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

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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_.



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.




"Evil, be thou my good."

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.


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



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.



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.


_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.


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,
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


_principibus placuisse viris_!

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_.



_"Ahi, mio Ben!"_

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.


_tu Regibus alas eripe_
VERGIL, _Georg. lib_. iv.

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



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

My dear Lord,

Ever faithfully yours,

T. B.


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






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.

Yet still 'twas, _who_ could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.--
And now, to an Italian air,
This precious brace would, hand in hand, go;
Now--while old Louis, from his chair,
Intreated them his toes to spare--
Called loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had,
At which they all set to, like mad!
Never were Kings (tho' small the expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies)
So out of all their princely senses,
But ah! that dance--that Spanish dance--
Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance
Shot from an angry Southern sun,
A light thro' all the chambers flamed,
Astonishing old Father Frost,
Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed,
"A thaw, by Jove--we're lost, we're lost!
"Run, France--a second _Water_loo
"Is come to drown you-_sauve qui peut_!"

Why, why will monarchs caper so
In palaces without foundations?--
Instantly all was in a flow,
Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations--
Those Royal Arms, that lookt so nice,
Cut out in the resplendent ice--
Those Eagles, handsomely provided
With double heads for double dealings--
How fast the globes and sceptres glided
Out of their claws on all the ceilings!
Proud Prussia's double bird of prey
Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away;
While--just like France herself, when she
Proclaims how great her naval skill is--
Poor Louis's drowning fleurs-de-lys
Imagined themselves _water_-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves,
But--still more fatal execution--
The Great Legitimates themselves
Seemed in a state of dissolution.
The indignant Tsar--when just about
To issue a sublime Ukase,
"Whereas all light must be kept out"--
Dissolved to nothing in its blaze.
Next Prussia took his turn to melt,
And, while his lips illustrious felt
The influence of this southern air,
Some word, like "Constitution"--long
Congealed in frosty silence there--
Came slowly thawing from his tongue.
While Louis, lapsing by degrees,
And sighing out a faint adieu
To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese
And smoking _fondus_, quickly grew,
Himself, into a _fondu_ too;--
Or like that goodly King they make
Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake,
When, in some urchin's mouth, alas!
It melts into a shapeless mass!

In short, I scarce could count a minute,
Ere the bright dome and all within it,
Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone--
And nothing now was seen or heard
But the bright river, rushing on,
Happy as an enfranchised bird,
And prouder of that natural ray,
Shining along its chainless way--
More proudly happy thus to glide
In simple grandeur to the sea,
Than when, in sparkling fetters tied,
'Twas deckt with all that kingly pride
Could bring to light its slavery!

Such is my dream--and, I confess,
I tremble at its awfulness.
That Spanish Dance--that southern beam--
But I say nothing--there's my dream--
And Madame Kruedener, the she-prophet,
May make just what she pleases of it.

[1] "It is well-known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the
Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated
had a surprising effect."--PINKERTON.




Where Kings have been by mob-elections
Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see
What different and what odd perfections
Men have required in Royalty.
Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy,
Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight;--
Some wisht them tall, some thought your Dumpy,
Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.[1]
The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said,
Prefer what's called a jolterhead:[2]
The Egyptians weren't at all partic'lar,
So that their Kings had _not_ red hair--
_This_ fault not even the greatest stickler
For the blood-royal well could bear.

A thousand more such illustrations
Might be adduced from various nations.
But, 'mong the many tales they tell us,
Touching the acquired or natural right
Which some men have to rule their fellows,
There's one which I shall here recite:--


There was a land--to _name_ the place
Is neither now my wish nor duty--
Where reigned a certain Royal race,
By right of their superior beauty.

What was the cut legitimate
Of these great persons' chins and noses,
By right of which they ruled the state,
No history I have seen discloses.

But so it was--a settled case--
Some Act of Parliament, past snugly,
Had voted _them_ a beauteous race,
And all their faithful subjects ugly.

As rank indeed stood high or low,
Some change it made in visual organs;
Your Peers were decent--Knights, so so--
But all your _common_ people, gorgons!

