Never in short did parallel Betwixt two heroes gee so well; And among the points in which they fit, There's one, dear Bob, I can't omit. That hacking, hectoring blade of thine Dealt much in the Domdaniel line; And 'tis but rendering justice due, To say that ours and his Tory crew Damn Daniel most devoutly too.



RIVAL TOPICS.[1]

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

Oh Wellington and Stephenson, Oh morn and evening papers, Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun, When will ye cease our ears to stun With these two heroes' capers? Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington," The everlasting two!— Still doomed, from rise to set of sun, To hear what mischief one has done, And t'other means to do:— What bills the banker past to friends, But never meant to pay; What Bills the other wight intends, As honest, in their way;— Bills, payable at distant sight, Beyond the Grecian kalends, When all good deeds will come to light, When Wellington will do what's right, And Rowland pay his balance.

To catch the banker all have sought, But still the rogue unhurt is; While t'other juggler—who'd have thought? Tho' slippery long, has just been caught By old Archbishop Curtis;— And, such the power of papal crook, The crosier scarce had quivered About his ears, when, lo! the Duke Was of a Bull delivered! Sir Richard Birnie doth decide That Rowland "must be mad," In private coach, with crest, to ride, When chaises could be had. And t'other hero, all agree, St. Luke's will soon arrive at, If thus he shows off publicly, When he might pass in private. Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson, Ye ever-boring pair, Where'er I sit, or stand, or run, Ye haunt me everywhere. Tho' Job had patience tough enough, Such duplicates would try it; Till one's turned out and t'other off, We Shan' have peace or quiet. But small's the chance that Law affords— Such folks are daily let off; And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords, They both, I fear, will get off.

[1] The date of this squib must have been, I think, about 1828-9.



THE BOY STATESMAN.

BY A TORY.

"That boy will be the death of me." Matthews at Home.

Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near, With Stanley to help us, we can't but fall; Already a warning voice I hear, Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear, "That boy—that boy'll be the death of you all."

He will, God help us!—not even Scriblerius In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be; And our case is growing exceeding serious, For, all being in the same boat as he, If down my Lord goes, down go we, Lord Baron Stanley and Company, As deep in Oblivion's swamp below As such "Masters Shallow," well could go; And where we shall all both low and high, Embalmed in mud, as forgotten lie As already doth Graham of Netherby! But that boy, that boy!—there's a tale I know, Which in talking of him comes apropos. Sir Thomas More had an only son, And a foolish lad was that only one, And Sir Thomas said one day to his wife, "My dear, I can't but wish you joy. "For you prayed for a boy, and you now have a boy, "Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life."

Even such is our own distressing lot, With the ever-young statesman we have got; Nay even still worse; for Master More Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before, While ours such power of boyhood shows, That the older he gets the more juvenile he grows, And at what extreme old age he'll close His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;— Some century hence, should he reach so far, And ourselves to witness it heaven condemn, We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr, A whipper-snapper Methusalem; Nay, even should he make still longer stay of it, The boy'll want judgment, even to the day of it! Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction; And day and night with awe I recall The late Mr. Matthews' solemn prediction, "That boy'll be the death, the death of you all."



LETTER

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTHAGH O'MULLIGAN.

Arrah, where were you, Murthagh, that beautiful day?— Or how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf, When that poor craythur, Bobby—as you were away— Had to make twice as big a Tomfool of himself.

Troth, it wasn't at all civil to lave in the lurch A boy so deserving your tindhr'est affection:— Too such iligant Siamase twins of the Church, As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection.

If thus in two different directions you pull, 'Faith, they'll swear that yourself and your riverend brother Are like those quare foxes, in Gregory's Bull, Whose tails were joined one way, while they lookt another![1]

Och blest be he, whosomdever he be, That helpt soft Magee to that Bull of a Letther! Not even my own self, tho' I sometimes make free At such bull-manufacture, could make him a betther.

To be sure, when a lad takes to forgin', this way, 'Tis a thrick he's much timpted to carry on gayly; Till, at last, his "injanious devices,"[2] Show him up, not at Exether Hall, but the Ould Bailey.

That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd, And (as if somethin' "odd" in their names, too, must be,) One forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod, "While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.[3]

But, no matther who did it all blessin's betide him, For dishin' up Bob, in a manner so nate; And there wanted but you, Murthagh 'vourneen, beside him, To make the whole grand dish of bull-calf complate.

[1] "You will increase the enmity with which they are regarded by their associates in heresy, thus tying these foxes by the tails, that their faces may tend in opposite directions."—Bob's Bull read, at Exeter Hall, July 14.

[2] "An ingenious device of my learned friend."—Bob's Letter to Standard.

[3] Had I consulted only my own wishes, I should not have allowed this hasty at tack on Dr. Todd to have made its appearance in this Collection; being now fully convinced that the charge brought against that reverend gentleman of intending to pass off as genuine his famous mock Papal Letter was altogether unfounded. Finding it to be the wish, however, of my reverend friend—as I am now glad to be permitted to call him—that both the wrong and the reparation, the Ode and, the Palinode, should be thus placed in juxtaposition, I have thought it but due to him, to comply with his request.



MUSINGS OF AN UNREFORMED PEER.

Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age, The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;— Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star, Did not get on exceedingly well as we are, And perform all the functions of noodles by birth As completely as any born noodles on earth.

How acres descend, is in law-books displayed, But we as wiseacres descend, ready made; And by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature, Are all of us born legislators by nature;— Like ducklings to water instinctively taking, So we with like quackery take to lawmaking; And God forbid any reform should come o'er us, To make us more wise than our sires were before us.

The Egyptians of old the same policy knew— If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too: Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it, Poisoners by right (so no more could be said of it), The cooks like our lordships a pretty mess made of it; While, famed for conservative stomachs, the Egyptians Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.

It is true, we've among us some peers of the past, Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast— Fruits that ripen beneath the new light now arising With speed that to us, old conserves, is surprising. Conserves, in whom—potted, for grandmamma uses— 'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices. 'Tis true too. I fear, midst the general movement, Even our House, God help it, is doomed to improvement, And all its live furniture, nobly descended But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended. With movables 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham, No wonder even fixtures should learn to bestir 'em; And distant, ye gods, be that terrible day, When—as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say, Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm— So ours may be whipt off, some night, by Reform; And as up, like Loretto's famed house,[1] thro' the air, Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear, Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky, Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by," While perched up on clouds little imps of plebeians, Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Paeans.

[1] The Casa Santa, supposed to have been carried by angels through the air from Galilee to Italy.



THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

A ROMANTIC BALLAD.

Oh, have you heard what hapt of late? If not, come lend an ear, While sad I state the piteous fate Of the Reverend Pamphleteer.

All praised his skilful jockeyship, Loud rung the Tory cheer, While away, away, with spur and whip, Went the Reverend Pamphleteer.

The nag he rode—how could it err? 'Twas the same that took, last year, That wonderful jump to Exeter With the Reverend Pamphleteer.

Set a beggar on horseback, wise men say, The course he will take is clear: And in that direction lay the way Of the Reverend Pamphleteer,

"Stop, stop," said Truth, but vain her cry— Left far away in the rear, She heard but the usual gay "Good-by" From her faithless Pamphleteer.

You may talk of the jumps of Homer's gods, When cantering o'er our sphere— I'd back for a bounce, 'gainst any odds, This Reverend Pamphleteer.

But ah! what tumbles a jockey hath! In the midst of his career, A file of the Times lay right in the path Of the headlong Pamphleteer.

Whether he tript or shyed thereat, Doth not so clear appear: But down he came, as his sermons flat— This Reverend Pamphleteer!

Lord King himself could scarce desire To see a spiritual Peer Fall much more dead, in the dirt and mire, Than did this Pamphleteer.

Yet pitying parsons many a day Shall visit his silent bier, And, thinking the while of Stanhope, say "Poor dear old Pamphleteer!

