.

Then starting up he saw a sight That well might shock so learned a snorer— Saint Cecilia robed in light With a portable organ slung before her.

And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings, Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting, So begged they'd sit—but ah! poor things, They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.

"Having heard," said the Saint, "you're fond of hymns, "And indeed that musical snore betrayed you, "Myself and my choir of cherubims "Are come for a while to serenade you."

In vain did the horrified Henley say "'Twas all a mistake—she was misdirected;" And point to a concert over the way Where fiddlers and angels were expected.

In vain—the Saint could see in his looks (She civilly said) much tuneful lore; So at once all opened their music-books, And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.

All night duets, terzets, quartets, Nay, long quintets most dire to hear; Ay, and old motets and canzonets And glees in sets kept boring his ear.

He tried to sleep—but it wouldn't do; So loud they squalled, he must attend to 'em. Tho' Cherubs' songs to his cost he knew Were like themselves and had no end to 'em.

Oh judgment dire on judges bold, Who meddle with music's sacred strains! Judge Midas tried the same of old And was punisht like Henley for his pains.

But worse on the modern judge, alas! Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne; For Midas was given the ears of an ass, While Henley is doomed to keep his own!



ADVERTISEMENT.[1]

1830.

Missing or lost, last Sunday night, A Waterloo coin whereon was traced The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright, Tho' a little by rust of years defaced.

The metal thereof is rough and hard, And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with brass; But it bears the stamp of Fame's award, And thro' all Posterity's hands will pass.

How it was lost God only knows, But certain City thieves, they say, Broke in on the owner's evening doze, And filched this "gift of gods" away!

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

Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows, Is begged to state all facts about it, As the owner can't well face his foes, Nor even his friends just now without it.

And if Sir Clod will bring it back, Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able, He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2] That's left in old King George's stable.

[1] Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished duke, then Prime Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Claudius Hunter, and other City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of dining with the Lord Mayor.

[2] Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Claudius distinguished himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favorite steed vas not the least conspicuous.



MISSING.

Carlton Terrace, 1832.

Whereas, Lord —— de —— Left his home last Saturday, And, tho' inquired for round and round Thro' certain purlieus, can't be found; And whereas, none can solve our queries As to where this virtuous Peer is, Notice is hereby given that all May forthwith to inquiring fall, As, once the thing's well set about, No doubt but we shall hunt him out.

His Lordship's mind, of late, they say, Hath been in an uneasy way, Himself and colleagues not being let To climb into the Cabinet, To settle England's state affairs, Hath much, it seems, unsettled theirs; And chief to this stray Plenipo Hath been a most distressing blow. Already,-certain to receive a Well-paid mission to the Neva, And be the bearer of kind words To tyrant Nick from Tory Lords,- To fit himself for free discussion, His Lordship had been learning Russian; And all so natural to him were The accents of the Northern bear, That while his tones were in your ear, you Might swear you were in sweet Siberia. And still, poor Peer, to old and young, He goes on raving in that tongue; Tells you how much you would enjoy a Trip to Dalnodubrovrkoya;[1] Talks of such places by the score on As Oulisflirmchinagoboron,[2] And swears (for he at nothing sticks) That Russia swarms with Raskolniks, Tho' one such Nick, God knows, must be A more than ample quantity.

Such are the marks by which to know This strayed or stolen Plenipo; And whosoever brings or sends The unhappy statesman to his friends On Carlton Terrace, shall have thanks, And—any paper but the Bank's.

P.S.—Some think the disappearance Of this our diplomatic Peer hence Is for the purpose of reviewing, In person, what dear Mig is doing, So as to 'scape all tell-tale letters 'Bout Beresford, and such abetters,— The only "wretches" for whose aid[3] Letters seem not to have been made.

[1] In the Government of Perm.

[2] Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense.

[3] "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." POPE.



THE DANCE OF BISHOPS;

OR, THE EPISCOPAL QUADRILLE.[1]

A DREAM.

1833.

"Solemn dances were, on great festivals and celebrations, admitted among the primitive Christians, in which even the Bishops and dignified Clergy were performers. Scaliger says, that the first Bishops were called praesules[2] for other reason than that they led off these dances."—"Cyclopaedia," art. Dances.

I've had such a dream—a frightful dream— Tho' funny mayhap to wags 'twill seem, By all who regard the Church, like us, 'Twill be thought exceedingly ominous!

As reading in bed I lay last night— Which (being insured) is my delight— I happened to doze off just as I got to The singular fact which forms my motto. Only think, thought I, as I dozed away, Of a party of Churchmen dancing the hay! Clerks, curates and rectors capering all With a neat-legged Bishop to open the ball! Scarce had my eyelids time to close, When the scene I had fancied before me rose— An Episcopal Hop on a scale so grand As my dazzled eyes could hardly stand. For Britain and Erin clubbed their Sees To make it a Dance of Dignities, And I saw—oh brightest of Church events! A quadrille of the two Establishments, Bishop to Bishop vis-a-vis, Footing away prodigiously.

There was Bristol capering up to Derry, And Cork with London making merry; While huge Llandaff, with a See, so so, Was to dear old Dublin pointing his toe. There was Chester, hatched by woman's smile, Performing a chaine des Dames in style; While he who, whene'er the Lords' House dozes, Can waken them up by citing Moses,[3] The portly Tuam, was all in a hurry To set, en avant, to Canterbury.

Meantime, while pamphlets stuft his pockets, (All out of date like spent skyrockets,) Our Exeter stood forth to caper, As high on the floor as he doth on paper— like a dapper Dancing Dervise, Who pirouettes his whole church-service— Performing, midst those reverend souls, Such entrechats, such cabrioles, Such balonnes, such—rigmaroles, Now high, now low, now this, that, That none could guess what the devil he'd be at; Tho', watching his various steps, some thought That a step in the Church was all he sought.

But alas, alas! while thus so gay. These reverend dancers friskt away, Nor Paul himself (not the saint, but he Of the Opera-house) could brisker be, There gathered a gloom around their glee— A shadow which came and went so fast, That ere one could say "'Tis there," 'twas past— And, lo! when the scene again was cleared, Ten of the dancers had disappeared! Ten able-bodied quadrillers swept From the hallowed floor where late they stept, While twelve was all that footed it still, On the Irish side of that grand Quadrille!

Nor this the worst:—still danced they on, But the pomp was saddened, the smile was gone; And again from time to time the same Ill-omened darkness round them came— While still as the light broke out anew, Their ranks lookt less by a dozen or two; Till ah! at last there were only found Just Bishops enough for a four-hands-round; And when I awoke, impatient getting, I left the last holy pair poussetting!

N.B.—As ladies in years, it seems, Have the happiest knack at solving dreams, I shall leave to my ancient feminine friends Of the Standard to say what this portends.

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

[2] Literally, First Dancers.

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



DICK * * * *

A CHARACTER.

Of various scraps and fragments built, Borrowed alike from fools and wits, Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt, Made up of new, old, motley bits— Where, if the Co. called in their shares, If petticoats their quota got And gowns were all refunded theirs, The quilt would look but shy, God wot.