Of course, if any knave but hinted
That the King's nose was turned awry,
Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted--
The judges doomed that knave to die.

But rarely things like this occurred,
The people to their King were duteous,
And took it, on his Royal word,
That they were frights and He was beauteous.

The cause whereof, among all classes,
Was simply this--these island elves
Had never yet seen looking-glasses,
And therefore did not _know themselves_.

Sometimes indeed their neighbors' faces
Might strike them as more full of reason,
More fresh than those in certain places--
But, Lord, the very thought was treason!

Besides, howe'er we love our neighbor,
And take his face's part, 'tis known
We ne'er so much in earnest labor,
As when the face attackt's our own.

So on they went--the crowd believing--
(As crowds well governed always do)
Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving--
So old the joke, they thought 'twas true.

But jokes, we know, if they too far go,
Must have an end--and so, one day,
Upon that coast there was a cargo
Of looking-glasses cast away.

'Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere,
Had laid their wicked heads together,
And forced that ship to founder there,--
While some believe it was the weather.

However this might be, the freight
Was landed without fees or duties;
And from that hour historians date
The downfall of the Race of Beauties.

The looking-glasses got about,
And grew so common thro' the land,
That scarce a tinker could walk out,
Without a mirror in his hand.

Comparing faces, morning, noon,
And night, their constant occupation--
By dint of looking-glasses, soon,
They grew a most reflecting nation.

In vain the Court, aware of errors
In all the old, establisht mazards,
Prohibited the use of mirrors
And tried to break them at all hazards:--

In vain--their laws might just as well
Have been waste paper on the shelves;
That fatal freight had broke the spell;
People had lookt--and knew themselves.

If chance a Duke, of birth sublime,
Presumed upon his ancient face,
(Some calf-head, ugly from all time,)
They popt a mirror to his Grace;--

Just hinting, by that gentle sign,
How little Nature holds it true,
That what is called an ancient line,
Must be the line of Beauty too.

From Dukes' they past to regal phizzes,
Compared them proudly with their own,
And cried. "How _could_ such monstrous quizzes
"In Beauty's name usurp the throne!"--

They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books,
Upon Cosmetical Oeconomy,
Which made the King try various looks,
But none improved his physiognomy.

And satires at the Court were levelled,
And small lampoons, so full of slynesses,
That soon, in short, they quite bedeviled
Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.

At length--but here I drop the veil,
To spare some royal folks' sensations;--
Besides, what followed is the tale
Of all such late-enlightened nations;

Of all to whom old Time discloses
A truth they should have sooner known--
That kings have neither rights nor noses
A whit diviner than their own.

[1] The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their
King.--Munster, "_Cosmog." lib_. iii. p. 164.

[2] "In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable."--_Oriental Field Sports_.



I saw it all in Fancy's glass--
Herself, the fair, the wild magician,
Who bade this splendid day-dream pass,
And named each gliding apparition.

'Twas like a torch-race--such as they
Of Greece performed, in ages gone,
When the fleet youths, in long array,
Past the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw the expectant nations stand,
To catch the coming flame in turn;--
I saw, from ready hand to hand,
The clear tho' struggling glory burn.

And oh! their joy, as it came near,
'Twas in itself a joy to see;--
While Fancy whispered in my ear.
"That torch they pass is Liberty!"

And each, as she received the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.

From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnisht with the fire already,
COLUMBIA caught the boon divine,
And lit a flame, like ALBION'S, steady.

The splendid gift then GALLIA took,
And, like a wild Bacchante, raising
The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,
As she would set the world _a-blazing_!

Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high
Her altar blazed into the air,
That ALBION, to that fire too nigh,
Shrunk back and shuddered at its glare!

Next, SPAIN, so new was light to her,
Leapt at the torch--but, ere the spark
That fell upon her shrine could stir,
'Twas quenched--and all again was dark.

Yet, no--_not_ quenched--a treasure worth
So much to mortals rarely dies:
Again her living light lookt forth,
And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.

Who next received the flame? alas!
Unworthy NAPLES--shame of shames,
That ever thro' such hands should pass
That brightest of all earthly flames!