"He has finisht at last his busy span, "And now lies coolly here— "As often he did in life, good man, "Good, Reverend Pamphleteer!"



RECENT DIALOGUE.

1825.

A Bishop and a bold dragoon, Both heroes in their way, Did thus, of late, one afternoon, Unto each other say:— "Dear bishop," quoth the brave huzzar, "As nobody denies "That you a wise logician are, "And I am—otherwise, "'Tis fit that in this question, we "Stick each to his own art— "That yours should be the sophistry, "And mine the fighting part. "My creed, I need not tell you, is "Like that of Wellington, "To whom no harlot comes amiss, "Save her of Babylon; "And when we're at a loss for words, "If laughing reasoners flout us, "For lack of sense we'll draw our swords— "The sole thing sharp about us."—

"Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said, "'Tis true for war thou art meant; "And reasoning—bless that dandy head! "Is not in thy department. "So leave the argument to me— "And, when my holy labor "Hath lit the fires of bigotry, "Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre. "From pulpit and from sentrybox, "We'll make our joint attacks, "I at the head of my Cassocks, "And you, of your Cossacks. "So here's your health, my brave huzzar, "My exquisite old fighter— "Success to bigotry and war, "The musket and the mitre!" Thus prayed the minister of heaven— While York, just entering then, Snored out (as if some Clerk had given His nose the cue) "Amen."



THE WELLINGTON SPA.

"And drink oblivion to our woes." Anna Matilda.

1829.

Talk no more of your Cheltenham and Harrowgate springs, 'Tis from Lethe we now our potations must draw; Yon Lethe's a cure for—all possible things, And the doctors have named it the Wellington Spa.

Other physical waters but cure you in part; One cobbles your gout—t'other mends your digestion— Some settle your stomach, but this—bless your heart!— It will settle for ever your Catholic Question.

Unlike too the potions in fashion at present, This Wellington nostrum, restoring by stealth, So purges the memory of all that's unpleasant, That patients forget themselves into rude health. For instance, the inventor—his having once said "He should think himself mad if at any one's call, "He became what he is"—is so purged from his head That he now doesn't think he's a madman at all. Of course, for your memories of very long standing— Old chronic diseases that date back undaunted To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing— A devil of a dose of the Lethe is wanted.

But even Irish patients can hardly regret An oblivion so much in their own native style, So conveniently planned that, whate'er they forget, They may go on remembering it still all the while!



A CHARACTERLESS

1834.

Half Whig, half Tory, like those mid-way things, 'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings; A mongrel Stateman, 'twixt two factions nurst, Who, of the faults of each, combines the worst— The Tory's loftiness, the Whigling's sneer, The leveller's rashness, and the bigot's fear: The thirst for meddling, restless still to show How Freedom's clock, repaired by Whigs, will go; The alarm when others, more sincere than they, Advance the hands to the true time of day.

By Mother Church, high-fed and haughty dame, The boy was dandled, in his dawn of fame; Listening, she smiled, and blest the flippant tongue On which the fate of unborn tithe-pigs hung. Ah! who shall paint the grandam's grim dismay, When loose Reform enticed her boy away; When shockt she heard him ape the rabble's tone, And in Old Sarum's fate foredoom her own! Groaning she cried, while tears rolled down her cheeks, "Poor, glib-tongued youth, he means not what he speaks. "Like oil at top, these Whig professions flow, "But, pure as lymph, runs Toryism below. "Alas! that tongue should start thus, in the race, "Ere mind can reach and regulate its pace!— "For, once outstript by tongue, poor, lagging mind, "At every step, still further limps behind. "But, bless the boy!—whate'er his wandering be, "Still turns his heart to Toryism and me. "Like those odd shapes, portrayed in Dante's lay. "With heads fixt on, the wrong and backward way, "His feet and eyes pursue a diverse track, "While those march onward, these look fondly back." And well she knew him—well foresaw the day, Which now hath come, when snatched from Whigs away The self-same changeling drops the mask he wore, And rests, restored, in granny's arms once more.

But whither now, mixt brood of modern light And ancient darkness, canst thou bend thy flight? Tried by both factions and to neither true, Feared by the old school, laught at by the new; For this too feeble and for that too rash, This wanting more of fire, that less of flash, Lone shalt thou stand, in isolation cold, Betwixt two worlds, the new one and the old, A small and "vext Bermoothes," which the eye Of venturous seaman sees—and passes by.



A GHOST STORY.

To THE AIR OF "UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY."

1835.

Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain, When, as his lamp burned dimly, The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,[1] Stood by his bedside grimly. Dead aldermen who once could feast, But now, themselves, are fed on, And skeletons of mayors deceased, This doleful chorus led on:— Oh Lord Lyndhurst, "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst, "Corpses we, "All burkt by thee, "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst!"

"Avaunt, ye frights!" his Lordship cried, "Ye look most glum and whitely." "Ah, Lyndhurst dear!" the frights replied, "You've used us unpolitely. "And now, ungrateful man! to drive "Dead bodies from your door so, "Who quite corrupt enough, alive, "You've made by death still more so. "Oh, Ex-Chancellor, "Destructive Ex-Chancellor, "See thy work, "Thou second Burke, "Destructive Ex-Chancellor!"

Bold Lyndhurst then, whom naught could keep Awake or surely that would, Cried "Curse you all"—fell fast asleep— And dreamt of "Small v. Attwood." While, shockt, the bodies flew downstairs, But courteous in their panic Precedence gave to ghosts of mayors, And corpses aldermanic, Crying, "Oh, Lord Lyndhurst, "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst, "Not Old Scratch "Himself could match "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst."

[1] Referring to the line taken by Lord Lyndhurst, on the question of Municipal Reform.



THOUGHTS ON THE LATE DESTRUCTIVE PROPOSITIONS OF THE TORIES.[1]

BY A COMMON-COUNCILMAN.

1835.

I sat me down in my easy chair, To read, as usual, the morning papers; But—who shall describe my look of despair, When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers! That he—that, of all live men, Lefroy Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!" Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said, On Orange conserve was chiefly fed, And never, till now, a movement made That wasn't manfully retrograde! Only think—to sweep from the light of day Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away; To annihilate—never to rise again— A whole generation of aldermen, Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls, To keep together their bodies and souls!— At a time too when snug posts and places Are falling away from us one by one, Crash—crash—like the mummy-cases Belzoni, in Egypt, sat upon, Wherein lay pickled, in state sublime, Conservatives of the ancient time;— To choose such a moment to overset The few snug nuisances left us yet; To add to the ruin that round us reigns, By knocking out mayors' and town-clerks' brains; By dooming all corporate bodies to fall, Till they leave at last no bodies at all— Naught but the ghosts of by-gone glory, Wrecks of a world that once was Tory!— Where pensive criers, like owls unblest, Robbed of their roosts, shall still hoot o'er them: Nor mayors shall know where to seek a nest, Till Gaily Knight shall find one for them;— Till mayors and kings, with none to rue 'em, Shall perish all in one common plague; And the sovereigns of Belfast and Tuam Must join their brother, Charles Dix, at Prague.

Thus mused I, in my chair, alone, (As above described) till dozy grown, And nodding assent to my own opinions, I found myself borne to sleep's dominions, Where, lo! before my dreaming eyes, A new House of Commons appeared to rise, Whose living contents, to fancy's survey, Seemed to me all turned topsy-turvy— A jumble of polypi—nobody knew Which was the head or which the queue. Here, Inglis, turned to a sansculotte, Was dancing the hays with Hume and Grote; There, ripe for riot, Recorder Shaw Was learning from Roebuck "Caira:" While Stanley and Graham, as poissarde wenches, Screamed "a-bas!" from the Tory benches; And Peel and O'Connell, cheek by jowl, Were dancing an Irish carmagnole.

The Lord preserve us!—if dreams come true, What is this hapless realm to do?