And thus he still, new plagiaries seeking, Reversed ventriloquism's trick, For, 'stead of Dick thro' others speaking, 'Twas others we heard speak thro' Dick. A Tory now, all bounds exceeding, Now best of Whigs, now worst of rats; One day with Malthus, foe to breeding, The next with Sadler, all for brats.

Poor Dick!—and how else could it be? With notions all at random caught, A sort of mental fricassee, Made up of legs and wings of thought— The leavings of the last Debate, or A dinner, yesterday, of wits, Where Dick sate by and, like a waiter, Had the scraps for perquisites.



A CORRECTED REPORT OF SOME LATE SPEECHES.

1834.

"Then I heard one saint speaking, and another saint said unto that saint,"

St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth, That he wouldn't give sixpence to Maynooth. He had hated priests the whole of his life, For a priest was a man who had no wife,[1] And, having no wife, the Church was his mother, The Church was his father, sister and brother. This being the case, he was sorry to say That a gulf 'twixt Papist and Protestant lay,[2] So deep and wide, scarce possible was it To say even "how d' ye do?" across it: And tho' your Liberals, nimble as fleas, Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease, 'Twas a jump that naught on earth could make Your proper, heavy-built Christian take. No, no,—if a Dance of Sects must be, He would set to the Baptist willingly,[3] At the Independent deign to smirk, And rigadoon with old Mother Kirk; Nay even, for once, if needs must be, He'd take hands round with all the three; But as to a jig with Popery, no,— To the Harlot ne'er would he point his toe.

St. Mandeville was the next that rose,— A saint who round as pedler goes With his pack of piety and prose, Heavy and hot enough, God knows,— And he said that Papists were much inclined To extirpate all of Protestant kind, Which he couldn't in truth so much condemn, Having rather a wish to extirpate them; That is,—to guard against mistake,— To extirpate them for their doctrine's sake; A distinction Churchman always make,— Insomuch that when they've prime control, Tho' sometimes roasting heretics whole, They but cook the body for sake of the soul.

Next jumpt St. Johnston jollily forth, The spiritual Dogberry of the North,[4] A right "wise fellow, and what's more, An officer," like his type of yore; And he asked if we grant such toleration, Pray, what's the use of our Reformation? What is the use of our Church and State? Our Bishops, Articles, Tithe and Rate? And still as he yelled out "what's the use?" Old Echoes, from their cells recluse Where they'd for centuries slept, broke loose, Yelling responsive, "What's the use?"

[1] "He objected to the maintenance and education of clergy bound by the particular vows of celibacy, which as it were gave them the Church as their only family, making it fill the places of father and mother and brother."—Debate on the Grant to Maynooth College, The Times, April 19.

[2] "It had always appeared to him that between the Catholic and Protestant a great gulf intervened, with rendered it impossible," etc.

[3] The Baptist might acceptably extend the offices of religion to the Presbyterian and the Independent, or the member of the Church of England to any of the other three; but the Catholic," etc.

[4] "Could he then, holding as he did a spiritual office in the Church of Scotland, (cries of hear, and laughter,) with any consistency give his consent to a grant of money?" etc.



MORAL POSITIONS.

A DREAM.

"His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage had been so long," etc.—Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial Slavery, March 8.

T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration (A treat that comes once a year as May-day does), I dreamt that I saw—what a strange operation! A "moral position" shipt off for Barbadoes.

The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes, Packing the article tidy and neat;— As their Reverences know that in southerly latitudes "Moral positions" don't keep very sweet.

There was Bathurst arranging the custom-house pass; And to guard the frail package from tousing and routing, There stood my Lord Eldon, endorsing it "Glass," Tho' as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting. The freight was however stowed safe in the hold; The winds were polite and the moon lookt romantic, While off in the good ship "The Truth" we were rolled, With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic. Long, dolefully long, seemed the voyage we made; For "The Truth," at all times but a very slow sailer, By friends, near as much as by foes, is delayed, And few come aboard her tho' so many hail her.

At length, safe arrived, I went thro' "tare and tret," Delivered my goods in the primest condition. And next morning read in the Bridge-town Gazette, "Just arrived by 'The Truth,' a new moral position.

"The Captain"—here, startled to find myself named As "the Captain"—(a thing which, I own it with pain, I thro' life have avoided,) I woke—lookt ashamed, Found I wasn't a captain and dozed off again.



THE MAD TORY AND THE COMET.

FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT.

1832-3.

'mutantem regna cometem." LUCAN.[1]

"Tho' all the pet mischiefs we count upon fail, "Tho' Cholera, hurricanes, Wellington leave us, "We've still in reserve, mighty Comet, thy tail;— "Last hope" of the Tories, wilt thou too deceive us?

"No—'tis coming, 'tis coming, the avenger is nigh; "Heed, heed not, ye placemen, how Herapath flatters; "One whisk from that tail as it passes us by "Will settle at once all political matters;—

"The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers, "(Now turned into two) with their rigmarole Protocols;— "Ha! ha! ye gods, how this new friend of ours "Will knock, right and left, all diplomacy's what-d'ye-calls!

"Yes, rather than Whigs at our downfall should mock, "Meet planets and suns in one general hustle! "While happy in vengeance we welcome the shock "That shall jerk from their places, Grey, Althorp and Russell."

Thus spoke a mad Lord, as, with telescope raised, His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set: And tho' nothing destructive appeared as he gazed, Much hoped that there would before Parliament met.

And still, as odd shapes seemed to flit thro' his glass, "Ha! there it is now," the poor maniac cries; While his fancy with forms but too monstrous, alas! From his own Tory zodiac peoples the skies:—

"Now I spy a big body, good heavens, how big! "Whether Bucky[2] or Taurus I cannot well say:— "And yonder there's Eldon's old Chancery wig, "In its dusty aphelion fast fading away.

"I see, 'mong those fatuous meteors behind, "Londonderry, in vacuo, flaring about;— "While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind, "Is the Gemini, Roden and Lorton, no doubt.

"Ah, Ellenborough! 'faith, I first thought 'twas the Comet; "So like that in Milton, it made me quite pale; "The head with the same 'horrid hair' coming from it, "And plenty of vapor, but—where is the tail?"

Just then, up aloft jumpt the gazer elated— For lo! his bright glass a phenomenon showed, Which he took to be Cumberland, upwards translated, Instead of his natural course, t'other road!

But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken,— Down dropt the poor Tory in fits and grimaces, Then off to the Bedlam in Charles Street was taken, And is now one of Halford's most favorite cases.

[1] Eclipses and comets have been always looked to as great changers of administrations.

[2] The Duke of Buckingham.

* * * * *



FROM THE HON. HENRY ——, TO LADY EMMA ——.

Paris, March 30,1833.

You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell; And the truth is,—as truth you will have, my sweet railer,— There are two worthy persons I always feel loath To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and tailor,— As somehow one always has scenes with them both; The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears, She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,— Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears, A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say. That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away, 'Pon honor you're wrong;—such a mere bagatelle As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fears; And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell, To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;[1] This deluge of coronets frightful to think of; Which England is now for her sins on the brink of; This coinage of nobles,—coined all of 'em, badly, And sure to bring Counts to a dis-count most sadly.