Scarce had her fingers touched the torch.
When, frighted by the sparks it shed,
Nor waiting even to feel the scorch,
She dropt it to the earth--and fled.

And fallen it might have long remained;
But GREECE, who saw her moment now,
Caught up the prize, tho' prostrate, stained,
And waved it round her beauteous brow.

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er
Her altar, as its flame ascended,
Fair, laurelled spirits seemed to soar,
Who thus in song their voices blended:--

"Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame,
"Divinest gift of Gods to men!
"From GREECE thy earliest splendor came,
"To GREECE thy ray returns again.

"Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round,
"When _dimmed_, revive, when lost, return,
"Till not a shrine thro' earth be found,
"On which thy glories shall not burn."




Of all that, to the sage's survey,
This world presents of topsy-turvy,
There's naught so much disturbs one's patience,
As little minds in lofty stations.
'Tis like that sort of painful wonder.
Which slender columns, laboring under
Enormous arches, give beholders;--
Or those poor Caryatides,
Condemned to smile and stand at ease,
With a whole house upon their shoulders.

If as in some few royal cases,
Small minds are _born_ into such places--
If they are there by Right Divine
Or any such sufficient reason,
Why--Heaven forbid we should repine!--
To wish it otherwise were treason;
Nay, even to see it in a vision,
Would be what lawyers call _misprision_.

SIR ROBERT FILMER saith--and he,
Of course, knew all about the matter--
"Both men and beasts love Monarchy;"
Which proves how rational the latter.
SIDNEY, we know, or wrong or right.
Entirely differed from the Knight:
Nay, hints a King may lose his head.
By slipping awkwardly his bridle:--
But this is treasonous, ill-bred,
And (now-a-days, when Kings are led
In patent snaffles) downright idle.

No, no--it isn't right-line Kings,
(Those sovereign lords in leading strings
Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,)
That move my wrath--'tis your pretenders,
Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth,
Who--not, like t'others, bores by birth,
Establisht _gratia Dei_ blockheads,
Born with three kingdoms in their pockets--
Yet, with a brass that nothing stops,
Push up into the loftiest stations,
And, tho' too dull to manage shops,
Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!

This class it is, that moves my gall,
And stirs up bile, and spleen and all.
While other senseless things appear
To know the limits of their sphere--
While not a cow on earth romances
So much as to conceit she dances--
While the most jumping frog we know of,
Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off--
Your ***s, your ***s dare,
Untrained as are their minds, to set them
To _any_ business, _any_ where,
At _any_ time that fools will let them.

But leave we here these upstart things--
My business is just now with Kings;
To whom and to their right-line glory,
I dedicate the following story.


The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies;
And even when they most condescended to teach,
They packt up their meaning, as they did their mummies,
In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach.

They were also, good people, much given to Kings--
Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery;
But blue-bottle flies were their best beloved things--
As will partly appear in this very short history.

A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say,
To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,)
Stept into a temple at Memphis one day,
To have a short peep at their mystical farces.

He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar,
Made much of, and worshipt, as something divine;
While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter,
Before it lay stabbed at the foot of the shrine.

Surprised at such doings, he whispered his teacher--
"If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask why
"Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature,
"Be thus offered up to a bluebottle Fly?"

"No wonder"--said t'other--"you stare at the sight,
"But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it--
"That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right,
"And that Bullock, the People that's sacrificed to it."




"The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity
must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it
unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must
inevitably be perverted by them."

Thus did SOAME JENYNS--tho' a Tory,
A Lord of Trade and the Plantations;
Feel how Religion's simple glory
Is stained by State associations.