[1] These verses were written in reference to the Bill brought in at this time, for the reform of Corporations, and the sweeping amendments proposed by Lord Lyndhurst and other Tory Peers, in order to obstruct the measure.



ANTICIPATED MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION IN THE YEAR 1836.

1836

After some observations from Dr. M'Grig On that fossil reliquium called Petrified Wig, Or Perruquolithus—a specimen rare Of those wigs made for antediluvian wear, Which, it seems, stood the Flood without turning a hair— Mr. Tomkins rose up, and requested attention To facts no less wondrous which he had to mention.

Some large fossil creatures had lately been found, Of a species no longer now seen above ground, But the same (as to Tomkins most clearly appears) With those animals, lost now for hundreds of years, Which our ancestors used to call "Bishops" and "Peers," But which Tomkins more erudite names has bestowed on, Having called the Peer fossil the Aris-tocratodon,[1] And, finding much food under t'other one's thorax, Has christened that creature the Episcopus Vorax.

Lest the savantes and dandies should think this all fable, Mr. Tomkins most kindly produced, on the table, A sample of each of these species of creatures, Both tolerably human, in structure and features, Except that the Episcopus seems, Lord deliver us! To've been carnivorous as well as granivorous; And Tomkins, on searching its stomach, found there Large lumps, such as no modern stomach could bear, Of a substance called Tithe, upon which, as 'tis said, The whole Genus Clericum formerly fed; And which having lately himself decompounded, Just to see what 'twas made of, he actually found it Composed of all possible cookable things That e'er tript upon trotters or soared upon wings— All products of earth, both gramineous, herbaceous, Hordeaceous, fabaceous and eke farinaceous, All clubbing their quotas, to glut the oesophagus Of this ever greedy and grasping Tithophagus.[2] "Admire," exclaimed Tomkins. "the kind dispensation "By Providence shed on this much-favored nation, "In sweeping so ravenous a race from the earth, "That might else have occasioned a general dearth— "And thus burying 'em, deep as even Joe Hume would sink 'em, "With the Ichthyosaurus and Paloeorynchum, "And other queer ci-devant things, under ground— "Not forgetting that fossilized youth,[3] so renowned, "Who lived just to witness the Deluge—was gratified "Much by the sight, and has since been found stratified!"

This picturesque touch—quite in Tomkins's way— Called forth from the savantes a general hurrah; While inquiries among them, went rapidly round, As to where this young stratified man could be found. The "learned Theban's" discourse next as livelily flowed on, To sketch t'other wonder, the Aristocratodon— An animal, differing from most human creatures Not so much in speech, inward structure or features, As in having a certain excrescence, T. said, Which in form of a coronet grew from its head, And devolved to its heirs, when the creature was dead; Nor mattered it, while this heirloom was transmitted, How unfit were the heads, so the coronet fitted.

He then mentioned a strange zooelogical fact, Whose announcement appeared much applause to attract. In France, said the learned professor, this race Had so noxious become, in some centuries' space, From their numbers and strength, that the land was o'errun with 'em, Every one's question being, "What's to be done with em?" When, lo! certain knowing ones—savans, mayhap, Who, like Buckland's deep followers, understood trap,[4] Slyly hinted that naught upon earth was so good For Aristocratodons, when rampant and rude, As to stop or curtail their allowance of food. This expedient was tried and a proof it affords Of the effect that short commons will have upon lords; For this whole race of bipeds, one fine summer's morn, Shed their coronets, just as a deer sheds his horn, And the moment these gewgaws fell off, they became Quite a new sort of creature—so harmless and tame, That zooelogists might, for the first time, maintain 'em To be near akin to the genius humanum, And the experiment, tried so successfully then, Should be kept in remembrance when wanted again.

[1] A term formed on the model of the Mastodon, etc.

[2] The zooelogical term for a tithe-eater.

[3] The man found by Scheuchzer, and supposed by him to have witnessed the Deluge ("homo diluvii testis"), but who turned out, I am sorry to say, to be merely a great lizard.

[4] Particularly the formation called Transition Trap.

* * * * *



SONG OF THE CHURCH.

No. 1.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

"We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, 'leave us alone.' The Established Church is part and parcel of the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this constitution. We ask of you nothing more:—let us alone." —Letter in The Times, Nov. 1838.

1838.

Come, list to my pastoral tones, In clover my shepherds I keep; My stalls are well furnisht with drones, Whose preaching invites one to sleep. At my spirit let infidels scoff, So they leave but the substance my own; For in sooth I'm extremely well off If the world will but let me alone.

Dissenters are grumblers, we know;— Tho' excellent men in their way, They never like things to be so, Let things be however they may. But dissenting's a trick I detest; And besides 'tis an axiom well known, The creed that's best paid is the best, If the unpaid would let it alone.

To me, I own, very surprising Your Newmans and Puseys all seem, Who start first with rationalizing, Then jump to the other extreme. Far better, 'twixt nonsense and sense, A nice half-way concern, like our own, Where piety's mixt up with pence, And the latter are ne'er left alone.

Of all our tormentors, the Press is The one that most tears us to bits; And now, Mrs. Woolfrey's "excesses" Have thrown all its imps into fits. The devils have been at us, for weeks, And there's no saying when they'll have done;— Oh dear! how I wish Mr. Breeks Had left Mrs. Woolfrey alone!

If any need pray for the dead, 'Tis those to whom post-obits fall; Since wisely hath Solomon said, 'Tis "money that answereth all." But ours be the patrons who live;- For, once in their glebe they are thrown, The dead have no living to give, And therefore we leave them alone.

Tho' in morals we may not excel, Such perfection is rare to be had; A good life is, of course, very well, But good living is also-not bad. And when, to feed earth-worms, I go. Let this epitaph stare from my stone, "Here lies the Right Rev. so and so; "Pass, stranger, and—leave him alone."



EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM.

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London, You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane, No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said— That he ne'er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet, Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street, Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces, Didn't burst out a laughing in each other's faces. What Cato then meant, tho' 'tis so long ago, Even we in the present times pretty well know; Having soothsayers also, who—sooth to say, John— Are no better in some points than those of days gone, And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me), Might laugh in their sleeves, too—all lawn tho' they be.

But this, by the way—my intention being chiefly In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly, That, seeing how fond you of Tuum[1] must be, While Meum's at all times the main point with me, We scarce could do better than form an alliance, To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance: You, John, recollect, being still to embark, With no share in the firm but your title and mark; Or even should you feel in your grandeur inclined To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldn't much mind; While my church as usual holds fast by your Tuum, And every one else's, to make it all Suum.

Thus allied, I've no doubt we shall nicely agree, As no twins can be liker, in most points, than we; Both, specimens choice of that mixt sort of beast, (See Rev. xiii. I) a political priest: Both mettlesome chargers, both brisk pamphleteers, Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears; And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer By any given cause than I found it the stronger, And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel, When the tone ecclesiastic won't do, try the civil.

In short (not to bore you, even jure divino) We've the same cause in common, John—all but the rhino; And that vulgar surplus, whate'er it may be, As you're not used to cash, John, you'd best leave to me. And so, without form—as the postman won't tarry— I'm, dear Jack of Tuain, Yours, EXETER HARRY.

[1] So spelled in those ancient versicles which John, we understand, frequently chants:— "Had every one Suum, You wouldn't have Tuum, But I should have Meum, And sing Te Deum."



SONG OF OLD PUCK.

"And those things do best please me, That befall preposterously." PUCK Junior, Midsummer Night's Dream.

Who wants old Puck? for here am I, A mongrel imp, 'twixt earth and sky, Ready alike to crawl or fly; Now in the mud, now in the air, And, so 'tis for mischief, reckless where.