Only think! to have Lords over running the nation, As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation; No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection, And tadpole young Lords too in every direction,— Things created in haste just to make a Court list of, Two legs and a coronet all they consist of! The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose (My particular friend) says is perfectly true, That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do; And Sir George even doubts,—could he choose his disorder,— 'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order. This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma, 'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma; And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain, To've left idol mio without an addio, Console your sweet heart, and a week hence from Milan I'll send you—some news of Bellini's last trio.

N.B. Have just packt up my travelling set-out, Things a tourist in Italy can't go without— Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's shop, Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap. Small presents for ladies,—and nothing so wheedles The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. A neat pocket Horace by which folks are cozened To think one knows Latin, when—one, perhaps, doesn't; With some little book about heathen mythology, Just large enough to refresh one's theology; Nothing on earth being half such a bore as Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras. Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls, And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.

HENRY.

[1] A new creation of Peers was generally expected at this time.



TRIUMPH OF BIGOTRY.

College.—We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things, harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car." Dublin Evening Post, Dec. 20, 1832.

Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car, Ye chosen of Alma Mater's scions;- Fleet chargers drew the God of War, Great Cybele was drawn by lions, And Sylvan Pan, as Poet's dream, Drove four young panthers in his team. Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is, Thus, studious of a like turn-out, He harnesses young sucking dunces, To draw him as their Chief about, And let the world a picture see Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry: Showing us how young College hacks Can pace with bigots at their backs, As tho' the cubs were born to draw Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw, Oh! shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift, Bright spirits whom, in days of yore, This Queen of Dulness sent adrift, As aliens to her foggy shore;—- Shade of our glorious Grattan, too, Whose very name her shame recalls; Whose effigy her bigot crew Reversed upon their monkish walls,[1]— Bear witness (lest the world should doubt) To your mute Mother's dull renown, Then famous but for Wit turned out, And Eloquence turned upside down; But now ordained new wreaths to win, Beyond all fame of former days, By breaking thus young donkies in To draw M.P.s amid the brays Alike of donkies and M.A.s;— Defying Oxford to surpass 'em In this new "Gradus ad Parnassum."

[1] In the year 1799, the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, thought proper, as a mode of expressing their disapprobation of Mr. Grattan's public conduct, to order his portrait, in the Great Hall of the University, to be turned upside down, and in this position it remained for some time.



TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE.

Scripta manet.

1833.

'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,[1] In letters four and letters three; And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by But those awful letters scared his eye; For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said, "As long as those words by man were read, "The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er "One hour of peace or plenty share." But years on years successive flew, And the letters still more legible grew,— At top, a T, an H, an E, And underneath, D. E. B. T.

Some thought them Hebrew,—such as Jews More skilled in Scrip than Scripture use; While some surmised 'twas an ancient way Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias, Who had thereto a wonderful bias,) And proved in books most learnedly boring, 'Twas called the Pontick way of scoring.

Howe'er this be there never were yet Seven letters of the alphabet, That 'twixt them formed so grim a spell, Or scared a Land of Gulls so well, As did this awful riddle-me-ree Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

* * * * *

Hark!—it is struggling Freedom's cry; "Help, help, ye nations, or I die; "'Tis Freedom's fight and on the field "Where I expire your doom is sealed." The Gull-King hears the awakening call, He hath summoned his Peers and Patriots all, And he asks. "Ye noble Gulls, shall we "Stand basely by at the fall of the Free, "Nor utter a curse nor deal a blow?" And they answer with voice of thunder, "No."

Out fly their flashing swords in the air!— But,—why do they rest suspended there? What sudden blight, what baleful charm, Hath chilled each eye and checkt each arm? Alas! some withering hand hath thrown The veil from off that fatal stone, And pointing now with sapless finger, Showeth where dark those letters linger,— Letters four and letters three, T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

At sight thereof, each lifted brand Powerless falls from every hand; In vain the Patriot knits his brow,— Even talk, his staple, fails him now. In vain the King like a hero treads, His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads; And to all his talk of "brave and free," No answer getteth His Majesty But "T. H. E. D. E. B. T."

In short, the whole Gull nation feels They're fairly spell-bound, neck and heels; And so, in the face of the laughing world, Must e'en sit down with banners furled, Adjourning all their dreams sublime Of glory and war to-some other time.

[1] Liafail, or the Stone of Destiny,—for which see Westminster Abbey.



NOTIONS ON REFORM.

BY A MODERN REFORMER.

Of all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches, The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas! It has caused between Wetherel's waistcoat and breeches.

Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity Had oft broken out in that quarter before; But the breach, since the Bill, has attained such immensity, Daniel himself could have scarce wisht it more.

Oh! haste to repair it, ye friends of good order, Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past; Who can doubt that we tread upon Anarchy's border, When the ties that should hold men are loosening so fast?

Make Wetherel yield to "some sort of Reform" (As we all must, God help us! with very wry faces;) And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm About Corporate Rights, so he'll only wear braces.

Should those he now sports have been long in possession, And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear, Advise him at least as a prudent concession To Intellect's progress, to buy a new pair.

Oh! who that e'er saw him when vocal he stands, With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and Lockit's, While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets—

Who that ever has listened thro' groan and thro' cough, To the speeches inspired by this music of pence,— But must grieve that there's any thing like falling off In that great nether source of his wit and his sense?

Who that knows how he lookt when, with grace debonair, He began first to court—rather late in the season— Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Reason;[1]

That Goddess whose borough-like virtue attracted All mongers in both wares to proffer their love; Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted, As Wetherel's rants ever since go to prove;

Who in short would not grieve if a man of his graces Should go on rejecting, unwarned by the past, The "moderate Reform" of a pair of new braces, Till, some day,—he'll all fall to pieces at last.

[1] It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself boasted, one night, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair which this allegorical lady had occupied.



TORY PLEDGES.

I pledge myself thro' thick and thin, To labor still with zeal devout To get the Outs, poor devils, in, And turn the Ins, the wretches, out.

I pledge myself, tho' much bereft Of ways and means of ruling ill, To make the most of what are left, And stick to all that's rotten still.

Tho' gone the days of place and pelf, And drones no more take all the honey, I pledge myself to cram myself With all I can of public money.

To quarter on that social purse My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers, Nor, so we prosper, care a curse How much 'tis at the expense of others.

I pledge myself, whenever Right And Might on any point divide, Not to ask which is black or white. But take at once the strongest side.

For instance, in all Tithe discussions, I'm for the Reverend encroachers:- I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,— Am for the Squires, against the Poachers.

Betwixt the Corn-lords and the Poor I've not the slightest hesitation,— The People must be starved, to insure The Land its due remuneration.

I pledge myself to be no more With Ireland's wrongs beprosed or shammed,— I vote her grievances a bore, So she may suffer and be damned.

Or if she kick, let it console us, We still have plenty of red coats, To cram the Church, that general bolus, Down any given amount of throats.