When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles,
Appealed to the benign Divinity;
Then cut them up in protocols,
Made fractions of their very souls--
All in the name of the blest Trinity;
Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER,
That mighty Northern salamander,[1]
Whose icy touch, felt all about,
Puts every fire of Freedom out--
When he, too, winds up his Ukases
With God and the Panagia's praises--
When he, of royal Saints the type,
In holy water dips the sponge,
With which, at one imperial wipe,
He would all human rights expunge;
When LOUIS (whom as King, and eater,
Some name _Dix-huit_, and some _Deshuitres_.)
Calls down "St. Louis's God" to witness
The right, humanity, and fitness
Of sending eighty thousand Solons,
Sages with muskets and laced coats,
To cram instruction, _nolens volens_,
Down the poor struggling Spaniards' throats--
I can't help thinking, (tho' to Kings
I must, of course, like other men, bow,)
That when a Christian monarch brings
Religion's name to gloss these things--
Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow![2]

Or--not so far for facts to roam,
Having a few much nearer home-
When we see Churchmen, who, if askt,
"Must Ireland's slaves be tithed, and taskt,
"And driven, like Negroes or Croats,
"That _you_ may roll in wealth and bliss?"
Look from beneath their shovel hats
With all due pomp and answer "Yes!"
But then, if questioned, "Shall the brand
"Intolerance flings throughout that land,--
"Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow
'Betwixt her palaces and hovels,
"Be ever quenched?"--from the same shovels
Look grandly forth and answer "No."--
Alas, alas! have _these_ a claim
To merciful Religion's name?
If more you seek, go see a bevy
Of bowing parsons at a levee--
(Choosing your time, when straw's before
Some apoplectic bishop's door,)
Then if thou canst with life escape
That rush of lawn, that press of crape,
Just watch their reverences and graces,
As on each smirking suitor frisks,
And say, if those round shining faces
To heaven or earth most turn their disks?
This, this it is--Religion, made,
Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade--
This most ill-matched, unholy _Co_.,
From whence the ills we witness flow;
The war of many creeds with one--
The extremes of _too_ much faith and none--
Till, betwixt ancient trash and new,
'Twixt Cant and Blasphemy--the two
Rank ills with which this age is curst--
We can no more tell which is worst,
Than erst could Egypt, when so rich
In various plagues, determine which
She thought most pestilent and vile,
Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle,
Croaking their native mud-notes loud,
Or her fat locusts, like a cloud
Of pluralists, obesely lowering,
At once benighting and devouring!--

This--this it is--and here I pray
Those sapient wits of the Reviews.
Who make us poor, dull authors say,
Not what we mean, but what they choose;
Who to our most abundant shares
Of nonsense add still more of theirs,
And are to poets just such evils
As caterpillars find those flies,[3]
Which, not content to sting like devils,
Lay eggs upon their backs like wise--
To guard against such foul deposits
Of other's meaning in my rhymes,
(A thing more needful here because it's
A subject, ticklish in these times)--
I, here, to all such wits make known,
Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory,
'Tis _this_ Religion--this alone--
I aim at in the following story:--


When Royalty was young and bold,
Ere, touched by Time, he had become--
If 'tisn't civil to say _old_,
At least, a _ci-devant jeune homme_;

One evening, on some wild pursuit
Driving along, he chanced to see
Religion, passing by on foot,
And took him in his vis-a-vis.

This said Religion was a Friar,
The humblest and the best of men,
Who ne'er had notion or desire
Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"--quoth Royalty, who rather
Enjoyed a masquerading joke--
"I say, suppose, my good old father,
"You lend me for a while your cloak."

The Friar consented--little knew
What tricks the youth had in his head;
Besides, was rather tempted too
By a laced coat he got instead.

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,
Scampering like mad about the town;
Broke windows, shivered lamps to smash,
And knockt whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they, whose heads were broke,
Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore,"
Except that 'twas Religion's cloak
The gentleman, who crackt them, wore,

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turned
By the laced coat, grew frisky too;
Lookt big--his former habits spurned--
And stormed about, as great men do:

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses--
Said "Damn you" often, or as bad--
Laid claim to other people's purses--
In short, grew either knaves or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting,
And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense, then sitting,
Summoned the culprits both before it.

Where, after hours in wrangling spent
(As Courts must wrangle to decide well).
Religion to St. Luke's was sent,
And Royalty packt off to Bridewell.

