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The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore by Thomas Moore et al

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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


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.



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?

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.



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.



"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 a_propos_.
Sir Thomas More had an only son,
And a foolish lad was that only one,
And Sir Thomas said one day to his wife,
"My dear, I can't but wish you joy.
"For you 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."



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

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

[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.


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 _wise_acres 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.



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!"



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."


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


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!



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.




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.




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.



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 _Aris_tocratodon--
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 _Aris_tocratodons, 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.

* * * * *


No. 1.



"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.


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 _un_paid 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."


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,

[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_."


"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!


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.



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.


_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.


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

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


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


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_.


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.


"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_.



"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!


_The Quarterly Review_,

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."--



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.



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.


_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.


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.


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?

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