I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,— Think newspapers the worst of crimes; And would, to give some chance of quiet, Hang all the writers of "The Times;"

Break all their correspondents' bones, All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder," From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones, To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.

Such are the Pledges I propose; And tho' I can't now offer gold, There's many a way of buying those Who've but the taste for being sold.

So here's, with three times three hurrahs, A toast of which you'll not complain,— "Long life to jobbing; may the days "Of Peculation shine again!"



ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

FIRST VISIT.

1832.

As St. Jerome who died some ages ago, Was sitting one day in the shades below, "I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he, "And shall now take a trip to earth to see "How far they agree in their lives and ways "With our good old bishops of ancient days."

He had learned—but learned without misgivings— Their love for good living and eke good livings; Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees) That good living means claret and fricassees, While its plural means simply—pluralities.

"From all I hear," said the innocent man, "They are quite on the good old primitive plan. "For wealth and pomp they little can care, "As they all say 'No' to the Episcopal chair; "And their vestal virtue it well denotes "That they all, good men, wear petticoats."

Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries, And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury's. The door was oped by a lackey in lace, Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?" "His Grace!" quoth Jerome—for posed was he, Not knowing what sort this Grace could be; Whether Grace preventing, Grace particular, Grace of that breed called Quinquarticular—[1]

In short he rummaged his holy mind The exact description of Grace to find, Which thus could represented be By a footman in full livery. At last, out loud in a laugh he broke, (For dearly the good saint loved his joke)[2] And said—surveying, as sly he spoke, The costly palace from roof to base— "Well, it isn't, at least, a saving Grace!" "Umph!" said the lackey, a man of few words, "The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords."

"To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son, "For in my time at least there was but one; Unless such many-fold priests as these "Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!"[3] "No time for gab," quoth the man in lace: Then slamming the door in St. Jerome's face With a curse to the single knockers all Went to finish his port in the servants' hall, And propose a toast (humanely meant To include even Curates in its extent) "To all as serves the Establishment."

[1] So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Dort.

[2] Witness his well known pun on the name of his adversary Vigilantius, whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius.

[3] The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation, from this passage.



ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

SECOND VISIT.

"This much I dare say, that, since lording and loitering hath come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times. For they preached and lorded not; and now they lord and preach not.... Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve." —Latimer, "Sermon of the Plough."

"Once more," said Jerome, "I'll run up and see How the Church goes on,"—and off set he. Just then the packet-boat which trades Betwixt our planet and the shades Had arrived below with a freight so queer, "My eyes!" said Jerome, "what have we here?"— For he saw, when nearer he explored, They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard.

"They are ghosts of wigs," said Charon, "all, "Once worn by nobs Episcopal.[1] "For folks on earth, who've got a store "Of cast off things they'll want no more, "Oft send them down, as gifts, you know, "To a certain Gentleman here below. "A sign of the times, I plainly see," Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly.

Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more "I'll affect a body as before; "For I think I'd best, in the company "Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be, "And glide unseen from See to See." But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,— It was more than Rabelais's pen could draw. For instance, he found Exeter, Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,— For love of God? for sake of King? For good of people?—no such thing; But to get for himself, by some new trick, A shove to a better bishoprick.

He found that pious soul, Van Mildert, Much with his money-bags bewildered; Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese, Because the rogues showed restlessness At having too little cash to touch, While he so Christianly bears too much. He found old Sarum's wits as gone As his own beloved text in John,—[2] Text he hath prosed so long upon, That 'tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven, His name, he'll answer, "John, v. 7."

"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day," Said the weary Saint,—"I must away. "Tho' I own I should like before I go "To see for once (as I'm askt below "If really such odd sights exist) "A regular six-fold Pluralist." Just then he heard a general cry— "There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!" "Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow," And off he sets with a loud view-hello, At Hodgson's heels, to catch if he can A glimpse of this singular plural man. But,—talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird![3] To compare him with Hodgson is absurd. "Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?"— "He is now at his living at Hillingdon."— "No, no,—you're out, by many a mile, "He's away at his Deanery in Carlisle."— "Pardon me, sir; but I understand "He's gone to his living in Cumberland."— "God bless me, no,—he can't be there; "You must try St. George's, Hanover Square."

Thus all in vain the Saint inquired, From living to living, mockt and tired;— 'Twas Hodgson here, 'twas Hodgson there, 'Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere; Till fairly beat the Saint gave o'er And flitted away to the Stygian shore, To astonish the natives underground With the comical things he on earth had found.

[1] The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with.

[2] 1 John v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend scholar.

[3] It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that "a man could not be in two places at once, unless he was a bird."



THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS.

(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FETE.)[1]

1832.

What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised 'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses! And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!"

What a pity we can't, by precautions like these, Clear the air of that other still viler infection; That radical pest, that old whiggish disease, Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.

Stead of barrels, let's light up an Auto da Fe Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;" They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away, And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out! A volcano of nonsense in active display; While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.

And then, for a finish, there's Cumberland's Duke,— Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air! Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look) He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.

[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fete.—From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.



THE CONSULTATION.[1]

"When they do agree, their unanimity is wonderful. The Critic.

1833.

Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the floor between them.

Dr. Whig.—This wild Irish patient does pester me so. That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know. I've promist him anodynes— Dr. Tory. Anodynes!—Stuff. Tie him down—gag him well—he'll be tranquil enough. That's my mode of practice. Dr Whig. True, quite in your line, But unluckily not much, till lately, in mine. 'Tis so painful— Dr. Tory.—Pooh, nonsense—ask Ude how he feels, When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels, By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, And letting them wriggle on there till they tire. He, too, says "'tis painful"—"quite makes his heart bleed"— But "Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."— He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says "No," And—in short—eels were born to be treated just so.[2] 'Tis the same with these Irish,—who're odder fish still,— Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill; I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise, Used at some operations to blush to the eyes:— But, in fact, my dear brother,—if I may make bold To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,— We, Doctors, must act with the firmness of Ude, And, indifferent like him,—so the fish is but stewed,— Must torture live Pats for the general good. [Here patient groans and kicks a little.] Dr. Whig.—But what, if one's patient's so devilish perverse, That he won't be thus tortured? Dr. Tory. Coerce, sir, coerce. You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin, You can't think how fast you may train your hand in: And (smiling) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf, With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf, He's succeeded by one just as—bad as himself? Dr. Whig (looking flattered).— Why, to tell you the truth, I've a small matter here, Which you helped me to make for my patient last year,— [Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait-waistcoat and gag.] And such rest I've enjoyed from his raving since then That I've made up my mind he shall wear it again. Dr. Tory (embracing him).— Oh, charming!—-My dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure, Next to torturing, myself, to help you is a pleasure. [Assisting Dr. Whig.] Give me leave—I've some practice in these mad machines; There—tighter—the gag in the mouth, by all means. Delightful!—all's snug—not a squeak need you fear,— You may now put your anodynes off till next year. [Scene closes.]

[1] These verses, as well as some others that follow, were extorted from me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion Act.

[2] This eminent artist, in the second edition of the work wherein he propounds this mode of purifying his eels, professes himself much concerned at the charge of inhumanity brought against his practice, but still begs leave respectfully to repeat that it is the only proper mode of preparing eels for the table.