With this proviso--should they be
Restored, in due time, to their senses,
They both must give security,
In future, against such offences--
Religion ne'er to _lend his cloak_,
Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;
And Royalty to crack his joke,--
But _not_ to crack poor people's heads too.

[1] The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by
its natural coldness and moisture.

[2] A well-known publisher of irreligious books.

[3] "The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the
back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings
into its body--at every dart they deposit an egg"--GOLDSMITH.




Novella, a young Bolognese,
The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,[1]
Who had with all the subtleties
Of old and modern jurists stockt her,
Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said,
And over hearts held such dominion,
That when her father, sick in bed,
Or busy, sent her, in his stead,
To lecture on the Code Justinian,
She had a curtain drawn before her,
Lest, if her charms were seen, the students
Should let their young eyes wander o'er her,
And quite forget their jurisprudence.
Just so it is with Truth, when _seen_,
Too dazzling far,--'tis from behind
A light, thin allegoric screen,
She thus can safest leach mankind.


In Thibet once there reigned, we're told,
A little Lama, one year old--
Raised to the throne, that realm to bless,
Just when his little Holiness
Had cut--as near as can be reckoned--
Some say his _first_ tooth, some his _second_.
Chronologers and Nurses vary,
Which proves historians should be wary.
We only know the important truth,
His Majesty _had_ cut a tooth.
And much his subjects were enchanted,--
As well all Lamas' subjects _may_ be,
And would have given their heads, if wanted,
To make tee-totums for the baby.
Throned as he was by Right Divine--
(What Lawyers call _Jure Divino_,
Meaning a right to yours and mine
And everybody's goods and rhino.)
Of course, his faithful subjects' purses
Were ready with their aids and succors;
Nothing was seen but pensioned Nurses;
And the land groaned with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet,
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate,
Ye Gods! what room for long debates
Upon the Nursery Estimates!
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes
And pinafores, in nightly battles!
What calls for papers to expose
The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!
But no--if Thibet _had_ M.P.s,
They were far better bred than these;
Nor gave the slightest opposition,
During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm;--for, just when he,
Had reached the alarming age of three,
When Royal natures and no doubt
Those of _all_ noble beasts break out--
The Lama, who till then was quiet,
Showed symptoms of a taste for riot;
And, ripe for mischief, early, late,
Without regard for Church or State,
Made free with whosoe'er came nigh;
Tweakt the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
Turned all the Judges' wigs awry,
And trod on the old Generals' toes;
Pelted the Bishops with hot buns,
Rode cock-horse on the City maces,
And shot from little devilish guns,
Hard peas into the subjects' faces.
In short, such wicked pranks he played,
And' grew so mischievous, God bless him!
That his Chief Nurse--with even the aid
Of an Archbishop--was afraid.
When in these moods, to comb or dress him.
Nay, even the persons most inclined
Thro' thick and thin, for Kings to stickle,
Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind;
Which they did _not_) an odious pickle.

At length some patriot lords--a breed
Of animals they've got in Thibet,
Extremely rare and fit indeed
For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit--
Some patriot lords, who saw the length
To which things went, combined their strength,
And penned a manly, plain and free,
Remonstrance to the Nursery;
Protesting warmly that they yielded
To none that ever went before 'em,
In loyalty to him who wielded
The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em;
That, as for treason, 'twas a thing
That made them almost sick to think of--
That they and theirs stood by the King,
Throughout his measles and his chincough,
When others, thinking him consumptive,
Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive!--
But, still--tho' much admiring Kings
(And chiefly those in leading-strings),
They saw, with shame and grief of soul,
There was no longer now the wise
And constitutional control
Of _birch_ before their ruler's eyes;
But that of late such pranks and tricks
And freaks occurred the whole day long,
As all but men with bishoprics
Allowed, in even a King, were wrong.
Wherefore it was they humbly prayed
That Honorable Nursery,
That such reforms be henceforth made,
As all good men desired to see;--
In other words (lest they might seem
Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme
For putting all such pranks to rest,
And in its bud the mischief nipping--
They ventured humbly to suggest
His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read, no Congreve rocket,
Discharged into the Gallic trenches
E'er equalled the tremendous shock it
Produced upon the Nursery benches.
The Bishops, who of course had votes,
By right of age and petticoats,
Were first and foremost in the fuss--
"What, whip a Lama! suffer birch
"To touch his sacred--infamous!
"Deistical!--assailing thus
"The fundamentals of the Church!--
"No--no--such patriot plans as these,
"(So help them Heaven--and their Sees!)
"They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other
Grave ladies of the Nursery side,
Spread thro' the land, till, such a pother,
Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history's page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state,
Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords' advice, tho' late,
Was put at last in execution.
The Parliament of Thibet met--
The little Lama, called before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,
And (as the _Nursery Gazette_
Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And tho', 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal Martyrdom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word's pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince
So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
That her long line of Lamas, since,
Have all behaved themselves _much_ better.