As to my knowledge, there's no end to't, For, where I haven't it, I pretend to't: And, 'stead of taking a learned degree At some dull university, Puck found it handier to commence With a certain share of impudence, Which passes one off as learned and clever, Beyond all other degrees whatever; And enables a man of lively sconce To be Master of all the Arts at once. No matter what the science may be— Ethics, Physics, Theology, Mathematics, Hydrostatics, Aerostatics or Pneumatics— Whatever it be, I take my luck, 'Tis all the same to ancient Puck; Whose head's so full of all sorts of wares, That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears If I had but of law a little smattering, I'd then be perfect—which is flattering.

My skill as a linguist all must know Who met me abroad some months ago; (And heard me abroad exceedingly, In the moods and tenses of parlez vous) When, as old Chambaud's shade stood mute, I spoke such French to the Institute As puzzled those learned Thebans much, To know if 'twas Sanscrit or High Dutch, And might have past with the unobserving As one of the unknown tongues of Irving. As to my talent for ubiquity, There's nothing like it in all antiquity. Like Mungo (my peculiar care) "I'm here, I'm dere, I'm ebery where."

If any one's wanted to take the chair Upon any subject, any where, Just look around, and—Puck is there! When slaughter's at hand, your bird of prey Is never known to be out of the way: And wherever mischief's to be got, There's Puck instanter, on the spot.

Only find me in negus and applause, And I'm your man for any cause. If wrong the cause, the more my delight; But I don't object to it, even when right, If I only can vex some old friend by't; There's Durham, for instance;—to worry him Fills up my cup of bliss to the brim!

(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.)

Those who are anxious to run a muck Can't do better than join with Puck. They'll find him bon diable—spite of his phiz— And, in fact, his great ambition is, While playing old Puck in first-rate style, To be thought Robin Good-fellow all the while.



POLICE REPORTS.

CASE OF IMPOSTURE.

Among other stray flashmen disposed of, this week, Was a youngster named Stanley, genteelly connected, Who has lately been passing off coins as antique, Which have proved to be sham ones, tho' long unsuspected.

The ancients, our readers need hardly be told, Had a coin they called "Talents," for wholesale demands; And 'twas some of said coinage this youth was so bold As to fancy he'd got, God knows how, in his hands.

People took him, however, like fools, at his word; And these talents (all prized at his own valuation,) Were bid for, with eagerness even more absurd Than has often distinguisht this great thinking nation.

Talk of wonders one now and then sees advertised, "Black swans"—"Queen Anne farthings"—or even "a child's caul"— Much and justly as all these rare objects are prized, "Stanley's talents" outdid them—swans, farthings and all!

At length some mistrust of this coin got abroad; Even quondam believers began much to doubt of it; Some rung it, some rubbed it, suspecting a fraud— And the hard rubs it got rather took the shine out of it.

Others, wishing to break the poor prodigy's fall, Said 'twas known well to all who had studied the matter, That the Greeks had not only great talents but small, And those found on the youngster were clearly the latter.

While others who viewed the grave farce with a grin— Seeing counterfeits pass thus for coinage so massy, By way of a hint to the dolts taken in, Appropriately quoted Budaeus "de Asse."

In short, the whole sham by degrees was found out, And this coin which they chose by such fine names to call, Proved a mere lackered article—showy, no doubt, But, ye gods! not the true Attic Talent at all.

As the impostor was still young enough to repent, And, besides, had some claims to a grandee connection, Their Worships—considerate for once—only sent The young Thimblerig off to the House of Correction.



REFLECTIONS.

ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLE OF THE CHURCH IN THE LAST NUMBER OF The Quarterly Review.

I'm quite of your mind;—tho' these Pats cry aloud That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff; For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed That even too much of it's not quite enough.

Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;— Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills, Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity.

I verily think 'twould be worth England's while To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether 'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.

The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant; The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1] And now if King William would make them a present To t'other chaste lady—ye Saints, just imagine it!

Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief, Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches; While colonels in black would afford some relief From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's.

Think how fierce at a charge (being practised therein) The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on! How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin, To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!

For in one point alone do the amply fed race Of bishops to beggars similitude bear— That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase, And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time—you know where.

But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much, Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way; And a good stanch Conservative's system is such That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway.

I am therefore, dear Quarterly, quite of your mind;— Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour: And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind. The more let's repeat it—"Black dose, as before."

Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother; And, covering with prisons and churches the land, All that won't go to one, we'll put into the other.

For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclined To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously, Is to treat her like ladies who've just been confined (Or who ought to be so), and to church her prodigiously.

[1] Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian.



NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view An exact and natural representation (Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo[1]) Of the Lords and Commons of this here nation.

There they are—all cut out in cork— The "Collective Wisdom" wondrous to see; My eyes! when all them heads are at work, What a vastly weighty consarn it must be.

As for the "wisdom,"—that may come anon; Tho', to say truth, we sometimes see (And I find the phenomenon no uncommon 'un) A man who's M.P. with a head that's M.T.

Our Lords are rather too small, 'tis true; But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves; And, besides,—what's a man with creeturs to do That make such werry small figures themselves?

There—don't touch those lords, my pretty dears—(Aside.) Curse the children!—this comes of reforming a nation: Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers, I must lay in more cork for a new creation.

Them yonder's our bishops—"to whom much is given," And who're ready to take as much more as you please: The seers of old time saw visions of heaven, But these holy seers see nothing but Sees.

Like old Atlas[2](the chap, in Cheapside, there below,) 'Tis for so much per cent, they take heaven on their shoulders; And joy 'tis to know that old High Church and Co., Tho' not capital priests, are such capital-holders.

There's one on 'em, Phillpotts, who now is away, As we're having him filled with bumbustible stuff, Small crackers and squibs, for a great gala-day, When we annually fire his Right Reverence off.

'Twould do your heart good, ma'am, then to be by, When, bursting with gunpowder, 'stead of with bile, Crack, crack, goes the bishop, while dowagers cry, "How like the dear man, both in matter and style!"

Should you want a few Peers and M.P.s, to bestow, As presents to friends, we can recommend these:— Our nobles are come down to nine-pence, you know, And we charge but a penny a piece for M.P.s.

Those of bottle-corks made take most with the trade, (At least 'mong such as my Irish writ summons,) Of old whiskey corks our O'Connells are made, But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are rum 'uns. So, step in, gentlefolks, etc. Da Capo.

[1] One of the most interesting and curious of all the exhibitions of the day.

[2] The sign of the Insurance Office in Cheapside.



ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW GRAND ACCELERATION COMPANY FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE SPEED OF LITERATURE.

Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times, Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes, A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan, First proposed by the great firm of Catch-'em-who-can, Beg to say they've now ready, in full wind and speed, Some fast-going authors, of quite a new breed— Such as not he who runs but who gallops may read— And who, if well curried and fed, they've no doubt, Will beat even Bentley's swift stud out and out.

It is true in these days such a drug is renown, We've "Immortals" as rife as M.P.s about town; And not a Blue's rout but can offhand supply Some invalid bard who's insured "not to die." Still let England but once try our authors, she'll find How fast they'll leave even these Immortals behind; And how truly the toils of Alcides were light, Compared with his toil who can read all they write.

In fact there's no saying, so gainful the trade, How fast immortalities now may be made; Since Helicon never will want an "Undying One," As long as the public continues a Buying One; And the company hope yet to witness the hour. When, by strongly applying the mare-motive[1] power, A three-decker novel, midst oceans of praise, May be written, launched, read and—forgot, in three days!

In addition to all this stupendous celerity, Which—to the no small relief of posterity— Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame, Nor troubles futurity even with a name (A project that won't as much tickle Tom Tegg as us, Since 'twill rob him of his second-priced Pegasus); We, the Company—still more to show how immense Is the power o'er the mind of pounds, shillings, and pence; And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day, Could get up a lay without first an out-lay— Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare, In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham ware, And it doesn't at all matter in either of these lines, How sham is the article, so it but shines,— We keep authors ready, all perched, pen in hand, To write off, in any given style, at command. No matter what bard, be he living or dead, Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said: There being on the establishment six Walter Scotts, One capital Wordsworth and Southeys in lots;— Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens, While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord Byrons. Then we've ***s and ***s (for whom there's small call), And ***s and ***s (for whom no call at all). In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be, We've a Bottom who'll copy his roar[2] to a T, And so well, that not one of the buyers who've got 'em Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom.