TO THE REV. CHARLES OVERTON,

CURATE OF ROMALDKIRK.

AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH.

1833.

Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckoned, By critics Episcopal, David the Second,[1] If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight, Only think, in a Rectory, how you would write! Once fairly inspired by the "Tithe-crowned Apollo," (Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phoebus hollow, Having gotten, besides the old Nine's inspiration, The Tenth of all eatable things in creation.) There's nothing in fact that a poet like you, So be-nined and be-tenthed, couldn't easily do.

Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian[2] they say, While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay, Wild honey-bees swarmed as presage to tell Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards fell. Just so round our Overton's cradle, no doubt, Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about; Goose embryos, waiting their doomed decimation, Came, shadowing forth his adult destination, And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves, Announced the Church poet whom Chester approves. O Horace! when thou, in thy vision of yore, Didst dream that a snowy-white plumage came o'er Thy etherealized limbs, stealing downily on, Till, by Fancy's strong spell, thou wert turned to a swan, Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall, Without any effort of fancy, at all; Little thought'st thou the world would in Overton find A bird, ready-made, somewhat different in kind, But as perfect as Michaelmas' self could produce, By gods yclept anser, by mortals a goose.

[1] "Your Lordship," says Mr. Overton, in the Dedication of his Poem to the Bishop of Chester," has kindly expressed your persuasion that my Muse will always be a 'Muse of sacred song and that it will be tuned as David's was.'"

[2] Sophocles.



SCENE FROM A PLAY, ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED "MATRICULATION."[1]

[Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him.— Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.]

Doctor P.—There, my lad, lie the Articles—(Boy begins to count them) just thirty nine— No occasion to count—you've now only to sign. At Cambridge where folks are less High-church than we, The whole Nine-and-Thirty are lumped into Three. Let's run o'er the items;—there 'a Justification, Predestination, and Supererogation— Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian, Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess's Ratification. That is sufficient—now, sign—having read quite enough, You "believe in the full and true meaning thereof?"

(Boy stares.)

Oh! a mere form of words, to make things smooth and brief,— A commodious and short make-believe of belief, Which our Church has drawn up in a form thus articular To keep out in general all who're particular. But what's the boy doing? what! reading all thro', And my luncheon fast cooling!—this never will do. Boy (poring over the Articles).— Here are points which—pray, Doctor, what's "Grace of Congruity?" Doctor P. (sharply).—You'll find out, young sir, when you've more ingenuity. At present, by signing, you pledge yourself merely. Whate'er it may be, to believe it sincerely, Both in dining and signing we take the same plan,— First, swallow all down, then digest—as we can. Boy (still reading).—I've to gulp, I see, St. Athanasius's Creed, Which. I'm told, is a very tough morsel indeed; As he damns—

Doctor P. (aside).—Ay, and so would I, willingly, too, All confounded particular young boobies, like you. This comes of Reforming!—all's o'er with our land, When people won't stand what they can't under-stand; Nor perceive that our ever-revered Thirty-Nine Were made not for men to believe but to sign. Exit Dr. P. in a passion.

[1] It appears that when a youth of fifteen went to be matriculated at Oxford, he was required first to subscribe the Thirty-Nine Articles of Religious Belief.



LATE TITHE CASE.

"sic vos non vobis."

1833.

"The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, in duty to what he owes to his successors, he feels bound to preserve the rights of the vicarage." —Letter from Mr. S. Powell, August 6.

No, not for yourselves, ye reverend men, Do you take one pig in every ten, But for Holy Church's future heirs, Who've an abstract right to that pig, as theirs; The law supposing that such heirs male Are already seized of the pig, in tail. No, not for himself hath Birmingham's priest His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced: But it is that, before his prescient eyes, All future Vicars of Birmingham rise, With their embryo daughters, nephews, nieces, And 'tis for them the poor he fleeces. He heareth their voices, ages hence Saying, "Take the pig"—"oh take the pence;" The cries of little Vicarial dears, The unborn Birminghamites, reach his ears; And, did he resist that soft appeal, He would not like a true-born Vicar feel. Thou, too, Lundy of Lackington! A rector true, if e'er there was one, Who, for sake of the Lundies of coming ages, Gripest the tenths of laborer's wages.[1] 'Tis true, in the pockets of thy small-clothes The claimed "obvention"[2]of four-pence goes; But its abstract spirit, unconfined, Spreads to all future Rector-kind, Warning them all to their rights to wake, And rather to face the block, the stake, Than give up their darling right to take.

One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes (So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms, And a single four-pence, pocketed well, Thro' a thousand rectors' lives will tell. Then still continue, ye reverend souls, And still as your rich Pactolus rolls, Grasp every penny on every side, From every wretch, to swell its tide: Remembering still what the Law lays down, In that pure poetic style of its own. "If the parson in esse submits to loss, he "Inflicts the same on the parson in posse."

[1] Fourteen agricultural laborers (one of whom received so little as six guineas for yearly wages, one eight, one nine, another ten guineas, and the best paid of the whole not more than 18l. annually) were all, in the course of the autumn of 1832, served with demands of tithe at the rate of 4d. in the 1l. sterling, on behalf of the Rev. F. Lundy, Rector of Lackington, etc.—The Times, August, 1833.

[2] One of the various general terms under which oblations, tithes, etc., are comprised.



FOOLS' PARADISE.

DREAM THE FIRST.

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice, To a realm they call Fool's Paradise, Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense, And seldom blest with a glimmer thence. But they wanted not in this happy place, Where a light of its own gilds every face; Or if some wear a shadowy brow, 'Tis the wish to look wise,—not knowing how. Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there, The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air; The well-bred wind in a whisper blows, The snow, if it snows, is couleur de rose, The falling founts in a titter fall, And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace The scenes I saw in that joyous place. There were Lords and Ladies sitting together, In converse sweet, "What charming weather!— "You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure, "Lord Charles has got a good sinecure; "And the Premier says, my youngest brother "(Him in the Guards) shall have another.

"Isn't this very, very gallant!— "As for my poor old virgin aunt, "Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist, "We must quarter her on the Pension List." Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled; It seemed like an Age of real gold, Where all who liked might have a slice, So rich was that Fools' Paradise.

But the sport at which most time they spent, Was a puppet-show, called Parliament Performed by wooden Ciceros, As large as life, who rose to prose, While, hid behind them, lords and squires, Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires; And thought it the very best device Of that most prosperous Paradise, To make the vulgar pay thro' the nose For them and their wooden Ciceros.

And many more such things I saw In this Eden of Church and State and Law; Nor e'er were known such pleasant folk As those who had the best of the joke. There were Irish Rectors, such as resort To Cheltenham yearly, to drink—port, And bumper, "Long may the Church endure, "May her cure of souls be a sinecure, "And a score of Parsons to every soul "A moderate allowance on the whole." There were Heads of Colleges lying about, From which the sense had all run out, Even to the lowest classic lees, Till nothing was left but quantities; Which made them heads most fit to be Stuck up on a University, Which yearly hatches, in its schools, Such flights of young Elysian fools. Thus all went on, so snug and nice, In this happiest possible Paradise.