[1] Andreas.




Tho' soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,
Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too _much_ on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes _think_--
Nay, Colonels have been known to _reason_,--

And reasoners, whether clad in pink
Or red or blue, are on the brink
(Nine cases out of ten) of treason

Not many soldiers, I believe, are
As fond of liberty as Mina;
Else--woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever
Once turns into a _Scarletina_!
For then--but hold--'tis best to veil
My meaning in the following tale:--


A Lord of Persia, rich and great,
Just come into a large estate,
Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors,
Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers,
Whose fires, beneath his very nose,
In heretic combustion rose.
But Lords of Persia can, no doubt,
Do what they will--so, one fine morning,
He turned the rascal Ghebers out,
First giving a few kicks for warning.
Then, thanking Heaven most piously,
He knockt their Temple to the ground,
Blessing himself for joy to see
Such Pagan ruins strewed around.
But much it vext my Lord to find,
That, while all else obeyed his will,
The Fire these Ghebers left behind,
Do what he would, kept burning still.
Fiercely he stormed, as if his frown
Could scare the bright insurgent down;
But, no--such fires are headstrong things,
And care not much for Lords or Kings.
Scarce could his Lordship well contrive
The flashes in _one_ place to smother,
Before--hey presto!--all alive,
They sprung up freshly in another.

At length when, spite of prayers and damns,
'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him,
His stewards came, with low _salams_,
Offering, by _contract_, to provide him
Some large Extinguishers, (a plan,
Much used, they said, at Ispahan,
Vienna, Petersburg--in short,
Wherever Light's forbid at court),
Machines no Lord should be without,
Which would at once put promptly out
All kinds of fires,--from staring, stark
Volcanoes to the tiniest spark;
Till all things slept as dull and dark,
As in a great Lord's neighborhood
'Twas right and fitting all things should.

Accordingly, some large supplies
Of these Extinguishers were furnisht
(All of the true Imperial size),
And there, in rows, stood black and burnisht,
Ready, where'er a gleam but shone
Of light or fire, to be clapt on.

But ah! how lordly wisdom errs,
In trusting to extinguishers!
One day, when he had left all sure,
(At least, so thought he) dark, secure--
The flame, at all its exits, entries,
Obstructed to his heart's content,
And black extinguishers, like sentries,
Placed over every dangerous vent--
Ye Gods, imagine his amaze,
His wrath, his rage, when, on returning,
He found not only the old blaze,
Brisk as before, crackling and burning,--
Not only new, young conflagrations,
Popping up round in various stations--
But still more awful, strange and dire,
The Extinguishers themselves on fire!![1]
They, they--those trusty, blind machines
His Lordship had so long been praising,
As, under Providence, the means
Of keeping down all lawless blazing,
Were now, themselves--alas, too true,
The shameful fact--turned blazers too,
And by a change as odd as cruel
Instead of dampers, served for fuel!
Thus, of his only hope bereft,
"What," said the great man, "must be done?"--
All that, in scrapes like this, is left
To great men is--to cut and run.
So run he did; while to their grounds,
The banisht Ghebers blest returned;
And, tho' their Fire had broke its bounds,
And all abroad now wildly burned,
Yet well could they, who loved the flame,
Its wandering, its excess reclaim;
And soon another, fairer Dome
Arose to be its sacred home,
Where, cherisht, guarded, not confined,
The living glory dwelt inshrined,
And, shedding lustre strong, but even,
Tho' born of earth, grew worthy heaven.