N. B.—The company, since they set up in this line, Have moved their concern and are now at the sign Of the Muse's Velocipede, Fleet Street, where all Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call.

[1] "'Tis money makes the mare to go."

[2] "Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale."



SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN.

From tongue to tongue the rumor flew; All askt, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?" But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable: And still the unholy rumor ran, From Tory woman to Tory man, Tho' none to come at the truth was able— Till, lo! at last, the fact came out, The horrible fact, beyond all doubt, That Dan had dined at the Viceroy's table; Had flesht his Popish knife and fork In the heart of the Establisht mutton and pork!

Who can forget the deep sensation That news produced in this orthodox nation? Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed, If Dan was allowed at the Castle to feed, 'Twas clearly all up with the Protestant creed! There hadn't indeed such an apparition Been heard of in Dublin since that day When, during the first grand exhibition Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play, There appeared, as if raised by necromancers, An extra devil among the dancers! Yes—every one saw with fearful thrill That a devil too much had joined the quadrille; And sulphur was smelt and the lamps let fall A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball, And the poor sham devils didn't like it at all; For they knew from whence the intruder had come, Tho' he left, that night, his tail at home.

This fact, we see, is a parallel case To the dinner that some weeks since took place. With the difference slight of fiend and man, It shows what a nest of Popish sinners That city must be, where the devil and Dan May thus drop in at quadrilles and dinners!

But mark the end of these foul proceedings, These demon hops and Popish feedings. Some comfort 'twill be—to those, at least, Who've studied this awful dinner question— To know that Dan, on the night of that feast, Was seized with a dreadful indigestion; That envoys were sent post-haste to his priest To come and absolve the suffering sinner, For eating so much at a heretic dinner; And some good people were even afraid That Peel's old confectioner—still at the trade— Had poisoned the Papist with orangeade.



NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

With all humility we beg To inform the public, that Tom Tegg— Known for his spunky speculations In buying up dead reputations, And by a mode of galvanizing Which, all must own, is quite surprising, Making dead authors move again, As tho' they still were living men;— All this too managed, in a trice, By those two magic words, "Half Price," Which brings the charm so quick about, That worn-out poets, left without A second foot whereon to stand, Are made to go at second hand;— 'Twill please the public, we repeat, To learn that Tegg who works this feat, And therefore knows what care it needs To keep alive Fame's invalids, Has oped an Hospital in town, For cases of knockt-up renown— Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic fits (By some called Cantoes), stabs from wits; And of all wounds for which they're nurst, Dead cuts from publishers, the worst;— All these, and other such fatalities, That happen to frail immortalities, By Tegg are so expertly treated, That oft-times, when the cure's completed, The patient's made robust enough To stand a few more rounds of puff, Till like the ghosts of Dante's lay He's puft into thin air away! As titled poets (being phenomenons) Don't like to mix with low and common 'uns, Tegg's Hospital has separate wards, Express for literary lords, Where prose-peers, of immoderate length, Are nurst, when they've outgrown their strength, And poets, whom their friends despair of, Are—put to bed and taken care of.

Tegg begs to contradict a story Now current both with Whig and Tory, That Doctor Warburton, M.P., Well known for his antipathy, His deadly hate, good man, to all The race of poets great and small— So much, that he's been heard to own, He would most willingly cut down The holiest groves on Pindus' mount, To turn the timber to account!— The story actually goes, that he Prescribes at Tegg's Infirmary; And oft not only stints for spite The patients in their copy-right, But that, on being called in lately To two sick poets suffering greatly, This vaticidal Doctor sent them So strong a dose of Jeremy Bentham, That one of the poor bards but cried, "Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" and then died; While t'other, tho' less stuff was given, Is on his road, 'tis feared, to heaven!

Of this event, howe'er unpleasant, Tegg means to say no more at present,— Intending shortly to prepare A statement of the whole affair, With full accounts, at the same time, Of some late cases (prose and rhyme), Subscribed with every author's name, That's now on the Sick List of Fame.



RELIGION AND TRADE.

"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House." —Church Extension, May 22, 1830.

Say, who was the wag, indecorously witty, Who first in a statute this libel conveyed; And thus slyly referred to the selfsame committee, As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?

Oh surely, my Phillpotts, 'twas thou didst the deed; For none but thyself or some pluralist brother, Accustomed to mix up the craft with the creed, Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each other.

And yet, when one thinks of times present and gone, One is forced to confess on maturer reflection That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone That the shrine and the shop seem to have some connection.

Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fair land, Whose civil list all is in "god-money" paid; And where the whole people, by royal command, Buy their gods at the government mart, ready made;[1]—

There was also (as mentioned, in rhyme and in prose, is) Gold heaped throughout Egypt on every shrine, To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses— Just such as, my Phillpotts, would look well in thine.

But one needn't fly off in this erudite mood; And 'tis clear without going to regions so sunny That priests love to do the least possible good For the largest most possible quantum of money.

"Of him," saith the text, "unto whom much is given, "Of him much, in turn, will be also required:"— "By me," quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven— "Give as much as you will—more will still be desired."

More money! more churches!—oh Nimrod, hadst thou 'Stead of Tower-extension, some shorter way gone— Hadst thou known by what methods we mount to heaven now, And tried Church-extension, the feat had been done!

[1] The Birmans may not buy the sacred marble in mass but must purchase figures of the deity already made.—SYMES.



MUSINGS.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE PROMOTION OF MRS. NETHERCOAT.

"The widow of Nethercoat is appointed jailer of Loughrea, in the room of her deceased husband."—Limerick Chronicle.

Whether as queens or subjects, in these days, Women seem formed to grace alike each station:— As Captain Flaherty gallantly says, "You ladies, are the lords of the creation!"

Thus o'er my mind did prescient visions float Of all that matchless woman yet may be; When hark! in rumors less and less remote, Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea, The important news—that Mrs. Nethercoat Had been appointed jailer of Loughrea; Yes, mark it, History—Nethercoat is dead, And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead; Hers the high task to wield the uplocking keys, To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees!

Thus, while your blusterers of the Tory school Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule, One meek-eyed matron in Whig doctrines nurst Is all that's askt to curb the maddest, worst!

Show me the man that dares with blushless brow Prate about Erin's rage and riot now; Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess; When long-loved whiskey, fading from her sight, "Small by degrees and beautifully less," Will soon like other spirits vanish quite; When of red coats the number's grown so small, That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes, No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all, Save that which she of Babylon supplies;— Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be, Of Ireland's red defence the sole remains; While of its jails bright woman keeps the key, And captive Paddies languish in her chains!

Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine! Oh yes—if even this world, tho' bright it shine, In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be, At least let woman's hand our fetters twine, And blithe I'll sing, more joyous than if free, The Nethercoats, the Nethercoats for me!



INTENDED TRIBUTE

TO THE AUTHOR OF AN ARTICLE IN THE LAST NUMBER OF The Quarterly Review, ENTITLED "ROMANISM IN IRELAND."

It glads us much to be able to say, That a meeting is fixt for some early day, Of all such dowagers—he or she— (No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,) Whose opinions concerning Church and State From about the time of the Curfew date— Stanch sticklers still for days bygone, And admiring them for their rust alone— To whom if we would a leader give, Worthy their tastes conservative, We need but some mummy-statesman raise, Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days; For that's the man, if waked from his shelf, To conserve and swaddle this world like himself. Such, we're happy to state, are the old he-dames Who've met in committee and given their names (In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent To pay some handsome compliment To their sister author, the nameless he, Who wrote, in the last new Quarterly, That charming assault upon Popery; An article justly prized by them As a perfect antediluvian gem— The work, as Sir Sampson Legend would say, Of some "fellow the Flood couldn't wash away."[1]

The fund being raised, there remained but to see What the dowager-author's gift was to be. And here, I must say, the Sisters Blue Showed delicate taste and judgment too. For finding the poor man suffering greatly From the awful stuff he has thrown up lately— So much so indeed to the alarm of all, As to bring on a fit of what doctors call The Antipapistico-monomania (I'm sorry with such a long word to detain ye), They've acted the part of a kind physician, By suiting their gift to the patient's condition; And as soon as 'tis ready for presentation, We shall publish the facts for the gratification Of this highly-favored and Protestant nation.

Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbors, He still continues his Quarterly labors; And often has strong No-Popery fits, Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits. Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play,[2] "Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day; Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens, And shies at him heaps of High-church pens;[3] Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter) Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter. 'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the druggist's, He will keep raving of "Irish Thuggists;"[4] Tells us they all go murdering for fun From rise of morn till set of sun, Pop, pop, as fast as a minute-gun![5] If askt, how comes it the gown and cassock are Safe and fat, mid this general massacre— How hap sit that Pat's own population But swarms the more for this trucidation— He refers you, for all such memoranda, To the "archives of the Propaganda!"

This is all we've got, for the present, to say— But shall take up the subject some future day.

[1] See Congreve's "Love for Love."

[2] "Beaux' Stratagem."

[3] "Pray, may we ask, has there been any rebellious movement of Popery in Ireland, since the planting of the Ulster colonies, in which something of the kind was not visible among the Presbyterians of the north."— Quarterly Review.

[4] "Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists," etc.—Quarterly Review.

[5] "Observe how murder after murder is committed like minute-guns."— Ibid.



GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO.

A POOR POET'S DREAM.[1]

As I sate in my study, lone and still, Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill, And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made, In spirit congenial, for "the Trade," Sudden I sunk to sleep and lo! Upon Fancy's reinless nightmare flitting, I found myself, in a second or so, At the table of Messrs. Type and Co. With a goodly group of diners sitting;— All in the printing and publishing line, Drest, I thought, extremely fine, And sipping like lords their rosy wine; While I in a state near inanition With coat that hadn't much nap to spare (Having just gone into its second edition), Was the only wretch of an author there. But think, how great was my surprise, When I saw, in casting round my eyes, That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks, Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books; Large folios—God knows where they got 'em, In these small times—at top and bottom; And quartos (such as the Press provides For no one to read them) down the sides. Then flasht a horrible thought on my brain, And I said to myself, "'Tis all too plain, "Like those well known in school quotations, "Who ate up for dinner their own relations, "I see now, before me, smoking here, "The bodies and bones of my brethren dear;— "Bright sons of the lyric and epic Muse, "All cut up in cutlets, or hasht in stews; "Their works, a light thro' ages to go,— "Themselves, eaten up by Type and Co.!"

While thus I moralized, on they went, Finding the fare most excellent: And all so kindly, brother to brother, Helping the tidbits to each other: "A slice of Southey let me send you"— "This cut of Campbell I recommend you"— "And here, my friends, is a treat indeed, "The immortal Wordsworth fricasseed!" Thus having, the cormorants, fed some time, Upon joints of poetry—all of the prime— With also (as Type in a whisper averred it) "Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as preferred it"— They rested awhile, to recruit their force, Then pounced, like kites, on the second course, Which was singing-birds merely—Moore and others— Who all went the way of their larger brothers; And, numerous now tho' such songsters be, 'Twas really quite distressing to see A whole dishful of Toms—Moore, Dibdin, Bayly,— Bolted by Type and Co. so gayly!

Nor was this the worst—I shudder to think What a scene was disclosed when they came to drink. The warriors of Odin, as every one knows, Used to drink out of skulls of slaughtered foes: And Type's old port, to my horror I found, Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round. And still as each well-filled cranium came, A health was pledged to its owner's name; While Type said slyly, midst general laughter, "We eat them up first, then drink to them after." There was no standing this—incensed I broke From my bonds of sleep, and indignant woke, Exclaiming, "Oh shades of other times, "Whose voices still sound, like deathless chimes, "Could you e'er have foretold a day would be, "When a dreamer of dreams should live to see "A party of sleek and honest John Bulls "Hobnobbing each other in poets' skulls!"

[1] Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.



CHURCH EXTENSION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

Sir—A well-known classical traveller, while employed in exploring, some time since, the supposed site of the Temple of Diana of Ephesus, was so fortunate, in the course of his researches, as to light upon a very ancient bark manuscript, which has turned out, on examination, to be part of an old Ephesian newspaper;—a newspaper published, as you will see, so far back as the time when Demetrius, the great Shrine-Extender,[1] flourished.

I am, Sir, yours, etc.

EPHESIAN GAZETTE.

Second edition.

Important event for the rich and religious! Great Meeting of Silversmiths held in Queen Square;— Church Extension, their object,—the excitement prodigious;— Demetrius, head man of the craft, takes the chair!

Third edition.

The Chairman still up, when our devil came away; Having prefaced his speech with the usual state prayer, That the Three-headed Dian would kindly, this day, Take the Silversmiths' Company under her care.

Being askt by some low, unestablisht divines, "When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?" He manfully answered, "Let us build the shrines,[2] "And we care not if flocks are found for them or not."

He then added—to show that the Silversmiths' Guild Were above all confined and intolerant views— "Only pay thro' the nose to the altars we build, "You may pray thro' the nose to what altars you choose."

This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer's lip (Tho' a tolerance mixt with due taste for the till)— So much charmed all the holders of scriptural scrip, That their shouts of "Hear!" "Hear!" are re-echoing still.

Fourth edition.

Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phoebus Are going dog-cheap—may be had for a rebus. Old Dian's, as usual, outsell all the rest;— But Venus's also are much in request.

[1] "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen: whom he called together with the workmen of like occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth[...to be completed...

[2] The "shrines" are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples.



LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

As news from Olympus has grown rather rare, Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to touch there, We extract for our readers the intelligence given, In our latest accounts from that ci-devant Heaven— That realm of the By-gones, where still sit in state Old god-heads and nod-heads now long out of date.

Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o'er, Seems to find immortality rather a bore; Tho' he still asks for news of earth's capers and crimes, And reads daily his old fellow-Thunderer, the Times. He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-peckt are, And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration, And packt off to earth on a puff speculation. The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim, Since bards lookt to Bentley and Colburn, not him. So he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags. Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the Mags; Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to linger in't, From which men could guess that the god had a finger in't.

There are other small facts, well deserving attention, Of which our Olympic despatches make mention. Poor Bacchus is still very ill, they allege, Having never recovered the Temperance Pledge. "What, the Irish!" he cried—"those I lookt to the most! "If they give up the spirit, I give up the ghost:" While Momus, who used of the gods to make fun, Is turned Socialist now and declares there are none!

But these changes, tho' curious, are all a mere farce Compared to the new "casus belli" of Mars, Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet, Uncheered by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot! In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow, Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row:" But the joke wouldn't take—the whole world had got wiser; Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser; And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot, Without very well knowing for whom or for what. The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing, Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King; While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard to gain, Nobody's left to fight with, but Lord Cardigan.

'Tis needless to say then how monstrously happy Old Mars has been made by what's now on the tapis; How much it delights him to see the French rally, In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali; Well knowing that Satan himself could not find A confection of mischief much more to his mind Than the old Bonnet Rouge and the Bashaw combined. Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were attackers, Whatever their cause, that they didn't find backers; While any slight care for Humanity's woes May be soothed by that "Art Diplomatique," which shows How to come in the most approved method to blows.

This is all for to-day—whether Mars is much vext At his friend Thiers's exit, we'll know by our next.



THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

Our earth, as it rolls thro' the regions of space, Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny; And poor human life runs the same sort of race, Being sad on one side—on the other side, funny.

Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie, To weep o'er the woes of Macready;—but scarce Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy past from the eye, When lo! we're all laughing in fits at the Farce.

And still let us laugh—preach the world as it may— Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow; Heroics are very grand things in their way, But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow.

For instance, what sermon on human affairs Could equal the scene that took place t'other day 'Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs— The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied, And whose worship not even among Christians declines, In our senate thou'st languisht since Sheridan died, But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits, And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at! Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits, Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?

And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave— A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read; While he laughs, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave, We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.

Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing To teach other bishops to "seek the right way;"[1] And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing, Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.

For our parts, gravity's good for the soul, Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on, We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll," Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

[1] "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and N. E. you had turned about," etc.—SYDNEY SMITH'S Last Letter to the Bishop of London.



THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.

What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes, And, better still, a man of guineas, To talk of "patrons," in these times, When authors thrive like spinning-jennies, And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no—those times are past away, When, doomed in upper floors to star it. The bard inscribed to lords his lay,— Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret. No more he begs with air dependent. His "little bark may sail attendant" Under some lordly skipper's steerage; But launched triumphant in the Row, Or taken by Murray's self in tow. Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail Is whiskt from England by the gale. But bears on board some authors, shipt For foreign shores, all well equipt With proper book-making machinery, To sketch the morals, manners, scenery, Of all such lands as they shall see, Or not see, as the case may be:— It being enjoined on all who go To study first Miss Martineau, And learn from her the method true,[too. To do one's books—and readers, For so this nymph of nous and nerve Teaches mankind "How to Observe;" And, lest mankind at all should swerve, Teaches them also "What to Observe."

No, no, my friend—it can't be blinkt— The Patron is a race extinct; As dead as any Megatherion That ever Buckland built a theory on. Instead of bartering in this age Our praise for pence and patronage, We authors now more prosperous elves, Have learned to patronize ourselves; And since all-potent Puffing's made The life of song, the soul of trade. More frugal of our praises grown, We puff no merits but our own.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise Which critics blew in former days, Our modern puffs are of a kind That truly, really raise the wind; And since they've fairly set in blowing, We find them the best trade-winds going. 'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy As her old haunts near Aganippe, The Muse now taking to the till Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill (Far handier than the Hill of Pindus, As seen from bard's back attic windows): And swallowing there without cessation Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration, Touches the notes for each new theme, While still fresh "change comes o'er her dream."

What Steam is on the deep—and more— Is the vast power of Puff on shore; Which jumps to glory's future tenses Before the present even commences; And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us Before the world has read one line of us. In old times, when the God of Song Drove his own two-horse team along, Carrying inside a bard or two, Bookt for posterity "all thro';"— Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes, (Like yours, my friend,) for after-times— So slow the pull to Fame's abode, That folks oft slept upon the road;— And Homer's self, sometimes, they say, Took to his night-cap on the way. Ye Gods! how different is the story With our new galloping sons of glory, Who, scorning all such slack and slow time, Dash to posterity in no time! Raise but one general blast of Puff To start your author—that's enough. In vain the critics set to watch him Try at the starting post to catch him: He's off—the puffers carry it hollow— The critics, if they please, may follow. Ere they've laid down their first positions, He's fairly blown thro' six editions! In vain doth Edinburgh dispense Her blue and yellow pestilence (That plague so awful in my time To young and touchy sons of rhyme)— The Quarterly, at three months' date, To catch the Unread One, comes too late; And nonsense, littered in a hurry, Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray. But bless me!—while I thus keep fooling, I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling." That postman too (who, truth to tell, 'Mong men of letters bears the bell,) Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally That I must stop— Yours sempiternally.



THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.

BY LORD STANLEY.

(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)

"Evil, be thou my good." —MILTON.

How various are the inspirations Of different men in different nations! As genius prompts to good or evil, Some call the Muse, some raise the devil. Old Socrates, that pink of sages, Kept a pet demon on board wages To go about with him incog., And sometimes give his wits a jog. So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know, Keeps fresh relays of imps below, To forward from that nameless spot; His inspirations, hot and hot.

But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings— Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings— Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will, I'd show you mischief prettier still; Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks With age's sourest politics; The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall, Both duly mixt, and matchless all; A compound naught in history reaches But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform, Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm, Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee— No livelier lackey could they find thee. And, Goddess, as I'm well aware, So mischief's done, you care not where, I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle In Paddyland to play the Pickle; Having got credit for inventing A new, brisk method of tormenting— A way they call the Stanley fashion, Which puts all Ireland in a passion; So neat it hits the mixture due Of injury and insult too; So legibly it bears upon't The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.

Ireland, we're told, means the land of Ire; And why she's so, none need inquire, Who sees her millions, martial, manly, Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley. Already in the breeze I scent The whiff of coming devilment; Of strife, to me more stirring far Than the Opium or the Sulphur war, Or any such drug ferments are. Yes—sweeter to this Tory soul Than all such pests, from pole to pole, Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;" And thanks to practice on that land I stir it with a master-hand.

Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!" How Caravats and Shanavests Shall swarm from out their mountain nests, With all their merry moonlight brothers, To whom the Church (step-dame to others) Hath been the best of nursing mothers. Again o'er Erin's rich domain Shall Rockites and right reverends reign; And both, exempt from vulgar toil, Between them share that titheful soil; Puzzling ambition which to climb at, The post of Captain, or of Primate.

And so, long life to Church and Co.— Hurrah for mischief!—here we go.



EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.

Dear Lyndhurst,—you'll pardon my making thus free,— But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at, Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private— Namely, never to let the old regions of riot, Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet, But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her To love more than meat, drink, or clothing—hot water.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it, Is simply, that you make the law and I break it; And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two Played so well into each other's hands as we do; Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture, Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture. Not Birmingham's self—to her shame be it spoken— E'er made things more neatly contrived to be broken; And hence, I confess, in this island religious, The breakage of laws—and of heads is prodigious.

And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,— Tho', of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by; As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport, Some rector—a cool hand at pistols and port, Who "keeps dry" his powder, but never himself— One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf, Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges, Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges; Except when some hero of this sort turned out, Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs[1] about— A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery, Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery; So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow, To have bit off so rich a receipt for a row;— Except for such rigs turning up, now and then, I was actually growing the dullest of men; And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase, Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace. Like you, Reformation in Church and in State Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate. If once these curst Ministers do as they like, All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike, And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors were worth.

But we must not despair—even already Hope sees You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you, Who have boxt the whole compass of party right thro', And care not one farthing, as all the world knows, So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it blows. Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare My own small resources with thine to compare: Not even Jerry Diddler, in "raising the wind," durst Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst.

But, hark, there's a shot!—some parsonic practitioner? No—merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner; The Courts having now, with true law erudition, Put even Rebellion itself "in commission." As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor, I'll just pay my shot and then fold up this letter. In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks! Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks! Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres, And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers!

[1] Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion.—Chronicle.



CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.[1]

Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more, Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before: For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew, You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do; So ready they're always, when dull we are growing, To set our old concert of discord a-going, While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face, To play in such concert the true double-base. I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning To tire of his course of political sinning, And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past, Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last. But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides All reform in himself as in most things besides; And, by using two faces thro' life, all allow, Has acquired face sufficient for any-thing now.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe, My "Lord Harry" himself—who's the leader, we know, Of another red-hot Opposition below— If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs, We shall soon such a region of devilment make it, That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it. Even already—long life to such Bigwigs, say I, For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die—

He has served our right riotous cause by a speech Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach; As it shows off both his and my merits alike, Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike; Mixes up, with a skill which one can't but admire, The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire, And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner, Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner! Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die; Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly; Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered. Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood, But "You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;" While voices, from sweet Connemara afar, Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, "We are!" And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it, Still the echoes may quote Law authority for it, And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion So he, in the end, touches cash "for the opinion."

But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now, Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their row. They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin, They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.

[1] The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.



POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.



LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred, And wept for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won, And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done, And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.

Even now if one harsher emotion intrude, 'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state, Had known what he was—and, content to be good, Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great.

So, left thro' their own little orbit to move, His years might have rolled inoffensive away; His children might still have been blest with his love, And England would ne'er have been curst with his sway.



TO THE EDITOR OF "THE MORNING CHRONICLE."

Sir,—In order to explain the following Fragment, it is necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, "FUM, The Chinese Bird of Royalty," is a principal ornament. I am, Sir, yours, etc. MUM.

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM, Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM, In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?) Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.— Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation (The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation); Both, full-crawed Legitimates—both, birds of prey, Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way 'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh. While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea, Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM.—are sacred to thee So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton, The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome Where so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home,"— And when, turning, he saw Bishop L—GE, "Zooks, it is." Quoth the Bird, "Yes—I know him—a Bonze, by his phiz- "And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low "Can be none but our round-about god-head, fat Fo!" It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,[1] Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head, And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed, Which so dimmed the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye, That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!"

But a truce to digression;—these Birds of a feather Thus talkt, t'other night, on State matters together; (The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for't, His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,) "I say, HUM," says FUM—FUM, of course, spoke Chinese, But, bless you! that's nothing—at Brighton one sees Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease— "I say, HUM, how fares it with Royalty now? "Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney-or how?" (The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree Under BARRYMORE, YARMOUTH, and young Master L—E,) "As for us in Pekin"—here, a devil of a din From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin, Castlereagh (whom FUM calls the Confucius of Prose), Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose.

(Nota bene—his Lordship and LIVERPOOL come, In collateral lines, from the old Mother HUM, CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug—LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum,) The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH. Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away! Thro' the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby, Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.

[1] In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his Royal Highness.



LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.

principibus placuisse viris! —HORAT.

Yes, grief will have way—but the fast falling tear Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career. And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:—

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave;— Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, And spirits so mean in the great and high-born; To think what a long line of titles may follow The relics of him who died—friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the funeral array Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow:— How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, Whose palls shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!

And Thou too whose life, a sick epicure's dream, Incoherent and gross, even grosser had past, Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:—

No! not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine;— No! not for the riches of all who despise thee, Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence mine;—

Would I suffer what—even in the heart that thou hast— All mean as it is—must have consciously burned. When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last, And which found all his wants at an end, was returned![1]

"Was this then the fate,"—future ages will say, When some names shall live but in history's curse; When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day Be forgotten as fools or remembered as worse;—

"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, "The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall, "The orator,—dramatist,—minstrel,—who ran "Thro' each mode of the lyre and was master of all;—

"Whose mind was an essence compounded with art "From the finest and best of all other men's powers;- "Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart, "And could call up its sunshine or bring down its showers;—

"Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light, "Played round every subject and shone as it played;— "Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, "Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;—

"Whose eloquence—brightening whatever it tried, "Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,— "Was as rapid, as deep and as brilliant a tide, "As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!"

Yes—such was the man and so wretched his fate;— And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve, Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great, And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve.

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh;[2] Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they, First feed on thy brains and then leave thee to die!

[1] The sum was two hundred pounds—offered when Sheridan could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends.

[2] Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them,—History of Poland.



EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN.[1]

CONCERNING SOME FOUL PLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION.[2]

"Ahi, mio Ben!" —METASTASIO.[3]

What! BEN, my old hero, is this your renown? Is this the new go?—kick a man when he's down! When the foe has knockt under, to tread on him then— By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN! "Foul! foul!" all the lads of the Fancy exclaim— CHARLEY SHOCK is electrified—BELCHER spits flame— And MOLYNEUX—ay, even BLACKY[4] cries "shame!"

Time was, when JOHN BULL little difference spied 'Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side: When he found (such his humor in fighting and eating) His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating. But this comes, Master BEN, of your curst foreign notions, Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions; Your Noyaus, Curacoas, and the devil knows what— (One swig of Blue Ruin[5] is worth the whole lot!)

Your great and small crosses—my eyes, what a brood! (A cross-buttock from me would do some of them good!) Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise, Of pure English claret is left in your corpus; And (as JIM says) the only one trick, good or bad, Of the Fancy you're up to, is fibbing, my lad. Hence it comes,—BOXIANA, disgrace to thy page!— Having floored, by good luck, the first swell of the age, Having conquered the prime one, that milled us all round, You kickt him, old BEN, as he gaspt on the ground! Ay—just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any— Kickt him and jawed him and lagged[6] him to Botany! Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger![7] you, who, alas! Doubled up by the dozen those Moun-seers in brass, On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes, When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes, Look down upon BEN—see him, dung-hill all o'er, Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more! Out, cowardly spooney!—again and again, By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN. To show the white feather is many men's doom, But, what of one feather?—BEN shows a whole Plume.

[1] A nickname given, at this time, to the Prince Regent.

[2] Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St. Helena.

[3] Tom, I suppose, was "assisted" to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going.

[4] Names and nicknames of celebrated pugilists at that time.

[5] Gin.

[6] Transported.

[7] A Life-Guardsman, one of the Fancy who distinguished himself and was killed in the memorable set-to at Waterloo.



FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

tu Regibus alas eripe VERGIL, Georg. lib. iv.

—Clip the wings Of these high-flying arbitrary Kings. DRYDEN'S Translation.



DEDICATION.

TO LORD BYRON.

Dear Lord Byron,—Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your eyes, than that of reminding you of the short time we passed together at Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, I am sure, receive the dedication of it with pleasure, and believe that I am,

My dear Lord,

Ever faithfully yours,

T. B.



PREFACE.

Though it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who have lately done me the honor of electing me their Secretary) that I should prefix my name to the following Miscellany, it is but fair to them and to myself to state, that, except in the "painful pre-eminence" of being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a distinction in the title-page is not greater than that of any other gentleman, who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume.

I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account of the origin and objects of our Institution, the names and characters of the different members, etc.—but as I am at present preparing for the press the First Volume of the "Transactions of the Pococurante Society," I shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject, and content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, to a Song which will be found at the end of this work and which is sung to us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician,) either "Nancy Dawson" or "He stole away the Bacon."

It may be as well also to state for the information of those critics who attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to such assailants, than is contained in the three words "non curat Hippoclides" (meaning, in English, "Hippoclides does not care a fig,") which were spoken two thousand years ago by the first founder of Poco- curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading dictum of the sect.

THOMAS BROWN.



FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.



FABLE I.

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A DREAM.

I've had a dream that bodes no good Unto the Holy Brotherhood. I may be wrong, but I confess— As far as it is right or lawful For one, no conjurer, to guess— It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood A beautiful Ice Palace stood, A dome of frost-work, on the plan Of that once built by Empress Anne,[1] Which shone by moonlight—as the tale is— Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnisht all And lighted as the best on land are, I dreamt there was a splendid Ball, Given by the Emperor Alexander, To entertain with all due zeal, Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a Regard so kind for Europe's weal, At Troppau, Laybach and Verona.

The thought was happy—and designed To hint how thus the human Mind May, like the stream imprisoned there, Be checkt and chilled, till it can bear The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it. And all were pleased and cold and stately, Shivering in grand illumination— Admired the superstructure greatly, Nor gave one thought to the foundation. Much too the Tsar himself exulted, To all plebeian fears a stranger, For, Madame Krudener, when consulted, Had pledged her word there was no danger So, on he capered, fearless quite, Thinking himself extremely clever, And waltzed away with all his might, As if the Frost would last forever.

Just fancy how a bard like me, Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled To see that goodly company, At such a ticklish sport assembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded My loyal soul, at all unfounded— For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy Were seized with an ill-omened dripping, And o'er the floors, now growing glassy, Their Holinesses took to slipping. The Tsar, half thro' a Polonaise, Could scarce get on for downright stumbling; And Prussia, tho' to slippery ways Well used, was cursedly near tumbling.