But plain it was to see, alas! That a downfall soon must come to pass. For grief is a lot the good and wise Don't quite so much monopolize, But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are) Even blessed fools must have their share. And so it happened:—but what befell, In Dream the Second I mean to tell.



THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE;

OR, ONE POUND TWO.

"I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR COX-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some trifling balance in my favor."—Letter of Dismissal from the Rev. Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons.

The account is balanced—the bill drawn out,— The debit and credit all right, no doubt— The Rector rolling in wealth and state, Owes to his Curate six pound eight; The Curate, that least well-fed of men, Owes to his Rector seven pound ten, Which maketh the balance clearly due From Curate to Rector, one pound two.

Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven! But sure to be all set right in heaven, Where bills like these will be checkt, some day, And the balance settled the other way: Where Lyons the curate's hard-wrung sum Will back to his shade with interest come; And Marcus, the rector, deep may rue This tot, in his favor, of one pound two.



PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.

1833.

About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies, That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud, Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies, As good raw material for settlers, abroad. Some West-India island, whose name I forget, Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic; And such the success the first colony met, That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore, Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, And thinking of friends whom, but two years before, They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came— "Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?" While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy!

Can it possibly be?—half amazement—half doubt, Pat listens again—rubs his eyes and looks steady; Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out, "Good Lord! only think,—black and curly already!"

Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears, Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures, And thought, what a climate, in less than two years, To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!

MORAL.

'Tis thus,—but alas! by a marvel more true Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,— Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two, By a lusus naturae, all turn into Tories.

And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise, Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady, I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes, "Good Lord! only think,—black and curly already!"



COCKER, ON CHURCH REFORM.

FOUNDED UPON SOME LATE CALCULATIONS.

1833.

Fine figures of speech let your orators follow, Old Cocker has figures that beat them all hollow. Tho' famed for his rules Aristotle may be, In but half of this Sage any merit I see, For, as honest Joe Hume says, the "tottle" for me!

For instance, while others discuss and debate, It is thus about Bishops I ratiocinate.

In England, where, spite of the infidel's laughter, 'Tis certain our souls are lookt very well after, Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sundered) Of parishes manage two thousand two hundred.— Said number of parishes, under said teachers, Containing three millions of Protestant creatures,— So that each of said Bishops full ably controls One million and five hundred thousands of souls.

And now comes old Cocker. In Ireland we're told, Half a million includes the whole Protestant fold; If, therefore, for three million souls, 'tis conceded Two proper-sized Bishops are all that is needed, 'Tis plain, for the Irish half million who want 'em, One-third of one Bishop is just the right quantum. And thus, by old Cocker's sublime Rule of Three, The Irish Church question's resolved to a T; Keeping always that excellent maxim in view, That, in saving men's souls, we must save money too.

Nay, if—as St. Roden complains is the case— The half million of soul is decreasing apace, The demand, too, for bishop will also fall off, Till the tithe of one, taken in kind be enough. But, as fractions imply that we'd have to dissect, And to cutting up Bishops I strongly object. We've a small, fractious prelate whom well we could spare, Who has just the same decimal worth, to a hair, And, not to leave Ireland too much in the lurch. We'll let her have Exeter, sole, as her Church.



LES HOMMES AUTOMATES.

1834.

"We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but (being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of your country parsons."—"Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus," chap. xii.

It being an object now to meet With Parsons that don't want to eat, Fit men to fill those Irish rectories, Which soon will have but scant refectories, It has been suggested,—lest that Church Should all at once be left in the lurch For want of reverend men endued With this gift of never requiring food,— To try, by way of experiment, whether There couldn't be made of wood and leather,[1] (Howe'er the notion may sound chimerical,) Jointed figures, not lay,[2] but clerical, Which, wound up carefully once a week, Might just like parsons look and speak, Nay even, if requisite, reason too, As well as most Irish parsons do.

The experiment having succeeded quite, (Whereat those Lords must much delight, Who've shown, by stopping the Church's food, They think it isn't for her spiritual good To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,) The Patentees of this new invention Beg leave respectfully to mention, They now are enabled to produce An ample supply for present use, Of these reverend pieces of machinery, Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery, Or any such-like post of skill That wood and leather are fit to fill.

N.B.—In places addicted to arson, We can't recommend a wooden parson: But if the Church any such appoints, They'd better at least have iron joints. In parts, not much by Protestants haunted, A figure to look at's all that's wanted— A block in black, to eat and sleep, Which (now that the eating's o'er) comes cheap.

P.S.—Should the Lords, by way of a treat, Permit the clergy again to eat, The Church will of course no longer need Imitation-parsons that never feed; And these wood creatures of ours will sell For secular purposes just as well— Our Beresfords, turned to bludgeons stout, May, 'stead of beating their own about, Be knocking the brains of Papists out; While our smooth O'Sullivans, by all means, Should transmigrate into turning machines.

[1] The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man.

[2] The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called "lay figures".



HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER.

ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK,[1]

1834.

Choose some title that's dormant—the Peerage hath many— Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds nobly as any. Next, catch a dead cousin of said defunct Peer, And marry him, off hand, in some given year, To the daughter of somebody,—no matter who,— Fig, the grocer himself, if you're hard run, will do; For, the Medici pills still in heraldry tell, And why shouldn't lollypops quarter as well? Thus, having your couple, and one a lord's cousin, Young materials for peers may be had by the dozen; And 'tis hard if, inventing each small mother's son of 'em, You can't somehow manage to prove yourself one of 'em.

Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory, Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory, I've merely to hint, as a secret auricular, One grand rule of enterprise,—don't be particular. A man who once takes such a jump at nobility, Must not mince the matter, like folks of nihility, But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility.

'Tis true, to a would-be descendant from Kings, Parish-registers sometimes are troublesome things; As oft, when the vision is near brought about, Some goblin, in shape of a grocer, grins out; Or some barber, perhaps, with my Lord mingles bloods, And one's patent of peerage is left in the suds.

But there are ways—when folks are resolved to be lords— Of expurging even troublesome parish records. What think ye of scissors? depend on't no heir Of a Shamdos should go unsupplied with a pair, As whate'er else the learned in such lore may invent, Your scissors does wonders in proving descent. Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears With which Atropos snips off both bumpkins and peers, But they're naught to that weapon which shines in the hands Of some would-be Patricians, when proudly he stands O'er the careless churchwarden's baptismal array, And sweeps at each cut generations away. By some babe of old times is his peerage resisted?

One snip,—and the urchin hath never existed! Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere With his one sublime object of being a Peer? Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride,— No such people have ever lived, married or died!

Such the newest receipt for those high minded elves, Who've a fancy for making great lords of themselves. Follow this, young aspirer who pant'st for a peerage, Take S—m for thy model and B—z for thy steerage, Do all and much worse than old Nicholas Flam does, And—who knows but you'll be Lord Baron of Shamdos?

[1] The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by the late Sir Egerinton Brydges.



THE DUKE IS THE LAD.