The moral hence my Muse infers
Is, that such Lords are simple elves,
In trusting to Extinguishers,
That are combustible themselves.

[1] The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant _mots_,
which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the "Letters
to Julia,"--a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of
playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.



The money raised--the army ready--
Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy
Valiantly braying in the van,
To the old tune "_"Eh, eh, Sire Ane_!"[1]--
Naught wanting, but some _coup_ dramatic,
To make French _sentiment_ explode,
Bring in, at once, the _gout_ fanatic,
And make the war "_la derniere mode_"--
Instantly, at the _Pavillon Marsan_,
Is held an Ultra consultation--
What's to be done, to help the farce on?
What stage-effect, what decoration,
To make this beauteous France forget,
In one, grand, glorious _pirouette_,
All she had sworn to but last week,
And, with a cry of _Magnifique_!"
Rush forth to this, or _any_ war,
Without inquiring once--"What for?"
After some plans proposed by each.
Lord Chateaubriand made a speech,
(Quoting, to show what men's rights are,
Or rather what men's rights _should be_,
From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Tsar,
And other friends to Liberty,)
Wherein he--having first protested
'Gainst humoring the mob--suggested
(As the most high-bred plan he saw
For giving the new War _eclat_)
A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame,
To be got up at Notre Dame,
In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness!
Had by his _hilt_ acquired such fame,
'Twas hoped that he as little shyness
Would show, when to _the point_ he came,)
Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted,
Be christened _Hero_, ere he started;
With power, by Royal Ordonnance,
To bear that name--at least in France.
Himself--the Viscount Chateaubriand--
(To help the affair with more _esprit_ on)
Offering, for this baptismal rite,
Some of his own famed Jordan water[2]--
(Marie Louise not having quite
Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her.)
The baptism, in _this_ case, to be
Applied to that extremity,
Which Bourbon heroes most expose;
And which (as well all Europe knows)
Happens to be, in this Defender
Of the true Faith, extremely tender.

Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme
Too rash and premature should seem--
If thus discounting heroes, _on_ tick--
This glory, by anticipation,
Was too much in the _genre romantique_
For such a highly classic nation,
He begged to say, the Abyssinians
A practice had in their dominions,
Which, if at Paris got up well.
In full _costume_, was sure to tell.
At all great epochs, good or ill,
They have, says BRUCE (and BRUCE ne'er budges
From the strict truth), a Grand Quadrille
In public danced by the Twelve Judges[3]--
And he assures us, the grimaces,
The _entre-chats_, the airs and graces
Of dancers, so profound and stately,
Divert the Abyssinians greatly.

"Now (said the Viscount), there's but few
"Great Empires where this plan would do:
"For instance, England;--let them take
"What pains they would--'twere vain to strive--
"The twelve stiff Judges there would make
"The worst Quadrille-set now alive.
"One must have seen them, ere one could
"Imagine properly JUDGE WOOD,
"Performing, in hie wig, so gayly,
"A _queue-de chat_ with JUSTICE BAILLY!
"_French_ Judges, tho', are, by no means,
"This sort of stiff, be-wigged machines;
"And we, who've seen them at _Saumur_
"And _Poitiers_ lately, may be sure
"They'd dance quadrilles or anything,
"That would be pleasing to the King--
"Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do,
"To please the little Duc de Bordeaux!"

After these several schemes there came
Some others--needless now to name,
Since that, which Monsieur planned, himself,
Soon doomed all others to the shelf,
And was received _par acclamation_
As truly worthy the _Grande Nation_.