Air.—"A master I have, and I am his man, Galloping dreary dun." "Castle of Andalusia."

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass. Galloping, dreary duke; The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass, He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass, With his charger prancing, Grim eye glancing, Chin, like a Mufti, Grizzled and tufty, Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood Of this galloping dreary Duke; Avoid him, all who see no good In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood. For, surely, no nymph is Fond of a grim phiz. And of the married, Whole crowds have miscarried At sight of this dreary Duke.



EPISTLE

FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES.

Southampton.

As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post, Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost, And how deucedly odd this live world all appears, To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years, I take up my pen, and with news of this earth Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.

In my way to these shores, taking Italy first, Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst, I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore. Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse, To discuss the rich merits of rotis and stews, And preferred to all honors of triumph or trophy, A supper on prawns with that rogue, little Sophy.

Having dwelt on such classical musings awhile, I set off by a steam-boat for this happy isle, (A conveyance you ne'er, I think, sailed by, my Tully, And therefore, per next, I'll describe it more fully,) Having heard on the way what distresses me greatly, That England's o'errun by idolaters lately, Stark, staring adorers of wood and of stone, Who will let neither stick, stock or statue alone. Such the sad news I heard from a tall man in black, Who from sports continental was hurrying back, To look after his tithes;—seeing, doubtless, 'twould follow, That just as of old your great idol, Apollo, Devoured all the Tenths, so the idols in question, These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion, And the idolatrous crew whom this Rector despises, May eat up the tithe-pig which he idolizes.

London.

'Tis all but too true—grim Idolatry reigns In full pomp over England's lost cities and plains! On arriving just now, as my first thought and care Was as usual to seek out some near House of Prayer, Some calm holy spot, fit for Christians to pray on, I was shown to—what think you?—a downright Pantheon!

A grand, pillared temple with niches and halls, Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul's;— Tho' 'tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew Whom the Rector complained of, their dark rites pursue; And, 'mong all the "strange gods" Abr'ham's father carved out,[1] That he ever carv'd stranger than these I much doubt.

Were it even, my dear TULLY, your Hebes and Graces, And such pretty things, that usurpt the Saints' places, I shouldn't much mind,—for in this classic dome Such folks from Olympus would feel quite at home. But the gods they've got here!—such a queer omnium gatherum Of misbegot things that no poet would father 'em;— Britannias in light summer-wear for the skies,— Old Thames turned to stone, to his no small surprise,— Father Nile, too,—a portrait, (in spite of what's said, That no mortal e'er yet got a glimpse of his head,) And a Ganges which India would think somewhat fat for't, Unless 'twas some full-grown Director had sat for't;— Not to mention the et caeteras of Genii and Sphinxes, Fame, Victory, and other such semi-clad minxes;— Sea Captains,[2]—the idols here most idolized; And of whom some, alas! might too well be comprized Among ready-made Saints, as they died cannonized; With a multitude more of odd cockneyfied deities, Shrined in such pomp that quite shocking to see it 'tis; Nor know I what better the Rector could do Than to shrine there his own beloved quadruped too; As most surely a tithe-pig, whate'er the world thinks, is A much fitter beast for a church than a Sphinx is.

But I'm called off to dinner—grace just has been said, And my host waits for nobody, living or dead.

[1] Joshua xxiv 2.

[2] Captains Mosse, Riou etc.



LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORD CASTLEREAGH AND STEWART FOR THE CONTINENT.[1]

at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis. vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas. OVID. Metam. lib. xiii. v. 202.

Go, Brothers in wisdom—go, bright pair of Peers, And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions! The one, the best lover we have—of his years, And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee; Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile, And all tailors but him who so well dandifies thee.

Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff, Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee, But show the young Misses thou'rt scholar enough To translate "Amor Fortis" a love, about forty!

And sure 'tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars, From the battle you came, with the Orders you'd earned in't, That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out "My stars!" And forget that the Moon, too, was some way concerned in't.

For not the great Regent himself has endured (Tho' I've seen him with badges and orders all shine, Till he lookt like a house that was over insured) A much heavier burden of glories than thine.

And 'tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is, Or any young ladies can so go astray, As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies, The stars are in fault, my Lord Stewart, not they!

Thou, too, t'other brother, thou Tully of Tories, Thou Malaprop Cicero, over whose lips Such a smooth rigmarole about; "monarchs," and "glories," And "nullidge," and "features," like syllabub slips.

Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours, Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks metaphors.

Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers, And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions! The one, the best lover we have—of his years, And the other, Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

[1] This and the following squib, which must have been written about the year 1815-16, have been by some oversight misplaced.

[2] Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was "at Paris" these rapacious transactions took place—we should read "at Vienna."



TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD CASTLEREAGH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT.

Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3.

So may my Lady's prayers prevail, And Canning's too, and lucid Bragge's, And Eldon beg a favoring gale From Eolus, that older Bags, To speed thee on thy destined way, Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh, Our gracious Regent's better half And therefore quarter of a King— (As Van or any other calf May find without much figuring). Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes, Waft this Lord of place and pelf, Any where his Lordship pleases, Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!

Oh, what a face of brass was his. Who first at Congress showed his phiz— To sign away the Rights of Man To Russian threats and Austrian juggle; And leave the sinking African To fall without one saving struggle— 'Mong ministers from North and South, To show his lack of shame and sense, And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth" For blunders and for eloquence!

In vain we wish our Secs, at home To mind their papers, desks, and shelves, If silly Secs, abroad will roam And make such noodles of themselves.

But such hath always been the case— For matchless impudence of face, There's nothing like your Tory race! First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her A taste for famine, fire and slaughter. Then came the Doctor, for our ease, With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies, And other deadly maladies. When each in turn had run their rigs, Necessity brought in the Whigs:

And oh! I blush, I blush to say, When these, in turn, were put to flight, too, Illustrious TEMPLE flew away With lots of pens he had no right to.[1] In short, what will not mortal man do? And now, that—strife and bloodshed past— We've done on earth what harm we can do, We gravely take to heaven at last And think its favoring smile to purchase (Oh Lord, good Lord!) by—building churches!

[1] This alludes to the 1200l. worth of stationery, which his Lordship is said to have ordered, when on the point of vacating his place.



SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA.

"And now," quoth the goddess, in accents jocose, "Having got good materials, I'll brew such a dose "Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say, "They've not known its equal for many a long day." Here she winkt to her subaltern imps to be steady, And all wagged their fire-tipt tails and stood ready.

"So, now for the ingredients:—first, hand me that bishop;" Whereupon, a whole bevy of imps run to fish up From out a large reservoir wherein they pen 'em The blackest of all its black dabblers in venom; And wrapping him up (lest the virus should ooze, And one "drop of the immortal"[1] Right Rev.[2] they might lose) In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews, Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first!

"Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor," muttered the dame— "He who's called after Harry the Older, by name." "The Ex-Chancellor!" echoed her imps, the whole crew of 'em— "Why talk of one Ex, when your Mischief has two of 'em?" "True, true," said the hag, looking arch at her elves, "And a double-Ex dose they compose, in themselves." This joke, the sly meaning of which was seen lucidly, Set all the devils a laughing most deucedly. So, in went the pair, and (what none thought surprising) Showed talents for sinking as great as for rising; While not a grim phiz in that realm but was lighted With joy to see spirits so twin-like united— Or (plainly to speak) two such birds of a feather, In one mess of venom thus spitted together. Here a flashy imp rose—some connection, no doubt, Of the young lord in question—and, scowling about, "Hoped his fiery friend, Stanley, would not be left out; "As no schoolboy unwhipt, the whole world must agree, "Loved mischief, pure mischief, more dearly than he."

But, no—the wise hag wouldn't hear of the whipster; Not merely because, as a shrew, he eclipst her, And nature had given him, to keep him still young, Much tongue in his head and no head in his tongue; But because she well knew that, for change ever ready, He'd not even to mischief keep properly steady: That soon even the wrong side would cease to delight, And, for want of a change, he must swerve to the right; While, on each, so at random his missiles he threw, That the side he attackt was most safe, of the two.— This ingredient was therefore put by on the shelf, There to bubble, a bitter, hot mess, by itself. "And now," quoth the hag, as her caldron she eyed. And the tidbits so friendlily rankling inside, "There wants but some seasoning;—so, come, ere I stew 'em, "By way of a relish we'll throw in John Tuam.' "In cooking up mischief, there's no flesh or fish "Like your meddling High Priest, to add zest to the dish." Thus saying, she pops in the Irish Grand Lama— Which great event ends the First Act of the Drama.

[1] To lose no drop of the immortal man.

[2] The present Bishop of Exeter.



ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

Tho' famed was Mesmer, in his day, Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet, To say nothing of all the wonders done By that wizard, Dr. Elliotson, When, standing as if the gods to invoke, he Up waves his arm, and—down drops Okey![1] Tho' strange these things, to mind and sense, If you wish still stranger things to see— If you wish to know the power immense Of the true magnetic influence, Just go to her Majesty's Treasury, And learn the wonders working there— And I'll be hanged if you don't stare! Talk of your animal magnetists, And that wave of the hand no soul resists, Not all its witcheries can compete With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street, Which a Premier gives to one who wishes To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes. It actually lifts the lucky elf, Thus acted upon, above himself;— He jumps to a state of clairvoyance, And is placeman, statesman, all, at once!

These effects, observe (with which I begin), Take place when the patient's motioned in; Far different of course the mode of affection, When the wave of the hand's in the out direction; The effects being then extremely unpleasant, As is seen in the case of Lord Brougham, at present; In whom this sort of manipulation, Has lately produced such inflammation, Attended with constant irritation, That, in short—not to mince his situation— It has workt in the man a transformation That puzzles all human calculation! Ever since the fatal day which saw That "pass" performed on this Lord of Law— A pass potential, none can doubt, As it sent Harry Brougham to the right about— The condition in which the patient has been Is a thing quite awful to be seen. Not that a casual eye could scan This wondrous change by outward survey; It being, in fact, the interior man That's turned completely topsy-turvy:— Like a case that lately, in reading o'er 'em, I found in the Acta Eruditorum, Of a man in whose inside, when disclosed, The whole order of things was found transposed; By a lusus naturae, strange to see, The liver placed where the heart should be, And the spleen (like Brougham's, since laid on the shelf) As diseased and as much out of place as himself.

In short, 'tis a case for consultation, If e'er there was one, in this thinking nation; And therefore I humbly beg to propose, That those savans who mean, as the rumor goes, To sit on Miss Okey's wonderful case, Should also Lord Parry's case embrace; And inform us, in both these patients' states, Which ism it is that predominates, Whether magnetism and somnambulism, Or, simply and solely, mountebankism.

[1] The name of the heroine of the performances at the North London Hospital.



THE SONG OF THE BOX.

Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans, And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock; They were all, I confess, in my eye, Betty Martins Compared to George Grote and his wonderful Box.

Ask, where Liberty now has her seat?—Oh, it isn't By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks;— Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprisoned, She's slyly shut up in Grote's wonderful Box.

How snug!—'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions, Blown this way and that, by the "populi vox," To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions, And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box.

Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom— So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes; But mute be our troops, when to ambush we lead 'em, "For Mum" is the word with us Knights of the Box.

Pure, exquisite Box! no corruption can soil it; There's Otto of Rose in each breath it unlocks; While Grote is the "Betty," that serves at the toilet, And breathes all Arabia around from his Box.

'Tis a singular fact, that the famed Hugo Grotius (A namesake of Grote's—being both of Dutch stocks), Like Grote, too, a genius profound as precocious, Was also, like him, much renowned for a Box;—

An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great Grotius When suffering in prison for views heterodox, Was packt up incog. spite of jailers ferocious,[1] And sent to his wife,[2] carriage free, in a Box!

But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf, Since a rival hath risen that all parallel mocks;— That Grotius ingloriously saved but himself, While ours saves the whole British realm by a Box!

And oh! when, at last, even this greatest of Grotes Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks, May he drop in the urn like his own "silent votes," And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box.

While long at his shrine, both from county and city, Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks, And sing, while they whimper, the appropriate ditty, "Oh breathe not his name, let it sleep—in the Box."

[1] For the particulars of this escape of Grotius from the Castle of Louvenstein, by means of a box (only three feet and a half long, it is said) in which books used to be occasionally sent to him and foul linen returned, see any of the Biographical Dictionaries.

[2] This is not quite according to the facts of the case; his wife having been the contriver of the stratagem, and remained in the prison herself to give him time for escape.



ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA.

ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

When erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue The terrible tale of Thalaba sung— Of him, the Destroyer, doomed to rout That grim divan of conjurors out, Whose dwelling dark, as legends say, Beneath the roots of the ocean lay, (Fit place for deep ones, such as they,) How little thou knewest, dear Dr. Southey, Altho' bright genius all allow thee, That, some years thence, thy wondering eyes Should see a second Thalaba rise— As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine, Tho' his havoc lie in a different line, And should find this new, improved Destroyer Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer; A sort of an "alien," alias man, Whose country or party guess who can, Being Cockney half, half Jonathan; And his life, to make the thing completer, Being all in the genuine Thalaba metre, Loose and irregular as thy feet are;— First, into Whig Pindarics rambling, Then in low Tory doggrel scrambling; Now love his theme, now Church his glory (At once both Tory and ama-tory), Now in the Old Bailey-lay meandering, Now in soft couplet style philandering; And, lastly, in lame Alexandrine, Dragging his wounded length along, When scourged by Holland's silken thong.

In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second May fairly a match for the First be reckoned; Save that your Thalaba's talent lay In sweeping old conjurors clean away, While ours at aldermen deals his blows, (Who no great conjurors are, God knows,) Lays Corporations, by wholesale, level, Sends Acts of Parliament to the devil, Bullies the whole Milesian race— Seven millions of Paddies, face to face; And, seizing that magic wand, himself, Which erst thy conjurors left on the shelf, Transforms the boys of the Boyne and Liffey All into foreigners, in a jiffy— Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em, Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em?