It seems (as Monsieur told the story)
That LOUIS the Fourteenth,--that glory,
That _Coryphee_ of all crowned pates,--
That pink of the Legitimates--
Had, when, with many a pious prayer, he
Bequeathed unto the Virgin Mary
His marriage deeds, and _cordon bleu_,
Bequeathed to her his State Wig too--
(An offering which, at Court, 'tis thought,
The Virgin values as she ought)--
That Wig, the wonder of all eyes,
The Cynosure of Gallia's skies,
To watch and tend whose curls adored,
Re-build its towering roof, when flat,
And round its rumpled base, a Board
Of sixty barbers daily sat,
With Subs, on State-Days, to assist,
Well pensioned from the Civil List:--
That wondrous Wig, arrayed in which,
And formed alike to awe or witch.
He beat all other heirs of crowns,
In taking mistresses and towns,
Requiring but a shot at _one_,
A smile at _t'other_, and 'twas done!--

"That Wig" (said Monsieur, while his brow
Rose proudly,) "is existing now;--
"That Grand Perruque, amid the fall
"Of every other Royal glory,
"With curls erect survives them all,
"And tells in every hair their story.
"Think, think, how welcome at this time
"A relic, so beloved, sublime!
"What worthier standard of the Cause
"Of Kingly Right can France demand?
"Or who among our ranks can pause
"To guard it, while a curl shall stand?
"Behold, my friends"--(while thus he cried,
A curtain, which concealed this pride
Of Princely Wigs was drawn aside)
"Behold that grand Perruque--how big
"With recollections for the world--
"For France--for us--Great Louis's Wig,
"By HIPPOLYTE new frizzed and curled--
"_New frizzed_! alas, 'tis but too true,
"Well may you start at that word _new_--
"But such the sacrifice, my friends,
"The Imperial Cossack recommends;
"Thinking such small concessions sage,
"To meet the spirit of the age,
"And do what best that spirit flatters,
"In Wigs--if not in weightier matters.
"Wherefore to please the Tsar, and show
"That _we_ too, much-wronged Bourbons, know
"What liberalism in Monarchs is,
"We have conceded the New Friz!
"Thus armed, ye gallant Ultras, say,
"Can men, can Frenchmen, fear the fray?
"With this proud relic in our van,
"And D'ANGOULEME our worthy leader,
"Let rebel Spain do all she can,
"Let recreant England arm and feed her,--
"Urged by that pupil of HUNT'S school,
"That Radical, Lord LIVERPOOL--
"France can have naught to fear--far from it--
"When once astounded Europe sees
"The Wig of LOUIS, like a Comet,
"Streaming above the Pyrenees,
"All's o'er with Spain--then on, my sons,
"On, my incomparable Duke,
"And, shouting for the Holy Ones,
"Cry _Vive la Guerre--et la Perrugue!"_

[1] They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at
Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the ass,
finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this
elegant anthem, "_Eh, eh, eh, Sire Ane, eh, eh, eh. Sire Ane_."--
WARTEN'S Essay on Pope.

[2] Brought from the river Jordan by M. Chateaubriand, and presented to
the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon.

[3] "On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally
between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the
figure-dance," etc.--Book. v.


_Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non
sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo


In what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not
necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. FUDGE'S Second
Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose _Secret Services_ in
Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord CASTLEREAGH, have been so
amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, THOMAS
REYNOLDS, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but
has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend
the training of that _Delatorian Cohort_ which Lord SIDMOUTH, in his
wisdom and benevolence, has organized.

Whether Mr. FUDGE, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear
from the following pages. But much may be expected from a person of his
zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to _him_, Lord SIDMOUTH, and the
Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of _discoveries_ are now
most anxiously directed.

I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BOB FUDGE'S Third
Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, etc.;
--but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette's thin drapery,
which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-meaning persons,
the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision and had not
returned when the last sheet was put to press.

It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this opportunity
of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the
public. Dr. KING wrote a treatise to prove that BENTLEY "was not the
author of his own book," and a similar absurdity has been asserted of
_me_, in almost all the best-informed literary circles. With the name of
the real author staring them in the face, they have yet persisted in
attributing my works to other people; and the fame of the "Twopenny Post-
Bag"--such as it is--having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has
at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it,
I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him.

I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters,
will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245 Piccadilly, I shall
have the honor of assuring them, _in propria persona_, that I am--his, or

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